#the atmosphere was unparalleled | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

helioooss · 7 days ago

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i was never there

synopsis: yu jumin joins novis corp as it’s head corporate lawyer, but her boss, y/n, remembers her eyes from somewhere else.

w/c: 3k+

warnings: 18+ minors dni!!! stripper by night, lawyer by day karina, swearing

a/n: a short one for the books, this is more a prompt

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sun had barely crept over the horizon when your sleek aston martin pulled up to the curb of novis corp’s headquarters; the tech conglomerate you had built from scratch. the building, a masterpiece of modern architecture with its reflective glass and sharp geometric lines, it stood as a monument to your success.

as you stepped out of the car, the valet offered a polite bow before retreating and you adjusted your tom ford suit — a deep charcoal grey that sat perfectly on your shoulders, tailored to a level of precision; its silk lining was monogrammed with your initials, a subtle mark of exclusivity.

in your world, every single detail mattered.

as soon as the glass doors opened into the lobby, the atmosphere shifted immediately. the soft murmur of voices hushed to a whisper and employees straightened their postures instinctively as they caught sight of you.

your presence demanded attention, not because you sought it, but because you simply carried an aura of authority. heads bowed as you passed, a wave of respectful acknowledgment rippling through the space.

“good morning, y/n,” someone greeted softly, their voice tinged with awe.

you simply offered a slight nod, your expression unreadable as you stepped into the private lift. the moment the polished steel doors slid shut, the world outside felt momentarily silenced. you allowed yourself a brief glance at your reflection in the mirrored walls, backing a strand of misplaced hair and smoothing down the lapel of your jacket before the lift opened to the top floor.

here, the energy was palpable. this was where the very lifeblood of novis corp flowed, where your senior executives and teams orchestrated the daily operations of the tech giant. the open floor was a hive of activity: assistants juggling tablets and documents, executives murmuring into headsets and a faint hum of urgency in the air.

the moment you stepped out, it was chaos aimed at you.

“miss l/n, the european market data is ready for your review.”

“legal flagged the merger contracts; they need your approval before noon.”

“the board wants confirmation on next quarter’s strategic pivot —”

amidst the shitshow that you specifically called ‘the everyday’, your personal assistant, claire, darted towards you, her heels clicking against the polished wood floor as she clutched a stack of files to her chest whilst her usually composed demeanour was slightly frazzled as she struggled to keep pace with you.

“y/n,” claire began, her voice soft but persistent, “i apologise for the interruption, but felix has been trying to reach you all morning. he said it’s urgent, and i tried to hold him off, but he’s really insistent.”

you glanced at her, stride unbroken whilst offering a faint smile that was more a gesture of reassurance than warmth. “i’ll take care of it, claire. thank you.”

she gave a slight nod, relief evident in her expression, stepping back as you pushed open the heavy oak doors to your private office. the room was a reflection of your meticulous standards: minimalist yet luxurious, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unparalleled view of new york city. a sleek, dark wood desk sat in the centre, flanked by leather chairs and a low cabinet housing bottles of vintage scotch.

oh, and the air carried the faintest scent of bergamot, a signature detail you had to have.

as soon as you set your briefcase down, you loosened your tie slightly and sank into your chair. the intercom blinked with pending calls, but you ignored it for now, reaching instead for your personal phone. scrolling through the missed calls, you found felix’s name and with a small sigh, you hit dial.

he answered right after the first ring. “finally!” his voice was a mix of relief and mischief, as it always was when he called you.

“what’s so urgent, felix?” you asked, leaning back in your chair.

“okay, hear me out,” he began, a tell-tale sign that whatever followed would likely test your patience. “there’s this club. super exclusive. like, billionaires-only exclusive. i’m talking black cards, champagne fountains, and the kind of entertainment that makes even the rich blush —“

pinching the bridge of your nose impatiently, you groaned. “just get to the point.”

“well, if you must insist,” he continued, “i need someone to vouch for me. someone who ticks the billionaire box. someone, you know, like you.”

“felix, why on earth would you want to go to a place like that?” you sighed, shaking your head. “everyone will just be as obnoxious as mum.”

“research,” he said, a little too quickly. “and before you ask, yes, it’s legit. i just…need to see it for myself. one night, y/n.“

“research,” you repeated, unimpressed.

“please, my dearest sister,” he pressed. “i promise it’s harmless. just one night, and then i’ll owe you. big time.”

he had always been the rebel — tattoos peeking out from beneath his sleeves, a penchant for bending rules and a charm that got him out of most trouble. he was your stepbrother, younger by five years and despite his antics, you couldn’t help but feel a soft spot for him.

he’d been your constant companion through a tumultuous childhood and for all his recklessness, his loyalty to you was unwavering.

you exhaled deeply. “if this turns into a mess, i swear, felix —”

“it won’t, i swear,” he interrupted eagerly. “you’ll barely even have to do anything. just show up, look rich — which is easy for you and let me in.”

there was a long pause. you weren’t one for foolishness, specially not something as absurd as this, but he had a way of getting under your skin and despite your better judgment, you relented.

“fine,” you mumbled; annoyance evident in your tone. “but this better not blow back on me — the press are already on my ass for not being present enough.”

“you’re the best!” he exclaimed, his relief palpable. “i’ll text you the details.”

shaking your head, you hung up and pressed the intercom button on your desk. “claire,” you began. “i need you to do something for me.”

“that’s my job, y/n,” her voice came through immediately.

“clear my schedule for tonight,” you carefully instructed. “reschedule all appointments and let the rest of the world know i’ll be unavailable after six.”

there was a brief pause from her end. “understood.”

staring out at the sprawling skyline, you heaved out a sigh. this wasn’t your usual scene, but something about it intrigued you nonetheless. tonight promised to be unlike anything you’d done before.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the hum of the limousine was almost soothing as it glided through the city streets, the blacked-out windows shielding you and felix from the world outside. the interior was nothing short of opulent: plush leather seats in a deep oxblood red, a bar stocked with rare whiskies and chilled champagne and soft ambient lighting that cast a warm glow over the polished surfaces.

felix was seated across from you, his legs stretched out casually as he swirled a glass of whiskey he’d poured himself. his usual rebellious flair was subdued tonight, though the faint smirk on his lips betrayed his excitement.

he was dressed sharply, his dark green blazer and crisp black shirt a rare effort on his part. the tattoos that normally peeked from his sleeves were hidden, though you knew they were still there, a reminder of his defiant streak.

you, on the other hand, wore a simple white shirt and blue jeans.

“so,” felix began, his tone light but probing, “how’s the empire going?”

you gave him a sideways glance, your fingers lightly drumming against the armrest. “the empire is fine, felix. novis is on track to secure the venatrix deal by next quarter and the sirocco expansion is finally moving forward.”

“of course it is,” he said with a grin, taking a sip of his drink. “you’ve got the golden touch. everything you touch turns to money.”

“it’s not magic,” you replied, your voice steady. “it’s work. a lot of it.”

he shook his head, leaning forward slightly. “and that’s the problem, y/n. you work too much. when was the last time you actually did something for yourself? and don’t say this counts,” he added, gesturing around the limousine.

you gave him a small, wry smile. “this is for you, not me.”

“exactly my point,” he said, leaning back. “you need to live a little. have some fun. maybe get a girlfriend for once in your life.”

you raised an eyebrow at him. “a girlfriend?”

“yes, a girlfriend,” he said with a chuckle. “you know, someone to share your life with? someone to remind you that there’s more to life than spreadsheets and board meetings?”

you exhaled softly, turning your gaze to the city lights flickering outside the window. “it’s not that simple. i’ve got responsibilities. people rely on me. there’s no room for anything else right now.”

“that’s the excuse you always use,” he said, his tone softer now. “but you’re going to wake up one day and realise you’ve built an empire but never lived your life. is that really what you want?”

his words lingered in the air and for a moment, you simply let them. as the limousine turned down a quieter street, the glow of the city fading into the background, you thought about what he’d said.

was he right? was there something missing in your meticulously crafted life?

before you could dwell on it further, the car slowed to a stop in front of an unassuming black door, illuminated only by a discreet gold plaque that read elysium.

the driver opened your door and the moment you stepped out, you felt the shift in atmosphere. the door was opened from the inside by a tall, sharply dressed man who exuded an air of authority.

“miss l/n, mr. l/n,” he greeted warmly, his deep voice carrying just enough deference to make you feel like royalty. “welcome to elysium. my name is pierre and i’ll personally ensure your evening is nothing short of exceptional.”

“thank you,” you replied, your tone polite but guarded as pierre stepped aside, gesturing for you both to enter.

the interior of the club was breathtaking — sleek and sophisticated, with an undeniable air of exclusivity. red lighting bathed the room, casting a sultry glow over the rich leather furniture and dark wood accents. the faint hum of low music filled the space and the scent of expensive cigars and perfume lingered in the air.

pierre led the way, his posture immaculate. “we’ve limited the floor capacity tonight to ensure you have a comfortable experience. it’s not often we host guests of your calibre.”

your gaze flicked to your brother, whose smirk grew with every step deeper into the club.

“they’re really rolling out the red carpet,” he whispered to you, amusement lacing his tone.

there were silhouettes moving across the far end of the room. they were fluid, deliberate, their movements drawing attention like a magnetic pull.

it wasn’t until you caught the glint of polished metal — a pole, that the realisation struck.

this wasn’t just a private club. it was a strip club.

“i thought you said this was a fucking nightclub,” you muttered in that scolding tone of yours. “or whatever you said it was.”

he laughed at your comment and had deliberately chosen to ignore you, clearly revelling in the attention. as you passed, heads turned subtly, and even the staff seemed to regard you with a mixture of curiosity and respect.

“our girls,” pierre continued as he walked, “are among the finest in the world. each performance is curated to perfection. should you require anything — anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“a dance costs a million for each hour,” felix raised his eyebrows playfully. “i can afford it, you have nothing to worry about.”

i’m going to kill him, you thought.

the corridor opened into a sprawling room bathed in deep red light, the glow casting shadows that danced across the rich leather furniture and polished dark wood accents. chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their crystal facets scattering faint prisms of light though the overall effect was moody and intimate rather than pretentious.

pierre, ever the professional, either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the exchange. “elysium prides itself on discretion and sophistication,” he explained, leading you toward the bar. “our performers are not only the best in the industry but also highly selective about where they work. we cater to an exclusive clientele and tonight, they are all eager to perform for you.”

the words hung in the air and while his tone remained formal, there was no mistaking the double meaning.

this wasn’t just about entertainment — it was about status, yours specifically.

“you’ve truly outdone yourselves,” you said evenly, though your tone betrayed nothing of the thoughts swirling in your mind.

“only the best for our esteemed guests,” he replied, stopping at the bar. “would you care for a drink before you settle in? our bartenders specialise in rare and exclusive cocktails.”

“i’ll take a manhattan,” felix answered, leaning against the bar as if he owned the place.

pierre turned his attention to you. “and for you, miss l/n?”

“call me y/n, please,” you requested, keeping your composure. “i’ll have a glass of champagne for now.”

felix shook his head, whilst pierre only nodded. “don’t worry, pierre, this is a good sign — champagne is telltale of the kind of night she plans to have.”

you gave him a look, one that could silence an entire boardroom, but it only made his grin widen.

as the bartender prepared your drinks, your eyes scanned the room. the performers were elegant, their movements slow and deliberate as they worked the poles or engaged in subtle conversations with other guests. the lighting accentuated every curve, every flick of hair, every step in towering heels.

it was seductive, but there was a sophistication to it.

felix clinked his glass against yours when your drinks arrived, his grin mischievous. “welcome to the real world, y/n. you might even have fun tonight.”

before you could respond, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with pierre, who gestured towards a hallway deeper into the establishment. “y/n, may i guide you to our private bar? we’ve reserved a section just for you.”

you nodded, offering a faint smile. “lead the way.”

he guided you through a discreet side door, the noise from the main hall fading into a low hum as you stepped into a quieter corridor. the lighting here was softer, the air perfumed with hints of amber and bergamot.

the sound of your shoes against the polished marble floor echoed faintly as you trailed behind him.

then, he stopped at a heavy door, its deep mahogany finish gleaming under the warm light. with a subtle bow, he pushed it open, revealing a private space that was both opulent and refined.

the room was bathed in a soft golden glow, with leather seating in a deep burgundy hue arranged around a bar made out of white marble. a crystal chandelier hung above, its light refracting into subtle rainbows across the room. the air was cooler here, yet tinged with the faintest trace of something warm and intoxicating.

“we’ve taken great care to ensure your comfort,” he gestured for you to step inside. “a selection of our finest performers has been prepared exclusively for this space tonight. as per tradition, all our vvip performers wear masks to preserve their mystique.”

your gaze shifted to the centre of the room, where a single pole stood illuminated by a spotlight. at its base, a woman danced, her movements fluid and hypnotic.

she was dressed in black, the fabric clinging to her graceful frame in ways that accentuated her every curve. a delicate mask adorned her face, its intricate lace design concealing her identity while leaving her eyes and lips visible.

and those eyes…

almond-shaped and lined with the faintest hint of shimmer, their depth was startling. they locked onto yours the moment you entered and for a second, it felt as though the world narrowed to just the two of you.

her lips were no less striking, painted a deep crimson that contrasted beautifully against her glowing skin. they moved subtly as she shifted her expression, curving into a faint smile that was neither coy nor brazen but perfectly balanced between the two.

you moved to one of the leather chairs directly in front of the pole, lowering yourself gracefully into the seat. a glass of something pale and sparkling had already been placed on the table before you — krug, if you had to guess.

she danced as though gravity held no dominion over her, movements slow and deliberate; her body bending and turning with an elegance that seemed almost otherworldly.

her eyes never left yours.

there was no touch, no exchange of words. only the silent conversation carried through her gaze.

you sipped your champagne, the crisp bubbles fizzing faintly on your tongue as you watched her.

“her name is karina,” pierre’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost reverent as he stood to the side. “one of our most gifted performers. she never agrees to private dances, but tonight, she insisted.”

you raised an eyebrow at his comment but said nothing, your eyes still locked with hers.

her lips curved slightly, a small but unmistakable reaction to his words. whether it was amusement or approval, you couldn’t tell.

there was a certain kind of power in her performance, an effortless command of the room that rivalled your own presence in the boardroom. it wasn’t just her beauty — it was the way she carried herself, the silent confidence in her every movement.

for the first time in a long while, you felt captivated.

as the music swelled, she climbed higher up the pole, her body arching and twisting with a grace that seemed to defy logic. the light caught her skin as she spun, casting shadows across her toned figure.

her gaze found yours again as if she had never looked away.

the song ended, the final note hanging in the air as karina stilled, her body poised and elegant as she held your gaze one last time. then, without a word, she stepped back into the shadows, disappearing as swiftly as she had appeared.

you leaned back in your seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

“she’s…impressive,” you murmured, your voice soft.

“indeed,” he replied, his tone pleased. “shall i have her return for a performance, miss l/n? or would you like to see the next girl?”

you glanced at the glass in your hand, then back at the empty spotlight.

“perhaps,” you said, your tone deliberately nonchalant, though the way your thoughts lingered on those eyes and that smile betrayed you entirely. “i’d like to see karina again.”

he gave a slight bow, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. “i’ll leave you to enjoy the performance, y/n. if you need anything, don’t hesitate to call for me.”

you sent him a faint nod, watching as he quietly slipped out of the room — the air seemed heavier now, charged with something you couldn’t quite name.

the soft spotlight followed her, casting her in a halo of warm light as she emerged out of the shadows. her movements were deliberate, the sway of her hips measured, her body arching with the kind of elegance that felt effortless. the music swelled, a sultry melody that filled the private bar, wrapping itself around you.

the pole became an extension of her, her fingertips grazing it lightly as she spun effortlessly, hair cascading over one shoulder like silk.

pushing yourself up in the leather seat, you cradled the crystal glass in your hand, the crisp bubbles fizzing against your tongue were forgotten.

your attention was fixed solely on her.

her gaze was dark and unrelenting, as though she could see through every wall you’d ever built. it made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to, yet you couldn’t look away.

for years, your life had been a steady climb to the top. every decision and sacrifice you made — it had all led you to become one of the youngest billionaires in the world; a life of luxury and power, yet moments like this felt foreign to you.

you had never allowed yourself distractions. relationships had always been a distant thought, something you dismissed as incompatible with the weight of your responsibilities. and yet here you were, sitting in the middle of a dark room, utterly captivated by a woman you didn’t know.

as the music deepened, so did her movements. she slid down the pole with precision, her legs extending gracefully before she landed softly on the floor. then, she began to close the distance between you.

you stiffened slightly as she approached, her bare feet making no sound against the polished floor. her every step was a calculated mix of power and allure, head tilting slightly as her eyes burned into yours.

when she reached the edge of your seat, she leaned down, her hands bracing against the armrests on either side of you. the faintest scent of her perfume: something floral with a hint of musk wafted over you.

your breath hitched.

karina’s face was mere inches from yours, her lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile.

she tilted her head, her dark hair spilling over her shoulder and as she leaned closer, her lips brushed against yours — not quite a kiss, but enough to send a jolt through your body.

the touch was light, but it lingered. your hand tightened slightly around the glass, though you made no effort to pull away.

her eyes locked onto yours again, the corner of her lips quirking up ever so slightly. she didn’t move, staying close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of her breath against your skin.

“you’re full of surprises,” she murmured, her voice low and laced with amusement.

“you’re not what i expected,” you replied, your tone steady despite the way your pulse raced.

her smile widened just a fraction, her lips still hovering dangerously close to yours. “and what did you expect, miss l/n?”

you let the question hang in the air, unwilling — or perhaps unable to answer it.

she pulled back slightly, her eyes flickering over your face as if she were committing every detail to memory.

then, with a graceful turn, she returned to the pole, leaving you frozen in your seat, every nerve in your body alive.

but your focus wasn’t on the dance anymore.

it was on her.

the song reached its end, her final spin slow and graceful, her legs extended as she descended to the floor.

when the music ended, she stayed still for a moment, catching her breath, before calling out softly, “cut the music.”

the silence was deafening.

she stood up, reaching for a glass of water placed on the table near the pole. she sipped it slowly, her back turned to you, before setting it down and facing you again.

“you’re y/n l/n,” she said, her voice carrying an easy confidence, as though she were stating an undeniable fact.

you straightened in your seat, your composure returning. “i am indeed, and you’re karina.”

her lips curved into a small smile as she stepped closer, her mask framing her captivating eyes. “so, you’ve heard of me?”

“pierre mentioned your name,” you replied. “and according to him, you never agree to private performances.”

“ah, pierre,” karina chuckled softly, a low and melodic sound that sent another ripple through you. “that’s true, but you’re not exactly a regular guest.”

“why did you agree?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

she tilted her head, her smile deepening. “curiosity.”

“about what?”

her gaze didn’t waver. “about you.”

you raised an eyebrow. “me?”

“it’s not every day the most eligible bachelorette in the world walks into a place like this,” she said, her tone light but pointed. “how could i not be curious?”

her honesty was disarming, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

“you don’t seem like the type to come here,” she continued, her voice softer now. “i wanted to see what kind of woman you are.”

“and?” you asked, meeting her gaze.

karina smiled again, enigmatic as ever. “i think you’re a woman who knows exactly what she wants, but you haven’t decided if you’re ready to take it.”

her words hung in the air, sharp yet tantalising. you swallowed hard, the weight of her observation pressing against you.

before you could respond, she glanced at the clock on the wall, her expression softening. “unfortunately, my time’s up — but i will see you again, hopefully.”

you watched as she stepped back, her movements as graceful as ever. “thank you.”

she turned back to you, her dark eyes glimmering. “the pleasure was mine, miss l/n.”

“please call me y/n.”

she nodded and then, just like that, she disappeared through the door, leaving you alone with the lingering scent of her perfume and the memory of her lips brushing against yours.

moments later, pierre entered the room, followed by an awestruck felix.

“holy shit,” felix yelled, his wide eyes taking in the space. “this room is insane. do you know how much this costs?”

you raised an eyebrow at him, still feeling the warmth of karina’s presence. “do i want to know?”

“five million dollars. per dance,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

you smiled faintly, your thoughts far from the number. “well, tonight was the most expensive night i’ve ever had then.”

he put an arm around you, ruffling your hair. “told you you’d enjoy it!”

the limousine hummed softly as it glided through the quiet streets. deeply in your thoughts, you sat stiffly in your seat, legs crossed, arms folded, the leather cool beneath you.

the night had been…complicated, to say the least.

felix, sitting across from you, looked far too pleased with himself, scrolling through his phone with a self-satisfied smirk that only irritated you further.

“never again,” you said sharply, breaking the silence.

he glanced up, the smirk widening as if he’d been waiting for this. “never again, what?”

“you know exactly what i mean,” you snapped, glaring at him. “you are never taking control of a night out again.”

he raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “elysium? come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“felix,” you said through gritted teeth, “it was a strip club. a strip club. do you have any idea how bad that looks for me? if anyone had taken a photo of me, it could’ve been a PR disaster.”

he laughed, leaning back lazily against the plush seat. “oh please, that place is so exclusive. and anyway, it’s not like you were doing anything scandalous. you sat there, drank champagne and watched a performance. you didn’t even touch anyone. honestly, it was boring.”

you stared at him. “boring? you dragged me to a place where the floor alone costs millions to reserve and you think it’s fine because you had fun?”

“well yeah,” he said casually, shrugging. “and don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy yourself. i saw your face during that dance.”

heat rose to your cheeks and you looked away sharply, your fingers tightening around your arm. “that’s not the point, felix.”

“oh, it absolutely is,” he countered, leaning forward. “look, you’ve spent your entire life building this empire. you’re brilliant at what you do but you don’t live, y/n. you don’t even let yourself breathe. all i did was give you one night to do something out of the ordinary and now you’re acting like the world’s going to end.”

“because it could,” you shot back. “my name, my reputation — it’s all tied to novis. if anything jeopardises that, the fallout would be catastrophic. you don’t understand what’s at stake.”

he tilted his head, his expression softening slightly. “no, i don’t understand,” he said, his voice quieter but still firm. “because unlike you, i actually let myself live every now and then. when was the last time you did something just for yourself, y/n? when was the last time you let yourself feel something that wasn’t tied to work?”

his words hit harder than you wanted to admit. you glanced out the window, the city lights blurring as the limousine sped through the streets. “this isn’t about me,” you muttered, though the defensiveness in your tone betrayed you.

“oh, it’s absolutely about you,” he said with a knowing grin. “come on, admit it. you didn’t hate last night as much as you’re pretending to. i mean, you could’ve walked out anytime, but you didn’t. you stayed.”

you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “felix, i can’t afford to have nights like that. my life isn’t like yours.”

“and that’s exactly the problem,” he said, his voice more serious now. “you’re so afraid of messing up, you don’t even let yourself enjoy anything. y/n, you’re one of the most powerful people in the world and you’re scared of living? what’s the point of all this success if you never let yourself have anything?”

you didn’t answer, his words settling uncomfortably in your chest. instead, you stared out the window, your reflection blurred against the city lights. he leaned back, clearly feeling like he’d won the argument, though he said nothing more.

as the limousine approached your building, you sighed deeply, finally breaking the silence. “this doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. no more clubs, felix. ever.”

he laughed softly, shaking his head. “we’ll see.”

as it rolled to a stop, you stepped out without another word, the weight of the conversation lingering as you made your way inside.

you couldn’t stop thinking about the way karina had looked at you — as if she saw right through the walls you had spent years building.

her eyes haunted you, dark and full of secrets you suddenly found yourself wanting to uncover. and for the first time in years, you wondered if there was something, or someone, outside your carefully constructed world worth stepping into the unknown for.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the morning was as chaotic as ever, the hum of novis corp’s top floor vibrating with urgency the moment you stepped out of the private elevator. polished shoes clicked against a mix of wooden and marble floors, assistants and executives alike moved from desk to desk, each with something that required your attention.

“y/n,” the updates for the venatrix deal are ready.”

“legal has flagged the elara contract for revisions.”

“the team needs your approval on the new AI interface by noon!”

normally, you thrived in the controlled storm of your office. today, however, your mind was elsewhere. your focus wasn’t on contracts or product launches — it was on her.

the memory of last night lingered in sharp detail: the intoxicating crimson glow of the club, her sharp gaze, the brush of her lips against yours.

karina had left an imprint you couldn’t shake, no matter how much you tried.

the design meeting was supposed to centre you. the team presented mock-ups for novis’s latest AI interface, a sleek design meant to revolutionise smart tech, but as the lead designer droned on about user functionality, your attention slipped.

their words barely registered. your eyes were on the screen, but your mind was still in elysium. the feel of her perfume in the air, the way her eyes had locked onto yours: daring you to react.

“y/n?” samuel, the lead designer’s voice, broke through your thoughts, ultimately bringing you back to the present.

you blinked, shifting slightly in your seat. “yes?”

“we were asking for your feedback on the gradient colour scheme versus the flat monochrome,” he said, his tone careful.

you glanced at the screen, the options displayed clearly, but for once, the answer didn’t come easily. “the gradient,” you pointed after what seemed like at eternity. “it’s fine.”

a few of the designers exchanged surprised glances. it wasn’t like you to give such a vague response.

when the meeting ended, you stepped into the hallway, only to find giselle waiting for you, leaning casually against the wall with a look of exaggerated curiosity.

“well, that was weird,” she said, falling into step beside you.

“what are you talking about?” you asked, your tone clipped as you navigated through the bustling corridor.

“you,” she replied, waving a hand dramatically. “you’ve been off all morning. normally, you’re snapping necks and giving ted talks in these meetings. today, you were practically sleepwalking. so, spill. what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you said curtly.

she narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it. “is this a felix thing? what did he do now? start a crypto farm in the middle of montana? buy a haunted house because ‘it looked cool’? or, wait — did he drag you to one of those ridiculous underground poker rings again?”

you gave her a sharp look. “felix has nothing to do with this.”

“so there is something,” she said, her smirk growing. “come on, boss, you can’t keep secrets from me. i’m like the human recourses version of sherlock holmes.”

“giselle,” you warned, stopping in your tracks and fixing her with a pointed glare, “drop it.”

she raised her hands in mock surrender, but her grin didn’t waver. “fine, fine, i’ll drop it; but if you spontaneously combust during the next board meeting, don’t say i didn’t warn you.”

as you started walking again, she called after you, “oh, by the way, your new head corporate lawyer is waiting in your office. yu jimin. punctual, sharp as a blade, and word on the street: dangerously hot. good luck!”

the name sent a jolt through you, stomach twisting as you reached your office doors, the memory of last night rushing back with startling clarity.

when you stepped inside, the first thing you noticed was the figure standing near the window.

she was dressed sharply in a black suit that fit her perfectly, the crisp white shirt beneath it undone just enough to convey confidence without stepping into arrogance. her posture was relaxed, one hand resting lightly on her hip, the other at her side.

her dark hair was pulled back neatly, accentuating the sharp lines of her face. when she turned at the sound of the door, your breath caught.

her eyes met yours, and for a split second, the world tilted.

it was her.

the woman who had unraveled you the night before, the one who had danced with the kind of precision and allure that left you spellbound.

karina.

no, yu jimin.

“miss l/n,” she greeted, her voice smooth, calm, and so painfully familiar. “it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

you forced yourself to nod, gesturing toward the chair across from your desk. “miss yu, please, have a seat. and call me y/n.”

you walked quickly to your desk, avoiding her gaze as you settled into your chair. when you finally looked up, the intensity in her eyes was undeniable.

she sat with perfect posture, her hands resting lightly on her lap, her expression polite but unreadable.

“so,” you began, clearing your throat, “tell me about your experience. what drew you to novis corp?”

her lips curved into a faint smile, one that sent a chill through you.

“my career has largely focused on high-stakes corporate law,” she said smoothly. “mergers, acquisitions, billion-dollar lawsuits — you name it. novis corp stood out to me because of its reputation for innovation and precision. it’s a company that demands excellence; i happen to provide that.”

her tone was professional, poised. but then her eyes glinted, and her smile widened just slightly.

“but if i’m being honest,” she added, “it wasn’t just the company that intrigued me. after last night, the person behind it all captured me.”

your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to maintain a neutral expression.

“i’m not sure what you’re referring to,” you said evenly, though your voice wavered just slightly.

“of course not,” she said, her smile deepening, though she didn’t press further.

the rest of the meeting passed in a blur of questions and answers, though the tension in the room never dissipated. every time her gaze lingered on you, you felt your resolve crack, memories of her dance, her eyes and her lips flashing vividly in your mind.

when it concluded, jimin stood gracefully, smoothing her blazer as she moved toward the door.

just as she reached for the knob, you hesitantly called out, “and miss yu?”

she paused, turning back to face you. “yes?”

you met her gaze, forcing your voice to remain steady. “i was never there.”

her smile returned, slow and knowing, her eyes glinting with something that sent a shiver down your spine. “don’t worry — the only person in that room was karina.”

for the second time in two days, yu jimin had left you completely undone.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

#kpop x reader #karina imagines #karina x reader #karina #aespa x reader #kpop gg #kpop imagines #jimin x reader #yu jimin

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fulltre · 3 months ago

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aeralux · 1 month ago

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"Shadow of Your Past" - Aegon Targaryen

Summary: Long ago, your heart belonged to your past betrothed, Cregan Stark. Those times are long gone, as you now reside in King's Landing with your newborn babe and doting husband, Aegon. However seeing your wolf after all these years makes feelings come up in unexpected ways, making Aegon question your love for him.

Warnings: slight angst; Cregan is the other man (I'm so sorry, Cregan girlies); slight love triangle; jealous and sad Aegon; happy ending; he took you from your home tho; Helaena is dead (gets mentioned once); slight Cregan x Reader

Words: 2.9k

Notes: This was based on an anonymous ask. I changed it a tad bit but kept the original idea. First time ever written something adjacent to angst or fluff.

In the frigid lands of Winterfell, your destiny had long been sealed - to become a Lady of the North, wed to a formidable Lord from the North. Raised within Winterfell, you had been groomed from birth for this inevitable union. This future seemed as immutable as the unyielding winters that gripped the region.

Yet fate, it seemed, had other plans. When Cregan's beloved wife tragically passed, leaving him a widower with their young son Rickon, you found yourself pulled into their lives like the warm embrace of a dwelling fire. A fast friendship blossomed between yourself and Cregan, gradually kindled into the smouldering embers of new love. The whole of Winterfell looked on fondly as the once-bereaved Cregan's heart defrosted in the radiant presence of his new intended bride.

However, the fragile promise of this love was soon overshadowed by the towering curiosity of King Aegon II Targaryen. Whispers of the Northern beauty's unparalleled loveliness and grace had spread like wildfire through the realm. Bewitched by the tales, Aegon stated that this virtuous woman would be his, consequences be damned.

With a heavy heart, you bid farewell to the only home you had ever known and the love you had so fleetingly tasted, bound for the regal prisons of the Red Keep.

Within the crimson towers of King's Landing, a surprise awaited - Aegon's children were nothing like the spoiled, bratty offspring you had envisioned. Instead, they were kind, generous souls, undoubtedly a legacy of their late, beloved mother Helaena. Though resigned to your fate as a mere royal broodmare, you found yourself powerless against the innocent charms of the young princes and princesses, who swiftly embraced you as their "mummy."

Unprepared for the tenderness that blossomed between this makeshift family, King Aegon too found his calloused heart unexpectedly stirred. What had begun as a selfish pursuit of beauty transformed into a spirited courtship of genuine affection. Though still haunted by the ghost of your lost love in the North, over time you developed strong feelings for Aegon, especially after welcoming your first son, Prince Rhaevar. As you embraced your role as mother to Aegon's children and grew into your position as Queen of Westeros, you could not deny the sincerity of Aegon's keenness.

To commemorate the beginning of this new chapter in your life, Aegon declared that a grand tournament would be held in your honour on your name day. The air was thick with excitement, and the vibrant colours of the banners fluttered against a clear blue sky. Laughter and music filled the atmosphere as noblemen and commoners gathered to celebrate.

Yet, even amidst the revelry, shadows of the past loomed large. Your heart quickened as you caught sight of him—Cregan Stark, surrounded by his loyal men, his presence commanding and undeniable. The moment your eyes met, time seemed to stand still. Memories of stolen glances and whispered promises flooded your mind, overwhelming you with emotions long since buried.

In a surge of reckless abandon, you broke through the crowd, propelled by an all-consuming longing. The world around you faded away as you ran into his arms, feeling the warmth of his embrace envelop you like a familiar, cherished blanket. His scent—the wild, crisp scent of the North—stirred something profound within you.

As he pulled you closer, old feelings resurfaced with a ferocity that took your breath away. The way he held you felt both achingly familiar and electrifyingly new. You could hear your heart thundering in your chest, drowning out the sounds of the festival, as you melted into the safety of his arms. In that moment, surrounded by laughter and celebration, it felt as if you had returned to a lost piece of yourself, igniting a fire that you thought had long cooled.

"Cregan," you whispered into the thick furs of his coat, your breath mingling with the cold air that surrounded you. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in this moment. Looking up at him, your heart raced as you were met with those familiar, loving grey eyes. The same eyes that had haunted your dreams for years apart.

He seemed taken aback by your sudden rush towards him, a mixture of surprise and warmth flooding his expression. You could see the shadows of longing and concern etched on his face as he stepped back slightly as if he were afraid that if he embraced you too tightly, he would shatter the fragile connection that still tethered your hearts together.

"I missed you," Cregan managed to say, his voice barely more than a whisper. A soft smile crept onto his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made your heart flutter. "You've changed," he continued, his gaze roaming over you with awe and affection. "You've become a woman."

A blush crept to your cheeks as you recalled the innocence of your past, the days spent dreaming of knightly heroes and fairy-tale endings. "And you," you replied, tinged with affection and sadness, "you've become even more captivating."

His eyes darkened for a moment, and the smile faltered. “Yet here we are, in a world that insists we belong to different stories,” he said, his voice heavy with unvoiced thoughts. “I should never have allowed myself to come here."

You stepped closer, drawn to him irresistibly, the warmth radiating from his body beckoning you like a moth to flame. “You really think so?” Your voice firm yet laced with sorrow.

Cregan shook his head slowly, the weight of reality settling between you like a thick fog. “You know I don't. But we are not in the North anymore.” His voice was a gentle storm, swirling with complex emotions. “You have a life, a kingdom. And I… I am but a shadow of your past.”

Tears welled in your eyes at the bittersweet truth of his words. “A shadow who holds my heart,” you whispered, your voice cracking under the weight of longing. “I thought of you every day, every night.”

He looked down, his fingers running through the thick fur of his coat as if seeking comfort. “Then let me be the one to give you the freedom you deserve. I won’t hold you back. I won't hold you back from loving your husband, your kids.”

You reached out, your hand brushing against his, a soft spark igniting between your fingertips. “But it is you I dreamed of for so long,” you insisted fiercely, pressing your body against his. “You are the one I dreamed of, Cregan. You are my heartbeat.”

His head snapped up, catching your gaze with an intensity that made the air crackle around you. “And yet, we are bound by what we cannot change. If only the fates were kinder…”

You both stood there, worlds apart yet painfully close, the silence wrapping around you like a delicate embrace. Finally, Cregan stepped back, his heart heavy but resolute. “Go back to your life, my queen. But remember this moment. Remember us… even if we cannot be together.”

With that, he turned away, every step echoing with unfulfilled promises and lingering affection, leaving you standing in the cold, the weight of your love a bittersweet reminder that some stories, despite their depth, are never meant to unfold.

It felt like a shard of glass had been driven into your heart for the second time, twisting painfully with every thought of Cregan. The memories flooded back, uninvited and relentless, like a storm you couldn’t escape. You stood there, grappling with the truth he had laid bare before you. It wasn’t just about nostalgia; it was the realization that he was right. You had built a new life, filled with the laughter of children and the warmth of a husband who loved you deeply. Yet, no matter how hard you tried to bury those feelings, your first love left a mark that time could not erase.

You remembered the way Cregan had looked at you, that spark in his eyes igniting something profound within you — a connection that felt electric and raw. The ache of what once was gnawed at your insides, threatening to unravel the carefully woven fabric of your current life. You wanted to forget, to silence the inner turmoil that his memory stirred, but how could you, when a piece of your heart belonged forever to him? The struggle was suffocating, a cruel reminder that some loves cling to your soul no matter how far you run.

The icy reality of Aegon's presence loomed heavily over King's Landing as he stood on the balcony, his piercing gaze fixed upon the tournament and the people. The vibrant colours of the celebration below only intensified his resentful fury, each laugh and cheer from the crowd grating against his simmering emotions. How dare that barbarian come so close to his sweet wife, daring to touch her with such intimacy? The very thought ignited a wildfire of jealousy that blazed in his chest.

He knew he had snatched you away from Cregan, that steadfast Stark who had cherished you. But Aegon was the King, a crown heavy with authority resting upon his brow. He convinced himself that he could do as he pleased, but the sight of you laughing, your eyes sparkling with delight as you spoke to another man, felt like salt in an open wound.

Aegon raised the ornate golden goblet to his lips, the richness of the deep crimson wine swirling within—a stark contrast to the bitterness seeping into his soul. The velvety liquid flowed smoothly down his throat, but it did little to quell the storm raging inside him. Rage coursed through his veins like a volatile poison, making him feel as if his heart might burst against the confines of his chest.

From the intensity of his stare, one could almost feel the air crackle with tension; any Stark worth their salt should have sensed it, and should have begun preparing for the inevitable conflict that was brewing. He envisioned himself unleashing the full fury of his wrath, flames licking at every corner of the city, consuming anything and anyone that dared to come between him and his queen. The jealousy, sharp and relentless, gnawed at him, and with each passing moment, it became more apparent that he would not let this slight stand unchallenged.

Aegon stalked across the polished wooden floor, his long strides echoing in the grand hall as he approached your still figure in the stands. The sound of his boots clinking sharply against the wood pierced the air, drawing attention from those nearby. You turned around swiftly, the remnants of tears shimmering in your eyes like morning dew. With a quick motion, you wiped your cheeks, summoning every ounce of strength to mask your vulnerability. A shaky smile broke through, holding onto the semblance of normalcy.

“Aegon, my love,” you called softly, your voice barely above a whisper, quivering with emotion.

His eyes narrowed, a storm brewing beneath the surface. “Do not play games with me,” he snarled, the low growl of his voice sending a chill down your spine. “What did he say to you? I demand to know, right this instant!” The intensity of his accusation was palpable, rage and jealousy intertwining as he loomed closer.

You took a small step back, startled by the ferocity of his words. “It was nothing, truly. He only greeted me, husband,” you stammered, your heart racing as his gaze bore into you, searching for the truth amidst the tension of the crowd’s watchful eyes.

“Nothing?” Aegon scoffed, throwing his arms wide in a dramatic display of disbelief. “You think I would believe such an absurd claim? What man merely greets a lady of the court without ulterior motives? You know better!” His voice was a fervent mix of jealousy and protectiveness, each syllable dripping with accusation.

“I assure you, Aegon, it was merely a courteous exchange,” you replied, striving for calm amidst the chaos swirling within. “You know how these formalities are.”

“Formalities?” he echoed, his tone laced with sarcasm. “You may call it that, but I see a man with intentions far from noble. Do not underestimate my concern for you, for your well-being—my beloved wife.”

You watched as the tension washed over him, the play of emotions battling within those stormy eyes. “Please, my king, I ask you to trust me,” you implored, reaching out to touch his arm gently, hoping to quell the tempest within him. “There is nothing more between us than mere civility.”

His gaze softened slightly at your touch, but the underlying fury simmered beneath the surface. “Civility, they call it, yet it feels like a betrayal,” he murmured, clenching his jaw. “I would not let any man tarnish what belongs to me.”

“Aegon,” you said, your voice steadier now, “I belong to you, and only you. Let us not allow jealousy to poison what we hold sacred.”

The tension hung thick in the air, a palpable force that seemed to wrap around you both, suffocating yet electric with unspoken words. Aegon stood before you, his posture rigid, an imposing figure clad in regal attire that glinted with the weight of his title. His expression morphed swiftly from blazing rage to sharp realization, as if the realization itself cut deeper than any dagger.

"You still harbour feelings for him, don't you?" His voice was cold, each word deliberate, imbued with a bitterness that struck at your very core. His eyes, usually filled with warmth, now gleamed with a piercing scrutiny that threatened to unravel the very fabric of your devotion.

Your heart raced, a wild drumbeat of panic and despair. "No! No, of course not!" You exclaimed, an edge of desperation creeping into your tone. "I only love you and our children. You must believe me!" The plea dripped from your lips, each word a frantic attempt to bridge the chasm of doubt that had formed between you. You nearly sank to your knees, the guilt eating you alive.

Aegon’s lips curled into a cruel smirk, a devilish glint in his sapphire eyes. "Do you even love me? Or has this all been a grand farce?" His voice, while playful in tone, carried an undercurrent of pain that clutched at your heart with icy fingers. The regal confidence he usually commanded wavered, revealing the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface.

Tears, unbidden and unwelcome, began to stream down your cheeks, trailing down to your chin. You could feel the weight of your emotions, raw and unfiltered. "Of course, I love you, Aegon!" you cried, your voice cracking under the strain of your sincerity. "You must know that. Every part of my soul is bound to you!" The desperation washed over you, carrying with it the echoes of your commitment, louder than any accusation.

Aegon’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment, the familiar warmth flickering beneath the icy facade, before insecurity took hold once more. “Then why does he haunt the corners of your heart?” he challenged, crossing his arms, the royal crown upon his brow seeming heavier than ever.

You took a shaky breath, the air thick with tension and longing. "He is a shadow from the past. But you, Aegon," you implored, your eyes locking onto his, "you are my present and my future. Please, don’t let envy poison what we have built together. Can you not see how much I need you?" The words tumbled out, a cascade of heartache and fervour, hoping to illuminate the depths of your true feelings.

Aegon’s expression faltered for a brief heartbeat, the storm in his eyes giving way to a vulnerability that he rarely let show. “You swear it?” he whispered, his voice softer now, laced with hope and disbelief.

“I swear it,” you replied fervently, your heart laid bare before him, an offering of unwavering love despite the tempest that had arisen between you. “You are my king, my love, and the father of my children. I would never betray you.”

At that moment, the air shimmered with unspoken oaths, and you both stood on the ridge, caught between jealousy and the desperate hope for reprieve.

Aegon's face softened, the storm in his eyes receding like clouds parting after a storm. He reached out, his fingers gently brushing away the tears that stained your cheeks. The tenderness of his touch sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the love that had grown between you over the years.

"My queen," he murmured, his voice a low, comforting rumble. "Forgive me. I should believe you over anyone." He pulled you close, enveloping you in his strong arms. The familiar scent of him - smoke and spice - filled your senses, grounding you in the present.

You melted into his embrace, feeling the rapid beating of his heart against your cheek. "There's nothing to forgive," you whispered, your fingers curling into the rich fabric of his tunic. "We've weathered storms before."

"But I cannot bear the thought of losing you. Not to him, not to anyone," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gently, you placed your hand on his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your palm. "You won't lose me, Aegon. I am yours, now and always."

His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into your hand as if it were a lifeline. When he opened them again, they shimmered with unshed tears. "I love you," he breathed, the words carrying the weight.

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catcake24 · 1 month ago

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Universal Misunderstandings

Summary: Based on @keferon's Mech Pilot Jazz AU. Jazz is a Mech Pilot who gets lost in space.

I wrote this in like... an hour, so I'm sorry if it isn't very good. I just needed to get it out, even if it's a little clunky. (Also I don't write Jazz and Prowl often, so they might be a bit ooc)

If you had asked Jazz what was the craziest thing he ever saw, he would say the moment the giant ships entered earth’s atmosphere for the first alien invasion. Or maybe when he joined the mecha program to fight those aliens, and saw the mecha suits they would be piloting for the first time.

He wasn’t sure if meeting a race of giant robots was any crazier than that, but it was at least top three now.

Being a mecha pilot was surprisingly routine in some ways, similar to the times he was a NASCAR driver in some strange ways. How he would check his machine before every mission, how he piloted it like it was an extension of him, and how painfully aware he was of the danger all around him.

Only now, instead of being at risk of crashing into another driver or spinning off the track, he was at risk of being killed by giant aliens with five faces and so many tentacles.

No one was even sure why the aliens attacked in the first place, only that they desired some sort of potent energy source that was only discovered after they drove the aliens from one of their mines on Earth - and what was found in them revolutionized their technology forever.

They called them Lightning Crystals, based on the blue glow and the little shocks they delivered. The crystals were rare, but extremely potent in energy unparalleled by anything on earth.

Exactly what they needed. Oh, sure for solving global warming and creating efficient technology of course. But they also were the missing element in the new M.E.C.H. program – giant robots which could be controlled by a single person, able to pack as much punch as the aliens. With the Lightning Crystals, they could power these giant machines and finally drive them from their planet.

Jazz was one of the top pilots, though his Mech Suit was focused on rescuing people from peril and buying time as they evacuated a city that would be attacked. It was almost once a month, or several times if they were unlucky – the aliens would land, attempt to get a foothold on their planet, but were driven off by the Mecha. Only to appear again the next time.

And so, the routine was set. Go out, punch some aliens, retreat and recover, and start all over again later. It wasn’t glamourous, but Jazz knew he was doing his part in protecting the planet.

That changed when the Space Program was initialized.

The director of MECH realized they needed some sort of foothold in space, to fight back before they landed on the planet and destroy the ships they had just out of striking range out in the void.

Jazz was selected as one of the first, as his smaller robot would be more ideal for space travel – or so they told him, he wasn’t totally sure if that was bullshit or not anymore.

And so, Jazz found himself being launched into space to fight Aliens. He wasn’t sure when exactly his life turned into an anime, but it definitely felt like one.

During the fight though, something went wrong.

Jazz had been thrown into one of their ships, there was frantic beeping and flashing, and suddenly he felt his whole body feel every sensation at once – and when he got his bearings and noticed the ship was in motion again, he realized, with a sinking terror, that he couldn’t see earth in any direction around him.

His worst fears were only confirmed when he was thrown off the small space shuttle, and couldn’t contact ground support after he crashed onto an unknown planet.

He had to take a few hours to himself, and screamed inside his mech suit’s protective armour. Jazz didn’t know when he passed out from crying, but he felt somewhat refreshed. Not any better, but… not exhausted.

All things considered… he would be alright for a little while. He found more lightning crystals on the planet, and had some rations he could stretch out for awhile. But he wasn’t sure what to do, without any idea where he was or how to contact home.

He set up his homing beacon, and just hoped again all odds that maybe it would be picked up by someone.

Prowl wasn’t a very social cybertronian, everyone knew that about him. He wasn’t anti-social, but he didn’t have an easy time communicating with others.

He would be too blunt, or maybe just not react the right way, and suddenly they were upset for reasons he didn’t immediately recognize. He got better at learning what was and wasn’t acceptable in the broad terms, but he struggled with specifics sometimes.

But Prowl was also brilliant – that wasn’t ego, it was repeated often enough that even he had to accept it. The Tac-Net within his processor was faster than any standard internal strategy computer, but that was only a tool. His processor was able to churn through all the data it gave him, and utilize it to its fullest extent with his own creativity and intelligence.

It made him one of the vital assets to the Autobots, and later to the combined cybertronian armies which fought the Quintessons – a walking battle computer, able to analyze a battle field and begin a counter strategy before the opponent even realized it.

So, his communication issue was merely a minor inconvenience in comparison.

Even still, he didn’t have many friends, and he was used to his own company. Prowl didn’t think on it often, just focusing on his task.

Prowl was alone while crossing a large stretch of uninhabited space, a spiral galaxy system which consisted of planets either barren or void of sentient life, when he received the ping on his console.

Unknown Energy Signature, Distress Beacon Detected. Prowl frowned as he read across his screen, because it didn’t make sense at first. He pulled the ship around for a second look before he lost the signal, and saw it was located on a nearby planet.

His Tac Net spat back possibilities when probed, ranging from “Quintesson Trap” to “New Emerging Sentient Life”, and he deemed the risk low enough to check at least.

Prowl wasn’t a social mech, but he wasn’t as heartless as some soldiers said he was.

Jazz didn’t notice the ship until it was almost right above him, but he was still in his Mech Suit luckily enough. Using the larger bulk of this robotic body, he tried to wave the ship down using his long arms with a burst of frantic energy.

The Mech robot was psychically linked to himself, and so it was easy enough to arrange the machine’s body to look like a crazy person looking to hitchhike on the highway. He didn’t care though, only happy that someone, anyone, had found him.

It definitely wasn’t human, there were basically no ships of this design and even if there were none had launched yet. Another alien race didn’t seem too far off either, whoever they were. But really, they could be made of goo and Jazz would probably hug them in thanks.

He only really started to realize that this might be a bad thing when the ship landed, because that thing had some pretty big guns. Or maybe those weird energy blasters he saw before, and this was one of the aliens trying to colonize his planet.

Still though, he swallowed his fears and put on a brave face – even if no one else saw. He strutted up to the large ship like he owned it, and… waited.

The ship door opened soon enough, lowering down into a ramp, and out stepped… another robot?

Jazz blinked, suddenly very aware of his body inside of the mech suit, when he saw it… or them?

He didn’t know what to think, seeing the human-like face and odd proportions of their body. Was this another mech suit of some sort? Why did it have wheels?

Jazz had to snap out of it, because the robot started talking to him.

“Dobbqfkdp,” they said with a stoic demeanour, “xj F ql xpprjb vlr ibcq qeb afpqobpp pfdkxi? F txpk’q xtxob qebob txp olylqfz ifcb qefp cxo lrq fkql qeb dxixuv.”

Unfortunately, Jazz didn’t understand a word of it. The robot was holding the blaster on their hip, obviously ready to attack if Jazz proved hostile.

Hesitantly, he turned on his communications radio and spoke.

“Umm, sorry my guy, but I don’t know what you’re saying? I’m a bit new around here is all,” he said with a somewhat nervous laugh. He almost wished his own mech had a face, so he could express how he wasn’t hostile.

There was silence for a moment, the wind blowing by around them and picking up a barrage of maroon plantlife that looked like flowerpetals. It was serene to see, but Jazz kept his focus on the robot whose eyes were widening in surprise.

They then cleared their throat, deliberately taking their hand off the gun and offered something. Jazz stepped forwards hesitantly, seeing it was a small chip.

The robot gave a forced smile, obviously trying to not appear threatening but looking awkward instead. “Jv xmlildfbp. Bah-weep-Graaaghnah, weep ni ni bong.”

Somehow, against what was rational, the phrase they said made Jazz relax a little. It was a ridiculous nonsense in English, but somehow it made the offer seem less unknown.

Hesitantly, Jazz accepted the chip and plugged it into his mech. His eyes nearly bugged out when it started interfacing with his systems, almost pulling it out, before seeing what it was doing – it was scanning the coding and language of his mech’s sytems, pulling them out into a strange dictionary. Soon, it was done with a PING, and the chip ejected itself.

Holy shit, he thought, they have a fucking universal translator, like Star Trek!

The robot’s hand was extended again, obviously asking for the chip, and Jazz gingerly placed it back in the robot’s open palm – somehow having five fingers, which somehow was one of the first things Jazz noticed right now.

He was really overwhelmed, okay?!

The robot inserted the chip into the back of their head, and Jazz had a sinking realization.

Maybe he was jumping the gun, but the way the robot’s eyes went dim briefly as it processed the chip, made Jazz think is this an actual sentient robot?!

“Thank you, I suppose this must be very confusing for you,” the robot then said, in perfect English.

“Ugh… kind of?” He said, shrugging slightly which translated to his robot around him. It was a reflex hard to break, even if it was unnecessary for his mech to emote.

“We’ve known about aliens, but this is the first time I’m meeting one that doesn’t want to kill me,” he said, with a slight laugh at himself. “Sorry, this is really weird.”

“Well,” the mech said, giving a soft smile which looked much more genuine, “I’m sure my kind will be eager to welcome another robotic race to the galaxy.”

Jazz’s mind went blank, as he had two sudden realizations.

Holy shit, I was right, this is an actual sentient robot who is actually talking to me, quickly followed by, they think I’m also a robot.

This… might be messy.

Despite this, Jazz just gave a nod, “Well, I’m sure the feeling is mutual!” He said awkwardly.

“Now… can you help me off this planet?”

The robot gave a brisk nod. “Of course, it’s not uncommon for new space faring species to have transwarping incidents like these. Come with me, my people will help you get home.”

Without any better options, Jazz hopped onto the ship. As he went inside, he realized the whole thing was scaled to the giant robot he was with. Scaled to his mech as well, conveniently enough.

“So, could I get your name?” Jazz said, as he finally was getting ahold of his anxiety. At least he wasn’t dead, and he was going home, so suddenly this was feeling a lot less intimidating.

“Of course, I’m Prowl of Praxus. You?”

“Ummm, Jazz. Jazz Wilson,” he said.

“Very well, it’s nice to meet you Jazz Jazz Wilson,” Prowl said, and somehow that phrase, which wasn’t nearly the craziest part of this situation, got a bark of laughter from Jazz.

“Just Jazz is fine. It’s nice to meet you too Prowl.”

He got a nod of acknowledgement, as the ship flared to life and prepared for takeoff.

Jazz might need to sleep for a decade when he gets home.

(Translation for Prowl Earlier: Greetings, am I to assume you left the distress signal? I wasn’t aware there was robotic life this far out into the galaxy.)

I also won't apologize for using the transformers universal greeting :P, I love that thing. Canonically, it's a phrase so ridiculous that anyone who says it must mean no harm - which is why Jazz somewhat relaxes when he hears it despite not knowing what it means.

I hope you liked this short little story (≧∇≦)ﾉ it's more just exploring the concept than anything.

Also sorry for using the term mech or mecha wrong, I don't watch enough anime ( ´･･)ﾉ(._.`)

#transformers #my writing #fanfic #maccadam #jazzprowl #mech pilot jazz au #mecha pilot Jazz au #maccadam fanfiction #almost posted it on ao3 #but i decided not to #since it's pretty unpolished #though im not sure anyone but me can tell the difference between polished and unpolished with my writing lol.#Just shows how much I need to improve #transformers fanfiction

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seoulzie · 5 months ago

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ditched and delirious

SYNOPSIS: deserted by your friends in the chilling haunted house, you bump into yeonjun, another soul stranded in the same spooky predicament.

彡 pairing: stranger!yeonjun x reader 彡 genre: crack, fluff 彡 warnings: jumpscares & a lil romantic tension ;)

SEUL SPEAKS! this is based on something that actually happened to me except i never got my candied apples so im turning my trauma into purpose !!

halloween had always been a magical time for you. ever since you were a child, the arrival of october brought an unparalleled sense of excitement and anticipation. the crisp autumn air, filled with the scent of fallen leaves and pumpkin spice, made everything feel more vibrant and alive. you loved how the world transformed, embracing the whimsical and the spooky with equal enthusiasm.

each year, you meticulously planned your halloween costume, often starting weeks in advance. you enjoyed every step of the process, from brainstorming ideas to putting the finishing touches on your outfit. the creativity and imagination that halloween inspired were unmatched by any other holiday. the colorful costumes, from classic witches and vampires to more unique and creative characters, always fascinated you. walking down the streets and seeing the array of costumes made you feel like you were part of a grand, fantastical story.

this year was no different. you had been looking forward to halloween for months, and your friends had been buzzing with excitement about the new amusement park that had recently opened in town. the park promised an unforgettable experience with its elaborate halloween decorations, spooky attractions, and, most notably, the scariest haunted house in the area. despite your initial reservations about haunted houses, your friends' infectious enthusiasm was hard to resist.

the amusement park was a sight to behold. as you and your friends entered, you were greeted by towering scarecrows, giant inflatable pumpkins, and cobwebs that seemed to stretch endlessly. the air was filled with the sound of eerie music and the occasional scream from one of the haunted attractions. everywhere you looked, there were people dressed in costumes, their faces lit up with excitement and anticipation.

your group had arrived early in the afternoon to make the most of the day. you rode roller coasters that twisted and turned, leaving your heart racing and your adrenaline pumping. the feeling of the wind in your hair and the weightless drops made you scream and laugh in equal measure. between the rides, you indulged in the array of carnival food. you couldn't resist the smell of freshly made funnel cakes, and you and your friends shared cotton candy and funnel cakes, making sure to sample a little bit of everything.

the games were another highlight of the day. you tried your hand at the ring toss, aimed for the highest score at the shooting gallery, and even managed to win a small stuffed ghost at the balloon dart game. each victory, no matter how small, was celebrated with cheers and high fives. the carefree fun of the amusement park made you forget your initial hesitations about the haunted house.

as the sun began to set, the park transformed. the cheerful, bright atmosphere of the day gave way to a more mysterious and eerie vibe. strings of orange and purple lights illuminated the pathways, casting a haunting glow. fog machines created an otherworldly mist that floated around your feet, and the sound of distant, ghostly laughter echoed through the air.

the anticipation for the haunted house grew with each passing hour. your friends couldn't stop talking about it, sharing stories of previous haunted house experiences and speculating about what horrors awaited inside. they showed you pictures from the amusement park's website, showcasing the elaborate and terrifying decorations that awaited you.

by the time you made your way to the entrance of the haunted house, the sky was dark, and the moon hung high, casting a pale light over the park. the haunted house stood before you, a massive, decrepit mansion with eerie lights flickering in the windows and fog rolling down the steps. the intricate decorations were both impressive and terrifying, creating an atmosphere that sent a shiver down your spine.

"are we really doing this?" you asked, trying to sound braver than you felt.

"come on, it'll be fun!" one of your friends said, giving you a reassuring nudge. you noticed the mischievous glint in their eyes but brushed it off, thinking they were just excited. they had been talking about this haunted house for weeks, hyping it up with stories of how terrifying and thrilling it was supposed to be. you tried to feed off their enthusiasm, but the knot of anxiety in your stomach only tightened.

as you took a tentative step forward, the creaking of the gate made you jump. your friends laughed, their faces lit up with excitement and anticipation. you forced a smile, hoping to mirror their bravery, but inside, you were already regretting your decision. the ticket taker at the entrance, dressed in tattered victorian clothing and sporting a disturbingly realistic ghostly pallor, handed you your tickets with a sinister grin.

"enjoy your stay," he said in a low, gravelly voice that sent chills down your spine.

with a deep breath, you stepped inside. the moment you crossed the threshold, the temperature seemed to drop, and the atmosphere became even more oppressive. the sound of creaking doors and distant screams filled the air, creating an unsettling symphony of terror. dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the narrow, winding corridors, casting long, eerie shadows that danced on the walls.

you clung to your friends, trying to steady your nerves. every corner seemed to hold a new horror, from ghastly apparitions that materialized out of thin air to grotesque figures that lunged at you from hidden alcoves. the haunted house was a labyrinth of terror, with each turn bringing fresh waves of fear. the animatronics were disturbingly lifelike, their movements jerky and unnatural, their eyes following you with a malevolent gleam.

as you navigated through the dark, narrow hallways filled with jump scares and creepy animatronics, you realized something alarming: your friends were nowhere to be found. panic set in as you spun around, calling out their names, but the only response was the echo of your voice and the occasional sinister laugh from the haunted house's speakers. your heart pounded in your chest, and you felt the walls closing in. alone in the haunted house, every shadow seemed to move, and every sound made you jump.

the narrow hallway you found yourself in was lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow your every move. the floorboards creaked ominously underfoot, and the walls seemed to close in with each step you took. you turned a corner and found yourself face-to-face with a mirror. in the dim light, your reflection appeared ghostly and distorted. a flicker of movement behind you made you whirl around, but there was nothing there.

"guys? this isn't funny!" you called out, your voice echoing back at you. a cold sweat trickled down your back as the realization set in that your friends had deliberately left you alone as part of a prank. the mischievous glint in their eyes earlier suddenly made sense, and you felt a mix of fear and anger. you were stuck in a nightmare, and your friends were nowhere to be found.

you tried to retrace your steps, but the layout of the haunted house was disorienting. every hallway looked the same, and the constant barrage of scares kept you on edge. a mechanical zombie lunged out of the darkness, its eyes glowing a sickly green. you stumbled back, your heart racing, and took a wrong turn into a room filled with fog.

the fog was thick, swirling around your ankles and making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. the room was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft whisper of the fog machine. you moved cautiously, every sense on high alert. the fog seemed to part just enough to reveal a path, and you followed it, hoping it would lead you to an exit or at least a familiar part of the house.

as you navigated through the fog-filled room, you felt a growing sense of unease. shadows moved at the edge of your vision, and you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched. you heard a faint, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails on glass, and your nerves frayed further. you moved faster, desperate to find your way out of this nightmare.

suddenly, you bumped into someone, and you screamed. the impact sent you stumbling back, and you barely managed to catch yourself before falling. your heart raced as you spun around to face whoever you had collided with.

standing there, looking just as startled as you felt, was a tall, handsome guy with dark hair and wide, frightened eyes. despite the spooky atmosphere, his presence was more comforting than anything else in the haunted house.

"oh my god, i'm so sorry!" you exclaimed, your voice trembling. "i didn't see you there."

"it's okay," he replied, his voice just as shaky. "i wasn't expecting to run into anyone either."

you both stood there for a moment, catching your breath. the dim light and swirling fog made it difficult to see clearly, but you could tell that he was just as scared as you were.

"i'm y/n," you said, trying to break the tension. "are you here alone too?"

"yeah, my friends thought it would be funny to ditch me," he replied with a nervous laugh. "i'm yeonjun, by the way."

"nice to meet you, yeonjun," you said, managing a small smile. "i guess we're both in the same boat then."

yeonjun nodded, his expression softening. "it seems that way. how about we stick together? it might be less terrifying if we're not alone."

you agreed, feeling a bit of the tension ease. having someone with you, even a stranger, made the haunted house seem a little less menacing. as you started to move through the fog-filled room together, you felt a sense of camaraderie forming.

"have you been through one of these before?" yeonjun asked, his voice breaking the silence.

"not one this intense," you admitted. "i've always liked halloween, but haunted houses have never been my thing. what about you?"

"same here," yeonjun said. "i usually avoid them, but my friends convinced me this time. i didn't think they'd actually leave me here alone."

"me neither," you said, shaking your head. "i thought it was just going to be a fun night out."

you both laughed, the sound a welcome relief from the constant tension of the haunted house. as you continued to talk, you felt yourself relaxing a bit more. yeonjun's presence was comforting, and the conversation helped to distract you from the scares lurking around every corner.

just as you started to feel a bit more at ease, a loud bang echoed through the room, followed by a figure lunging out of the darkness. you screamed and instinctively threw yourself at yeonjun. he yelped in surprise, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

for a moment, you both stood there, clinging to each other, hearts racing. then you realized that the figure was just another animatronic, and you couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

"you scared me more than that clown!" yeonjun said, trying to catch his breath.

"i could say the same about you!" you replied, still giggling.

the shared scare broke the ice completely. as you continued, you noticed that yeonjun, despite his initial fear, was trying his best to be brave for you. his attempts at bravery were endearing, and you felt a growing fondness for him.

the haunted house continued to challenge your nerves with more intense scares and intricate scenes. at one point, you found yourselves in a room filled with eerie whispers and dim candlelight. yeonjun took your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"just a little longer," he said softly.

as you cautiously moved forward, the floor suddenly erupted with the sound of firecrackers being stepped on. startled, both of you began jumping around in panic, but each step only caused more firecrackers to go off. the room echoed with the cracking sounds, creating a chaotic symphony that made it hard to think straight.

"fuck!" you screamed, trying to find a safe spot to stand, but the relentless popping continued.

"watch out!" yeonjun shouted, but it was too late. both of you stumbled over your feet, finally collapsing onto the ground and catching your breath. lying there, you couldn’t help but laugh at the situation's absurdity, the initial fear giving way to a sense of shared relief.

the next room plunged you into suffocating darkness. a sound, like nails scraping bone, skittered across the floor. yeonjun's grip on your hand tightened, his fingers digging into your palm. you shuffled forward, your fear a distant echo compared to the cold dread radiating off him.

suddenly, a figure lunged at you from the shadows, and you both screamed in unison, clutching onto each other in a moment of pure terror.

yeonjun's reaction was immediate and instinctive. without thinking, he pulled you in front of him, using you as a shield against the approaching figure. his heart pounded wildly against your back as he pressed you protectively against himself, his whole body trembling with fear.

you could feel his ragged breath against your neck, and it matched the frantic rhythm of your own heartbeat. the figure hesitated, realizing the scare had backfired, and retreated into the darkness, leaving behind an eerie silence.

for a moment, you both stood frozen, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. then, with shaky breaths, you turned to face each other in the dim light filtering through the fog.

"sorry," yeonjun muttered, his voice barely audible. "i... i panicked."

"it's okay," you assured him softly, turning to face him with a comforting smile despite the lingering fear.

you took a few deep breaths to steady your nerves before cautiously continuing through the haunted house.

"you know," yeonjun said, trying to lighten the mood, "if we survive this, we should definitely get some candied apples together."

"i'd like that," you replied, smiling despite the lingering fear.

as you walked out of the haunted house hand in hand, relieved to be out of the terrifying atmosphere, you noticed your friends waiting eagerly outside. their faces lit up with anticipation, ready to catch your reaction to the scare fest they had orchestrated.

instead, their expressions turned from anticipation to utter bafflement as they watched you and yeonjun approach, hands intertwined. you could practically see the question marks forming over their heads as they exchanged confused glances.

"hey, guys," you greeted them casually, trying to ignore their bewildered stares. "meet yeonjun. we... uh, ran into each other inside."

yeonjun smiled warmly at your friends, his hand still firmly clasped in yours. "nice to meet you all."

your friends managed awkward hellos in response, still processing the unexpected turn of events. they had planned to prank you, not witness you leaving the haunted house hand in hand with a guy you had just met inside.

"we were just about to head over to the carnival games," one of your friends finally managed to say, trying to break the awkward silence. they shot you a playful grin, eyebrows raised suggestively.

"yeah, come join us," another friend chimed in hastily, shooting you a curious glance. "or are you two planning to haunt the rest of the park together?"

you chuckled nervously, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. glancing at yeonjun, you couldn't help but ask, "what about your friends?"

yeonjun shrugged nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in his eye. "man, forget them," he replied with a grin. "they ditched me back there in that house."

your friends exchanged surprised glances, not expecting such a blunt response. "looks like you're stuck with her now!" one of them teased with a laugh.

"we'll be by the carousel if you need us," another friend chimed in playfully, "just one call away!"

as your friends started walking away, you and yeonjun started walking toward the direction of the candied apples stand, and you heard your friends' laughter trailing behind you.

"so, about those apples?" yeonjun nudged you gently, a playful glint in his eyes.

you chuckled, feeling a surge of excitement at the thought of spending more time with him. "lead the way."

with each step, hand in hand, you and yeonjun continued down the path illuminated by twinkling halloween lights, anticipating a cozy and memorable end to your adventurous night.

⋆˚࿔ taglist! @flowzel , @izzyy-stuff , @inkigayocamman , @beombeomlovesme ⤷ want to get notified? click here!

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lev1hei1chou · 9 months ago

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3:27

The door creaked open, revealing the dimly lit room where you lay peacefully asleep. Gojo Satoru, tired from his latest mission, couldn't help but smile at the sight of you curled up in his uniform. Just the thought of you missing him as much as he missed you was enough to make his heart full. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated your peaceful face, making you look absolutely ethereal.

As he approached the bed, Gojo couldn't resist the urge to trace a gentle finger along your cheek, smiling at the serene expression that graced your features. The room was filled with a tranquil ambiance, and the rhythmic sounds of your breathing made the atmosphere seem so peaceful.

Carefully, he removed his coat and socks, setting them aside as he observed you in his uniform. The oversized shirt draped over your frame, the sleeves slightly too long, giving you a cozy and endearing look. Gojo couldn't help but feel a surge of affection, realizing how much he had missed you during his time away.

Quietly, he slid into bed beside you, careful not to disturb your peaceful slumber. The warmth of the sheets enveloped him as he gazed at you, admiring the way his uniform clung to your form. His fingers delicately tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, reveling in the tender moment.

As the minutes passed, Gojo couldn't shake off the fatigue from his mission, but being with you brought an unparalleled sense of comfort. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, whispering, "Missed you, sweetheart," before succumbing to the exhaustion that clung to him.

Masterlist

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yourfriendowlbear · 1 year ago

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Boundaries

Astarion x gn!reader

Summary: A stranger approaches Astarion in your favorite tavern

Genre: slice of life, little bit of angst, mostly fluff

The tavern is cozy. Loud and lively and warm. There’s a fire in the fireplace. The bartender keeps the alcohol flowing plentifully. And you’re seated at your favorite table–in the corner, against the wall but still close enough to the action to enjoy the tavern atmosphere–with your favorite cold-blooded company.

Astarion has dragged his chair around to your side of the table, and he’s sitting close enough that you can feel the chill from his skin.

You’re comfortable, a drink in-hand as you both watch the tavern’s small stage. There’s a musical group clustered together–a fiddle player, a flutist, a man with a hand drum, and a woman playing a horn–and there are people dancing just in front.

Overall it’s joyous and raucous and fun, and though you’d originally had to practically bribe Astarion to come with you tonight, you can tell he’s enjoying himself all the same.

You both cheer when the band ends a song, and when they take a small break to chat with the crowd around the stage, Astarion leans back to say something to you.

But you never get to hear what he has to say, because at that exact moment, a man appears in front of you both. He’s handsome–strong jaw, piercing eyes, youthful energy–and his smile, though enticing, is predatory. A cat who has sighted a dove.

The man sizes you up briefly before turning his attention to Astarion. You can tell that the vampire knows what’s coming based on the way he tenses up. The stranger either doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care, because he continues on without a care.

His opening line makes you roll your eyes. It’s cheesy and basic (“I saw you from across the room and I just had to come over and say hello.”) and he looks proud of himself when Astarion laughs and says “Oh, how positively quaint.” Poor sod can’t even tell when he’s being made fun of.

He’s shockingly persistent, asking questions, asking if he can buy Astarion a drink. For the most part, you’re sitting there, both offended because hello you’re right there and amused by Astarion’s polite but increasingly snarky responses.

Around the third time the man asks to buy Astarion a drink, things start to get significantly less polite. And when the band starts up again and the man asks Astarion to dance, the vampire practically growls out “No. Thank you, darling, but I’m much more comfortable here.”

As he’s saying it, Astarion shifts slightly closer to you, as if he’s trying to get physically away from the stranger. You can tell he’s annoyed from how tense his jaw is.

“Oh, come on. Have a little fun.” The stranger’s persistence has finally pushed you to your limit and you snap “Gods above, he said no. Take a hint and fuck off.”

The stranger scowls, but ultimately, he does leave, and you follow him with his eyes as he weaves through the crowd and out the door of the tavern.

After a moment, Astarion stands, moving his chair back to the other side of the table. “I can handle myself, you know.” His voice is soft, but you can hear the hurt in it. “I know you think I’m just some pitiable creature that can’t set his own boundaries, but I assure you, I can manage on my own.”

You frown. Of course, you don’t think that. And of course, you know he can handle himself. You were trying to help. But when you go to say that, he shoots you a firm glare, and your words die in your throat. Instead, you simply say “It won’t happen again.”

You leave shortly after, the band no longer holds your attention, and you want to give Astarion some space. So you head out into the night.

Bloomridge is the nicest neighborhood in the Lower City. The City had gifted you the house after everything, and while at first, you’d chafed at the idea of living in the quiet, sweet, more affluent part of the city. But you’d both grown to love it. The view over Grey Harbor is unparalleled, and it’s shockingly nice to have somewhere quiet to settle down between adventures.

Your feet have carried you home, but you don’t really want to go in yet–the night is covered in a beautiful, light fog, and there’s a lovely breeze coming in off the harbor–so you sit on the front steps and lean your back against the door.

It’s only a few minutes later that you see Astarion picking his way back up the stairs along the side of the city wall. He pauses in front of you, and you can see the pain in his crimson eyes before he sighs and sits beside you.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly.

Beside you, Astarion stiffens and inhales sharply. “Why are you sorry?”

“You’re right. I should have let you handle it. You’re more than capable.”

“I…” He deflates a little, and a confused frown creases his forehead. “I appreciate that you stepped in. Sometimes… sometimes it’s still hard to…”

He trails off, but you know what he means. Sometimes it’s still hard for him to enforce his boundaries. He tries, but 200 years of Cazador’s reign of terror don’t go away in a year. It can be difficult to walk the line between being firm and being outright rude (and as snarky as Astarion can be, he doesn’t always want to be rude).

These things take time.

You reach out and squeeze his hand, wordlessly telling him that it’s okay, that you get it, that he’s done nothing wrong. You’ll work on his boundary enforcement together. You have a lifetime together to do it.

#astarion x reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion fluff #astarion fanfic #astarion headcanons #astarion fic #astarion romance #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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jphack1 · 1 year ago

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https://www.jphack.com/

Best Cyber

#Connect and Surf: Unveiling the Best Cyber Cafe in Shamsabad #Agra!#Title:#Description: Looking for the ultimate online haven in Shamsabad #Agra? Look no further! Discover the unparalleled experience of the “Best Cyber Cafe In Shamsabad Agra” where fast #reliable internet meets a cozy atmosphere. Join us for a digital adventure like never before!

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stylesispunk · 5 months ago

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Blades of Fate

marcus Acacius x f!reader / lucius x f!reader

Summary: Lucius and you are celebrated champions of the arena, each with their own unique force. Marcus Acacius returning from a victorious campaign, attends a grand gladiatorial event where he witnesses your bravery firsthand and something about you captivates him.

w.c: 4,4k

warnings: messy writing, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, and mentions of arranged marriage, tension

a/n: okay, I had two days off from work and I still have post london depression, but I finally wrote something and I had no idea what the plot of this was or is, but I was dying for writing something about this two characters and I out them both here. Okay I have no idea what plot gladiator II will follow so this is the only thing that came to my mind. Perhaps some events or details of the story will not fit with the history events of the Roman empire and gladiators, but still this is just for fun. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. I hope you like it and have fun reading 💌.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

The sun hung high in the Roman sky, casting golden rays over the Colosseum's colossal structure. The massive stone amphitheater, a testament to Roman engineering and grandeur, was alive with the roar of the crowd. Citizens from all walks of life, from the lowly plebeians to the esteemed senators, filled the seats, their cheers and shouts blending into a symphony of anticipation.

The blood of past battles stained the sand in the heart of the arena, a silent witness to the countless lives lost for entertainment. Today, the atmosphere was electric with excitement, for the arena was set to witness a spectacle unlike any other. The gates on either end of the battleground creaked open, and out stepped two of Rome's most revered gladiators.

Lucius, tall and muscular, with a presence that commanded respect, raised his sword to the cheering masses. His sharp and focused eyes scanned the crowd before settling on his partner. You, a gladiatrix of unparalleled skill, moved with a grace that belied the brutality of your fate, matching the rage of your lover. Your lithe form was clad in leather armor, and your hair was braided back to reveal a face marked by determination and a fierce will to survive.

Seeing a woman fight wasn’t something common, but you had won your respect and reputation, and besides Lucius, you had become nothing but stronger, a team, as the two champions you were destined to be.

A hush fell over the Colosseum. The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe.

The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe, determined to bring down the beloved gladiators.

The battle began with a clash of steel and a flurry of movement. Lucius and you fought with seamless coordination; your movements synchronized as if you were one entity. Lucius's strength and brute force were complemented perfectly by your agility and precision. The two of you moved through your opponents like a tempest, leaving a trail of fallen adversaries in your wake.

High above, in the VIP stands, General Marcus Acacius watched intently. His stern face, weathered by years of warfare and command, betrayed no emotion. Known for his ruthless efficiency and strategic brilliance, Marcus had seen countless battles, but there was something about these two gladiators that intrigued him. Your skill was undeniable, but it was your unspoken bond, your mutual trust and respect, that caught his attention.

As the last of your opponent’s fell, the crowd erupted in deafening applause. Lucius and you stood victorious, your chests heaving from exertion, but your eyes were sharp and alert. You raised your weapons in salute to the crowd and then, as one, turned your gaze towards Marcus.

From his seat, Marcus leaned forward slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Arrange for a private meeting," he instructed his aide, his voice carrying the weight of command. "I want to see if their skills match their reputation."

The aide nodded and hurried off, while Marcus's gaze remained fixed on the two of you. There was something about you both—a spark that he couldn't quite place. He intended to find out what it was and how it could serve his own purposes.

As you and Lucius exited the arena, you exchanged a smile. Another victory, another day of survival in a world you didn’t choose but were destined to be part of. You reached out, gently touching his arm. “We are a team,” you said, trying to convince yourself that the love you had for him was bigger than the exhaustion you felt.

Lucius looked down at your hand on his arm, then back at you. “Yes, Dulcissima,” he said softly. He closed his eyes; there was a sort of pain evident on his face. “But I want us to be free from all of this," he admitted.

He opened his eyes, searching for yours once more. The anger had faded, replaced by a deep sorrow. "Dulcissima,” the nickname, slipped from his lips once again. “I want us to get married, and I want to make you happy.”

You stared at him in disbelief, the weight of his words sinking in. “Lucius,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions.

Lucius took your hand in his; his grip was firm yet tender. "I’ve been thinking about this for a long time," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time we step into that arena, I fear it might be our last. I don’t want to lose you, not without having truly lived with you."

Your heart ached at his words. You had always known the dangers of your life as a gladiatrix, but hearing Lucius speak so openly about his fears brought a new depth to your own anxieties. "I want that too, Lucius," you replied, your voice trembling with emotion. "But how can we ever be free?"

Lucius's eyes darkened with determination. "We’ll find a way. There has to be more to life than this constant struggle. We’ll fight for our freedom together."

Before you could respond, a group of soldiers approached, their stern faces in stark contrast to the celebration that surrounded you. The leader, a tall centurion with a scar running down his cheek, addressed you both. "General Marcus Acacius has requested your presence for a private meeting. Follow us."

You and Lucius exchanged a quick glance, both sensing the gravity of the situation. With a nod, you followed the soldiers through the winding corridors of the Colosseum, your minds racing with thoughts of what the general might want.

The soldiers led you to a grand chamber within the Colosseum, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and bronze statues of Rome’s greatest heroes. General Marcus Acacius stood near a large table, studying a map spread out before him. As you entered, he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours with keen intensity.

"Welcome," Marcus said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I wanted to speak with you both personally. Your performance in the arena today was nothing short of extraordinary."

"Thank you, General," Lucius replied, his tone respectful but guarded.

Marcus nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "And honor Rome you have. But I sense that there’s more to your partnership than just skill and survival. There’s a deeper connection, one that could be of great use."

You felt a chill run down your spine at his words. "What do you mean, General?" you asked cautiously.

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes piercing. "I��m offering you an opportunity—a chance to fight for something greater than yourselves. To serve Rome in a way that could ultimately lead to your freedom."

Lucius’s grip on your hand tightened slightly. "We’re listening," he said, his voice steady.

Marcus gestured to the map on the table. "Rome is expanding, but with that expansion comes the need for strong, capable leaders. I believe the two of you could be valuable assets in securing our borders and maintaining order. Prove yourselves in the upcoming challenge, and I’ll ensure that your skills are recognized. There could be a future for you beyond the arena, one where you have a say in your own destiny." He paused. "However," he continued, a glint of challenge in his eyes, "I propose a new test of their mettle. A special event, where our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a mock battle."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall. You felt a surge of determination at the general's words. This was more than a mere challenge; it was an opportunity to prove yourself further in the eyes of Rome and its most powerful figures.

You stepped forward, your voice clear and resolute. "I accept your challenge, General. I will show you and all of Rome what a true gladiator is capable of."

Marcus nodded, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Very well. The event will be held in two days' time. May the gods favor the brave."

Lucius, standing beside you, gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "We’ve faced worse," he whispered. "You’ll show them all."

Your heart raced at the prospect. Could this be the chance you and Lucius have been longing for? Is there a way to escape the bloodshed and find a life together, free from the chains of the Colosseum?

"We’ll do it," you said firmly, meeting Marcus’s gaze with unwavering resolve. "We’ll prove ourselves."

Marcus’s smile widened; satisfaction was evident in his eyes. "Good. The challenge will take place in two days. Prepare yourselves, and may the gods be with you."

As the banquet continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this challenge was more than just a test of skill. It was a pivotal moment, one that could alter the course of your life and your bond with Lucius. And in the shadows, the ever-watchful eyes of Marcus Acacius followed your every move, already plotting the next step in his intricate game.

The next two days were a blur of intense preparation. You and Lucius trained tirelessly, refining your techniques and strategizing for the upcoming mock battle. The anticipation in the air was palpable, both among the gladiators and the spectators who eagerly awaited the spectacle.

On the morning of the event, the Colosseum was packed with spectators, their cheers echoing through the grand structure. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the excitement of the unknown. This was no ordinary battle; it was a test that would determine your fate and perhaps even reshape your destiny.

Marcus stood on a platform overlooking the arena, his presence commanding respect. He raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Today, we witness a display of courage, skill, and determination," he announced, his voice carrying across the Colosseum. "Our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a test of strength and strategy. Let the battle begin!"

The gates creaked open, and you stepped into the arena, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Across from you stood Marcus’s elite soldiers, their expressions hard and focused. You glanced at Lucius, who stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes locked onto yours with unwavering support.

"Together," you whispered to yourself, drawing strength from the bond you shared with Lucius.

The clash of steel rang out as the battle commenced, a whirlwind of movement and noise. You moved with a grace and ferocity that left your opponents reeling; your every strike was precise and powerful. Despite the odds, you fought with everything you had, driven by the desire for freedom and a future with Lucius.

As the battle raged on, you felt a surge of energy, pushing yourself beyond your limits. You danced around your opponents, using your agility and speed to outmaneuver them. The crowd's cheers grew louder with each successful strike, their excitement fueling your resolve.

Finally, as the last soldier fell, a hush descended over the arena. You stood victorious, your chest heaving, your body bruised and battered but unbroken. The crowd erupted in applause; their cheers were a testament to your triumph.

Marcus descended from the platform, his eyes filled with admiration and something else—something deeper. "You have proven yourself today," he said, his voice carrying a note of respect. "Your skills and determination are unmatched. You are a true warrior."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. "Thank you, General," you replied, your voice steady despite the exhaustion.

Lucius rushed to your side, his eyes filled with pride and relief. "You did it," he whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I knew you would."

As you stood there, basking in the glow of victory, Marcus stepped closer, his gaze intense. "There is more to this than just a test of skill," he said quietly. "I see potential in you—a potential that could change the course of our future."

You looked at him, curiosity and apprehension swirling within you. "What do you mean?"

Marcus smiled a hint of mystery in his eyes. "All in due time. For now, rest and recover. We will speak again soon."

In the days that followed, you and Lucius were treated with newfound respect and admiration. The other gladiators looked up to you, and the soldiers who had once seen you as mere entertainment now saw you as formidable warriors. Yet, despite the praise and the promise of a brighter future, a sense of unease lingered in the air.

One evening, as you were returning to your quarters after another grueling day of training, a sudden commotion caught your attention. The sound of clashing steel and muffled shouts echoed through the corridors. You hurried towards the source of the disturbance, your heart pounding with a sense of impending danger.

As you rounded a corner, you were met with a chilling sight. Lucius was engaged in a fierce battle with a group of unknown assailants. His movements were swift and deadly, but he was outnumbered. Without a second thought, you drew your weapon and rushed to his aid, your determination burning brighter than ever.

Despite your best efforts, the sheer number of attackers overwhelmed you. You fought valiantly, but the odds were stacked against you. A sharp pain exploded in your side as one of the assailants landed a brutal blow, and you fell to your knees, your vision blurring.

Lucius's voice echoed in your ears, filled with desperation. "No! Leave her alone!" But his cries were in vain. The attackers overpowered him, and as darkness closed in, you felt yourself being dragged away.

When you awoke, you found yourself in a dimly lit cell, your hands bound with a rough rope. The cold stone walls pressed in around you, and the air was thick with the scent of dampness and decay. You struggled against your restraints, but they held firm.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder with each passing second. The door to your cell creaked open, and Marcus stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

"You’re awake," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of regret.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. "Why did you do this?"

Marcus sighed, his eyes dark with emotion. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said, stepping closer. "But there are forces at play here that even I cannot control. I had to act quickly to protect you."

"Protect me?" You spat, your anger flaring. "By taking me hostage?"

He knelt beside you, his gaze earnest. "Yes," he said softly. "There are those who see you as a threat and who would stop at nothing to eliminate you. I couldn’t let that happen. This was the only way to keep you safe."

You stared at him, your mind racing. "And what about Lucius? What have you done to him?"

Marcus’s expression tightened. "He’s unharmed for now. But there are conditions. You must stay here, cooperate with me, and in return, he will be spared."

Your heart ached with the weight of his words. The future you had envisioned with Lucius seemed to slip further away with each passing moment. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"I want you to trust me," Marcus said, his tone sincere. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to believe that I’m doing this for the greater good. Together, we can change the course of history."

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. Instead, you found only a deep, unyielding resolve. Despite your anger and fear, a part of you wanted to believe him and trust that he had your best interests at heart.

"I’ll cooperate," you said finally, your voice steady. "But if anything happens to Lucius, I swear I will make you pay."

Marcus nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his features. "You have my word," he said. "Lucius will be safe.

The next evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the cell, Marcus arrived with a tray of food. He set it down on a small table and took a seat across from you. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You shrugged, picking at the food. "As well as one can feel in captivity," you replied, a hint of bitterness in your tone.

Marcus sighed. "I understand your frustration," he said. "But believe me, this is the only way to ensure your safety."

You looked up at him, your eyes searching for his. "And what about Lucius? How long do you intend to keep us apart?"

"Until it’s safe," he answered, his gaze unwavering. "There are those who would see you both dead. I need to neutralize that threat before I can reunite you."

You frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. "And how do I know I can trust you?"

“Because I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, leaning forward towards you, his expression earnest. "I have given you my word. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

“And Lucius,” you said.

“I don’t care about Lucius.” He confessed, “But if you ask me to protect him, I will.”

You recoiled slightly at Marcus's confession, his words echoing in your mind. "You don’t care about Lucius?" You repeated it, disbelief coloring your tone.

Marcus hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "Not in the same way I care about you," he admitted quietly. "But I understand how important he is to you. If protecting him means protecting you, then I will do it."

You took a deep breath, trying to process the storm of emotions swirling within you. Marcus’s honesty was unexpected, and it stirred something in you, something you could decipher.

"I appreciate your honesty," you said finally, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. "But my loyalty lies with Lucius. He’s... he’s a part of me."

Marcus nodded slowly, his expression somber. "I understand," he said softly.

You looked your gaze with his; an electric feeling passed through the both of you, but you ignored it, not wanting to commit treason towards Lucius.

“I don’t like this life, you know?” Marcus began, his voice carrying the weight of the weariness of years and sincerity. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching yours as if seeking understanding.

You nodded slowly, feeling a surge of empathy for the man before you, the man who seemed to be different from his strong exterior. "I can imagine," you replied softly. "The burden of command, the weight of decisions that affect so many lives..."

Marcus sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It’s not just that," he admitted, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I’ve seen too much bloodshed, too much senseless violence. In these gladiatorial games, they glorify death while the people cheer on."

His words resonated deeply with you, stirring up memories of battles fought and lives lost in the name of entertainment. "I never wanted to be a fighter," you confessed quietly. "I wanted... I wanted a life of peace, of freedom."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "Yet here we are,” he murmured. “Bound by duty, by the expectations of others.”

You nodded, the weight of shared experience forging a fragile bond between you.

"I’ve spent my life in service to Rome, sacrificing countless lives for its glory. But lately, I find myself questioning the cost."

You nodded slowly, sensing the weight of his words. "I understand," you said quietly. "I’ve felt that way too, at times. I never wanted to be what I am now—to live and die by the sword. But I grew up with Lucius, and we shared the same resentment and anger at the hand life dealt me."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "We’re more alike than you realize," he murmured. ”

"I never imagined my life would turn out like this," you admitted, a pang of vulnerability in your voice. "But every battle, every victory—it’s shaped who I am."

Marcus reached across the table, his hand resting gently on yours. "You’re stronger than you know," he said earnestly. "And you deserve more than the chains of the Colosseum."

You met his gaze, seeing a depth of compassion and empathy that surprised you. "What about that?" you asked softly. "What do I deserve?"

“To be caressed and protected,” he replied, not taking his eyes from yours.

His words stirred something deep within you—a yearning for tenderness and safety amidst the chaos of your existence. "And you?" you pressed gently, your heart racing with uncertainty and anticipation.

Marcus’s expression softened further, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "To find redemption," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "To make amends for the lives I’ve sacrificed.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his confession settling between you. "We both seek something more," you said softly, reaching to cover his hand with yours. "Perhaps we can find it."

The touch of your hands and the electricity were enough to make you guilty of sin.

"One of my men has uncovered a plot against you," Marcus confessed while holding your hand. "There are those who believe you and Lucius pose a threat to the stability of Rome. They’re planning an attack."

You drew in a sharp breath, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. "Who would want to harm us?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern and disbelief.

Marcus shook his head grimly. "Enemies within the Senate, rivals who see you as a symbol of defiance," he explained. "They fear the influence you hold over the people, over the rebels.”

You glanced at him, a mixture of fear and gratitude swirling within you. "What do I do?" you asked quietly, realizing the gravity of the situation.

Marcus’s gaze hardened, a flicker of determination crossing his features.

"What do you propose?" you asked, a sense of foreboding creeping over you.

Marcus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze with resolve. "An arranged marriage," he said quietly. "Between you and me."

You stared at him, stunned. "What?”

"Think about it," Marcus said, shifting closer. "As my wife, you would have the protection of my name and my position. It would make it much harder for our enemies to harm you. And it would give us the legitimacy and power we need to navigate the political landscape of Rome."

"But what about Lucius?" you demanded, your heart aching at the thought of betraying him.

"I would ensure his safety," Marcus promised. "He would be free, and you could see him. But we must present a united front to the world. This is the only way."

You turned away, struggling with your emotions. The thought of marrying Marcus, despite your growing bond, felt like a betrayal to Lucius. Yet, the logic of Marcus’s proposal was undeniable.

"Please, think about it," Marcus said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

You spent the night wrestling with conflicting emotions, torn between loyalty to Lucius and the pragmatism of Marcus's proposal. As dawn broke, you found yourself standing before Marcus once more, a decision forming in your mind.

"I've thought about it," you began slowly, meeting Marcus's intense gaze with determination. "I... I agree."

Marcus's expression softened with relief, yet he remained composed. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice laced with concern for your well-being.

You nodded, steeling yourself against the ache in your heart. "Yes. It's the best way to protect both of us, and Lucius too. We need to do this."

A weight seemed to lift from Marcus's shoulders, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. "Thank you," he murmured, stepping closer to take your hands in his. "You won't regret this. I'll make sure to be the best husband.”

As Marcus took your hands in his, a sense of finality settled over you. The decision was made, driven by a combination of necessity and the undeniable connection you felt with him. Despite the pang of guilt for Lucius, you knew this was a path you had chosen for the safety and future stability it promised.

"I need you to know that my heart belongs to Lucius," you replied softly, meeting Marcus's earnest gaze. "But I’ll believe you’ll prove me right."

A faint smile touched Marcus's lips; relief and determination shone in his eyes. "We'll face this together," he said, his voice steady with conviction. "I'll ensure that you're protected and that we navigate these turbulent times with strength and unity."

Marcus nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering as he listened to your heartfelt confession. "I understand," he replied softly, his voice tinged with both acceptance and a hint of sadness. "I will do everything in my power to earn your trust and respect."

You felt a surge of gratitude towards Marcus, appreciating his understanding despite the complex emotions involved. "Thank you," you murmured, squeezing his hands gently. "For being so understanding."

A sense of mutual respect and determination filled the space between you, a silent agreement to face the challenges ahead. Marcus's commitment to protect you and navigate the political intricacies of Rome gave you a measure of reassurance in the midst of uncertainty.

"We'll announce our intentions and make preparations," Marcus continued, his voice regaining its usual resolve. "Our marriage will be more than just a shield; it will be a symbol of unity and strength."

As you nodded in agreement, a sense of resolve settled within you. Despite your heart belonging to Lucius, you knew that this alliance with Marcus was necessary.

When Marcus left your side, you looked up at the sky, promising heaven and God that Lucius would be your only love, just as the weight of your decision settled in your chest—a blend of duty and sacrifice for a greater cause—for your freedom. Despite the practicality of your alliance with Marcus, your heart still yearned for Lucius, a truth you held onto in the quiet moments.

Unbeknownst to you, Marcus observed you from a distance, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound sense of purpose. As he watched you under the vast Roman sky, a resolve hardened within him. He had made a commitment to protect you, but now he harbored a deeper ambition—to win your heart.

#marcus acacius x f!reader #marcus acacius x female reader #marcus acacius x y/n #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius x reader #general marcus acacius #general acacius x you #general acacius x reader #general acacius #pedro pascal #angst #gladiator 2 #marcus acacius #marcus acacius imagine #pedro pascal character fanfiction #lucius x f!reader #my writing

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headlinxr · 8 days ago

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𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 ─── 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠-𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧

SYNOPSIS ! Sung-hoon is a renowned photographer who has managed to capture the essence of his models in a unique way, but his talent becomes his worst enemy. The moment he meets you, a young model whose beauty embodies his perfect vision of aesthetics, something dark ignites within him. What begins as an artistic fascination quickly transforms into a morbid obsession.

GENRE. non idol! au, f!reader, stalker x victim, obsession.

WARNINGS. stalking, Sung-hoon is weird, slight Stockholm syndrome.

DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The camera doesn't lie. Or at least, that's what Sung-hoon has believed for years, a truth he has carried with him in every step of his life. Through his lens, the world unfolds before him with absolute clarity, a universe reduced to lights and shadows, to shapes and textures, to a moment frozen in time that, according to him, reflects the immutable truth of existence. As a renowned photographer, Sung-hoon has achieved what few can: He has mastered his art with such skill that his images not only capture reality but also penetrate the very essence of his subjects, stripping their souls bare with almost surgical precision.

Each click of his camera is a sigh, a heartbeat, an attempt to capture the elusive. For him, photography is much more than a technical act; it is an unceasing quest for something deeper than a simple pose or a well-composed scene. In each photograph, Sung-hoon seeks to unravel the hidden essence of what he sees: that spark of vulnerability, that fragile beauty that lies behind everyday masks. The faces he photographs are not mere portraits, but windows to the truth, as if each image could decipher untold stories, repressed emotions, silenced fears. In his mastery of the interplay between light and shadow, he has found his most authentic voice, a visual language that allows him, with each shot, to transcend the limitations of the physical and touch the intangible.

He is a master in creating atmospheres, an alchemist of light who transforms the ordinary into something sublime. He knows that light, as elusive as life itself, has the power to reveal and conceal, to create depth in the superficial, and to give shape to what seems inert. For him, each shadow is a promise, and each flash of light, a revelation. In his hands, the camera becomes an almost divine instrument, capable of immortalizing moments that, in their transience, seem eternal. And yet, behind this unparalleled skill, there is a reality that Sung-hoon has refused for so long that he has come to forget it. His camera, which has been his most faithful companion, has also been his jailer.

Because while his art has elevated him to the pinnacle of recognition, it has condemned him to a solitary existence. The dedication he has put into his work, unwavering and absolute, has cost him much more than his time. He has sacrificed a personal life, a life he could never integrate with his vocation. He never had a partner who understood him, nor friends who shared his universe, nor family members who dared to call his attention outside of the studio. Love, friendship, human connections, seemed to him minor distractions in the face of the greatness of his photographic mission. In his mind, there was no room for anything other than visual perfection, the constant search for that transcendent image that could touch the very essence of life.

But while his world was being built through the lens, a subtle and silent darkness began to take shape within him. Each photo he took was a window to the outside, but at the same time, it closed the doors of his soul even more. The camera granted him the power to see and capture everything happening around him, but it denied him the ability to see what was happening in his own heart. In that space where shadows intertwine with light, where the ephemeral becomes eternal, Sung-hoon got lost. He became a distant observer, trapped in an endless cycle of images, but with no real contact with the life that existed beyond his lens. The loneliness he dragged along, hidden within the folds of his success, grew deeper, more overwhelming, until one day, he could no longer escape it.

As Sung-hoon's recognition grew, so did the shadow that loomed over his life. Fame, like a brilliant reflection, mirrored an image of success that the world applauded, but he felt increasingly disconnected, more alien to that applause, as if everything were part of a movie that was not his own. The galleries, the exhibitions, the critics' laudatory comments, the flashes capturing his moments of glory: none of it managed to penetrate the ice armor he had forged over the years. The camera, his tool of revelation, had made him an expert in the truth of others, but not in his own truth. And, despite being a creator of worlds, within himself lay a deep, unfathomable void that even the most powerful images could not fill.

In the stillness of his studio, surrounded by thousands of stories frozen on photographic paper, Sung-hoon found himself in a strange space, filled with foreign memories but empty of his own. The walls, adorned with his best works, offered him a vision of the world he had captured with meticulousness, but the images did not speak to him. Those faces, those gazes frozen in a second that seemed eternal, watched him with a fixity that overwhelmed him, as if judging him in their silence. The gestures he had halted in his journey through life now appeared to him as ghosts of a past he himself had lost. Each photograph was a masterpiece, yes, but also a cruel reminder that he had been a spectator in the lives of others, without truly participating in his own. The distance between him and his art had become an insurmountable abyss.

The studio lighting, which he had so expertly mastered when capturing the essence of others, now seemed distant and cold to him. The shadows he had used to build atmospheres in his photos now enveloped him like a mantle of darkness in his own life. His soul, which he had learned to sculpt in each image, slipped through his fingers like water, like a film unrolling before him, but which he could never touch. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when the last light of the day began to fade, he found himself in front of his photographs, in a silence that devoured him. A feeling of incompleteness overwhelmed him, as if his constant search in the eyes of others had been a way to evade his own face. Why, despite the fame, did he feel that something within him was slowly crumbling? The answer was not in the lens of his camera, but in the absence of a real connection with himself.

It was a typical work afternoon, without any preambles or announcements, when something inside him changed. While reviewing the photographs that would soon be part of his new exhibition, one in particular caught his attention. It was you, a young woman, with your gaze lost on the horizon, as if your thoughts floated beyond your body. In your expression, so laden with melancholy, Sung-hoon saw something he had never perceived before: His own reflection. The sorrow in your eyes, the fragility emanating from your face, the sadness seeping through your gestures, everything seemed so familiar. It was as if he himself, in his bewilderment and emptiness, had become you, trapped in a moment he couldn't let go of.

In that instant, the camera stopped being a simple tool to capture reality and transformed into a mirror. A mirror that reflected not only the image of its subject but also that of his own soul, slowly crumbling, invisible to the eyes of others. You were not just another subject in his photographic archive; you represented what he had left behind, what he had never been able to live. The melancholy of that image seeped into his very being, like an underground river that had finally found its way to the surface.

Sung-hoon was forced to confront the question he had been avoiding for so long: How many times, while observing others, had he seen his own emptiness reflected in their eyes? How many times had he searched in the gestures of his subjects for the humanity he had lost, as if he could find something of himself in the faces of others? Each photograph, he thought, had been a search to find what he had not been able to find in his own life. He had spent years chasing a truth that only existed in the shadows of his lens, without realizing that, in the process, he had stopped seeing the light within himself.

That night, when the studio lights went out and darkness began to fill the corners of the room, Sung-hoon found himself in front of the mirror. The reflection he saw there was not that of the renowned photographer, the man admired for his skill, for his unique vision. It was the face of a weary man, marked by years of sacrifices, of renunciations, of living in the world of images without ever daring to live in his own flesh. The dimness of the room was reflected in his eyes, filled with shadows, unfulfilled desires, lost affections. And as he looked at himself, he saw the traces of loneliness that he could no longer hide, the marks of a being who had been running for too long, without really knowing where to.

It was at that precise moment when something broke inside him. As if a window in your soul had opened, finally letting in the fresh and renewing air of introspection. The camera, which had been his refuge, his lifeline, his prison, ceased to be the only means of expression in his life. And for the first time in years, Sung-hoon began to wonder if it was possible to live outside the lens, if he could find a new way to connect with the world, to stop being a spectator and become a participant. Would he be able to find a life that was his own, without the mediation of the camera?

The search for truth in others had brought him there, to that breaking point. But now, something was beginning to take shape in his mind. Maybe the story he really needed to capture wasn't that of others, nor the image of a distant subject, but his own. The camera would no longer be his only way of seeing; perhaps the time had come to learn to look, for the first time, without filters.

Despite the internal storm that was tearing him apart, Sung-hoon found himself being pulled by an almost mechanical impulse towards the meeting he had with Jake. The appointment was marked in his agenda like a beacon guiding him towards a destiny he could not evade, a point in time that, no matter how much his soul screamed in resistance, he had to fulfill. In his mind, chaos reigned, a whirlwind of doubts and unease that rose like black clouds above him, so dense that he could barely see the light that once propelled him. Despite the years of success and recognition he had harvested in his career, an unfathomable void devoured his being. That void, which neither fame nor applause could fill, was his constant companion, his inseparable shadow. But still, he got up that morning, with a heaviness that crushed his shoulders, and headed to the café where he would meet Jake, his long-time companion, a man whose relationship with life was so different from his that he seemed from another world.

Jake had always been his counterpoint, his antithesis, and at the same time, his reflection. While Sung-hoon got lost in the dark depth of photography, searching for the soul of his subjects, Jake glided over the surface of life, finding beauty in simplicity and human connections with an ease that Sung-hoon had never experienced. Jake was a man who saw life in bright colors, with a cheerful disposition that contrasted with the photographer's somber and analytical gaze. For him, each encounter, each face was a story told without the need for capture, while Sung-hoon looked through the camera, searching for shadows and reflections, the invisible that could only be observed through the lens. But despite their differences, Jake was his companion, and that meeting was a bond that still maintained the appearance of normalcy in a world that was slipping through his fingers.

Upon arriving at the café, the feeling of unreality enveloped him strongly. The bustle of conversations, the sound of coffee being poured into cups, and the aroma that filled the air seemed like distant echoes to him, as if he were looking at the world from the distance of a photograph, frozen and distant. Each object in the place, each face that crossed his path, seemed like a lifeless painting, a static image that had nothing to offer him beyond its fleeting existence. Only the constant buzzing in his mind kept him anchored to that reality, but everything felt like a dream he hadn't chosen himself.

When Jake greeted him, his face lit up with that broad and contagious smile that had always been so bewildering to him. Sung-hoon looked at him, recognizing in him the unyielding energy that he so often wished to possess but never could. Next to Jake, there was a figure that seemed familiar, but he still couldn't put a name to it. A young woman, whose presence seemed to fill the space with a natural light that had nothing to do with the shadows Sung-hoon had grown accustomed to. It's you, your smile was so open and generous that it contrasted with the coldness surrounding Sung-hoon, like a ray of sunshine entering a gloomy room. Despite your apparent tranquility, your energy was so vibrant that it seemed to fill the air around you, flooding the room with a vitality that Sung-hoon felt was foreign.

—I'd like you to meet (Y/N)— said Jake, with a spark in his eyes that Sung-hoon couldn't ignore. —She's my new model and, well, also someone I've been dating lately.—

Sung-hoon nodded mechanically, unable to find words beyond polite formality. His mind, on the other hand, was already beginning to process the image of you. Something felt unsettling to him, as if your presence challenged the stillness he had sought in the photograph. When you extended your hand to him, your gesture was warm and filled with that energy that Sung-hoon had never understood, as natural and genuine as the air he breathed. Despite his attempts to maintain emotional distance, Sung-hoon, inside, was as tense as a wire, with his jaw clenched and his fingers closing around his hand with a rigidity he couldn't disguise. It was as if he were touching something that didn't belong to him, something he couldn't possess.

—(Y/N), it's a pleasure to meet you— he said, with his usual cold and calculated tone, but despite his control, a small crack opened in his voice, a slight tremor that betrayed the internal storm shaking his chest.

You looked at him with a smile that, although warm, never wavered. Your posture was relaxed, completely oblivious to the conflict raging within him. It was a sight that seemed out of place in Sung-hoon's world. In the photograph he had captured the day before, you had been a shadow of yourself, a figure breathing sadness, deep melancholy, as if the world had stopped offering something worthy of your gaze. He had captured that essence, that gaze lost on the horizon, that fragility that so attracted him, seeking in you what he himself felt was missing: A naked truth, almost painful, that could only be understood through a lens. But now, in front of him, stood a completely different woman. The melancholy he had imagined was replaced by a vibrant light, an energy that seemed so foreign to the image he had created in his mind. It was not the sad figure he had seen in his camera, but a beacon of joy, a warm glow that illuminated everything around him.

Sung-hoon, for a moment, was paralyzed, as if time had stopped. The figure of the young woman in front of him was not the same one he had captured. The reflection he had found in his camera, the sadness and depth he thought he understood, crumbled before his eyes. Reality was imposing itself with a force that bewildered him. This woman was not a shadow, not an emptiness; you were the very antithesis of what he had sought. Something twisted inside him, a mix of frustration and fascination, as if the image he had created, the one he had conceived through his lens, was being torn from his being.

Was that the same woman he had portrayed? Was it possible for a captured image to be so radically different from reality? Confusion overwhelmed him, frustration began to take shape, mingling with a strange feeling of jealousy, as if your life were a slap in the face to the truth he had tried to find in his work.

While the conversation continued between Jake and you, Sung-hoon remained silent, his gaze fixed on you, who now seemed an impossible enigma to decipher. Every word you spoke, every move you made, confirmed something he feared: The image he had built of you no longer existed, and he was unable to comprehend the real woman standing before him. The photograph, which had always been his refuge and his way of understanding the world, now betrayed him, crumbling in his hands.

With each breath, a small dark spark began to burn within his being. It was no longer about admiration, no longer just fascination. It was something deeper, something that awakened in him an even greater sense of emptiness. There was something he couldn't reach, something he had touched in his chamber but that now seemed to slip through his fingers, like the light he had tried so hard to seize.

And as his heart beat with growing anxiety, he realized something terrifying: Perhaps photography hadn't given him what he thought it had. Maybe what he needed to capture wasn't in the world he saw through the lens, but in the darkness that hid within him.

From that day on, something in Sung-hoon began to crumble like an old film that, exposed to light, starts to tear and disintegrate. His initial fascination with you, a light curiosity, an admiration fueled by the desire to capture your ephemeral beauty, slowly transformed into an excessive obsession. The lens of his camera, that object he had used for years to spy on the human soul, now took on a different weight, a dark power that seemed to dictate the rules of the relationship. He no longer saw you as a fleeting muse, but as an immaculate canvas, a virgin territory that had to be conquered over and over again. Each click of the shutter was not just a reminder of his technical prowess, but a twisted validation of his need to possess the image of you, to freeze it in a perpetual instant, to impose his will upon you. Each shot was a subtle, almost imperceptible affirmation that what he captured through his camera was his. In his mind, distorted by obsession, each shot reinforced the idea that his love, his devotion to you, was reciprocated, that his control over the image meant control over your being.

The first time Sung-hoon photographed you without your consent, it wasn't an accident; it was a chance disguised as an opportunity. You were sitting on the edge of a window, motionless, looking out at the garden as if the outside world were an extension of your thoughts. The soft afternoon light slipped through the curtains, illuminating your face with an almost celestial clarity. In that moment, Sung-hoon raised the camera instinctively, almost as if the gesture were an extension of his own being. There was no time to think about it, no space for reflection. It was a visceral impulse, a need to capture the image before it faded, as if your beauty were a flash of light that only he could capture, preserve, and, in his mind, possess. The sound of the shutter, so familiar, vibrated in his chest with an indescribable satisfaction, a shiver that ran down his spine. In that single second, something inside him broke even more. The image he was creating was not simply that of a beautiful woman, nor just another of his artistic photographs. It was an attempt to possess you, to trap you, to hold you in a space that he controlled. Through the lens, you became a static object, a being that, for him, no longer existed in the unpredictable flow of time, but in a capsule of light and shadow that only he could decode.

The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of reality, began to transform into a channel to something much darker, a means to impose his will, to create his own distorted version of the truth. Thus, he began to photograph you compulsively, without rest. The sessions were no longer scheduled or agreed upon; they were driven by an uncontrollable impulse fueled by the need to see you in your purest, most fragmented, most his form. Sung-hoon was not just a photographer; he saw himself as a sculptor in the darkness, molding reality, shaping your figure with the precision of his lens, seeking perfection in every angle, in every light. He asked you to stay for an "improvised session," suggested poses with an apparent delicacy that disguised itself as professionalism, but in every gesture, every instruction, there was an insatiable need for control. The power of the camera, the ability to capture a moment in time, became a game of manipulation, a dance in which he was not only the director but the absolute creator.

Each image created was another step towards the achievement of his ideal, an ideal that distorted both your figure and reality itself. There was something perverse in the way he looked at you, a fascination that went beyond mere aesthetic pursuit. It was no longer just about capturing the beauty he had found in his other subjects; in you, he sought something more, something that belonged to him, a beauty he could hold in his power. And, like a painter who wants to capture the soul of his muse in every stroke, Sung-hoon aspired for that beauty to be his, only his, until it merged with his own vision. The camera was no longer just a medium; it had become an instrument of control, an artifact that, in his hands, could strip the woman of your humanity, transforming you into a frozen and manipulated image.

The sessions dragged on indefinitely, and you, although initially immersed in the fascination of art, began to feel increasingly uncomfortable. At first, you thought that Sung-hoon was simply an eccentric, a man trapped in his art, like those cursed geniuses of history who saw the world through a unique, distorted lens. You tried to convince yourself that your concerns were an overreaction, that you weren't seeing things clearly. But as the days went by, something inside you began to resist, as if a small alarm in your subconscious was going off. Every glance Sung-hoon directed at you, every moment he spent in front of the camera, made you feel as if his presence was constantly being analyzed, dissected, reduced to a series of visual formulas that he controlled at will. It was no longer just about capturing his image, but about taking possession of you. Each gesture, each instruction, felt like another strategy to strip you of your identity, to make it fit into the image he had created of you.

After one of those long sessions, you met with Jake to talk about what you had been feeling, even though the words seemed inadequate to describe the discomfort that was overwhelming you. You feared that by expressing myself, your feelings might seem excessive, melodramatic. However, something inside you told you that you couldn't ignore it any longer.

—Jake— you began, your voice wavering, —I'm not sure how to explain it, but... Sung-hoon is being weird with me. He is constantly taking pictures of me, but it's not just for work. Sometimes I feel like he isn't seeing the person I am, but rather an image he has created in his mind. It makes me feel… Uncomfortable. As if he were watching me to decipher something I can't control.—

Jake looked at you thoughtfully, but in his expression, there was something that suggested indifference. In his world, your image in Sung-hoon's camera was not just a portrait; it was an open door to fame. The name of Sung-hoon, so well-known, could be the key that launched your career. What better way to rise in the artistic world than to be under his lens?

—Come on, darling— he said with a confident smile. —Sung-hoon is eccentric, I know, but he's not doing anything wrong. You have to see this as an opportunity. Not everyone is lucky enough to be photographed by him. This could be just what you need to take the next step in your career.—

Despite Jake's reassuring words, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. The discomfort you had started to feel with Sung-hoon persisted, growing with each session. Every time he looked at you through the lens, his eyes seemed not only to capture your image but to scrutinize, to penetrate deep within. In his mind, the photographs were not just images, they were not simply captures of a moment. They were symbols of his control, his power, his one-sided and uncontrollable love. In Sung-hoon's universe, each photograph was a declaration: I possess you, I have understood you, I have made you mine.

Meanwhile, Sung-hoon continued his obsessive collection of images. Each click of the shutter was another step towards the creation of a distorted version of you, a version that only he knew and that no one else could understand. In his mind, the photographs wove together like threads forming an invisible web, a space he controlled, where his impossible and unrequited love could live, eternal, beyond the truth.

As Sung-hoon's obsession deepened, his once contained and meticulous nature began to crumble slowly, like an hourglass whose grain of sand never ceased to fall. The darkness that surrounded him grew denser, like a thick fog that took over the room, the air, the space he occupied. Your perfection, so incandescent and ephemeral in its image, was no longer just your face, nor the curve of your body under the soft light of the sunset. No, you yourself had become the very essence of his vision, the focus to which Sung-hoon had dedicated every millimeter of his art. For him, you were no longer a woman; you were a symbol, a canvas yet to be painted, a mystery yet to be solved, and the camera, that extension of his being, was his only passport to that distorted world he had begun to build around you.

The photographer, trapped in his own twisted conception of love and beauty, no longer just captured the light that fell upon you like a brush caressing the canvas. He had become a sculptor of shadows, an architect of moments, a man trying to redraw reality to match the chaos that inhabited his mind. And while his lens rested upon you, his gaze went far beyond the visible, beyond the external appearance that so fascinated others. His eye, always trained to capture the raw and natural beauty of life, now dedicated itself to observing every crack in your soul, every fragment of vulnerability you tried to hide. His vision, once purely artistic, had become an act of possession.

Sung-hoon was not just a mere observer; he infiltrated, like a painter delving into the history of his muse before putting a single stroke on the canvas. He began to explore your intimacy with the same precision with which he composed a perfect shot. In every word you let slip unintentionally, in every sigh that was just for him, the photographer saw an opportunity to discover something new, something deeper. He knew you more than you could imagine. The cracks you had tried to cover with an impeccable facade were now his field of study. He knew of your fears, your dark memories, the scars you carried in your soul, those stories that, had it not been for Sung-hoon's meticulous patience, would have remained as secrets buried in time. He was not simply an observer, but a collector of broken memories, a gatherer of the fragments of your being that you had never shown to anyone.

In his daily interactions, his deep knowledge of your personal life slipped into the conversation with the subtlety of a sharp knife. In a casual comment, Sung-hoon inserted fragments of his private life, as if they were simple, unimportant observations. —I remember that time you mentioned your father, as if you were still seeking his approval— he said quietly one day, while adjusting the lights in the studio. —And that little corner in your apartment, where you keep the old letters... You always keep it closed, why is that?— Each word, each insinuation was like a fishing line cast into the wind, trapping you in an invisible net of your own past, a net that, although as fine as a thread, tightened over time until you could no longer move without being aware of Sung-hoon's constant watchfulness.

For him, it was not enough to capture the light that surrounded you; he had to seize your soul. With each shot, with each scene he asked to repeat, Sung-hoon was searching for something deeper: A distorted truth that only he could see, a facet of you that existed only in his mind. The camera, which had once been his tool to capture the essence of others, transformed into his chain of control, a tool of power that connected him to you, an invisible bond that kept you close, that kept you in his line of sight. And although you began to feel the pressure, the threat of the invisible, you couldn't escape. At first thinking that it was all part of Sung-hoon's eccentricity, his dedication to perfection. But soon, the truth became evident: you weren't being photographed; you were being observed, studied, dismantled piece by piece.

Sung-hoon never resorted to brute force or open threats. He was much more skilled than that. His control was not in strong words or confrontation; his power lay in subtlety, in silent gestures, in the whispers that accompanied each shot, in the way he manipulated the perception of reality through the lens of his camera. He didn't need to say it openly: He knew you were beginning to understand the extent of his influence. Each suggestion, each gesture of support, was imbued with a tacit expectation, the expectation that you would follow him, that you would continue playing your role in the image he had created. He offered you opportunities, but those opportunities were nothing more than carefully woven traps, designed to make you more dependent on him, to draw you even closer to the distorted picture of yourself.

And, like a photographer who discovers an imperfection in a seemingly perfect image, Sung-hoon begins to notice the cracks in your facade. Your smile, which had once been natural and carefree, was beginning to seem forced. Your responses, once so full of life, were now shorter, more evasive. The sparkle in your eyes, which I had captured so many times, was now subtly fading. For Sung-hoon, each of these moments was a revelation. He was not only seeing the woman you pretended to be, but he was also seeing the woman he had begun to shape in his mind, a creation that had no escape. The pressure, invisible but palpable, was his signature. In the tremor of an unspoken word, in the imperceptible shift in posture, Sung-hoon found what he had been searching for: Beauty in fragility, art in oppression, control in broken perfection.

Meanwhile, you began to feel trapped in your own image, a distorted reflection that Sung-hoon had created around you. He, the god of shadows and light, saw the truth behind the masks, and you could no longer hide what he wished to see. The worst part is that, in his mind, you were already part of his creation, a muse that only existed through him. In the web he had woven, you found yourself trapped, not knowing if the exit was an illusion or if the only way to escape was to become someone else, someone completely different from the image he had shaped. But, as always happened in photography, there was no turning back: The exposure had been made, and what remained was a fixed, unchangeable image that only he could understand.

As the days slid by slowly, like a movie advancing in slow motion under the relentless direction of fate, you began to perceive how the walls of your own world, once open and full of possibilities, were closing in, trapping you with a subtle but devastating force. It was as if you were trapped in a photograph that never stopped being taken, each moment immortalized, each gesture meticulously framed. Every word Sung-hoon uttered, every glance he cast, were no longer mere interactions; they were fragments of a story he had written without your permission, a tale in which you were trapped, like a porcelain figure in the lens of a photographer obsessed with capturing your essence, with no voice or vote over your own portrait. It was a story that had ceased to belong to you, a narrative from which you had become an unwilling spectator, watching yourself from a distance that stripped you of your humanity.

In his mind, the perception of time and reality began to blur like the light dissolving on the horizon, tinting everything around him with increasingly dense shadows. Before, your world had been clear, like a well-exposed photograph; but now everything seemed to be revealed through a dark filter, as if the image were taken with a defective lens that distorted colors and shapes. The man who had been, until then, your mentor and companion, began to reveal himself as a dark, twisted, and distant figure, whose influence had infiltrated her life with the subtlety of a rising tide. Sung-hoon, with his gaze fixed like that of a predator, had managed to weave his control over you in such a subtle and meticulous manner that, at times, you wondered if you had ever been free. Freedom, once a natural right, now seemed to You an illusion fading among the folds of a photograph that had been taken without her consent.

Sung-hoon had transformed every corner of your life into a stage where only he dictated the rules. In his mind, every scene had to be directed by him, and you were nothing more than the actress chosen to play a role you didn't know. At first, you had believed that his obsession with you was the passionate fervor of an artist who seeks, like a painter lost in the meticulous details of his muse, to capture every nuance of your essence. But soon you realized that the camera, that extension of the human eye in which he trusted blindly, had become a watchful eye, an unrelenting lens that not only captured your image but also disfigured you, twisted you, and reduced you to a distorted shadow. The light, that sublime element which once revealed beauty, had ceased to be your ally. Now, each ray of light seemed like a threat, a deadly trap in which you found yourself ensnared, trapped within the frame of a reality he had created for you.

Sung-hoon's camera was not simply a tool for creating art; it had evolved into a weapon of control. Each click, each capture, was an assertion of his dominance, a manifestation of his power over your life and identity. In his eyes, you were not a complete woman, but a canvas on which he could paint without your consent, a blank page that had to be molded according to his will. And the most devastating thing of all was that, at first, You had believed he saw you as you truly were, that his work as a photographer had allowed him to delve into the very essence of your being. But, over time, the truth began to slowly unveil itself, like an old layer of paint peeling away, revealing the cracks in the facade he had built. Sung-hoon didn't see you. He didn't understand you. I had reduced you to an image, a figure projected onto the wall, a puppet whose only mission was to fit into the distorted vision of your world.

However, something within you began to awaken. It was a small spark, almost imperceptible, like a glimmer in the darkness, but it grew with each passing day under Sung-hoon's control. The feeling of being trapped became increasingly unbearable, as if his room were an invisible prison, a glass cell that only reflected your own image, as if You were looking at yourself through a mirror that only returned your despair. Every time he looked at you, every word, every seemingly innocent gesture of affection, transformed into a symbol of his manipulation. The casual comments about his past, the insinuations about his darkest secrets, no longer seemed like simple observations; they became sharp knives buried in your skin, constantly reminding you that he knew your vulnerabilities, that he could destroy you if he wanted to.

Each day that passed under his dominion, you felt your freedom fading more and more, like a photograph that, as it develops, begins to dissolve in the water, losing its definition, its life, its color. The pressure that was once subtle had transformed into an unstoppable force, a rising tide that pushed you towards the unknown, towards the disintegration of your own identity. The camera, which had been your refuge, your art, your way of seeing the world, had now become your jailer. And Sung-hoon, the man you had admired, had transformed into the architect of your destiny, a god who shaped reality at his whim, playing with light and shadow like a puppeteer who manipulates humans to his will.

Like a lighthouse in the midst of the storm, the possibility of escape began to become clearer, though still vague. You knew you couldn't keep living trapped in the shadows that Sung-hoon had cast over you. The struggle to regain your freedom turned into a frantic race against time, a desperate sprint to prevent him from completely destroying the public image you had so carefully cultivated. You began to search for clues, to scrutinize the details, to look for the cracks in the perfect facade of your life that Sung-hoon had built. You were like a detective in your own life, unraveling the web of lies he had woven around you, with every word, every action of his turned into a clue about his hidden intentions.

As your thoughts organized themselves, You began to notice details that had previously gone unnoticed. The photo shoots, which once seemed like an artistic ritual, now revealed their true nature: A carefully designed strategy to keep you close, to continue controlling your image and, therefore, your life. The compliments I once considered sincere, the insinuations that seemed like flattery, the intense looks from Sung-hoon, were no longer mere displays of admiration. They had become tools of manipulation, like the light a photographer uses to highlight only the elements they want, the viewer to see, darkening everything else. The truth, like a film that has been exposed to the sun for too long, began to reveal itself with blinding clarity.

Sung-hoon, however, was not a man who could be disarmed so easily. In his mind, each interaction with you was another shot, another take that brought him closer to his ultimate goal: to possess you completely, to break you until only the perfect image he had forged in his mind remained. He knew you were starting to notice his control, but, like a photographer playing with light and shadow, he remained in the shadows, hidden, manipulating every piece of the puzzle without your seeing it. His power lay in the ability to make you feel vulnerable, to introduce thoughts into your mind that would leave You trapped in your own confusion, like a poison silently seeping into the current of your consciousness.

Time, that elusive abstraction that had always slipped through his fingers like fine sand, began to take on the texture of an impenetrable wall. The days, which once stretched like an endless chain of empty moments, now intertwined in a spiral of shadows that faded and dissolved into a whirlwind of uncertainty. Each attempt to flee, each fleeting glance towards an exit that became increasingly unattainable, evaporated with the swiftness with which shadows succumb to light, leaving behind only the sensation of emptiness. In the course of your silent resistance, you came to understand, with painful and dizzying clarity, that escaping from Sung-hoon was not a tangible option, not a viable alternative. Like photographic film that, when exposed to light for too long, develops prematurely, the fate of your actions was already marked, predestined. And as this truth settled in his chest like an unbearable weight, hopelessness began to wrap around his soul, as heavy and dense as the camera hanging from his neck, like an extension of his own being, relentless, like the presence of a specter.

The air, once light and breathable, became thick, like the tension-filled atmosphere inside a dark room, where harsh and cold lights create a palpable sense of claustrophobia. The flow of life, that incessant and turbulent river, seemed to have halted its course, gently moving you towards an abyss from which you could not escape. You no longer fought against the current. The tide of your destiny enveloped you, absorbing you with an almost hypnotic force, as if everything were in its place, as if everything were part of a carefully composed picture. Your resistance dissolved, like an image fading in the developer, when the chemical envelops you and erases the edges of what was once defined. The contours of his will blurred, softening, fading, until the unquenchable impulse for release that had burned in his chest extinguished, fading like the last light of day when the sun sinks below the horizon, leaving only the cold darkness that follows.

Sung-hoon, the man who had been your mentor, your companion, your torturer, and your savior, had taken on the form of a dark, almost mythical figure, a silhouette in which light and shadow merged into an incomplete portrait. Throughout your time together, you had believed you knew him, that you understood each of the intentions hidden behind his icy gaze, like the reflection on the calm surface of water disturbed by a stone falling without warning. But now, in the midst of the silence that surrounded you, you realized that you had been nothing more than a piece in a work that you could not fully comprehend. You were part of a photograph revealing itself before you, an image constructed by a photographer whose vision had transformed you into something even you didn't recognize. And yet, instead of rejecting that truth, something strange began to well up in your chest, like a subtle whisper, a spark of light filtering through a crack in the darkness. It wasn't love, at least not in its purest form, but it was something that resembled it, something more enigmatic and complex. It was a fatalistic acceptance, a kind of silent submission that was beginning to reshape your perception of Sung-hoon.

You had feared it before, that light emanating from his chamber, which you had believed revealed the truth behind the masks. That same light, which now trapped you like an invisible spider's web, kept your soul captive. The intensity of his gaze, that tireless observation that never seemed to leave you, had become the core of your anxiety, a focal point of unease that consumed you. But, as time passed and the concept of escape faded as quickly as shadows succumb to the first ray of sunlight, you began to see something different, something new. Like a photographer examining an image on their screen and realizing that what once seemed blurry is, in fact, a photograph with a disturbing and unique beauty, you began to perceive the complexity of Sung-hoon. The darkness that once terrified you now contained nuances you could not ignore. Each of his gestures, each word he uttered, each glance, contained a profound truth about his being, something that transcended mere manipulation. It was like a lens that distorts the world, but at the same time, captures a raw beauty, a beauty that was undeniable, though incomplete.

Sung-hoon, in his obsession with perfection, was not simply a man with selfish desires for control. His need to capture the essence of the world, of humanity itself, through his camera, was something more visceral, more profound. The photographer was not just an observer of the world; he molded it, took it in his hands like a sculptor shaping clay. And you, caught in that web he had woven around you, began to see, even to admire, that skill, that tireless drive to dominate nature through art. Sung-hoon's vision was not a desire for manipulation, but a primitive impulse, a need to freeze the essence of the moment into a pure image, albeit devoid of all compassion. Somehow, you felt a deep admiration for him, for his ability to distill the chaos of reality into something simpler, more comprehensible. Light and shadow, those two opposites, were no longer enemies in his world. Now they were your allies, and you found yourself trapped in a scene where you were not only the subject but also the spectator of your own existence.

Sung-hoon was not just a man. He was the architect of his world, the demiurge who wove reality around him, undoing and redoing the threads of fate with the same skill with which he adjusted the frame of a photograph. Somehow, you understood that his own complicity in that process had given him the power to transform you. Like an old photograph that, over time, fades and changes, your resistance to him began to crumble like a negative dissolving in water. You no longer saw him as a jailer, a monster who kept you trapped. Instead, you saw him as the creator of a world in which, despite yourself, you felt special, unique. Sung-hoon's control was no longer oppressive; instead, it became a reflection of his own essence, a control woven with almost artistic patience and precision.

That feeling was an amalgamation of fear, fascination, respect, and acceptance. You disliked him, yes, but at the same time, there was something about him that attracted you, something impossible to ignore, something that overflowed the surface of his being. The shadows that once surrounded you now illuminated the truth of your existence, and what once seemed like a prison, a space of despair, now became a refuge where your soul, marked and distorted by Sung-hoon's lens, found itself. The light and the darkness, the contrasts and the shadows, began to weave into a single thread, creating a new reality, a new identity.

Each shot from Sung-hoon's camera not only kept you under his control. It offered you a strange form of comfort. In each image he captured, you saw not only a distorted version of yourself but also a more authentic, more complete one. The light and shadow, which once disturbed you, now took on a new dimension, one in which you found acceptance, transformation. Somehow, you had learned to embrace the image that Sung-hoon had created of you, an imperfect, broken portrait, but essentially true. A portrait that, like humanity itself, reflected fragility, internal struggle, and the inevitable beauty of the struggle itself.

Sung-hoon hadn't destroyed your identity. He had transformed it. And, slowly, as you began to understand the depth of that transformation, you realized that you were no longer a victim of his control, but a work in progress, an image still taking shape under the relentless lens of a man whose art had learned to reveal the deepest essence of your being. Without being able to help it, your feelings towards him became a whirlwind of contradictory emotions, a spiral in which love and fear, submission and admiration intertwined, trapped in a portrait whose exposure was not yet complete. And, like a photograph that is yet to be fully developed, you found yourself trapped in the endless process of its own revelation.

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