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chocochiffonnn · 2 months ago

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Dial Tragedy

➸ Pairing: Idol! Lee Heeseung x Fem! Reader

➸ Word Count: 1.5k

➸ Synopsis: Working an eight to five had you in the absence of your phone, and leaving you with a boyfriend spamming you like crazy with missed calls and messages.

➸ Warnings: Fluff, based on Heeseung's snippet on 'Dial Tragedy', a bit of kissing, the plot strays off a bit, not proofread.

➸ Author's Note: lol just a lil short release from my drafts guys! writer's block been hitting me like CRAZY. also, i refuse to believe her wouldn't call their partner this callsign lmao.

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SOMETHING ABOUT TODAY WAS STRESSFUL�� dressed in piles of stress from the tedious workload, buried beneath documents and documents, all of which were due the following day.

The clock inside your lit apartment hit 7PM. Way past your official dismissal. Something you failed to realize as you left the building, simply too busy to get the hell out of there and sink into the comfort of your own couch.

So you do. You take off your feet-killing heels, removed your jacket, and practically threw yourself at the comfort of the soft mattress you’ve been dreaming of since morning.

Then you breath a long, heavy, tired sigh.

It was like a repeat. Paperworks, emails, calls, meetings, brand deals, eat, sleep, repeat. And when you get too tired the world keeps spinning and it tells you, no, it practically demands you to repeat the process you’ve grown accustomed.

You rolled your eyes, reaching towards your bag to open your phone which you had not touched since you left your apartment—

Five missed calls.

Twenty unopened message.

Fuck.

From all the the work and exhaustion you felt from today’s event, you forgot you had boyfriend. Something which you never usually forget so easily. You must’ve been worked to the bone to even let go of the thought that your boyfriend had been leaving you calls and messages.

He must have been worried sick.

Worries ebb your features as you hurriedly open your phone, only to be greeted by another incoming call by none other than the said man. You picked it up, and the first thing that you heard was his hoarse voice—

“… Angel?”

He whispered. You smile, opening your mouth for a brief moment then closing it again.

“Heeseung, baby?”

“Why haven’t you been answering my calls and messages?”

You sigh. As much as it made you sound mean, you do love it when your boyfriend is clingy. Usually, he rarely has time to do so given his schedule of practically touring the world. But then again, it was something that you had to get used to in the midst of your relationship.

“I’m sorry, I was bombared today at work. My boss kept nagging me about some documents that were due the following day. Ugh.”

You rolled your eyes at the thought of your stupid boss.

Heeseung sighs on the other end, “have you eaten yet?”

Smiling, you bit your bottom lip to suppress the chuckle that came along your way. Despite having every reason to be upset and perhaps stubborn, Heeseung had always been one to put others first before himself. A trait which you absolutely adored about him.

“Not yet, I didn’t touch my breakfast nor lunch today.”

“Okay, well… What are you doing now?”

“I’m sitting at my sofa. I can’t even move. Enough about me, what did you do today?”

On the other end, you heard a bit of shuffling. Heeseung grunts a little. “Takeout?”

“Hmm?”

“You like takout?”

“… Yes, why?”

He goes silent on the other end. Then, your doorbell rang. Though exhausted, you pushed yourself forward and looked through the peephole only to see none other than your boyfriend, standing there, a plastic bag in hand.

He spoke on the phone,

“I got you takeout, angel.”

The same words you heard from the other end of the door. With a gasp, you swiftly opened it. Heeseung stood in full view, dressed in a pair of hoodie and sweatpants, holding up your favorite takout with a smile. His hair was a bit disheveled, eyes a bit puffy from the lack of sleep.

“Heeseung?”

“Hi.”

He steps forward, grabs your waist with his unoccupied hand, and kissed your forehead gently. Warmth spread across your stomach as you felt the heat from his body spreading across yours.

“I thought you said you were in Japan for tour.” you mumble beneath him, Heeseung continued to press little kisses on your forehead.

“Mm. We got home earlier than planned. I guess you forgot to backread the message.”

“Oh! I’m sorry, I—”

He cuts you off, “it’s alright angel. Just missed you.”

Heeseung drags you a but forward, closing the door with his foot. All the while, he keeps your body close to his, not once letting go. For a minute, he stays there, and you slowly engulf your arms around his waist in a hug. Despite being pressed against his chest, Heeseung seemed comfortable with the way you were positioned.

“You’re oddly clingy today.” you muffle against his chest, he laughs, caressing your hair with his free hand. “Angel, I was worried sick. I’ve been trying to reach out since this morning, and you weren’t responding. I was performing with you at the back of my mind and everything.”

Heeseung pulls away from the hug, forming his lips into a thin line. His fingers reach out towards your cheek, squeezing it.

You groan. “Ow.”

“I can’t blame you, but I can’t help but be a bit upset, angel.”

Okay, maybe he was upset.

He plays around a bit, gently dragging your cheeks to the left, right, until eventually, Heeseung just squeezed both cheeks with one hand and kissed you abruptly. “You gotta tell me what’s up, yeah?”

You nod. Your job, perhaps in comparison to him, was much less of a loadwork. Answering calls, dealing with papers, and sitting in front of your desk for ten hours straight. While his consisted of constantly moving around, exerting his body to perform— though, Heeseung had never failed to keep you well aware of his whereabouts and things that’s been going on in his life.

“I’m sorry…” you pout, Heeseung’s little bambi eyes soften and sparkled a little. He couldn’t possibly stay mad nor upset with that face. So, he softened, smiled, and kissed you once more on those plump little lips.

“Let’s eat this takeout I got you, angel.”

“Okay…”

You weren’t budging, shoulders slumping slightly. You felt guilty, you really did.

Heeseung sighed, clasping his fingers with yours as he dragged you to your couch.

“C’mon angel. Don’t stress it out too much.”

Eventually, the two of you reach the sofa, Heeseung carefully sat you down, ignoring the mess of your belongings everywhere. He unwraps the takeout, taking the utensils and generously giving you a piece of the food.

“Aah.” He instructs, playing around a little making airplaine noises and gesture as you giggle at his little antics. You play along, mouthing an ‘o’ as he feeds you what felt like heaven beneath your tastebuds. Heeseung saw you jolt a little, nodding aggressively at the taste of the food.

“Good bite, angel.” he mumbles, prepping another bite for you to take. Occasions like these were rare for you, barely having the time to get your boyfriend all to yourself given his schedule. There were times where you’d wish he hadn’t become an idol at all, maybe settle for a job that’s less intense. But Heeseung didn’t work that way, and the both of you knew it. He thrived in the thrill of the industry. As for you? You supported him as much as you could, knowing performing had always made him happy.

“We had a little post-tour celebration today.” Heeseung brings up, giving you another bite of the food.

“With the members?”

He nods. “They’ve been asking me about us and our relationship.”

“What did you say?”

“And… I’ve been thinking, angel— is it alright if we make this known?”

“Make what known?”

Heeseung hesitates a bit, dropping down the fork and keeping his eyes glued to you. One of his hands find a way to crawl to yours, slowly intertwining them together. “Our relationship. I’ll announce it at our next tour.”

You felt your mind buzz at the thought. To make your relationship public would practically be comparable to throwing yourself inside a lion’s den. You’d be eaten alive. Heeseung would be eaten alive. The group would be eaten alive. Their company—

Heeseung lightly flicked your forehead with his finger.

“You’re overthinking it again, angel. I’ve talked to the manager and the members about it.”

“… What did they say?”

“They asked me if I was really sure about it, the manager even scolded me–”

You lightly pushed him in the chest, “Heeseung!”

“But we’ve talked about it thoroughly. Everything, I swear. This, and us. I don’t want to keep you in the shadows, angel. It’s unfair to you.”

Heeseung gently picked up your hand that he was holding, pecking your knuckles gently. His other hand brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

“I’ve never felt that way, baby. Don’t worry about me.”

The way Heeseung’s eyes shift to concern make you soften a little. Always so kind and thoughtful.

“I want the world to know I have the prettiest girlfriend, though.”

He keeps your forehead close to his, the warmth off his body radiating to you in such a comfortable manner. It was like he always cradled you like a child, careful and considerate. It was practically second nature to him at this point.

“Is that okay, angel?”

He whispers, kissing you softly like it was the first time.

And when you nod slowly, giggling like a toddler, Heeseung simply cooed and cradled your cheeks.

“Okay. I’ll let the whole world know— that’s my girl.”

*:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧ END *:·ﾟ✧*:·ﾟ✧

#enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #fanfiction #enhypen fanfic #enhypen fluff #enhypen ot7 #enhypen lee heeseung #Enhypen evan lee #enhypen lee heeseung fluff #lee heeseung fluff #Lee Heeseung #Evan Lee

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77zrose · 6 months ago

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ZB1 REACTION TO S/O MUMBLING DURING THEIR SLEEP

genre : fluff , ot9

김지웅 kim jiwoong

jiwoong would be intrigued and surprisingly attentive. At first, he’d glance over to make sure you were okay, and then he’d sit quietly, listening to the sounds you were making. If it was something funny or unusual, he might smirk to himself, finding the moment too precious to forget. He’d likely record a small snippet—not to embarrass you but to tease you lovingly the next morning. “You were having quite the conversation in your sleep last night,” he’d say with a teasing grin. However, if your mumbling sounded upset or worried, Jiwoong would immediately reach out, caressing your cheek gently and whispering, “It’s just a dream, love. You’re safe.” His calm, steady presence would be enough to make sure you slept peacefully.

장하오 zhanghao

zhanghao would find the whole situation amusing and irresistibly cute. When he hears you mumbling, he’d stop whatever he’s doing and lean closer, trying to catch what you were saying. If it sounded like you were saying words, he might even join in, playfully responding in a hushed tone, “Oh, really? Tell me more.” He’d treat it like a one-sided conversation, chuckling softly at how unaware you were. If you were completely unintelligible, he’d still find himself entertained, marveling at how endearing you looked in such a vulnerable state. The next morning, he’d bring it up with a mischievous glint in his eye, teasing you gently. “So, were you practicing for a debate in your sleep last night?”

성한빈 sung hanbin

hanbin would find your sleep mumbling heart-meltingly adorable. The moment he hears you muttering softly, he’d pause whatever he’s doing and lean in closer to listen, a fond smile spreading across his face. He might try to make sense of your words, whispering to himself, “What are you dreaming about?” If it sounded like you were dreaming of something silly or nonsensical, he’d chuckle quietly, feeling endeared by this rare glimpse into your unguarded state. If your tone shifted to something distressed, though, Hanbin’s protective side would kick in—he’d gently stroke your hair or whisper soothing words like, “It’s okay, I’m here,” until you seemed calm again. No matter what, he’d make sure you were tucked in snugly and comfortable.

석 매튜 seok matthew

matthew would instantly think it’s the funniest and cutest thing ever. He’d try so hard not to burst into laughter, covering his mouth to avoid waking you up, but his shoulders might shake with quiet giggles. If your mumbling was particularly strange or funny, he might whisper something like, “What are you even dreaming about?” just to amuse himself. At the same time, he’d find it so endearing that he’d lean in closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face and marveling at how precious you looked. In the morning, he’d tease you endlessly but in the softest way, laughing, “You were saying the weirdest things last night—do you even know what you were dreaming about?”

김태래 kim taerae

taerae would immediately be charmed by your sleep mumbling, his heart melting at how peaceful and vulnerable you looked. He might sit quietly for a moment, just watching you with a soft smile, trying to catch what you were saying. If your words didn’t make sense, he’d chuckle quietly to himself, thinking about how cute it was. If your mumbling sounded restless or distressed, Taerae would spring into action, softly humming a tune or even singing a quiet lullaby to soothe you. His voice would be calm and reassuring, and he’d hold your hand or gently stroke your hair to help you relax. In the morning, he’d bring it up gently, asking, “Were you dreaming about something funny last night? You were talking in your sleep.”

리키 ricky

ricky would be completely fascinated, though he’d act cool about it. The moment he heard your sleep mumbling, he’d perk up and lean closer, trying to figure out what you were saying. If it was something funny or nonsensical, he’d smirk to himself, tempted to record it but ultimately deciding against it. Instead, he’d memorize the funniest parts to tease you about later. In the morning, he’d casually bring it up with his trademark playful confidence: “You were saying some pretty weird stuff in your sleep last night. Should I be worried?” If you got embarrassed, he’d reassure you with a grin, “It’s cute, don’t worry.” Deep down, he’d find the whole thing incredibly endearing.

김규빈 kim gyuvin

gyuvin would have no filter—if your sleep mumbling was funny, he’d burst into laughter almost instantly. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself from giggling, even if it risked waking you up. If you stirred, he’d try to stifle his laughter, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, it’s just—you were saying the weirdest things!” He’d lean in closer, hoping to catch more of your words, and might even attempt to interpret your dream based on what he heard. If you woke up and caught him laughing, he’d try to explain through his giggles, “You were having the funniest conversation in your sleep!” While he’d definitely tease you about it later, he’d still find the whole thing ridiculously cute.

박건욱 park gunwook

gunwook would be both curious and shy about the whole situation. Hearing you mumbling in your sleep, he’d tilt his head and listen carefully, trying to make sense of it. If it sounded funny or random, he’d quietly laugh to himself, thinking about how adorable you looked. However, if it seemed like you were dreaming about something stressful, he’d gently nudge you or whisper softly, “It’s okay, I’m here,” hoping to comfort you without waking you up fully. He might spend a few extra moments watching you sleep peacefully afterward, his heart full of affection. In the morning, he’d tease you lightly, saying, “So, what kind of dream were you having last night? You were mumbling a lot.”

한유진 han yujin

yujin would be caught between confusion and amusement. At first, he’d stare at you, blinking as he tried to figure out what you were saying. “What are you even dreaming about?” he’d whisper to himself, shaking his head with a small smile. If your mumbling sounded particularly strange, he’d quietly laugh, covering his mouth so he didn’t accidentally wake you. If he couldn’t understand what you were saying, he’d just let it slide and watch you for a moment, thinking about how funny and cute you were. The next morning, he’d shyly bring it up, saying, “You were talking in your sleep last night… Do you even remember what you were dreaming about?” If you got embarrassed, he’d reassure you with a shy laugh, “No, it was cute, really!”

hi people im back from the small hiatus ill be posting more. if you’d like you can make a request i write for groups like: zb1, p1harmony, seventeen, project7 ( upcoming group ), bts, straykids, ateez, evnne, onepact, riize (ot7), bnd & many more just request don’t be afraid ! i dont write smut only fluffs and more. smut maybe in the future -3- (I’ll make a masterlist soon)

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lo1k-diamonds · 4 months ago

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Unique | KNJ | Masterpost

PAIRING: idol!Namjoon x OFC

SUMMARY: Namjoon dedicated his whole life to being a diligent idol, putting the music and group above his individual needs and desires. He believes he's doing the right thing until an unexpected meeting shifts how he sees the world. But life isn't easy, and even a unique connection can't change fate. Or can it?

WORD COUNT: 81.1k (ongoing)

GENRE: Idol AU, strangers to lovers, time jumps, star-crossed lovers, angst, smut

RATING: R (explicit) (not all parts)

WARNINGS: (check each individual part) explicit smut, one-night stand but not really, angst, protected sex, oral, fingering, handjob, toys, sapiosexuality, body worship, dirty talk, mouth riding, switching, making out and dry humping in a moving car without a seatbelt on, BTS being chaotic around Namjoon and making him all embarrassed, alcohol, getting drunk, arguments, smoking, parallel Yoongi x OFC

A.N. Unique has a really special place in my heart. It was never supposed to be more than a one-shot with a bittersweet ending. All I wanted was to portray Namjoon as accurately as possible. Then, a year later, I decided I wanted Yoongi (yes, him) to have a chance at a different outcome, and now, another year later, I want Namjoon to have it, too. It's peculiar that every part has been written with the same time intervals as the story, and I'm contemplating keeping this tradition for future parts. Since @eerieedits already created wonderful visuals, it only makes sense to show them! (thank you!) I hope you all enjoy this star-crossed lovers story featuring our incredible Joonie 💜

Masterlist | AO3 | Wattpad | Schedule and WIPs

He was in love with their time, place and interaction, but it was limited. There was no heartbreak because of that agreement. Seeing her again was not part of the deal, but who was he kidding? That chance was too sweet to miss, too tempting to refuse.

SUMMARY: After overhearing something he shouldn't have, Namjoon promises to make it up to the bride by keeping her bridesmaid company during the rehearsal dinner party. What was supposed to be an unremarkable night became something so much more.

WORD COUNT: 20.8k

RATING: R (explicit)

I wanted to be the guy you chose to come and find and chat with, not the one Hyejin asked to babysit you and that you didn’t want to meet.

Read here 👉 [Tumblr] [AO3] [Wattpad]

SUMMARY: It's a year later when Angie decides to visit Hyejin, both women looking to get away from their problems. But a certain group is just pausing their tour, and old feelings are rekindled when their paths cross.

WORD COUNT: 60.2 k

RATING: R (explicit)

Be the person I was searching for and found, not the one I have to let go.

Read here 👉 [Tumblr] [AO3] [Wattpad]

Chapter 1 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 2 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 3 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 4 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 5 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 6 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 7 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 8 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 9 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

Chapter 10 [Snippet 🚀] [Post ✍️]

SUMMARY: Now that the PTD tour was coming to a close, Namjoon dreamt of meeting the one lover he couldn’t forget. Unfortunately, things have changed.

WORD COUNT: 11.7 k

RATING: PG-13

Isn't that what we're made of? Our dreams and regrets.

Read here 👉 [Tumblr] [AO3] [Wattpad]

Intermission - Read here 👉 [Tumblr] [AO3] [Wattpad]

(coming... March 2026?)

I wanted all seasons with you, but in the end, I got none.

(coming... September 2026?)

Is it finally time?

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msbigredmachine · 5 months ago

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My Angel, My Love (Roman Reigns)

For their first Valentine’s, Roman and Naima indulge in passion, laughter, and love. From heartfelt gifts to stolen touches over dinner, every moment is intoxicating. In each other, they’ve found something rare, something real…and tonight proves it again.

Pairing: Roman Reigns/Black fem OC

Warnings: Smut, fluff

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: This is based off characters from my multi-chapter Roman fic, Finding Angel.

Naima sits at her desk, the glow of her laptop screen the only light in the quiet bedroom. It’s well past midnight, but sleep isn’t even a thought. Not when she’s been obsessing over every cut, every transition, every second of this video.

Their first Valentine’s Day.

She wants this to be right. Not extravagant, not over the top—just something that means something. Something that captures what they’ve become.

A year ago, she never could’ve imagined this. That he would be hers. That she’d be sitting here, heart full, carefully piecing together their story, one that unfolded in ways she never expected but, somehow, felt inevitable.

With a practiced eye, she scrolls through her camera roll, pulling out clips that define them.

Roman carrying her suitcase through an airport, looking back at her with that teasing smirk.

A blurry shot of them laughing in the car, her filming him as he rants about Atlanta traffic.

His big hand wrapped around hers as they walk through a city, fingers interlocked like they always should be.

A quiet moment in bed, his arm slung over her waist, sharing soft, sweet kisses that were clearly leading to something more.

A snippet of her in the crowd at his match at last year’s Wrestlemania, eyes locked on him, the camera catching the pride on her face.

Her surprising him with his favorite sushi tray one random afternoon, him beaming at the camera as he holds them up.

Him showering her with hundred-dollar bills at Exotica, her laughing as she twerks on him, giving him his money’s worth, Jimmy and Naomi hyping them up in the VIP section.

A clip of them at the beach, her on his back, both of them soaked from the ocean waves.

The late-night drive where she caught him singing along to a song he swore he didn’t know.

She threads them together seamlessly, using the same precision she applies to her work on the Elysian Moves Instagram page. The pacing, the music, the way each moment flows into the next—it all has to feel right. Like them.

She keeps the full video at a minute, a perfect distillation of what they are. Then she creates a shorter, 30-second version for Instagram, something the world can see.

But it’s the captions that make it.

Little statements appear throughout the video, subtle yet intentional.

I didn’t see you coming, but somehow, you’ve always felt meant to be.

You are home.

I didn’t just fall in love with you. I ran into love with you.

My safe space. My love. My person.

And at the very end, the words that make her heart tighten as she types them out:

I love you, Roman.

Naima exhales, staring at the finished product.

She hopes he feels this.

The wheels of the jet touch down with a smooth glide, and Roman exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he leans back in his seat. He’s flown in and out of Atlanta more times than he can count, but these days, the trips feel different.

For years, this city had been a checkpoint. A place he passed through for work, for college, for obligations that didn’t leave much room for sentimentality. Georgia Tech was where he honed his discipline, his drive. Back then, Atlanta had been about chasing a dream. But now, it’s about her.

Naima.

This city—her city—has become something else entirely. A place that pulls him back in ways he never expected. He used to come here for matches, media, appearances. Now? Now he comes because he wants to. Because she’s here.

His schedule isn’t as relentless as it used to be, something he made sure of. A few years ago, the thought of stepping back from WWE, of letting someone else carry the load, would’ve been unthinkable. But things change. Priorities shift. He spent over a decade giving everything to the business. He’s still him, still the Tribal Chief, still at the top—but he’s also a man who wants more than just titles and main events.

He wants her.

And if cutting back means more time with Naima, more time wrapped up in her warmth, in her world, then it’s worth it. She’s worth it.

As the jet rolls to a stop, he rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaling.

Valentine’s Day.

He’s never been the sentimental type. His last couple of Valentine’s had been…transactional, at best. A quick call to his assistant, a luxury gift delivered to Princess, his ex-fiancée, a generic message attached. No real thought. No real feeling. Just an obligation.

But this year is different.

This year, he actually wants to make it special. For her.

Because Naima isn’t some obligation. She’s his woman. His love.

And that alone makes all the difference.

Late morning sun filters through the windows, casting soft light over the soft interior of Naima’s townhouse. Roman is stretched out on her couch, shirtless, gray sweatpants worn low on his hips—because of course. One arm rests along the back of the couch, the other wrapped around a cold bottle of water. His focus drifts between SportsCenter and the plate of wings and Valentine’s-themed cookies laid before him on the coffee table.

He’s comfortable. Content.

Naima plops down beside him, her body warm against his, fitting into his side like she belongs there. Without thinking, he tugs her closer, his fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against her hip.

She presses her phone into his hand. “I have a surprise for you,” she says, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

His brows lift. “Yeah?”

She nods, biting her bottom lip. There’s something in her eyes; something nervous, something deep.

Roman notices everything when it comes to her.

“What is it?” he asks, tilting his head.

Her fingers tighten slightly around his forearm. “One of your Valentine’s gifts.”

His lips twitch. “One of them? You out here spoiling me, baby?”

“Maybe.” She grins, but there’s a flicker of hesitation beneath it. Because this? This is something big.

Roman is private—fiercely so. He’s always kept their relationship just between them, away from prying eyes. And Naima has come to understand that, to respect it, embrace it even. But her love for him is too vast, too consuming to be hidden away. It fills every inch of her. And now, she wants the world to see it.

She just hopes he understands.

Roman studies her for a beat, then shifts his gaze to the phone in his hand, pressing play.

She watches him as he watches the video. Watches the subtle changes in his breathing, the way his chest rises and falls a little deeper. Watches his lips part slightly, his jaw tighten as he swallows hard.

By the time the final words appear on-screen—I love you, Roman—he’s completely still.

The weight of it settles over him, sinks into him.

Naima tightens her grip on his bicep, pursing her lips against it. “I wanted you to know,” she murmurs. “And I want the world to know, too.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at the screen, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. Then, after a moment, he blinks, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip as he exhales sharply.

“You tryna make me soft, baby?” His voice is husky, rough around the edges.

She tilts her head up, brushing her fingers along his arm. “You're already soft for me, big daddy. Just making sure you feel how much I love you.”

Roman sets the phone down, turning toward her. His hand cups the side of her face, his touch gentle despite the sheer size of it. His thumb brushes along her jaw, reverent.

“I feel it, baby,” he murmurs. “I feel it every day. But this?” He shakes his head, eyes dark, voice thick. “This hits different.”

Naima swallows, emotions swelling in her heart. “Good.”

A quiet, shaky chuckle rumbles from his chest, and he presses his forehead to hers, exhaling deeply. “You know I love you too, right?” His voice dips, heavy with feeling. “So much.”

She smiles softly. “Yeah, I know.”

He kisses her, slow and sensual and full of everything he can’t quite put into words. And when he finally pulls back, he lingers, resting his forehead against hers. Shaking his head, he huffs out a small, incredulous laugh.

“Baby, you done set the bar too high for Valentine’s now.”

Naima grins against his lips. “Guess you gotta step your game up, big daddy.”

He smirks, eyes warm, adoring. “Oh, I will.” He kisses her again, soft and teasing. “Anything for you.”

Valentine’s Day

Naima barely stirs when Roman lifts her into his arms, her body naturally curling into his warmth. She mumbles something against his chest, too groggy to form actual words.

Roman just chuckles, pressing a kiss to her temple as he carries her and their wiggling four-month-old Staffordshire Bull Terrier, Chief, out of her townhouse and into his waiting Rolls-Royce Cullinan. He settles her into the passenger seat, closes her door and rounds the hood of the car. By the time he gets in, Naima has already slumped against the headrest, eyes barely open.

“Mm,” she groans sleepily, “Where we goin’?”

“My crib,” he murmurs cryptically, rubbing her thigh as he pulls off.

She dozes off again, lulled by the quiet hum of the luxury SUV and the warmth of his hand on her. She stirs slightly when they pull into the underground parking of his Atlanta condo, and Roman takes his time waking her up, brushing soft kisses along her jaw.

“Wake up, baby,” he whispers. “We’re here.”

Naima groans in protest but lets him help her out of the car, half-leaning into him as they take the elevator up. Chief, full of morning energy, tugs at his leash, eager to explore.

When the door to the lavish condo swings open, Naima steps inside—and stops.

The entire space is filled with balloons.

They float against the ceiling, tied to chairs and tables, surrounding the entire living room. Red, pink, white, all scattered amongst oversized I Love You balloons. Rose petals trail from the entrance toward the bedroom, and the soft melody of D’Angelo’s “Lady” hums through the speakers.

Her breath catches.

She’s been wined and dined before. She’s had men try to impress her with extravagant gifts, luxury trips, money—so much money. But this? This feels a whole lot different. This feels intentional.

She turns, still taking it all in, before her gaze finds Roman’s.

“You did all this?” Her voice is soft, almost disbelieving.

Roman steps up behind her, his big arms sliding around her waist as he nuzzles into her neck. “Yeah. Made a lot of calls, but I did it.”

Her hands rest over his, pressing them closer against her stomach. “You really tryna make me cry first thing in the morning?”

Roman grins, kissing her exposed shoulder. “Nah, but if you did, I wouldn’t be mad at it.”

Naima shakes her head, biting her lip to keep from smiling too hard. “You're ridiculous.”

Before Roman can respond,

Pop!

Both their heads snap toward the sound just in time to see Chief bouncing on his hind legs, snapping his tiny jaws at one of the balloons. He jumps again, missing but determined.

“This damn dog,” Roman groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Boy! Leave the damn balloons alone.”

Chief barks once, his little tail wagging, then leaps, almost getting the string between his teeth.

Naima giggles, turning back to her man. “This is just the beginning of the day?”

He slides his hands down to her hips, squeezing lightly. “Just the beginning, beautiful.”

The rest of their day unfolds effortlessly.

They spend the afternoon wrapped up in each other, lounging around the condo in comfortable silence. Roman, freshly showered and dressed in nothing but sweats, flips through channels, occasionally distracted by Naima as she scrolls through her phone, stretched out across his lap. Chief sprawls on the floor near their feet, snoring softly.

At various points, Roman surprises her with gifts—luxury perfume, a pair of Chopard diamond earrings, and a silk robe so soft it feels like water against her skin.

Naima stares at the earrings for a long moment before looking up at him. “Dude, you are spoiling the hell outta me.”

Roman smirks. “Ain’t that my job?”

She tilts her head, studying him with something unreadable in her gaze. Then, without a word, she gets up, disappearing into the bedroom. When she returns, there’s a sleek, velvet box in her hands.

Roman raises an eyebrow as she places it on his lap. “What’s this?”

“Another gift.”

He eyes her, then the box, before flipping it open.

Inside sits a stunning, custom-designed gold bracelet, thick yet refined, engraved with the words My Ali’i.

My Chief in Samoan. In delicate script.

Roman’s lips part slightly.

Naima watches him carefully, a little nervous. “I know you don’t do a lot of jewelry, but I saw this and thought-”

Roman doesn’t let her finish.

He pulls her onto his lap, cupping her face in both hands before kissing her deeply, his mouth warm and hungry against hers. By the time he pulls back, Naima’s breathing is uneven, her fingers curled into his chest.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice rough. “I love it.”

She exhales, relieved. “Yeah?”

Roman smirks, cups her shapely hips. “Now you really got me out here tryna make sure I earn this title.”

Naima laughs softly, her fingers threading into his hair as she tugs him closer. “You already do, big guy.”

Her hands drift lower, slipping beneath his waistband, fingers wrapping around his thick length. Roman groans, his grip on her hips tightening as she pushes his sweats down just enough to free him. She meets his gaze, her eyes dark with intent, before sinking down on his dick.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his head falling back as his fingers dig into her skin.

Naima grins, rolling her hips, watching his control unravel. “Better hold on, Tribal Chief.”

As evening falls, Roman tells her to get dressed. They’re going out. He doesn’t say where, but Naima already knows he’s about to pull out all the stops, like always.

She takes her time getting ready, and steps out in a scandalous red latex dress that fits like it was poured onto her body; glossy, tight, strapless, and short enough to flaunt every inch of her toned, impossibly long legs. Her skin glows under the soft lighting, dewy and radiant, her hair sleek and wet as if she just emerged from a fantasy Roman didn’t even know he needed.

His jaw flexes, his fingers twitch at his sides, and his already low patience for the world outside of her dissolves instantly.

Waiting by the kitchen, dressed in an all-black button-down and slacks, his sleeves rolled up just enough to tease that thick, tattooed forearm of his, he looks good. Too good. And when his dark eyes drag over her, slow and smoldering, Naima's breath catches.

Clearly, the feeling is mutual.

“Baby…” His voice is dangerously low, thick with admiration and something darker. “You tryna unalive me, baby?”

Naima swallows, gathering herself before stepping closer, smoothing a hand over his jawline. “Maybe. You like it, daddy?”

Roman's hands find her waist, tugging her in just enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him. “I always do, mamas.”

Her eyes roam over him, appreciation gleaming in their depths. “You look so damn good.” She bites her lip, fingers lingering on his face. “You sure we’ll be able to keep our hands to ourselves tonight?”

Roman smirks, his grip on her waist tightening as he leans down, his lips brushing her ear.

“Oh, we won’t, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dark and promising. “Matter of fact, I’m already tryin’ to figure out which part of the night I’m gonna have you bent over.”

Naima gasps. “Baby!”

He merely laughs, taps her ass and leads her out of the condo.

They leave in his Rolls-Royce, Naima still clueless about their destination. When they arrive, she realizes the restaurant is completely empty.

She turns to him, wide-eyed. “You cleared out the whole place?”

Roman smiles, his fingers threading through hers. “Only the best for my girl.”

She shakes her head in disbelief, still getting used to this. She’s been around wealthy men before, but none of them move like him. None of them make her feel like this.

Dinner is intimate. Their dinner is indulgent yet refined, a perfect reflection of the night.

They start with a rich lobster bisque and warm, crusty bread, though Roman’s wagyu beef tartare gets a playful nose wrinkle from Naima. For the main course, he enjoys a perfectly seared bone-in ribeye with truffle mashed potatoes, while she savors butter-poached lobster tail with Parmesan risotto. Sipping on a deep Cabernet, Roman keeps her glass full, his eyes never leaving her. Dessert is a molten chocolate lava cake, and when Naima hums in pleasure at the first bite, Roman leans in, his voice dark and ominous,

“Keep making noises like that and we gon’ cut this dinner short.”

Naima smirks, taking another slow, deliberate bite, her pretty eyes shining with mischief.

Roman huffs, shaking his head. “Baby girl, you play too much.”

It’s always like this with them; this effortless push and pull, the teasing undercurrent woven into every glance, every touch. He watches her sip her wine, watches that smug little smirk every time she catches him staring. The candlelight flickers between them, casting a warm glow over a love that burns just as intensely.

Somewhere in the middle of their conversation, Naima's voice softens. “Babe…what do you see for us?” she asks.

Roman watches her, the cerebral being that he is taking his time to digest the loaded question. “What do you see?” he gently counters.

She hesitates. “A future.”

His gaze darkens with something deeper. “Good. ‘Cause I see the same thing.”

Her heart stumbles. After everything he’s been through, after everything they’ve been through, it’s almost a shock that he feels this way. About her. And yet, it isn’t.

Roman reaches for her hand, his grip warm, steady, full of quiet promises. “I want it all with you, Nai. Whenever you’re ready,” he vows.

Naima swallows hard, squeezing his hand. She may not be ready yet, and he knows that. Their love still feels too good to be true. But when she is, he’ll be the first to know.

This place is straight vibes.

An upscale lounge with an old-school feel, where dim lighting meets the golden era of 90s R&B and hip-hop. The bass thrums through the space, the atmosphere thick with a sultry energy that wraps around them the moment they step inside. Roman takes her hand, leading her straight to the VVIP section where a plush leather couch waits. His whiskey arrives within minutes, but he barely touches it.

Because Naima is a problem tonight.

She’s out on the floor, lost in the music, that short-ass red dress clinging to every inch of her body like a second skin. Her hips move slow, teasing, rolling in time with the beat, her long waves cascading down her back. That butterfly tattoo on her hip peeks out every time she shifts just right, and he’s already decided he’s putting his mouth there before the night is over.

Men are watching her. They always do. But surprisingly, he doesn’t give a damn. Not tonight. Let them look. She knows where she’s going when this night ends.

She spins, eyes locking onto his, and her grin is electric. Aaliyah’s “Back & Forth” slides through the speakers, and she drops low, hands on her thighs, twerking to the rhythm, her ass practically begging for him to grab it.

The OTC exhales, shaking his head. This woman is gonna kill me.

Naima is tipsy. Loud, wild, his. Singing along at the top of her lungs when “This Is How We Do It” drops, throwing her hands up before dancing her way back toward him.

Roman is waiting, his massive frame sprawled across the couch, a lazy grin on his face.

“Come here,” he calls out over the music, motioning her over with a crook of his finger.

She doesn’t hesitate. Strutting toward him, her dress rides high on her thighs as she climbs into his lap, straddling him like she owns the damn place. She sets her drink down on the table without looking, wrapping her arms around his neck as Tamia’s “So Into You” begins to play.

“You know this one?” she asks, her voice breathy and playful.

Roman smirks, his hands immediately settling on her bare thighs, grunting as her cleavage inches towards his face. “’Course I do.”

She leans in closer, her lips by his ear as she begins to sing along, off-key and slurring slightly but sexy as hell.

I really like what you’ve done to me…

He exhales slowly, fingers flexing against her skin. She’s gonna make him do something reckless.

“You tryna start some shit in public, baby?” His voice is low, rough against her ear.

Naima bites her lip, shifting against him just right, feeling him harden beneath her. “Maybe.”

That’s all he needs.

His hand snakes around her neck, bringing her mouth to his in a kiss that starts slow but spirals into something messy, desperate. She tastes like wine and trouble, her fingers in his hair, his hands on her ass. The music, the crowd, all of it blurs into nothing.

She grinds down on him, rolling her hips in a way that makes his jaw clench, and he exhales sharply against her lips.

“We leavin’,” he growls.

She smirks, licking her lips. “Took your fine ass long enough.”

They barely make it to the car.

The Cullinan is parked in a private indoor lot behind the bar, discreet and empty. The second the door shuts behind them, Roman’s hands are on her, pushing her back against the seat.

Naima yelps, laughing breathlessly. “Roman, what the fuck-”

“Shut up.” His mouth crashes into hers again, swallowing the rest of her words.

She moans into the kiss, fingers tugging at his shirt, his belt. He yanks the hem of her dress up roughly, hands gripping her ass, pulling her forward.

“You know what you was doin’ back there,” he mutters against her lips, his voice thick with need.

She laughs breathlessly, lifting her hips to meet his touch. “What, you couldn’t handle it?”

Roman smirks, dark and dangerous. “Oh, I’ma handle it.”

He spins her, pressing her face down into the leather seat, hands sliding up her thighs, over her curves. Naima shudders, gasping as he kisses the back of her neck, down her spine.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice dripping with lust. His fingers slip between her thighs, tracing slow circles over the wetness seeping there. “Makin’ a mess on my seats already.”

She hisses as his grip tightens. “Don’t act like you not the one startin’ shit.”

Roman spanks her ass, chuckling darkly at her gasp. His lips ghost over her ear. “You been askin’ for this all night.” He rubs her pussy, and she trembles. “Tell me how bad you want it, baby.”

Her nails scrape against the leather as she exhales shakily. “You already know.”

Roman grips her chin, tilting her face toward him. “Say it.”

Naima's mouth meets his, her gaze bold and unashamed. “I want you, big daddy.”

His growl rumbles through the space, and that’s all it takes before the car is filled with heat, moans, and the unmistakable sound of skin meeting skin. The windows fog, the Cullinan rocking slightly, her body arching into his with every frantic movement.

Roman keeps his grip on her hip, holding her steady as he drives into her, deep and unrelenting. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting fill the car, mingling with her breathy moans and his hungry groans.

“Fuck, baby,” he grits out, his lips pressed to her shoulder. His other hand cups her heavy, exposed breast, teasing her sensitive nipple. “You feel too damn good.”

Naima is gone, completely lost in the pleasure he’s giving her. Every stroke hits just right, sending fire through her veins, tightening the coil low in her belly. Her hands press against the backseat window, her moans breaking apart as she meets his thrusts, chasing that edge.

“Roman…” she gasps, her voice shaky, “I…I’m close.”

He smirks against her skin, his pace shifting, his strokes deeper, dragging her right where he wants her. His fingers leave her breast and slide back down to where they’re joined, circling that sensitive bud, making her cry out.

“Yeah, baby?” His voice is thick, teasing, knowing. “Come for me. Let me feel it.”

She doesn’t need much more than that. With a shuddering scream, she unravels, pleasure slamming into her, her walls pulsing around him. Her body trembles, back arching, thighs shaking as waves of euphoria crash through her.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Roman groans, feeling her tighten around his dick. He grips her harder, his own restraint crumbling. “Shit, you feel so good…”

He pumps deep in her, the pleasure climbing fast, and Naima, still breathless and floating from her own release, whispers, “Come in me, baby. Please.”

His jaw clenches. That does it. His thrusts stutter, his entire body tensing as he unloads in her with a guttural moan, his face buried in her neck as he comes hard.

For a long moment, all that’s left is the sound of their ragged breathing. Then Naima, still sprawled out on the seat, groans. “We really just fucked in your damn Rolls Royce?”

Roman, still catching his breath, smirks against her neck. “Don’t act like you ain’t love every second of it.”

She laughs, breathless. “Ridiculous.”

He flops into a seated position and pulls her into his lap, kissing her deeply, his grip firm but gentle. “And you love it.”

She sighs, melting against him despite herself. “Love you.”

Roman just chuckles, nipping at her bottom lip. “I know you do.”

Morning comes too fast.

Naima blinks groggily, cheek pressed against his chest, his huge arm wrapped protectively around her. She stretches slightly, wincing at the awkward angle.

She looks around, realization dawning. “Oh god. We really slept in the car?”

Roman stirs beneath her, groaning as he cracks an eye open. “Damn.”

Naima sits up, adjusting her dress. “We look crazy.”

He pulls her back down, smirking. “We look like we had a hell of a Valentine’s.”

She rolls her eyes, but the smile she fights is undeniable and futile.

Roman kisses her mouth, fingers tracing slow circles against her hip. “Happy Valentine’s, baby.”

She sighs, nuzzling into him. “Happy Valentine’s, big guy.”

That evening, Naima uploads her Valentine’s Day video to her Instagram, pairing it with a simple but heartfelt caption:

She sets her phone aside and curls up next to Roman on the couch, not thinking much about it after that. But within hours, the post explodes.

Thousands of likes pour in.

The comments flood in just as fast—friends, dancers from Elysian, fans of both her and Roman, all gushing over the video, over the way their love feels through the screen.

— Y’all are the definition of soulmates 🥰

— THE ROMANCE, I’M CRYING🥹

— Not me watching this 10 times in a row.

— She loves him OUT LOUD, we love to see it.

— This is my favorite couple ever idc idc.

— Roman won at life, fr.

And then Roman finally drops his comment underneath her post.

I love you.

No emojis. No extras. Just those three words. But somehow, it’s the realest, deepest thing he could’ve said.

Naima smiles, clicking on his profile.

And then she sees it.

Roman’s own post.

He’s reposted the video to his page, with a caption that makes her heart stop.

Every day with you is a gift. I love you, @naimurphy ❤️🥰#ForeverMyGirl

The moment it hits his page, the internet erupts.

— ROMAN JUST SHUT THE WHOLE TL DOWN WTF 🤯

— The way he loves her… I wanna experience that just once in my life.

— This man just said ‘mine’ without saying it.

— THE CAPTION THO 😭😭 #ForeverMyGirl

— Naima, you have been CHOSEN 😭

— Roman don’t be posting NOTHINGGG like this, omg 😭 Love is real.

— Their love is my Roman Empire.

— I need a man to repost me with this type of energy or I don’t want it 🙂‍↔️

Naima bites her lip, staring at the screen. The comments, the love, the overwhelming reaction.

Roman watches her from the side, amused. “What’s that look for, baby?”

She shakes her head, grinning. “Nothing. Just trying to figure out how I got so damn lucky.”

Roman smiles wide, tilting her chin up so she’s looking at him. “Nah, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to hers, gentle and soft. “I’m the lucky one.”

THE END...for now.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all

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#roman reigns #roman reigns smut #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns imagines #roman reigns x black oc #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns x oc #finding angel #msbigredmachine preview

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suliigwp · 26 days ago

Text

PART ONE OF 'THAT ONE' - part two

The Sainz Boy

Carlos Sainz x Reader

SULI: I cannot explain to you what me andy phone and my Tumblr have gone through to get you to this moment of reading this fic— This fic is fully finished but ummmmm it's 15k+ words so my phone nearly blew up that's ok— this is part one, mostly about how the bond started when they were kids and a little snippet for what's to come in future chapters- idk if it'll be two or three parts but I have a feeling it's gonna be three — also I completely BUTCHERED Carlos' mom's name I remembered it being something else I'll fix it tomorrow DW ignore it please🫶 love you

Based on This!

Warnings: started writing it with the 1920's in mind but I imagine it's not accurate so just — the past, this is set in the past

Nine and Ten

It was the kind of summer morning that clung.

Even before the sun was fully up, the tiles beneath her bare feet were warm — too warm. The shutters groaned as the breeze pushed through, carrying the smell of dry herbs, copper polish, and that particular sharpness of ripe apricots left too long in the bowl.

She sat on the edge of her bed, legs swinging. Her nightdress clung at the knees, and her ribbon had slipped in the night again. She didn’t bother fixing it. Let the maids fuss if they wanted.

From the hallway came the slow shuffle of slippers and the brush of skirts — the housemaids lighting lamps in the darker corners even though the sun had begun to bleed gold across the floors. Somewhere down below, the heavy rattle of kitchen pots echoed up through the stone.

She slipped quietly out, past the linen-draped parlor, through the long corridor of portraits whose eyes never blinked, and out into the courtyard where the fountain bubbled gently beneath its layer of fallen flower petals.

The adults were already at breakfast under the arbor. Her father’s voice — low and steady — met her first.

“—not a word to the neighbors yet. Let them arrive quietly, without fanfare.”

Her mother sniffed into her porcelain teacup, pale pink lipstick staining the rim.

“As if she ever arrives quietly. That woman hasn’t taken a discreet breath in twenty years.”

“It’s not the lady I’m concerned about.”

“Mm. The boy, then?”

“He was sick all winter. Something with the lungs. They say the air here will do him good.”

Her mother lowered her cup with a soft clink. “Poor thing. How old is he now?”

“About her age.”

That stopped her. The girl. Standing half in shadow near the courtyard steps, where the trellis hung heavy with wisteria.

“Who?” she asked.

Her father turned, just slightly. “The Sainz boy. They're arriving this afternoon.”

She blinked once. The name didn’t ring familiar — not exactly. But it echoed. Like a dream she’d overheard.

Her mother waved a hand.

“You were children together, years ago. Played in the orchard one summer. You wouldn't remember. Pale little thing with knobby wrists. Looked like he’d break if you touched him.”

“I think she bit him,” her father added drily.

She frowned. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“He must’ve deserved it.”

Her mother gave a long-suffering sigh, dabbing her lips with a monogrammed napkin.

“Well, try not to do it again. The family is staying through the season. Their estate’s been opened up. There’ll be dinners. Appearances. It would be nice if you behaved like a young lady for once.”

She looked at the apricot jam glistening on the table. She had no appetite for it now.

“And what does he look like now?” she asked. Voice light, feigned indifference.

Her father exchanged a glance with her mother, then shrugged.

“God knows. Boys grow like weeds.”

Her cousin chimed in with a grin. “Maybe he’s handsome now. Wouldn’t that be funny.”

She kicked him under the table.

He yelped.

“Enough, both of you,” her mother snapped, folding her napkin neatly.

From somewhere inside, a clock began to chime.

No one said it aloud, but they all heard the same thing:

The Sainzs were coming back.

And things would not be quiet

Got it — here is a fully rewritten, more immersive version of the scene. The dialogue at the end is now subtler, truer to how cautious and proud kids would really behave in the 1920s. The tone leans literary, character-focused, and richly atmospheric.

By noon, the heat pressed in like wool.

The gravel drive had been raked twice. The maid dusted the same vase for the third time. Someone had even sent the stable boy out to watch the road, as if he might ward off lateness by sheer force of will.

She sat perched on the stone banister of the terrace, legs swinging just above her polished shoes. Her stockings itched. She was told not to scratch.

Below, the estate shimmered in the midday sun — olive trees trembling in the breeze, the path down to the orchards like a ribbon unraveling into dry grass and memory.

She remembered it only in pieces: one summer, years ago, when she was too small to sit at the adult table and too sharp-tongued for the nursery. There had been a boy. He cried too easily and wouldn’t climb trees, but he had soft hands and a way of watching things that made her uneasy. She’d pushed him. Maybe bitten. Maybe not. No one ever told the full truth in this house anyway.

A flutter of voices snapped her upright.

Her mother swept onto the terrace in a haze of lilac perfume, lifting her skirt slightly to keep it from the dust. A parasol snapped open. The sound made the girl flinch.

“Sit like a lady,” her mother hissed, barely glancing at her. “They’re almost here.”

“Who?” she asked, though she already knew.

“The Sainzs.”

The name tasted foreign in the heat, too sharp for the soft, sleepy morning.

“There will be a boy,” her mother added. “Your age. You remember him, don’t you?”

She shrugged.

“Be kind.”

She didn’t answer. She was already watching the road.

At first, it was only the distant hum of tires on gravel. Then the glint of black metal, long and gleaming, parting the heat haze like a mirage. The Hispano-Suiza came to a stop beneath the cypress trees, its engine sighing into silence.

The driver stepped out. The back door opened.

Señora Sainz emerged first — a tall woman with skin too pale for the southern sun and lips painted the red of crushed cherries. She wore a dress better suited for Paris than the countryside, and she didn’t smile as she stepped down, sweeping her eyes over the house as if deciding whether it was worth remembering.

Then came the boy.

He was thinner than she remembered — not frail, exactly, but spare. Neatly dressed, with the stiffness of someone who'd been taught early not to fidget. His hair was dark and combed flat; his hands stayed politely at his sides. And when he lifted his head—

His eyes met hers.

The world didn’t stop, not exactly. But something in her paused.

He didn’t smile. Neither did she.

Her mother stepped forward, voice bright as summer porcelain.

“Señora! It’s been far too long.”

The women embraced with the stiffness of people who disliked each other but knew how to hide it. Polite kisses were exchanged. Remarks about weather, travel, health.

She barely heard any of it.

Her eyes were still on the boy.

He looked at the terrace, at the archway, at the columns — and then finally back at her. When he did, he inclined his head, a fraction too formal.

“Hello,” he said.

His voice was low, hesitant but careful. The kind of voice that had been taught what not to say, but not quite what to say.

She stood, slowly.

“You remember her, don’t you?” his mother asked lightly. “You used to follow her like a shadow.”

His ears flushed pink. He didn’t look away.

“I remember the orchard,” he said.

That surprised her.

She almost said something. Almost made a joke, or teased, or bit like she used to.

But he looked too serious for it.

“We could walk there,” she offered instead. Not warmly. Not kindly. Just… neutrally. A gesture, more than a welcome.

He blinked.

Then, slowly, nodded.

“All right.”

Their mothers didn’t notice as the children slipped down the terrace steps, past the fountain, toward the trees.

Absolutely. Here’s the continuation in the orchard — detailed, immersive, full of the quiet tension that builds when two children from different worlds are trying to understand one another, especially under the 1920s pressures of appearance, pride, and silence.

The gravel path gave way to cracked earth and roots.

Down here, the estate opened up in ways the house never did—less polished, less watched. The olive trees leaned in over the narrow path, old and knotted like they remembered every secret ever whispered beneath them.

Neither of them spoke.

She walked slightly ahead, out of habit. Not out of confidence—never that—but because she’d learned long ago that if she didn’t move first, no one else would. Her fingers trailed against the tall grass, the smell of dust and sap thick in the heat.

Behind her, Carlos kept pace.

The orchard was older than both of them. Some trees grew at odd angles, leaning as though bored of standing upright. Green figs hung heavy on branches, their weight threatening to split their skins. Bees drifted lazily through the air.

“It’s smaller than I remember,” he said, finally.

She turned. He stood beneath a fig tree, his hand hovering near one of the fruits but not touching it.

“You were smaller,” she replied.

Carlos raised an eyebrow—not insulted, just thoughtful. “You bit me once.”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone says that. I don’t think I did.”

“I think you did.”

“You probably deserved it.”

That earned a pause. He nodded slowly. “Maybe.”

The word sat oddly between them—an admission, not quite forgiveness. She watched him as he stepped off the path, brushing a low-hanging branch aside. He was careful with the tree, like he thought it might bruise.

“You’ve gotten quiet,” she said, crossing her arms.

He glanced over. “My father doesn’t like noise.”

Something about the way he said it made her quiet too.

She dropped her gaze, toeing the dirt with her shoe. “Mine doesn’t like much of anything.”

They stood like that for a long moment. The wind stirred the grass. Somewhere in the trees, a cicada screamed like it had something to prove.

“Do you live in Madrid now?” she asked eventually.

“Mostly. Paris, sometimes.”

“Do you like it?”

Carlos considered. “It’s different.”

“From here?”

He nodded.

“Different can be better,” she said. “Or worse.”

“Or just different.”

There was a maturity in that answer that made her uneasy. Not because it was wrong—but because it was true. And she hated when people her age said true things like that. It made her feel behind. It made her feel seen.

They walked again, slower now, the distance between them less exact.

At the edge of the orchard, a rusted bench sat under an arch of honeysuckle. She dropped onto it unceremoniously, dust kicking up around her stockings. Carlos hesitated—then sat beside her.

Their shoulders didn’t touch. Not quite. But they could have.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said.

“You never are,” he replied.

That startled a breath out of her—almost a laugh. Not quite. She looked down at her hands instead.

“They’ll make us be friends, you know,” she murmured.

“They’ll try,” he said.

And then, after a pause:

“We don’t have to make it easy.”

She looked up at him sharply.

He didn’t smile. But the glint in his eye was unmistakable.

Neither of them said another word.

But they didn’t go back inside, either.

Late June

The sun came in streaks through the lace curtains, making patterns on the parlor rug. Dust danced in the light like it had a life of its own, and the ceiling fan turned lazily above, stirring nothing. The air was heavy—one of those afternoons where the whole house seemed to sweat.

He was sitting stiffly on the velvet settee, one ankle crossed over the other, pretending to read Ivanhoe. He held it like a shield. Every so often, he turned a page too quickly for someone who was truly reading it. His suit jacket was too formal for the weather, but he wore it anyway. Always did.

She watched him from the doorway, barefoot and bored and entirely unimpressed.

“You look like you’re dying,” she said flatly.

Carlos looked up without surprise. “I’m reading."

“You’re pretending,” she said. “You're ten, you can't read that well. And No one actually likes Ivanhoe.”

He didn’t argue, which meant she was right.

She stepped into the room, curls unruly, cheeks pink from the heat. In her hands, she held a stolen napkin filled with biscuits from the breakfast tray.

She tossed it on the table between them with a lazy thump.

“Peace offering,” she said. “Or maybe bribery.”

“For what?”

“For climbing the tower.”

Carlos blinked. “The watchtower?”

“Obviously. Unless you’ve found another ancient stone structure in the back garden?”

He glanced toward the window. “It’s not allowed.”

“That’s why it’s fun.”

She was already walking toward the back door, not waiting to see if he followed. Her bare feet slapped softly on the wood floor. She didn’t look back until she was outside, standing in the harsh, blinding light of summer.

He hesitated only a second before closing the book and rising to his feet.

The watchtower had been part of the estate for longer than either of their families. It stood at the far edge of the property, past the gardens, past the fig trees—half-choked by ivy and pride. No one used it. No one dared.

The climb was hot and rough. The stone steps were narrow, crumbling in places, and the air grew thicker with the scent of old dust and sunbaked lichen the farther they climbed. She went first, light on her feet, daring him with every look back over her shoulder.

He followed in silence, never asking for help.

At the top, the world stretched out before them—hills rolling toward a hazy blue horizon, trees casting long shadows that looked like arms reaching for home. Wind moved through her hair and pulled at his jacket like even the air wanted him to relax.

She dropped onto the cracked stone ledge and stretched out her legs.

“You can see everything from up here,” she said, shielding her eyes. “Even the orchard. Look—there’s your father. Talking to mine.”

Carlos stepped beside her, hands on the edge. “Looks like a duel.”

She smiled slightly, but it didn’t last.

He sat beside her, careful not to touch. A beat passed in the quiet.

Then she reached for the napkin between them, unwrapped it, and offered him the last biscuit.

“It’s the best one,” she said. “I saved it.”

“Are you being nice to me now?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

He took it anyway.

Absolutely — here's the Orange Scene, written in rich, detailed fic style, following the mood and tension of their growing friendship that feels too deep for ten-year-olds, but unmistakably present.

Mid-July

The heat was different in the orchard.

It wasn't the dry, dusty heat that pressed against your back like a warning. It was thick here, fragrant — oranges and figs split open in the sun, sap running from broken bark, bees humming lazy hymns as they floated from fruit to fruit. The air felt gold. Sticky. Alive.

She walked with a half-limping sort of gait, barefoot again, a blister forming from where her sandal had rubbed raw the day before. The orchard was her escape — it was always empty around this hour, the adults inside sipping chilled vermouths and talking about how things used to be better, or worse, or something.

The trees arched over her like a church, quiet and full of ghosts.

And then she heard it — the soft, wet sound of teeth sinking into something ripe. A low grunt. A rustle of grass.

She turned the corner, and there he was.

Carlos sat with his back against the largest orange tree, legs stretched out in front of him, a sun-streaked book lying face-down beside him. There was juice on his chin, running down his hand, and in his lap was the guilty corpse of a peeled orange.

He looked up as if he’d been caught stealing gold.

“You’re not supposed to eat them,” she said coolly, folding her arms over her chest. “They’re for the house.”

Carlos didn’t move, except to wipe his wrist on his trousers.

“It fell,” he said. “Technically.”

“So did Eve’s apple.”

He blinked at her, then slowly brought another segment to his lips and bit down.

“Tell someone,” he said, not rudely, just plainly.

She hated that about him — that soft, unreadable calm. He never barked back, never cried. He just said things like facts, and you had to dig for the rest.

She marched over, dropped to her knees beside him with more force than necessary, and snatched a segment from the half-eaten orange before he could react.

She ate it in one bite, juice slicking her bottom lip. Her fingers brushed his — barely — but it felt like a spark regardless.

“That one was mine,” he said, glancing at her hand.

“You stole it first,” she said, licking her thumb. “This is redistribution.”

Carlos let out a low sound — something between a laugh and a scoff — and leaned his head back against the bark. The leaves above filtered the light, casting strange shapes across his face. His eyes had gone warm, half-lidded.

“It’s better than the ones in the bowl,” he admitted, after a pause.

“That’s because it’s forbidden,” she whispered, in mock-reverence.

They sat like that for a while. Not speaking. Not needing to.

Every so often, one of them would reach for another slice. They shared the rest without speaking.

When the orange was gone, she didn’t get up.

And neither did he.

Late July

It started raining sometime in the afternoon.

Not a soft, summer sprinkle either — but thick, pouring rain that turned the garden paths to mud and rattled the old window panes. The air smelled of stone and lavender soap, and the walls of the house felt closer than usual. Narrower. As if they were watching.

She wandered toward the room that connected the two estates, ancestors sharing a love for each other, having a room to celebrate together, the music room, because it was the only place no one ever looked for her.

The door was open just enough. The light inside was low — muted greys and the pale gold of storm light slipping through lace curtains. Dust motes swirled like tiny ghosts in the air. The piano sat untouched in the corner, as grand and unsmiling as always.

And he was there.

Carlos.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a book open beside him, though he wasn’t reading it. His eyes were half on the window, tracking the drops. His hair curled a little when it was humid. She’d noticed that before.

She hesitated.

He looked over without speaking. Just... looked.

“I didn’t know anyone else came here,” she murmured.

“Neither did I,” he said, his voice quiet.

She closed the door behind her. Tiptoed over like the rain might hear her. She sat down a few feet from him, mimicking his posture, legs crossed beneath her skirt.

The silence settled like a blanket.

Outside, thunder rolled.

“They’re fighting again,” she said, suddenly. “My parents.”

Carlos didn’t react right away. He didn’t ask what about. He didn’t offer a fix. He just nodded, like that was enough — like it made sense.

“They fight about things I don’t even understand,” she said. “I think sometimes I’m the thing they’re really angry at.”

She hadn’t meant to say that.

It came out like a secret slipping between her ribs.

Carlos turned toward her, slow and still, his expression unreadable in that familiar, maddening way.

“That’s not your fault,” he said. “Whatever it is.”

She stared at him. He wasn’t even looking for her eyes — just speaking the truth like he always did, like the truth was just something you picked up off the floor and handed over.

“Do your parents fight?”

“Sometimes,” he said. “But mostly... my father just doesn’t listen.”

She watched the rain trace patterns down the glass.

“Do you want to be like him?” she asked.

That one surprised him. He blinked, and for the first time, something uncertain flickered across his face.

“No,” he said, after a long breath. “I don’t think I do.”

“Good,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t.”

A pause.

And then, softly:

“You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She didn’t say it as a compliment. Not quite. It was just... true.

Carlos looked at her for a long time, as if memorising something. Then he reached over without a word and handed her one of the handkerchiefs he always carried in his breast pocket.

“Here,” he said. “You’re crying.”

She hadn’t noticed.

But she took it.

And she didn’t give it back.

August

It was a Sunday, hot and windless.

The kind of day where the sky looked painted on — too blue, too flat — like someone had forgotten to give it clouds.

The suitcases were already loaded into the boot of the car. Her mother was making a show of pretending not to cry, fluttering around the garden with a lace handkerchief and too many instructions for the maids. Her father was clapping Señor Sainz on the shoulder, talking in those low, rich tones that only grown men used when they wanted to sound important.

The children — if they could still be called that — stood near the stone wall, just out of earshot.

Carlos had his hands in his pockets. His shirt was pressed, and his shoes were too new. His hair looked brushed for once, but still curled slightly near the ears.

“You’ll come again next summer?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

Carlos looked at her for a moment, then down at the grass.

“Maybe. Papa says we might spend it in Madrid next year.”

That hurt more than she thought it would.

“I see,” she said, her voice cooler than she felt. “Madrid sounds nice.”

Carlos looked up, watching her carefully, like he didn’t want to miss a flicker of her expression.

“You could write,” he said.

“Girls don’t write boys,” she replied, chin lifting just slightly.

“Who says that?”

“Everyone.”

Carlos didn’t answer. He pulled something from his pocket — not the usual white handkerchief but a small, worn coin. It looked foreign, heavy. Bronze, maybe. He held it out.

“Here,” he said. “For good luck.”

She took it with both hands.

Their fingers touched — not the clumsy, accidental brushes of before, but a pause. A hold. The kind that said more than either of them could say out loud.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Carlos didn’t smile, not really. But his lips curved slightly, like he was holding something back. She wondered — not for the first time — what kind of man he would grow up to be.

“Don’t forget me,” she said, as softly as a breath.

“I won’t,” he said. “I couldn’t.”

And then the car door slammed. A final noise. A punctuation mark.

He looked over his shoulder once as he was ushered inside. Just once.

But she’d remember it for the rest of her life.

The coin stayed in her pocket all day. She didn’t cry until nightfall, when the lights were out and the cicadas were too loud to blame the sound on anything else.

Sixteen and Seventeen

The brushes sat still for a moment in her hand, hovering just above the canvas.

She squinted slightly, assessing the blue she'd blended — it was almost right, but not quite. Too much ultramarine. Or perhaps not enough light. The morning sun filtering through the tall windows hit the parquet floors in warm streaks, brushing against her skirts and the edges of her easel like a visitor trying to make itself known.

The soft scratch of bristles on canvas filled the quiet room, accompanied by the steady and the whisper of autumn wind tapping at the windowpanes. The scent of oil paint clung to the air — linseed and turpentine and something faintly floral from the soap she’d used to scrub her hands earlier that morning.

Sunlight drifted in long golden bands across the floor, pooling at the base of her easel where an unfinished painting rested. Her strokes had grown slower lately. She wasn’t sure what she was painting anymore.

Behind her, the morning paper rustled.

Her father cleared his throat — not out of impatience, but in that careful way he always did when he wanted her to listen before she spoke.

"Your mother received a letter this morning."

She kept painting, eyes narrowed slightly. "From whom?"

"The Sainz family."

The brush hovered mid-air. Her hand stilled. She didn’t turn around.

"Oh."

She turned slowly, eyes narrowing ever so slightly — not in suspicion, but in preparation. "I thought they were still abroad. Italy, or Paris?"

He folded his paper and set it aside with a heavy sort of grace. "They’ve returned to Madrid. For good, this time. Lucía writes that the children have grown — as you both have — and that it's high time for proper introductions to be renewed."

"I don’t think we need introductions," she muttered, more to herself than to him.

Her father smiled faintly, catching it anyway. "No. But circumstances are different now. You were what — ten? Eleven? You played in orchards and threw oranges at each other. That hardly counts as acquaintance in the eyes of society."

She frowned. Her hand tightened around the paintbrush.

"They’ve returned to Madrid — permanently, it seems," he said, standing now, unfolding the letter with the familiar crinkle of soft paper. "Lucía writes warmly. She hopes to see us again. Says she remembers you — and Carlos — quite fondly."

There was a beat of silence.

She set her brush down carefully on the palette’s edge.

"They’re inviting us for the autumn season," her father continued gently. "To stay with them for a time. It’s been long enough. Too long."

"And you want to go."

He didn’t answer at first. He moved toward the window instead, pulling aside the lace curtain with a thoughtful glance at the trees outside.

"I think," he said, "that it’s time you were seen. Properly."

She frowned. "Seen?"

He looked at her now — really looked — with that soft, furrowed expression that always made her feel small and known at the same time. "You’re nearly seventeen. The world’s going to look at you differently whether you like it or not. You’ve grown up in this house, among paintings and books, and we’ve let you be... free. But you’re a young woman now. And sooner or later, the world is going to notice."

She sat straighter, fingers curling against her lap.

"I don’t want to be noticed," she said softly.

"I know," he replied. "But it's not about being paraded, not truly. It's about being seen in the right light, by the right people. The kind of people who understand who you are. What you could be."

"Wealthy men," she said, sharper than she meant it.

His mouth quirked slightly. "Not just that."

He stepped closer, resting a hand gently on the back of her chair. His voice softened.

"I’m not trying to marry you off. Not yet. But... I want you to have choices, darling. Real ones. You’ve always seen more than you let on — the way you observe, the way you listen. You deserve to walk into a room and know you belong there."

She swallowed hard.

"And Carlos?" she asked, quieter now.

He hesitated — not out of discomfort, but with care.

"He’s grown too, I imagine. He was always a good boy. Polite. Clever. I think you two were rather fond of one another, once."

"That was a long time ago."

Her father nodded. "Yes. But some things remain."

The silence between them wasn’t heavy. It was thoughtful, familiar.

He tapped the letter against his hand once before placing it neatly on the table.

"We leave in two weeks," he said. "We’ll stay through the season, perhaps longer if it suits us. You’ll need a few new gowns. Something light, perhaps in that soft green you favor. Your mother’s already written to Madame Eloise."

She said nothing, only reached for her brush again. Her hand moved almost instinctively, painting the gentle slope of a shoulder — fabric just beginning to take shape. She wasn’t even aware it resembled him until the stroke had dried.

Her father leaned down, kissed the top of her head — a quiet, habitual thing — and left the room without another word.

And though she wouldn’t admit it aloud, her heart had already started to beat a little faster.

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141 notes · View notes

revelboo · 6 months ago

Note

Last night I dreamed about you (not a strange dream)Basically, in my dream, you were famous to the point that all two stories here on Tumblr were physical books/available on Kindle. One day, on my birthday, I received a gift from my friend: The hardcover editions of "give up/give in" and "everything is alright". Man, what a good dream. The covers were SO BEAUTIFUL, glossy and probably the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Like, I woke up sad, because they were so perfect that I wanted them to be real. The last thing I remember doing in the dream was finishing reading both books on the same day because i was so excited!

Anyway, thanks for making me go crazy over Transformers again! I've been following you since the first 'chapters' of Everything is Alright (I think I found your account when you were releasing the 5th or 6th).

Hugs from a Brazilian fan 💗🇧🇷(And sorry for any words I may have misspelled. I'm not very confident about my English writing 🙂)

Haha nooo this stuff is just purely just my bored rambling nonsense. It’s not even beta read or edited really- it’s super rough. I’m glad you like it, though. I hadn’t been active in the fandom in ten years or so myself before I started writing these snippets.

Give Up/Give In Pt 14

Earthspark Megatron x Reader

• Landing, he waits for you to get clear before transforming so he can kneel and offer you his cupped hands. “Where are we?” You ask, settling yourself in his palm as he stands and walks up to the massive, hidden door recessed into the mountainside. And grimacing, he tries to think of a nice way to explain that he doesn’t trust Ghost. That he likes having his own place to recharge where he doesn’t have to constantly worry or look over his shoulder. Not even Optimus knows about this place and he can appreciate that his old friend also hasn’t pried, respecting his privacy. But letting himself in, he’s suddenly painfully aware of how empty the space is.

• “it’s just a place I can escape to for quiet,” he says, but there’s an edge to his tone that makes you think that’s not the whole answer. You don’t push, though, looking around. There’s a berth against a wall. A storage locker, and what might be a shower area in a corner, but it’s spartan and doesn’t really look like a place someone lives in. No photos, no mementos collected over the years. It’s not a home. “It’s not much, is it?” He asks as if reading your mind and you flinch, because what do you know about Cybertronians? Maybe uncluttered and empty is their design aesthetic.

• Wishes he can tell what you’re thinking as you look around. Do you find it lacking and lonely? It’s never mattered to him before, but now it does. Dorothy’s home is full of things. Odds and ends that humans tie memories to. What do you make of his hideaway without those human things? “It’s fine. You’re sure I’m not in the way here?” You ask, looking up at him and his spark warms that you’re worried about imposing on him. Just like you hadn’t wanted to impose on the Malto’s. Pulling the air mattress and blankets Dorothy had let him take from his subspace, he sets it up on a corner of his berth. The box of water and packaged MREs go beside it and he turns to find you watching him.

• “I like the company,” he says, nudging the box with a servo. Is he lonely recharging here alone instead of in the Ghost facility with the Autobots? He’s not given you a lot of details, but you get the impression he doesn’t trust Ghost and that Dorothy isn’t entirely sold on them either even though she works for them. Aware that you don’t have all the information, but okay with that for now since you don’t want to hound him. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” he adds, letting you avoid the real world a bit longer. To take the time to get yourself together.

• If you’re here, he can keep an optic on you. Live up to his promise. Knows you’ll want to leave him eventually and go back to your life, but he’s not about to make you until you’re ready. And until then, it’ll be nice to have someone to talk to. Someone that doesn’t only see the monster he’s trying to leave behind. “Thank you,” you say and he reaches out a servo, one corner of his mouth twitching when you lay a hand on it. Because your trust? It means everything and he wants to be worthy of it.

#transformers x reader #earthspark megatron #megatron x reader

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fastandcarlos · 1 year ago

Text

World’s Best Engineer » Lance Stroll

summary: as a leading engineer at aston martin you’re very friendly with the drivers, however as winter break comes around, you find yourself closer than ever to a certain stroll

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by fernandoalo_oficial, astonmartinf1 and 29,402 others

ynusername: another busy week in the paddock, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, being an f1 engineer really is the best job in the world 💚🏎️

4,191 comments

username1: thank you for being so inspiring y/n!!

username2: my dream is to be just like you 🥺

astonmartinf1: another great week with the team, thank you for all your hard work 💚

username3: these days I just live my dream through your socials y/n

lance_stroll: I guess I have to give you a bit of credit for p7 this week 🙄

ynusername: @/lance_stroll if your front wing is broken in montreal…it wasn’t me!!

lance_stroll: @/ynusername I appreciate you really ☺️

username4: I just want a friendship like y/n and lance 💕

georgerussell63: so nice to see you again after so long y/n!

landonorris: can you come and work your magic on my car pls??

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and 732,006 others

lance_stroll: another great week with the team in monaco, thank you for all the continued support 🏎️💚🥰

68,111 comments

astonmartinf1: well done lance - we’re very proud of you!

username5: it must feel awesome to have such a great team around you

fernandoalo_oficial: super job lance 💚💚

ynusername: I guess you did alright 🤷🏻‍♀️

lance_stroll: @/ynusername sometimes I wonder why we’re even friends 😂

username6: I can’t cope with these two sometimes

username7: who let these two be part of the same team 🙄

alex_albon: I’ll let you have that overtake this time…next time you’re mine 😉

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by estebanocon, charles_leclerc and 103,489 others

ynusername: another week with this fool! did I mention that I’ve now added photographer to my list of specialist skills??

29,312 comments

username8: the third photo wtf y/n

username9: poor lance being bullied by his own engineer

logansargeant: pls tell me lance gave you permission to post these!!

ynusername: @/logansargeant as if he’d give me permission to post these 😂

logansargeant: @/ynusername you’re gonna be dead

username10: everyone just waiting for lance to appear in the comment section

landonorris: HOWLING 😂😂😂

lance_stroll: what did I do to you 😭 worst. friend. ever.

ynusername: @/lance_stroll lmao I’m sorry…just wanted to give your fans an insight into paddock life with you 😝

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by astonmartinf1, ynusername and 628,319 others

lance_stroll: posting these to prove a point that I’m definitely the better friend. did I mention that y/n is the best engineer in the world 💚🤩🏁

72,771 comments

username11: lance making y/n look like a terrible friend 😂

username12: I sense revenge coming at some point

ynusername: no one’s falling for that stroll 😂 we all know what you’re really like

username13: I can’t anymore with these two

username14: poor lance can’t catch a break

danielricciardo: let me just go and find my violin to offer you some sympathy

maxverstappen1: if you don’t want y/n as a friend…I’ll have her 😇

lance_stroll: @/maxverstappen1 TAKE HER! it’s someone else’s time to be bullied by her

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by pierregasly, yukitsunoda0511 and 103,778 others

ynusername: the end of another season means the end of annoying this muppet for three months…here’s a few snippets of this year to celebrate another great season (and make up for the unflattering photos I posted last time 😂) 💚🏁🏎️🏆

43,772 comments

username15: is anyone really believing that these two are only friends after this?

username16: the hand to the face 😭 lance looks so chill with it too

landonorris: you two look…close 👀

oscarpiastri: @/landonorris time for team papaya to do some investigating during the summer 🤔

username17: can you just come out and tell us you’re secretly dating now pls

lance_stroll: looking forward to three months of peace and quiet away from you

ynusername: @/lance_stroll I finally say something nice and this is your response 🤦🏻‍♀️

lance_stroll: @/ynusername not nice to be bullied hey!?

username18: officially my favourite friendship in the world

username19: @/username18 there’s no friendship here ma’am

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by alex_albon, landonorris and 832,443 others

lance_stroll: winter break in venice 🏞️

82,910 comments

username20: wait who’s the girl

username21: anyone else thinking what I’m thinking 🤔

username22: that looks suspiciously like someone familiar mr stroll

fernandoalo_oficial: glad to see you guys enjoying yourselves ❤️

ynusername: hope you brought your company plenty of pizza 🫠

lance_stroll: @/ynusername only the best!!

username23: I swear if that’s y/n

username24: pls let it be y/n so all my wishes can come true

username25: something tells me lance wasn’t wanting peace and quiet from y/n after all 🥰🥰

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by astonmartinf1, carlossainz55 and 139,220 others

ynusername: enjoying the rest at my favourite place in the world…I guess the company I’m with is alright too 🩷☀️🌊

48,390 comments

username26: THATS LANCE STROLL

username27: all my suspicions have officially been confirmed

username28: no one can convince me that that isn’t lance in all of those photos

lance_stroll: you look like you’re enjoying yourself 🥺

ynusername: @/lance_stroll it’s amazing what time away from the paddock (and you ☺️) can do 😝

username29: y/n you’re not convincing anyone…we know everything!

landonorris: @/oscarpiastri what do you think? 🤔 is team papaya suspicious

oscarpiastri: @/landonorris is that…the lance stroll 🤯🤯🤯

username30: not lance and y/n pretending to bully each other when all along they loved each other

username31: they’ve played us all for fools 😭😭

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri and 901,114 others

lance_stroll: ready for a new season…did I mention that I’ve got the world’s most beautiful engineer as part of my team too ��😝

102,381 comments

fernandoalo_oficial: finally!!! I don’t think I could keep quiet for much longer

landonorris: already winning and the season hasn’t even started yet

ynusername: how was all that peace and quiet during the winter? 😂

lance_stroll: hmm turns out I think I prefer having you around after all 💕🤩

username32: my heart can’t take how cute they are

username33: lance still can’t help himself but to mess with y/n

logansargeant: promise me I will not have to see any affection around the paddock all year long

lance_stroll: @/logansargeant I’m not making any promises 🤐

alex_albon: all those times I asked you…all those times you lied 🥺

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

liked by lance_stroll, maxverstappen1 and 139,402 others

ynusername: here’s an album I like to call ‘photos of my favourite person in the world’ ☺️🩷

53,003 comments

lance_stroll: I’m the luckiest to have you, not just my best friend but the best engineer in the world 🥺

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

any replies, reposts or likes are always appreciated 💕

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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jamiepaige · 8 months ago

Text

Constant Companions Closeup #1: DYAD

(also on spotify!)

Hello everyone!! It's been a couple weeks and change since Constant Companions, my newest album, was released unto the world, and I've been genuinely blown away by the response. Genuinely, thank you to everyone who's been streaming, commenting, making mashups, changing their pfps and usernames - it means the world to me!

I wanted to give some of that love back with something people have been asking me a lot about - and, admittedly, something I love doing. Song explanations! Deep dives! Dropping the lore! Welcome... to the Constant Companions Closeups...

For the next eleven days, I'll be going into each track one by one and babbling about the process, inspiration, details, feelings, and thoughts behind each one! We're getting sappy. We're bearing our hearts. We're telling unfunny jokes. And we're starting with track one - DYAD (featuring unit.0)!

---

Naturally, since this is the first track, it also serves as a great point to talk about my intention with this album as a whole!

I'll elaborate more on this with future tracks, but to me, there are really two main things that define the sonic progression of this album versus my previous work - guitars and vocal synths. Obviously, these things have been present in my work since I first started calling myself Jamie Paige, but Constant Companions is intended to be my overwrought, sappy confession of love to these two things that time and time again have made me simply want to make music. I love rock and I love Hatsune Miku dammit!!!

I had originally written this song in February of 2023 for a game-jam-esque online festival hosted by my friend Loni called HAPPY PARTY TRI, and at that time, I had found myself at a major crossroads. I had put out People Posture Play Pretend and :women_wrestling: the previous year, and while the response was nice, I was feeling listless and lost.

I love singing. I like my voice well enough. I certainly love writing music with lyrics!! But... there was something uniquely electrifying about using vocal synths. Amidst a lot of insecurity and emotional turmoil surrounding the process of making art and putting myself out into the world, it was one of the few things that just made everything feel right. Suddenly, I was making the same kind of music that had touched my heart so many times over.

Would it alienate people, though? Would I lose longtime listeners? Yes, that weighed on my mind more than I'd like to admit, but even more than that... I was worried I'd lose some part of myself, as silly as it sounds. Maybe what I thought was a bridge would become a barrier, and the messages I wanted to send across the gap would never find their way.

Ultimately, I felt that Dyad was the only kind of opener I could've possibly given this album, and a perfect fit for the album's motif. A dialogue between myself, stricken with loneliness and a lack of inertia running in circles, and that synthesized voice (ANRI Arcane my darling), grabbing the outstretched hand and asking a question I already know the answer to -

"Baby, do you know what you wanna hear?"

Yes, it's a love song, but it's not just for a person - it's a love song for the creative impulse, and for the places I wanted it to take me.

im resisting the urge to be jokingly dismissive of myself to diffuse tension but i still need to signal that the emotionally bare part of this is over so pretend im doing a funny little dance Anyways let's talk more technical stuff

---

Like many of my songs, Dyad came together from a patchwork of different snippets and ideas I had laying around. The back half of the chorus - "dream together, we can dream together" - originally came from this idea I had jotted down something like 9 months prior, but ended up being a perfect fit for Dyad in basically every way. The verse snippet that I'd written to go with it got reused for a later song on Constant Companions as well! (I say without naming it, as if it isn't literally lifted wholesale from this demo and thus incredibly obvious)

I wasn't originally planning on brazenly quoting the bridge of a Tally Hall song when I set out to write this song, but while toying around with a bridge idea involving a shortened version of the pre-chorus melody, I realized I had inadvertently copied it anyways. I was going to scrap it... but at the request of my dear friend and certified Tally Hall lover Marcy Nabors, I made it an explicit reference. Which I'm fine with, personally! The first CD I ever owned was a copy of Marvin's Marvelous Mechanical Museum my sister bought me all the way back in 2006 - You can pry that sentimental attachment from my cold, dead hands, TikTok kiddies.

Lastly - not really behind the scenes so much as just a shoutout - thank you to unit.0 for the lovely lead guitar work on this song!! He's been a beloved collaborator of mine for many, many years now, and one of the people who ultimately convinced me this direction was the right one to go in, so it means a lot to share this song with him. Go listen to his music!!! Now!!!!!!

That's about it for this song! Not to sound like a fucking YouTuber, but genuinely, if there are any details you'd like to hear more about, let me know and I might made a bonus post at the end of all this. Otherwise, thank you for listening! Tomorrow: Not Quite There, featuring telebasher!

❤️💚

#jamie paige #music #constant companions #Bandcamp #behind da scenes

198 notes · View notes

taevescence · 1 year ago

Text

Get to know the life of the members of Bring On The Night! The pop/rock band of the moment that has a whole generation addicted to their music, lyrics and performers.

| Kim Seokjin: The Bassist

You’ve loved Jin in silence for years. You’ve been his best friend, his safe place, the one constant in his life. You waited patiently, reading between the lines, believing that one day he’d finally see you as something more. And just when you thought that moment had come, he introduced you to his girlfriend—the first one since you’ve known him. Now, with your heart wavering between habit and longing, you don’t know whether to give up… or fight for him.

-> Moodboards -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Min Yoongi: The Producer

What you had didn’t have a name. You weren’t a couple. You didn’t talk about the future. You didn’t ask questions. But you shared a bed, a routine, and that kind of intimacy that only grows when love disguises itself as habit.

For five years, you were together—and even if neither of you ever said it out loud, you both knew it was more than just desire. It wasn’t normal for two “friends” to live together, or to wear matching necklaces with your initials, or to adopt a cat.

It was supposed to be casual. You were supposed to be on the same page.

Until he wanted to give it a name.

Until the idea of ruining everything over a ring made you run.

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Jung Hoseok: The Composer

It’s been years since college, but Hoseok is still a constant in your life. Your best friend. Your safe place. The one person who’s stood by you even when everything else fell apart.

You both took different paths, with rings on your fingers and promises made to other people. And for a while, it seemed like everything was in place. Like you were both happy.

Until that night.

Until you opened a door you weren’t supposed to, and saw him —your husband— with Hoseok’s fiancée. Kissing. Laughing. As if you didn’t exist. As if years of loyalty could be erased in a moment.

Now you carry a secret that burns in your throat.

Do you tell Hoseok and destroy the wedding… or stay silent and betray the only real thing you have left?

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Kim Namjoon: The Drummer

You didn’t come here to fall in love. You came to work—to keep emotions out of the equation, to be efficient, strategic, untouchable. After all, how could you trust anyone again when the love of your life left you right before proposing?

Namjoon is the opposite of everything you’re trying to avoid: thoughtful, patient, curious. He watches you like he wants to understand every layer, like he doesn’t mind that you never smile without reason or only speak when necessary.

You’re his manager. He’s your responsibility.

But then he walks you home after a tour. Then he learns how you like your coffee. Then he writes songs he swears aren’t about you… even though they are. And before you even realize it, what you tried so hard to control begins to unravel.

Because he doesn’t ask you to be different—he just hopes you’ll allow yourself to feel.

And that’s the most dangerous part of all.

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Park Jimin: The Keyboardist

Years ago, when he was just a boy with too many dreams and too little to offer, you called him a failure. You said you couldn’t keep waiting for someone with no future. You left him heartbroken, with an unfinished song and the bitter taste of a promise you never meant to keep.

Now, you’re a famous actress. A movie star with millions of fans and awards on your shelf. And him… he’s the keyboardist for the biggest pop-rock band in the world.

When he sees you again, he doesn’t believe in coincidences. This is fate, and this time, he’s the one in control.

He’s going to get close. He’s going to make you fall. He’s going to make you believe there’s still something between you. And when you finally let your guard down, when you believe he’s here to stay… he’s going to leave. Just like you once did.

That was the plan.

Until you smile the way you used to. Until you start inspiring songs he thought he’d never write again. Until he no longer knows if he’s playing for revenge… or because somewhere along the way, he fell for you all over again.

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Kim Taehyung: The Guitarist

Since you were a child, your life has been a public spectacle. First, the child prodigy from Disney, then the pop star everyone wanted to hear, and now… now your name is in the headlines for the wrong reasons.

Social media hates you. Fans are confused, some even doubt you. Your team gives you one option: Create an alibi. And to get the public back on your side, all you need is for everyone to believe you're dating someone.

But not just anyone. Him.

Kim Taehyung, the guitarist from the world’s biggest pop/rock band, the mysterious man who never speaks about his personal life, but whose charisma makes him one of the most desired figures on the planet.

No one knows much about him, not even his own friends. But for some reason, he offers you his help. Without hesitation. No questions.

What starts as a simple lie turns into something neither of you expected. And little by little, you realize that all those things you promised your team... aren’t as fake as you thought.

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets

| Jeon Jungkook: The Vocalist

Jungkook doesn’t remember when he started loving you, he only knows it was long before you realized it—long before you started looking in the wrong direction.

He’s seen you laugh out of habit, endure out of obligation, justify the unjustifiable just to avoid being alone.

And even if it’s not his place—yet—he’s decided to speak up.

Because you deserve more. And he’s ready to prove it, even if it means getting in the middle of your relationship.

-> Moodboard -> Playlist -> Drabbles -> Snippets