#to better reflect the person shes grown into

[saintagron]

strangers in the night .

an. the best type of young love is between older women cw. strangers to lovers. retired business owner!reader, business owner!ambessa. vetting disguised as flirting... which turns into actual flirting. sneaking off like teenagers (because love makes us all young again). age gap; reader is in their early 30s, ambessa is in her mid 50s.

The Christmas Gala, once a ironically-named event held in your small, two-floor office space, had evolved. Greatly. No longer were you organizing the simultaneous potluck or hiding Secret Santa lists—you weren’t even organizing it at all. Despite the hefty royalty checks you cashed and the occasional memo sent your way, you’d pulled out of business and sunk into leisure. 

So now, along with the company’s—corporation’s, to be precise, as of a few years ago—rapid proliferation, the Gala, in turn, had snowballed and grown to fit its name. No longer were your five employees shuttered into the break room, no. Now a river of investors, your successors, and upper management floods a grand venue once a year, to chat and consort each other and wheedle deals over seemingly unending champagne. 

What was once an ugly sweater contest had turned into black tie, suits fitted and dresses ankle length. Heels are high and cufflinks are shiny, speaking to each person’s apparent wealth and influence. You, yourself, also look the part; dressing up is uncontrollably enticing, no matter if it’s your first or fiftieth time. 

Pearls round your shoulders, clinging to the satin that plunges shallowly at your chest and pools low at the bottom of your spine. Each shift of your shoulders etches shadows and reveals highlights, making you an unending piece of art. Whether it be the dimples that sit low on your back or the shallow lines of your shoulder blades, they reflect beautifully in the venue’s glittering lights. 

You’re greeted as you enter, but thankfully most understand your desire for observational solitude. The high, curving ceilings are a better greeting—silent, beautiful, glimmering. They meet at a point in the center of the room, the domed glass segmented and exposing the sky’s winking stars. Their light calls you, and it’s more welcome than anything that you’ve ever heard audibly. You tear your eyes away, though. Stargazing can come later, when your task is wrapped up in a tight bow. 

Deal-making is not your job anymore—you’ve left that to your successors. Yet, every once and a while, they come to you with a plea. Unintentionally, you’ve become their “vetter.” They send you to speak with potential business partners, often without educating them on the company’s history and your part in it. An unaware person is an honest one, and your judgement has always been the sound law of the land. 

Tonight you have another mark. It feels like a shot of lightning, thinking about it. You accept a glass of champagne but don’t sip, buzzing with too much energy. Perhaps it reflects badly on your life’s level of excitement that a faux-investigation, reminiscent of a 90’s spy film, is enough to make you fuzzy with adrenaline. Ah, well. Tonight isn’t the night to scrutinize yourself—instead, it’s time to investigate another.

You spot her from across the room, and it makes you stop. Pictures pale to the way the bare light makes her glimmer, smooth and dark and defined. Initially it looks as if she’s in a dress, the crimson fabric loose at the legs, until she moves and reveals the pantsuit’s disconnect. The golden accents shine just as her skin does, each shift of her restless stance revealing new divots for your gaze to explore. 

Her eyes flicker towards you. They don’t meet, but it’s much too close for comfort. You relieve yourself of your drink, placing the untouched flute on a passing tray, and tug your CMO into a dance. She laughs against your hair as she obliges, curling her hand in yours and resting the other at your waist.

(She used to be so small—not in stature but in confidence. It’s sweet that she leads, after so many years of you taking up that role.)

ᰔ

Miss Medarda is popular. You watch her while you’re drawn, pulled, and guided through dances—reveling in the orchestra’s swell, as well as her subtle glances. She’s swarmed by people, most dwarfed by her height and beautiful musculature. They vie for her attention like minnows around a scrap, tugging helplessly in so many directions she does not move at all. 

You’ll never tear through the swarm. But your gaze will. 

You allow it to drift lazily, naturally towards her. The slower dance, spins less vertigo-inducing, grants ample time to meet her eyes. She glimpses you. You meet it. Unintentionally, there’s a quirk to your lips—not meant as a challenge, but merely an instinct of politeness and a show of mild amusement. But she takes it as such, meets the challenge, even though you’re an unknown from across a crowded room. You can see it in the sudden, subtle clench of her jaw. 

She joins the dancing crowd not soon after, seemingly drawn in by a slightly-drunk, over-eager business partner. They hold her clumsily through the song, and you can see every wince as they stumble over her feet. Every time you glimpse her again you’re laughing silently, smile so wide she can spy the white gleam of your canines. 

Thankfully for her feet’s wellbeing, the next dance is one that incorporates switching partners. She maneuvers closer and closer to you, even as you spin on the arms of others. It’s predatory in its intensity—even with other men and women in front of you, all you can pay attention to is the burning of her gaze at the back of your head. 

She’s coming for you. 

It’s stupidly thrilling. It feels like a spy movie—you the secret, mysterious operative and her, the intense, almost-desperate government agent. Your heartbeat picks up every time you’re passed off, wondering if you’ll be scooped up at the next switch. 

The song rises to its crescendo. The flutes guide the melody, high and melodic, the rest of the woodwinds following after; the strings follow suit, rumbling bass and cello supporting the croon of the violas and violins. It climbs higher and higher, the breathtaking sound amplified by the hall’s high ceilings and far-reaching walls. You’re already breathless when she scoops you up, driven more by your heart, the muscle beating in the music’s rhythm, than by your own mind. You can’t help but laugh, the sound falling warmly between you; your hands curl around her shoulders, they roll under your palms.

“Why are you watching me?” She rumbles, low and unintentionally curious. The words are pressed into your cheek—she leans down to kiss the skin like she’s a friend. Femme fatales curled together. Who needs a James Bond or a Jason Bourne?

However, there’s no high stakes to the question, unlike in the movies. Revealing your identity wouldn’t be a detriment. But that’s not what you’re here for, and so you charm your way through a lie. It doesn’t matter if she believes you, really. It’s all just a bit of fun now. 

“Because you’re beautiful.” You breathe, low and drawn out, hopelessly enamoured against her dark cheek. The skin is oh so soft, luminous and flush to your own. And her fragrance—oh, how wonderful she smelt up close. A hint of something spicy, sharp, before it melted along your tongue like tangy cherry and a morning rose. 

Your breath hitches, because how could it not. 

She chuckles; lets her hand venture further down your back. It presses, large and warm, into the base of your spine. 

“You’re too blatant to be malevolent.” She murmurs, and drops her head like she wishes to nose at your hairline—lingering just far enough that you can feel the cool brush of every inhale and the slow release of every exhale. “But I don’t think you’re telling me the whole truth, either.” 

You exhale then—one slow, delicate, shaky breath. And then again, another breath, this one half-laughter. You’ve laughed more tonight than you have in the past month. It’s the full-body type that makes your cheeks hurt and your chest burn, not the half-hearted sort of chuckle you give to an almost-funny joke. It’s wonderful. Your eyes squeeze shut with the gentle force of it. “I guess I’m transparent.” You murmur, pressing your own hands into her spine. This isn’t the first time you’re grateful her pantsuit is backless, and it surely won’t be the last. The skin at her spine, thinly covering the most defined muscles you think you’ve ever had the pleasure to lay your hands on, is as warm as the rest of her. Those muscles ripple under your fingers—every shift, you feel; every movement is cataloged and marked with your prints. 

It’s quite distracting.

She spins you, then; you go turning past who was probably your next partner, their hands decidedly empty of either you or her. Their wide expression makes you feel guilty for about half of a second before she’s breathing against your ear again and nope, you’re totally willing to do another rotation with her. 

“So, who are you, then?” She hums, the barest quirk of her brow following. A lie sparks across your tongue—one of the many aliases you’ve used brimming—but it fizzles and dies under her gaze. Something in it says that she’ll know. So you give her your name then, the words only loud enough for her. 

She gives no reaction. There’s not even a shift in her gaze. But you know she’s heard of you. Just like everyone’s heard of her. 

“Ambessa Medarda.” She offers in return, as if anyone here—or in the business world you soar above—doesn’t know who she is.

“Pleasure.” You murmur. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve said all evening. It’s not surprising—she’s warm and flirtatious, a natural conversationalist who’s not overwhelming. She appeals to your withdrawn sensibilities, not borne naturally but created through your lax early retirement. So when she smiles just a hint and starts to (not-so-subtly) ease you off the dance floor, you go with her. 

ᰔ

The first thing you realize when you breach the perimeter is that it was warm in the venue. It wasn’t clear when you were in there, but the rescinding heat and subsequent brushing chill is enough to make your shoulders tense. 

“Cold?” She hums, passing over a flute of champagne—two of them dwarfed by her hands, one in each palm. You didn’t even see her grab it. 

You hum a denial, accepting the drink. The venue’s set on a beautiful piece of land—sprawling, manicured fields of grass intercut with intimate gardens. It’s always been a dream of yours to see it at night, ever since you first came here as a child. The light pollution that covers most other places is gone, especially further out on the grounds. If all the electricity went out, you’re sure you could see galaxies long forgotten. 

Your heart pulls you again, guides your feet—not your head. She trails after you, curiously quiet, intelligent enough to read the silence and enamoured enough to sink into it. 

The grass is cool, slightly misty. The sprinklers had long since gone off, leaving just a gentle sheen of water; it’s barely enough to wet your skin. You ease down to sit in it, the short, even stalks skimming your wrists and curving gently at your ankles. She sinks down next to you as you take your first sip of champagne all night, letting her long legs splay out and the crimson fabric of her pantsuit separate. Your wrist tilts, offering your flute at a subtle angle, and she bumps her own against it with a gentle tink. 

“I’m not made for that anymore.” The idea has been growing in your mind for a long while. You once relished in it—in the networking. In meeting people, growing your business, and fighting to keep your principles cemented at the forefront of it.

Now you’re just tired of it. Perhaps it’s retirement (the one you swore was just a break) seeping into your bones, or maybe the ache for connections outside of coworkers, subordinates, and business partners caught up for you. 

All you know is it’s not for you anymore.

There’s no sure reason why you’re sharing this with her of all people; it’s well known she’s made for this. Groomed since birth, now an eternally cemented figure. The businesswoman of the generation before you. In the years where you were struggling to scrape together salaries and your own rent, she was already there—and she’s outlasted you.

(Rumor says she’s never taken a day off. You think they’re so bullshit, but… sometimes you wonder.)

“I’m not sure you ever were.” She responds, champagne swirling in her glass. She’s never quite still. As if noticing your gaze, she takes a sip. Wets her lips, and then continues. “But you did very, very well, in a world not made for you.”

Your eyes tighten for just a second—not suspicious, but scrutinizing. She knows who you are, obviously, if not your face than your name. But everyone knows your name. She seems to know you. 

So of course you ask. Burning curiosity was one of the things that got you so far, after all. Among other things. 

“How do you know me? We’ve never met before.” She takes another sip from her flute, red lip printing on the rim. 

“...I saw you present at a conference once. I’ve been keeping track ever since.” She may be unabashed and honest, but the words make your face hot. 

“That was—” you huff, mentally searching through the years. When was the last time you presented—?

“Seven years ago. You were just getting off the ground.” Her tone is even. Soothing in its smoothness, but overwhelmingly calm. Especially with the information she’s divulging—speaking as if it’s nothing more than an itinerary. 

Your mind spins. Seven years. 

“Why?” Is all that comes to mind—bubbling on your tongue worse than the champagne.

“My children have never been as ruthless as I… thought they needed to be.” The words ease out—slow, controlled. As if admitting her misstep was a challenge. She turns to gaze at you, open hand coming to cover your own. “You gave me hope. That they, too, could succeed in this cruel world.”

You let the moment simmer. Watching her gaze deepen is a pleasure—the quietness allowing you to really observe her. 

“...did you just attempt to flirt by comparing me to your children?” She blanches, and then bites back a laugh when she spots your wry grin. Her teeth bare with the effort, but the lines in her cheeks sink in regardless. 

“You’re evil. So very evil.” Her laughter is soft. Who else gets to say they saw her laugh like this? It’s a privilege you tuck close to your chest. 

“Why didn’t you talk to me that day?” That question makes her quiet. 

“...you were so young.” Your head tilts, an eyebrow raising. You’re old and experienced enough to spot a half-truth—with enough younger cousins to know, instinctively, the tone they carry. 

Her lips press together, caging the confession. But under your gaze, she relents. “...and very pretty. I was… different, then. I had just lost my husband. I knew I couldn’t resist, and that you’d get pulled into my grief. I wanted to let you bloom, unimpeded by anything.” 

“It would have been very controversial.” You quip.

“Completely.” Her lips twitch. 

“A scandal. At least your children are a… well. One of them is younger than me.” Comes your hum, your lips pursing. 

“That… really wouldn’t have helped, I don’t think.” She huffs—but she’s smiling. 

“...I would have been into it.” That makes you both break, falling into laughter. The motion pulls you into each other, the humor like a vortex. Her shoulder bumps yours, and your hand curls purposefully into hers. It’s heart-pounding, juvenile.

“You’re a character.” You’ve spent enough time around older people—both socially and in the business—to know that means you’ve got attitude, but I like it. It makes you beam. 

The silence settles comfortably, your cheeks aching when your smile slowly melts into something softer. 

“I always wanted to see the stars here.” You confess, eyes tilting up towards the midnight-smeared horizon. The sky isn’t black, here, the darkest color still carrying a tint of blue or purple, the colors only further illuminated by every bright star. “I loved this place when I was a child… but they closed the grounds at night. Even before the sunset.”

“It really is wonderful.” She hums, the sound rumbling from the back of her throat and coated with understanding. “This is my first time here; I’ve never been one for historic buildings. I’d rather frequent the war museums, or stroll through the parks. Old, rich houses are beautiful… but they’re empty of people.”

War museums.

“Your father was a veteran, wasn’t he?” You question, suddenly reminded of it; you’d learned it years ago from some stray magazine article, bored and half-asleep in some waiting room. Thank you, Vogue, for having insightful interviewers.

“Yes, yes he was.” Her huff is surprised, a subtle raise of her brow following your question. “And I’m the only one who’s been watching?”

You can’t help the grin that splits your face. “You’re everywhere. Whether you like it or not.” 

She laughs brightly. You can feel her breath rush, warmly contrasting against the cool night air, against your hairline, and instantly you’re aware of how close she’s pressed. Through the conversation you’d both migrated close, until your shoulders hover just an inch apart. 

The flush that settles over your entire body is juvenile. It feels nostalgic and foreign all at once, the feeling an old memory—like the lightness you felt at prom, heels digging into your ankles and dress heavy as you danced. The pain and happiness, joined, had all diminished into sparse reflections you had to grasp at. This feeling was no different, yet now it was back with a vengeance. 

“...god, you make me feel young again.” You scoff, temple pressing to her solid shoulder. 

“Isn’t that my line?” She teases, but her smile is soft. “I’m supposed to be revitalized by a younger lover, not the other way around.” 

“I’m already retired. We could argue that I’m older in spirit.” Your words make her laugh again—a quiet thing, exhaled over your hairline. 

“Sure.”

You sit there, side by side, twined for a while. It’s not clear how much, the moon’s shifts your only gauge. When someone comes to find you it’s already peaked, heading down towards the horizon, yet still with a while to go. 

The house’s doors have never been quiet; oiled and maintained, yet the sound of age still echoed when they opened. Music and quiet conversation spills out over you the few seconds it’s open. 

“Miss Medarda? You have—” Their breath stutters, before they regain momentum. “—um. You have people looking for you; the night’s winding down and they’d like to talk once more before it ends.”

She grumbles something unintelligible, but moves to rise. You catch her forearm, stopping her halfway.

“One second.” You slip your hand into the dress’s pocket, tugging out an old relic—a business card. It’s an old habit, but you still find yourself sliding a few of them into whatever pocket, purse, or bag you have that day. You procrastinated cancelling the continuous orders for too long, and now you’ve got about a million. But you’re thankful for that in situations like this. “Take my card.” 

“...you’re asking me to call you?” She hums, looking mildly amused and wholly appreciative. “Why not?” You quip back, brow raised subtly. Two can play at that, hm?

“...I’ll be in touch.”

ᰔ

They call you then, the next morning, after you’d completely forgotten why you were actually at the gala. 

“We couldn’t find you before we left. What’d you think?” Your successor’s voice crackles over the line, half-groggy. 

“Too much whiskey?” You tease instead, biting your lip to suppress laughter. You’re not successful in the slightest. “Shut up, please. The sooner you answer the sooner we can both go back to nursing our hangovers.” They groan, and it makes you give up on holding back your mirth.

“Okay, okay.” You hum, still exhaling chuckles. “She was wonderful. I think she’d be a good partner.”

They breathe out, relief palpable even through the phone. “I was hoping she’d be good. She’s a wonderful businesswoman; she’d be a great asset.”

“Mhm.” Your phone vibrates against your ear. When you pull it back, you’re met with an unknown number. “I’ve got to go, okay? But let me know how it goes.”

You hang up before they can respond, perhaps too quickly. But there’s only one person who would be calling you right now. “Hello?”

“Good morning.” She hums, sounding much more awake than you. “How are you?”

“...I’ve got good news for you, actually.”

© saintagron, 2025.

[meowdei]

greens — ft. wriothesley

includes: hints at wrio’s past and his mother that he reflects on ; established relationship ; gender neutral reader ; reader force feeds him veggies because i hc he hates them ; based kind of on this post

“Wriothesley,” you warn. He pauses, glancing at you cautiously at your tone.

“You sound…not happy,” he points out.

You raise a brow, unimpressed and unamused as you say, “Very astute observation.”

“What’d I do this time?” He pouts, slumping in his chair as he tries to sift through his brain for what he’s possibly done. He doesn’t have to think for too long, though—you answer for him instantly.

He almost wishes you never did.

“Finish your vegetables, Wriothesley,” you scold firmly, “you’re not leaving this table until you finish your greens—they’re good for you.”

Finish your vegetables, Wriothesley.

They’re good for you.

You’re not leaving this table until you finish.

There’s something eerily familiar about the words. He thinks he may have swallowed his vision—a chill seeps along his esophagus as he swallows thickly, the frost mixing with his blood as it runs cold and makes him stiffen. There’s ice in his veins. Frigid, harsh, cruel, and sharp.

He plays with his fork, not meeting your stare as he moves the leftover dinner on his plate around with a dazed look.

“Not hungry,” he mutters. “I’m full.”

“You never finish your vegetables,” you huff, “honestly, Wrio, you’re an adult, you know. Don’t be difficult about eating healthy.”

Everything you say sounds devastatingly familiar. His mother’s words take shape in your voice, molding in your throat and waltzing past your lips to haunt him. It’s your voice, sure, but they’re her words. Something about it makes him feel young again—but it’s not rooted in nostalgia. Not fond memories or amusing moments he can look back at and smile.

They taunt him, he thinks. The sweet smile and kind eyes, the firm tone and gentle strictness. His mother’s love was easy to believe. So painfully simple, it felt like she did it just as she breathed. Inhaling his presence and exhaling her care for him in a steady rhythm between expansion and contraction in her lungs.

Eat your vegetables, Wriothesley, she’d tell him. If you want to grow big and strong, you have to eat them.

He wonders now, as he stares at the remnants of dinner, if she’d ever cared for his growth because she cherished his wellbeing. If the thought of him being older, stronger, and maybe even wiser was something she was proud of. (He knows the answer. Deep, in the gaping hole of his chest, the knife twists into the raw edges of a still-healing wound.

He knows. Better than anyone, he knows she never cared. Not for anything other than growing him big and desirable so she could sell him off, offer him up like she saw him as though he was marketable. Like an animal, maybe. An item. A luxury, even.

But not a child. He was never a child in her eyes—simply always just a person who wasn’t grown yet.)

“Hey,” you snap your fingers in front of his face, pulling him out of his daze. Something in your face is softer now, flooded with concern, dripping with anxiety. “You okay?”

“Sorry,” he blinks, staring past your head and at the wall. His voice is soft and barely-there as he all but whispers, “just haven’t heard that in a while. I guess some things never change, huh? I was a handful then, and now, too.”

It’s a poor attempt at a joke. You see right through it—you always do. Some form of recognition and realization and maybe even heartbreak flashes in your eyes, and he hates it. Hates that he can never escape something as mundane as dinner being tainted with demons that make everything unholy. Past demons that shape shift into his present. His future.

His everything.

They reach to grab him, to drag him back into that dark, unforgiving hole in his mind where he can’t climb out. Can’t reach for any sort of leverage to pull himself out and find the light. But just before they can reach out and touch him, you get to him first—one hand grabbing his across the table as you smile softly.

“Well, there’s only one way to handle a stubborn child who doesn’t eat his vegetables.”

“What? Punish me?” He raises a brow. You pretend you don’t hear the underlying bitterness in his tone.

Instead, you reach your fork across the table and onto his plate, stabbing at the broccoli head left untouched before bringing it up to his lips and waving the fork in circular motions.

He scrunches his brows in distaste. You smile and fight back a giggle as you sing, “here comes the plane! Ready for landing in three, two, one…”

“Are you serious?” He snorts, equal parts amused and equal parts in disbelief.

You huff, glaring. “The plane is waiting to land, y’know.”

“Fine,” he sighs in defeat, letting you push the broccoli past his lips and into his mouth. He grumbles, chewing against his will as you watch him intently. “This is gross.”

“Well, one day, when you’re big and strong, you’ll thank me.”

“I’m already big and strong,” he insists, looking a little dramatically wounded.

“Bigger and stronger,” you correct. “You’ll thank me eventually.”

He already has plenty to thank you for, he thinks, eyes trained on you as the light casts over your features like heaven resides in your skin. But adding one more thing to the list is more than okay.

Better than okay, in fact.

So umm….idk. I’m sad about him :( also it’s 2 am and I’m sleepy and this is not proof read I’m sorry. It could be written better but I’m tiredddf

[22ayla21]

He who holds the sky

He may be a prince, he may be a warrior, cruel, harsh and merciless, but next to his wife, who carries his child under her heart, he becomes a completely different person.

Mydei sat by the high window, immersed in the motionless shadow of twilight. Beyond the thick walls of the palace, the world remained cold and indifferent, hidden under heavy layers of ash clouds. Gray distances stretched to the horizon, as if promising only endless loneliness and the war he had grown accustomed to since childhood. Here, among stone and steel, he was a king without a crown, a hunter without rest, a lion without a pride. And yet, for the first time in his life, he did not feel lonely.

Behind him, the curtains rustled quietly, timidly touched by the wind that made its way through the slightly open window. In the fireplace, the logs slowly crackled, casting flickering reflections on the walls. This sound was almost inaudible, but it was precisely this that filled the silence when Mydei once again mentally returned to what was happening in the next room.

There she was sleeping. Finally, she slept deeply, without worries, without tension, with a quiet, peaceful smile on her lips. Such nights were rare in these walls, saturated with conspirators, whispers of rumors and constant danger. Mydei knew: it was hard for her. Not only because a new life was growing under her heart, requiring strength that was becoming less and less. But also because this cruel world did not give her the right to be vulnerable. They forced her to hold on when it would have been better to just rest.

And he did everything to protect her from this, at least a little. The rage that boiled inside him, he stifled with the steel of his gaze and cold orders. He let out his anger only where it was necessary, protecting her peace and quiet. For everyone, he remained stern, rough, reserved - the way they were used to seeing him. But not with her. Never with her.

Every morning began the same way. As soon as he opened his eyes, he reached for her hand. Her thin fingers, so fragile compared to his own, seemed more graceful than any relic. He held her hand carefully, checking the warmth of her skin, the strength of her pulse, as if he could feel by touch whether everything was all right. If she was still asleep, he stayed close - just sat, watching her chest rise and fall. He counted her breaths, rhythmic, calm. It calmed him, reminding him of what it was worth restraining the cruelty inside.

When she woke up, the first thing he did was cover her with a blanket, straighten the pillows, bring her water, make her rest, despite her quiet attempts to argue. At these moments, he smiled barely noticeably, restrainedly, but his gaze reflected everything: anxiety, tenderness, the uncertainty of a man who was used to holding a weapon in his hands, and not someone else's fate.

But most of all, he loved the evenings. When he could place his palm on her belly without haste. He moved so carefully, as if he were touching fragile glass that could crack from any awkward gesture. Rough, seasoned fingers, accustomed to the handles of weapons, now knew a different power: the power of care, concern, love. Sometimes he felt a slight movement under the skin, and then something in his chest would squeeze. Each time it reminded him that life was growing inside her, a part of himself.

In these moments, the legends about him could crumble to dust. What prince, what warrior, what heir to chaos is capable of looking at a woman with such trepidation? Who would believe that he, whose destiny is to fight until his last breath, is capable of sitting in silence, holding his breath so as not to disturb someone's sleep?

He hardly spoke about it. He didn't ask, didn't make plans out loud, didn't paint the future in words. But every night, when she fell asleep, Mydei left his bed and went out onto the balcony. There, under the sky covered in ash, he peered at the rare stars and mentally swore. Their child would see this world and would not know what fear was. He would close them both off from all troubles and destruction, even if he had to burn to the ground what was left of his past.

Mydei could be cruel. In battle, he knew no mercy. He tore down walls, broke destinies, moved forward until his body refused to obey. But when he returned to her, to this fragile, tired, but so strong woman, he became different. Quiet, calm, gentle. As much as his scarred soul, accustomed to surviving in a place where no one had believed in salvation for a long time, allowed.

Soon there would be three in their family. And Mydei, head bowed, clutched the spear with one hand, and held her palm with the other. For this, it was worth going further. For her. For them. So that one day his child would not know how cruel this world can be. Unless he himself stood between them and everything that threatened.

And he would stand. Without a doubt.

[michanvalentine]

Of course, Astarion wants to ascend. He wants it so much, it’s as clear as day. He has never hidden how much he ideally likes the idea of power—to elevate himself from his current position, to ensure his safety, to bend others to his will (instead of being the one who is bent). And if he can also walk in the sun and never feel the hunger pangs again, even better!

But let’s not forget that Astarion has a limited worldview. Cazador himself says it in one of his confrontations with Tav/Durge: "He is afraid. He is afraid because all he has ever known is you and me, and without us, he is nothing."

Astarion does not have a well-developed sense of self, and by default, he also lacks many of the skills that a well-adjusted adult should possess. So, to navigate life, he can either rely on the worldview presented by Cazador (power, power, power, and more power—to place himself above others) or the one offered by Tav/Durge, assuming they are a heroic figure. Otherwise, the only perspective left is that of power, and Ascending becomes almost natural in an evil playthrough (which I myself did in my villain run). Ascending Astarion in a good playthrough, however, seems completely contradictory to me, but whatever…

Let’s not forget that power is not Astarion’s driving force—power is only a means to an end. His real driving force is fear, as both Cazador and Scleritas emphasize. He would do anything to feel safe (like becoming a half-Illithid if scared enough by Tav/Durge—even though he rejects that idea with every fiber of his being, and yet…). The scene with the dryad, Naoise Nallinto, in Astarion’s origin run makes it crystal clear: when she uses her power on him, among all the possible choices (wealth, respect, power, etc.), Astarion’s personal wish is to feel safe, not power—even though power is explicitly one of the options. But it’s not his!

Oh, and Astarion himself spells it out, right before the final decision between Ascending or not. His exact words: "One final thrust, and I'll be free of you. I will never have to fear you again. And if I complete the ritual you started, I'll never have to fear anyone. Ever."

Everything revolves around fear, which is once again emphasized in the insight check—where it becomes obvious what is driving him and what is simultaneously holding him back from making a rational decision. Because while it’s true that he wants to ascend, he also wants to redeem himself. Well yes, it's shocking, folks, but two completely opposite desires can exist within the same person. They're called internal contradictions, and we all experience them every day or almost ("Oh, damn, I want to go out with my friends tonight, but I also want to just lie on the couch and watch TV").

Let’s not pretend this character is one-dimensional and that all these dialogue lines don’t exist when discussing Astarion. Of course he wants to ascend—he wants it so badly. The point is understanding why he wants it. And then questioning whether giving in to that fear is truly worth it, considering the consequences and what he would be giving up (because even Ascending comes with its own sacrifices, and I’m not even talking about his soul or the 7,000 people).

That’s why, if they choose to, Tav/Durge can intervene and make him reflect on the alternative (which, depending on how you play your Tav, could have been introduced to him from the very beginning of the adventure—it’s not something that just comes out of nowhere, unless you’re playing completely incoherently).

And it’s Astarion himself, in one of the most beautiful dialogues in the entire game, who explicitly states this lesson he has learned. When Durge is overcome with despair and fear—just like him—and tries to end the relationship, Astarion says: "This little adventure of ours has taught me that we can't let our lives be ruled by fear, or else we'll never truly live."

He has understood. He has grown. He has accepted that uncomfortable emotion and has decided not to be consumed by it—to choose for himself without letting fear dictate his actions. And I couldn’t be prouder of him.

One last thing, because I’ve seen it repeated a lot on social media: Ascending is not Astarion’s lifelong dream—it is Cazador’s dream. Astarion didn’t even know this kind of ritual existed until five minutes before it happened, so no, Tav/Durge is not cruelly ripping away his lifelong dream just for the sake of moral superiority. And above all, they are not forcing him to give it up—but I’ve already talked about this before, and I’m not going to repeat myself.

[splatfest3ever]

I’ve seen some people complaining about the remix of Color Pulse, but I think it’s really interesting on a meta level. Time in the Splatoon world is still moving forward. Both Pearl and Marina have aged in the game AND in real life! Pearl is 26 now! She’s nearing 30! Of course her cadence and rhythm will have changed! Same for Marina! And behind the scenes the voice actors have aged 7 years too.

That’s a novelty of Splatoon that makes it feel so realistic and vibrant! Things do change over time! The hub worlds change, the shops change, the characters change… this new remix reflects that change.

But what’s more interesting to me is how their new song “We’re so back!” shows how much both of them have matured. Pearl in particular is less energetic and bouncy than she is for Color Pulse. Don’t get me wrong, she’s still spitting bars and doing high kicks… but there’s now a much more refined and reserved attention to her dancing than we’ve seen from her in the past. It’s almost Squid Sisters level of choreography. I think that reflects her maturity.

Likewise with Marina, she’s much more active than she was in Color Pulse. She’s no longer stuck in the background occasionally going back to her keyboard during the song, now she plays a keytar and dances in sync with Pearl. It seems like she’s less shy and much more comfortable with herself. And that makes sense narratively too since at the start of Splatoon 2 she was sort of hiding her Octoling roots, and by Splatoon 3 the Inklings and Octolings are living their best lives openly together!

I’m not saying you have to enjoy the remix. Personally I prefer the energy of the original song better. But I don’t think that the new version is terrible either. It’s just different. Because they’re different! You can really see how much they’ve grown in these past 7 years. And that’s ultimately a good thing!

[targaryenluvs]

— ALL GROWN UP

pairings: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

summary: you were always tigris's annoying rich friend to coriolanus, but once he returns from 12 you seem to be irresistible, not only to him.

warnings: normal coryo in all honesty, jealousy, flirting, p in v, oral (m), choking, kinda subby coryo - for a bit, time gap he spent a year in 12 (i got lazy this is short and basically just porn with slight plot)

a/n: hehehehe first fic of 2024 kiddos besides the klaus one!

your laughter was the last thing coriolanus wanted to hear, ever. it was still annoying when he was here, and it was still once he returned.

"there's no way!" tigris giggled a loud as you joined in.

"tigris?" he called out to her, waiting. "coryo!" tigris yelled as she ran to him, his arms open for her. "it's so good to see you, you’ve been so busy." you laughed, "your hair, it's worse in person." would you shut up? who were you to interrupt a family-

your night dress was black, short, barely below your crotch. lace details, messy hair, you were nothing short a of a dream, and it was messing with his head. he was so use to hating you, your stupid gorgeous face and here he was, dumbstruck. “y/n?” you nodded with a sweet smile, “how are you coriolanus?”

he sighed, “exhausted, between the university and dr gaul, it seems i’m stretched thin these days.” you nodded along, “it seems you’re well on your way to success.” he inhaled, not use to your kind words, “thank you.”

apparently you were staying with the snow’s for a week or so, much to coriolanus’s elation. surprisingly, in the time he’d been away you’d become, tolerable. it sure as hell had nothing to do with the sway in your walk, your sweet eyes looking up at him and your new found confidence, no he just felt nice.

he was itching to get a taste.

he’d seen you out and about, talking with almost all the people around. a kind smile aimed at quite literally everyone. almost every guy in the restaurant seemed to know you, and he couldn’t help but feel annoyed.

didn’t they know you came for lunch with him?

shouldn’t they know better?

you weren’t his, yet.

it was late at night, you needed something to drink.

grandma’ams tea isn’t exactly the most refreshing. you were in the midst of scouring the kitchen for a teabag of actual flavour when you’d heard him behind you.

“looking for this?” he held the jar in his hands, “actually, yes.” you walked over to grab it and he only held it higher, “coryo, please.” he grinned, “coryo huh?” you placed your hands on your hips, annoyed, “yes, now if you don’t mind.” the jar clattered on the counter and you quickly swiped it away. “would you like some?”

in the reflection of the glass cabinet, you saw him shake his head, “i’m in the mood for something else.” you giggled at his vagueness, “oh? and what might that be mr snow?” his smirk was all you needed to know what he was hinting at. “you’re playing a dangerous game here coryo,” he feigned confusion, “am i now?” you smiled, “yes you are.” he was behind you now, breath heavy and hot on your shoulder, “i might be, question is, are you willing to play?”

his lips were on your neck, light as ever, open mouthed kisses all the way up to your cheek. “cory” he gathered your hair, swinging it over your shoulder, “cory? that’s new.” you smiled, “i know. i’m going to take a shower, wanna join? to conserve water of course.” as if they need to, they had more than enough money now.

“to conserve, of course.”

the hot water rose steam, surrounding you as coryo watched from outside. the fog covered up all the parts he wanted to see, and his night pants seemed smaller. soap running all over you, soft hands trailing down. “i think you’ll get a much better view from in here.”

he ripped his clothes off, practically stumbling around in the soft glow of the guest room lamp. he’d been waiting for so long. ten minutes. his hands massaged your scalp, washing it off remaining shampoo and conditioner. ridding your body of any soap, your shoulders, your stomach, your thighs.

and soon enough he pressed you against the wall, imprints of hands staining the glass. you were both unbearably needy, messy kisses and desperate touches. you revelled in his grasp, you felt as if your skin was on fire. “y/n, please.” he whined. you giggled at his begging, “please what coryo?” you stroked his dick as he groaned out, “suck me off. now.” you laughed at his words, “pretty bossy for someone who was whining like a little bitch two seconds ago.” he was about to protest but your warm mouth on him seemed to shut up all forms of protest.

“oh god.” he leaned his head back on the wall as you dug your nails into the back of his thighs. the water pouring down on the two of you made coryo glisten, his abs looking especially sweet. droplets of water fell down from his hair onto you.

as if you weren’t enough the view of you on your knees, your tuts on display was more than enough for him to explode down your throat. “fuck, when did you learn to do this slut? you been practicing f’me?” his attempt at regaining control had you suppressing your laughter.

but his hand in your hair tugging you to your feet, crazy eyes and a very attractive smirk? “only for you cory.” you wrapped your arms around his neck and gently kissed him, “all for me.”

“please, cory. i need you.” you leaned your head against his as he directed his cock to entrance, teasing you. “you want it?” you nodded your head vehemently, “god just please, fuck me.” he kissed your cheek before pushing in, “anything you say baby.” you moaned out at the feeling of him in you, filling you to the brim. you felt unbearably hot, between the running water and coryo rutting into you it felt like heaven.

you can feel the wetness dripping down your thigh, mixing in with the water, “messy girl, aren’t you?” your hands dug into his shoulders almost painfully, “jump up.” wrapping your legs around of his waist, his hands cupped your ass. his pace is unbelievably brutal, “such a bitch to me, making me look weak.”

you shook your head, “didn’t mean to, didn’t mean to i swear.” you mewl, hot tears streaming down your cheeks, as coryo lets out throaty groans.

“stop crying.”

“i can’t, you feel so good!”

“stop crying or i’m not gonna let you cum.” his hand tightened around your throat, cutting off your airway. the dizziness paired with his thrusts inside of you was absolutely delicious. he let up only to mark you before returning to it.

“not yet," his grip around your throat tightened as coryo continued thrusted into you, obviously chasing his own high. "you'll cum when i do.” please cum. you thought, please please please.

his hips slowed down as he groaned, “fuck, all for me yeah? all grown up, aren’t you baby?” your nails marked up his back as he grunted, the hot water seemed to make the fresh marks hurt all the more. coriolanus loved the stinging, almost as much as he loved your cunt.

“cum, cum for me.” you weren’t sure if your release came before or after, but all you felt was unwavering pleasure and relief. you rested your head in the crook of his neck, you were so exhausted. “you did good, so good y/n.” coryo praised you as he pressed kisses to your forehead.

“let’s get you cleaned up yeah?”

[thedensworld]

How Love Letter Works | LJh

Pairing: Producer-Idol Jihoon! x Producer Reader!

Genre: fluff, crush to lovers au!

Summary: Jihoon watched you grown, from a trainee to a co-producer. So, a love confession would be the last thing he expected.

Jihoon was the co-producer for your debut project. For six intense months, he observed you and the other trainees with a sharp, discerning eye. From the very beginning, he was certain you would make it into the debut line. It was like watching a reflection of his younger self — the grit, the passion, the unwavering determination. Every week during your progress presentations, he saw it more clearly. This one’s different, he thought. This one’s special.

You were destined to debut in Pledis’s new girl group. No one could convince him otherwise. He could already picture it — you shining on stage, a star in the making.

That’s why the news hit him so hard. It came when he was in the middle of a world tour, just a month before the official debut announcement. The call came from Soonyoung, his teammate, who shared his belief in you. Jihoon could still hear the disappointment in Soonyoung’s voice as he delivered the news.

"Y/n didn’t make it."

At first, Jihoon didn’t believe it. No, that’s impossible. He didn’t even think before calling Bumzu, the main producer for the project. His voice was sharp, urgent. "What happened?" he demanded. "She was supposed to debut. We all saw it."

On the other end of the line, Bumzu sighed. "We fought for her, Jihoon. We really did. But the executives had other plans."

Other plans? Jihoon’s chest tightened with frustration. His grip on the phone grew tense. "Then what was the point of all of this? What was the point of that project if the decision was already made?"

The room around him fell silent. His members stopped what they were doing, eyes wide with surprise. For the first time in a long time, they saw him lose his composure. Jihoon was known for being calm, collected, and focused. But this? This was something else.

The call ended, but the bitterness lingered. He told himself it would be the last time he ever saw potential like yours — raw, undeniable, and destined for greatness. It was a rare thing to witness, and losing it felt like a personal defeat.

Time moved on. Tours, albums, and schedules blurred together. Three years passed in what felt like a flash. Jihoon was still at the heart of the industry, a powerhouse behind the scenes and on stage.

But then, something unexpected happened.

One morning, during a production team meeting, the Team Leader stood at the front of the room, introducing a new producer. Jihoon barely glanced up at first, focused on his notes.

"Everyone, please welcome our newest producer, Ji Y/N."

The name struck him like a jolt of electricity. Slowly, he lifted his head, eyes narrowing in disbelief. And there you were. Standing at the front of the room with the same fire in your eyes that he remembered from three years ago. But this time, you weren’t a trainee. You weren’t just potential. You were standing on equal ground.

His heart swelled with something between pride and awe. She made it after all, he thought. Not in the way anyone had expected, but perhaps in a way that was even better.

Because now, you were the one calling the shots.

You were the main producer for the very group that had debuted without you. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone, least of all Jihoon. Sometimes, as he watched you from across the studio, he wondered if there was any bitterness left in you. Did it still hurt? he wondered. You were supposed to be with them — on stage, in the spotlight. But here you were, behind the glass, calling the shots.

If there was resentment, you never showed it. You were focused, sharp, and commanding in every session, your presence undeniable. The idols who had once been your fellow trainees now hung on your every word, adjusting their notes and vocals the moment you gave feedback. You had become the kind of leader that even Jihoon had to respect.

It was during one of these sessions that Bumzu, ever playful, leaned back in his chair after listening to the final notes of your demo. His eyebrows lifted in exaggerated surprise.

"Is it even possible to create something like this?" he teased, shooting you a look of mock disbelief.

Jihoon glanced up from his notebook, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He clapped his hands slowly, his eyes glinting with pride and amusement.

Caught off guard, you burst into laughter, cheeks heating up. You tugged your hoodie over your face, as if that could somehow hide you from the praise. "Ah, stop it!" you groaned, voice muffled under the fabric.

But neither Bumzu nor Jihoon stopped. They kept clapping, grinning like they'd just witnessed something legendary.

"Don’t be shy now, Y/n," Bumzu called out, eyes crinkling with mischief. "A genius should never hide."

Jihoon leaned back, still watching you with that quiet, thoughtful gaze. You were no longer the trainee fighting for a spot on the debut line. You were a producer, a creator, and a force that couldn’t be ignored. If there was ever any bitterness in her, she turned it into something greater, he thought, his smirk softening into something warmer.

Pride was a strange feeling for him, but at that moment, he felt it all the same.

"I’ll leave the lyrics to Jihoon. I trust him," Bumzu said with a playful grin, tapping Jihoon on the shoulder before stretching his arms and heading for the door.

"Don’t let us down, genius," Bumzu added over his shoulder, his teasing tone echoing through the studio as the door clicked shut behind him.

You shifted in your seat, glancing at Jihoon with a hint of hesitation. "Sorry for bothering you with this," you said, fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your hoodie. It wasn’t easy for you to ask for help, but for this project, you’d made an exception. Jihoon’s lyricism had always been something you admired, and you knew he could bring out the soul of the song in ways few others could.

Jihoon tilted his head, eyes crinkling in gentle amusement. "Don’t mention it," he said, his voice calm but sincere. "I’m happy I can help."

He reached for a stack of papers on the table, tapping them into a neat pile before holding them out to you. "Let’s start with this," he said, sliding the freshly revised lyrics toward you.

You leaned forward, eyes scanning the words with quiet intensity. Each line felt like it had weight, every phrase deliberate. There were subtle changes — words swapped for stronger imagery, rhythms that hit with more precision. You recognized his touch immediately.

"These are... really good," you admitted, glancing at him with a look of awe. "It feels like it hits harder now."

Jihoon shrugged, but you didn’t miss the faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That’s the goal," he replied, tapping his pen against the edge of the table. His gaze shifted toward you, eyes steady but kind. "But if anything feels off, we can rework it. I want it to feel yours."

The sincerity in his words caught you off guard for a moment. You nodded, warmth blooming quietly in your chest. "Then let’s make it ours," you said with a small smile, lifting the paper as if it were something precious.

"But how did you even think of this?" you asked, eyes still fixed on the lyrics in front of you. Awe colored your voice as you traced the words with your fingertips. "I really like the theme — love letter. It’s so perfect."

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, tapping his pen thoughtfully against the table. "Flutter," he said simply, his gaze distant like he was replaying a memory. "When I heard the demo for the first time, it felt like that... like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

His words hung in the air for a moment, soft but powerful. It was the kind of thing that lingered in your mind, making you pause just to feel it a little longer.

But then, as if catching himself, Jihoon shook his head and waved his hand dismissively, brushing away the atmosphere he had just created — as if he wasn’t the one who had built it in the first place. "Anyway, it’s nothing deep," he said with a small, self-conscious chuckle.

You glanced at him, catching the faint smile tugging at his lips. It wasn’t just a random idea — that much was obvious. There was something familiar in the way he spoke about it, like he was remembering something personal.

His gaze flickered briefly to the side, his fingers tapping a quiet rhythm on the table. Flutter, he’d said. The same feeling that stirred in him every time he’d read the love letters he’d received years ago. Letters he could still recall, word for word.

You tilted your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. "It’s not nothing, you know," you said softly. "You can feel it in the lyrics. It’s real."

Jihoon glanced at you, his eyes lingering for just a moment longer than usual. Then, with a faint shrug, he looked back at the paper. "If it feels real, then we’re on the right track," he muttered, but the small smile that stayed on his face told you that, maybe, he was feeling that same flutter all over again.

*

You heard it — fluttering. You weren’t sure what Jihoon was implying, but everything about it seemed to point to the theme: Love Letter.

Back at your home studio, you sat in your chair, the lyrics you’d revised with Jihoon resting in your hands. Your eyes traced each word, but your mind was somewhere else. You leaned back with a heavy sigh, letting the weight of everything settle over you. How did we get here? You and Jihoon — now equals. It felt surreal. Time had flown faster than you realized.

Memories crept in like old songs on replay. You remembered him during your trainee days — strict but attentive. He’d been one of the hardest people to impress, and somehow, that made you work even harder. You poured everything into every performance, every evaluation, every moment. Not just for yourself, but for him. To make him see you. To be seen by him.

That feeling... it should have disappeared once you stepped into this building as a producer. You were no longer a trainee chasing approval. You were his peer now. But somehow, it lingered. It always lingered.

Your hand drifted toward your desk, fingers brushing over a familiar object. A letter. The paper was worn, its edges soft from age, a faint coffee stain marking one corner. It had been with you for years — a quiet reminder of something you never quite let go of. You’d taken care of it like it was precious. Like your feelings for him. Feelings that never faded, no matter how much you told yourself they would.

Your fingers traced the edges of the letter, and your heart thudded louder in your chest. It had been like this since earlier — ever since Jihoon mentioned it.

"Flutter. Like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart, which was already unsteady around him, felt even more chaotic now. It had been this way for years. Back then, when you were just a trainee, it had been worse. You’d poured all those wild, uncontrollable feelings into letters. Handwritten confessions only meant for him.

How many had you written? How many had you left behind, hoping, wishing, praying he would notice? You always knew he would. He’s Jihoon, after all. He noticed everything.

He noticed when you were in pain during the monthly evaluations, his sharp gaze catching the smallest wince. He noticed when you had a cold during recording, quietly leaving a warm drink on the table near you. He even noticed when you cut your hair, commenting on it so casually like it was nothing, but it had stayed with you for weeks.

Of course, he’d notice a love letter.

And you’d been so careful. Leaving them just where you knew he would find them — near the practice room where he passed by, tucked on the edge of the table in the recording studio. He’d see them. He had to have seen them.

But did he read them?

Your eyes flickered back to the lyrics in your hand.

"Flutter. Like the feeling you get when you read a love letter."

Your fingers tightened around the paper as your heart pounded harder. Did he read them?

And if he did... did he know they were from you?

You put the letter back in its place. He’ll never know.

He’d never know about any of it — not the words you’d carefully written, not the feelings you’d poured into every stroke of your pen, and certainly not about the last letter. The one you never sent.

You had been so sure. So sure. You thought you’d make it into the debut line. Everyone did. That’s why you prepared that final letter — the one that would reveal your identity, the one that would tell him everything. After the announcement, you planned to hand it to him yourself. No more hiding behind anonymous words. No more waiting.

But reality had other plans.

The news hit you like a storm you hadn’t seen coming. They didn’t debut you. They said you were too old to debut.

Too old.

The words echoed in your mind, hollow and cutting. You’d spent years giving everything to this dream, only for it to be reduced to two cold, dismissive words.

They didn’t stop there, though. No, they had another plan. They offered you a contract — not as an idol, but as a producer. The group’s producer. They mentioned how much they liked the song you’d composed during the project and said they wanted to release it as part of the group’s debut album.

But you were too angry to listen. Too hurt to consider it. You walked away.

For a while, you told yourself that walking away was your only option. You told yourself you had every right to be angry, that you’d been wronged. Unfair didn’t even begin to describe it. You’d fought so hard, only to be told that you weren’t enough. It was a wound too deep for logic to mend.

But wounds don’t stay open forever. Time has its way of softening even the sharpest edges.

Eventually, you realized something important — there was nothing you could do to change the past. No amount of anger or regret would make them call your name as part of that debut lineup.

When they reached out to you again, it wasn’t an apology, but it was an offer. A chance.

This time, you considered it. Not for them. Not for their approval. For you.

You accepted the role as the group’s producer.

And with it, you walked into that building again — older, wiser, and stronger than you’d ever been. No longer chasing someone else’s dream, but building your own.

*

Jihoon glanced away from the computer screen as the sound of the door opening caught his attention. His eyes softened at the sight of you walking in, balancing a plastic bag in one hand and a tray of coffees in the other. You’d texted him earlier, saying you’d bring something as a sign of gratitude for his help with the lyrics.

"You really didn’t have to do this," Jihoon said, getting up from his chair and settling on the couch across from you.

"I know," you replied with a grin, pulling out the contents of the bag. Cans of Coke, takeout food, snacks, and the coffees you’d promised. "But Bumzu oppa’s coming later, and I figured it’d be nice to have something for all of us."

Jihoon raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue, watching as you neatly arranged everything on the table.

It was time to play the final demo — the one you’d be submitting to the production team. This was the moment that all the effort had been building up to. Jihoon and Bumzu had both contributed to it, so they were eager to give it one last listen.

"Should we play it?" Jihoon asked, looking over at you.

"Already sent it to you," you replied, tapping your phone with a small smile.

Jihoon pulled it up and hit play. The room filled with the melody you’d spent weeks perfecting. He listened intently, his eyes focused but his face honest, reacting naturally to every detail. His nose scrunched up whenever a particularly "cool" part played — a habit you’d noticed over time.

"It's your voice, huh?" he teased, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "It's gonna be tough to direct them to sing it like you."

You laughed, half-embarrassed, half-flattered. "Well, they’ll just have to try their best, won’t they?"

When the song reached its bridge, Jihoon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He nodded along, eyes flickering with something close to pride. "Let me be honest with you," he said as he cracked open a can of Coke, "you’re really good at writing."

Your cheeks warmed as you popped a piece of food into your mouth, trying to downplay your smile. "Coming from an amazing lyricist like you, oppa, that means a lot. Thank you."

Jihoon shook his head, chuckling softly. "No, I’m serious. When you suggested that line — 'tearing all the tears as the ink, they won't be flowing when you’re with me' — I swear, I felt like I was sitting next to Kahlil Gibran."

Your eyes widened in shock, and you immediately waved him off, face flushing. "No way, don’t say that! You’re exaggerating!" you protested, but the laughter that escaped you betrayed how happy the compliment made you feel.

Just then, the door swung open, and Bumzu entered, already bopping his head to the rhythm of the demo still playing. He grinned as his eyes landed on the spread of food on the table.

"Are we having a feast or what?" he asked, rubbing his hands together as he walked in.

"Don’t get too comfortable," Jihoon warned, shaking his head as he took a sip of his Coke.

But Bumzu had other plans. His eyes lit up mischievously as he pulled out his phone. "I’m ordering alcohol!" he declared with far too much enthusiasm.

"You’re not serious," Jihoon sighed, already feeling the weight of the night ahead.

But judging by the grin on Bumzu's face, it was too late to stop him.

Jihoon glanced at you, a resigned smile tugging at his lips. "Looks like it’s gonna be a long day."

"Or a long night," you added with a playful grin, taking another sip of your coffee.

Jihoon sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he stared at the empty spot where Bumzu had been just a few minutes ago. That hyung… he thought, his frustration barely contained.

Bumzu had a well-known habit of disappearing whenever he got too drunk. He’d leave behind everything — his wallet, his coat, his phone, sometimes even his shoes — and vanish faster than anyone could react. By the time they noticed, it was too late to call him back. It was almost like a magic trick. But this time, he’d left more than his belongings. He’d left you.

Jihoon glanced over at the studio couch, where you lay sprawled out, humming a familiar tune. It took him a second to recognize it, but then it clicked — it was a song you’d sung during your trainee days. He remembered it vividly because he’d been one of the monitors back then. You’d poured so much heart into that performance, and he could still picture you on that small stage, eyes fierce with determination. Seeing you like this now, eyes hazy and limbs limp, made him feel strangely nostalgic.

“Y/n, you need to go home,” he said, keeping his tone gentle but firm as he pulled out his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, searching for someone who might know your address. If he could get ahold of them, he’d call a cab and have them send you home.

“Don’t wanna,” you mumbled, turning your face into the cushions. Your voice was muffled, but the stubbornness was clear.

Jihoon exhaled a soft laugh. It was his first time seeing you drunk, and honestly, it wasn’t too different from how you acted when you were exhausted from practice. Stubborn, a little pouty, but somehow still cute. The only difference now was that you didn’t seem to recognize who was in front of you.

“I already ordered a cab,” he said patiently, crouching down to meet your eye level. “When it gets here, make sure you tell the driver your address, okay?”

You blinked at him, squinting as if trying to identify him through a fog. “Who… are you again?”

Jihoon sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. Here we go again.

“It’s me, Jihoon,” he said, reaching out to pull you into a sitting position. “Come on, let’s head down to the lobby. I’ll find someone to help me get you in the cab.”

You didn’t resist, though your body was like a ragdoll in his hands. Your legs wobbled like jelly, and he had to wrap his arm firmly around your waist to steady you. You leaned into him more than necessary, head resting on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You sound like Jihoon oppa…” you mumbled, voice slurred but still clear enough for him to catch.

Jihoon snorted. “That’s because I am Jihoon.”

You gasped dramatically, pulling back just far enough to look at him with wide, incredulous eyes. “No way! Jihoon oppa’s too busy to be here.” You squinted at him, face scrunched in deep suspicion. “He’s busy. All the time.”

Jihoon shook his head, thoroughly amused. “You know I’m standing right here, right?”

You ignored him completely, eyes distant as if you were lost in your own world. “He’s busy,” you continued softly, like you were talking to yourself. “He’s hardworking. I like him…”

Jihoon froze.

His grip on you stayed firm, but his feet stopped moving.

What did you just say?

He blinked, waiting to see if you’d repeat it.

You didn’t notice. You just kept talking, gaze unfocused, voice as light as a feather drifting in the air. “He’s emotionally intelligent too… His songs are beautiful. Just like his personality.” You sighed dreamily, leaning on him a little more as your eyes fluttered closed. “I like him.”

Jihoon’s heart did something strange — a sharp thud followed by an odd, weightless feeling in his chest.

Did you… just say you like me?

He stared at you, his brain struggling to keep up with what he’d just heard. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He didn’t even know what to say.

Suddenly, the elevator doors at the end of the hallway slid open, revealing Soonyoung. His wide, curious eyes zeroed in on the sight of Jihoon half-holding, half-carrying you down the hall.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Soonyoung said, stepping out with a dramatic point in Jihoon’s direction. “What is this? You got her drunk? You don’t even drink!”

“Please,” Jihoon muttered, already feeling the headache coming on.

“What happened to her?” Soonyoung asked, stepping closer, his expression twisting with mock suspicion. “Don’t tell me you two—”

“It was Bumzu hyung,” Jihoon cut in, glaring at him. “He disappeared like he always does. Left everything behind, including her.” He adjusted his grip on you, trying to keep you upright.

Soonyoung tilted his head, eyeing you both like he was still trying to piece it all together. Then he grinned, mischief practically radiating from him. “Well, well, well,” he teased, his grin only growing wider. “Need help, Romeo?”

Jihoon shot him a look that could freeze fire. “Don’t start.”

“Fine, fine,” Soonyoung said with a laugh, hands raised in mock surrender. “I’ll help you get her to the cab.”

With Soonyoung’s help, Jihoon managed to get you into the back seat of the cab. The driver asked for your address, but Jihoon glanced at you, still half-asleep, lips barely moving as you mumbled something incoherent.

“I’ll send it to him,” Jihoon said, already pulling out his phone to text the driver the address.

“You sure you don’t want a ride back, Jihoon-ah?” Soonyoung offered, leaning his arm on the open car door. “I can drop you off.”

“Nah,” Jihoon said, still glancing at you as the driver confirmed the address. “I need to walk.”

“Pfft, walk? You sound like an old man,” Soonyoung teased, slapping Jihoon’s back.

“Go home, bye,” Jihoon grumbled, waving him off.

Once the cab drove away, Jihoon stood still for a moment, letting the cool night air wash over him.

I like him.

Her words echoed in his mind, circling like a melody on repeat. He rubbed his hands together slowly, eyes on the sidewalk ahead of him.

He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets and started walking, his breath coming out in small clouds in the cold air. No one else was around, and the only sound was the soft crunch of his sneakers on the pavement.

His heart thudded in his chest, steadier now but still louder than usual.

A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

He walked slowly, taking his time. He needed the fresh air, sure. But more than that, he needed time to process the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside him.

Because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop replaying your voice in his mind.

I like him.

*

The next morning, you sent Jihoon a text.

"Thank you for getting me home safely, oppa."

You didn’t remember much from that night, only flashes of you leaning on someone and the faint scent of his familiar cologne. Since you’d heard Bumzu vanished early as usual, it had to be Jihoon who took care of you. Still, knowing how busy he was, you didn’t expect a reply. Instead, you quickly busied yourself with work, pushing the lingering embarrassment aside.

A few days later, you were knee-deep in packing boxes. You were preparing to move to a new apartment, one closer to the company, which would make commuting easier. With help from a couple of friends, the packing went faster than expected. They chatted and teased you as you sorted through your things.

“Hey, what’s this?” one of your friends asked, reaching for a small, worn-out envelope sitting on the corner of your desk.

Your heart jumped in panic. You rushed over, snatching it before she could take a closer look. “Ah, it’s nothing,” you said quickly, slipping it into your bag.

“Suspicious~” she sang, narrowing her eyes playfully.

“It’s nothing important,” you insisted, shoving it deep into your bag.

Your phone buzzed on the table, drawing you out of your thoughts. It was a message from Jihoon.

"Any update on your latest song?"

You quickly typed a reply.

"Not yet, but I’m sure they’ll accept it soon. They’ve been slow lately."

The production team was notorious for taking their time, so you weren’t too worried. Besides, you were currently caught up in another project with a different artist, and following up with the production team wasn’t your priority.

Just as you were about to put your phone away, another text from Jihoon popped up.

"I want to discuss a song with you. Are you free now?"

You glanced at the mess of boxes around you and snapped a quick photo.

"I’m moving out!"

This time, Jihoon didn’t text back. He called.

Your eyes widened as you stared at the screen. He’s calling me? Jihoon rarely called, even when it was urgent. Curious, you picked up.

“Hello?” you answered.

“You’re moving? To where?” His voice was clear and steady, but there was an undertone of surprise.

You explained your new place, telling him it was just a short walk from the company. It was more convenient and would save you time commuting to work.

“That’s great,” Jihoon said, his tone sounding warmer than usual. “I live around that area too.”

“Really?” you asked, a little surprised.

“Yeah, we’ll be neighbors,” he said with a chuckle.

For some reason, the thought of living close to him made you feel oddly self-conscious.

“By the way,” you added, feeling a bit braver now, “how did you know my address that night? I don’t remember giving it to you. I’m so sorry for the trouble!”

You cringed as you recalled the fuzzy details of that night. The idea of him seeing you in a drunken, messy state made you want to disappear. He doesn't even drink, and I was a whole disaster.

His soft laughter rumbled through the phone, and you felt your face heat up.

“I got it from HR,” he admitted, still chuckling. “I basically terrorized him until he gave it to me since you wouldn’t say a word.”

You gasped in shock, both at his method and at the mental image of Jihoon pestering HR. “You did what?!”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t break any rules… I think,” he teased, his voice laced with mischief. “I had to make sure you got home safely.”

Your chest warmed, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thank you for that,” you said softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Jihoon replied, his voice quieter now, like he’d tilted his head against the phone.

After a brief pause, you brought up the song. “About the song you wanted to discuss, I can stop by your studio tonight if that works for you.”

“Not necessary,” Jihoon said firmly. “I should be the one going to your studio. I’m the one asking for help.”

A laugh escaped you. This guy and his principles…

“Alright,” you agreed. “I’ll be at the company around 8. I’ll text you when I’m there.”

“Got it,” he replied. “See you then.”

The call ended, but the lingering warmth from his voice stayed with you. You glanced at the boxes scattered around the room and then at your bag — the one with that letter hidden inside.

*

Jihoon wasn’t sure when it started. At first, it was subtle — small changes that no one, not even he, noticed. It might have been the day you casually explained your creative process to him.

“You do what?” he asked, his brows raised in mild disbelief.

“I create a mind map,” you explained as you scribbled on a large whiteboard, drawing lines to connect scattered concepts and ideas. “Then, I gather samples that match the vibe. It helps me stay focused when I start composing the beat.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you with quiet fascination. It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the logic behind it — it’s just that he’d never bother to do it. He’d always gone straight into producing, trusting his instincts to guide him. But the way you did it… it was methodical yet creative, disciplined yet free.

“There’s always a reason why you’re a genius,” you muttered, focused on sketching another connection on the board.

He blinked, surprised by your words, and then chuckled softly. “You mean because I’m lazy?”

You nodded, grinning at him from behind the whiteboard. “Exactly.”

For some reason, that moment stuck with him.

A week later, Seungkwan walked into Jihoon's studio with a cup of iced Americano for him — only to freeze in shock. Jihoon was standing at the whiteboard. Jihoon. At a whiteboard.

“What… is this?” Seungkwan asked, his eyes squinting like he was seeing an illusion.

“Mind mapping,” Jihoon replied casually, drawing another circle on the board and labeling it "Bridge Vibe — Sentimental, but not cheesy.”

Seungkwan gawked at him. “Who are you? And what have you done to Lee Jihoon?”

Jihoon just smirked and said nothing.

But that wasn’t all. Slowly but surely, the changes started piling up.

One day, Seungcheol walked past Jihoon’s studio and did a double-take. Jihoon was… eating dessert? A strawberry shortcake.

“Jihoon, you good?” Seungcheol asked, leaning on the doorframe, arms folded.

“Hmm?” Jihoon didn’t even glance up, scooping up another bite of cake while scrolling through his phone. “Yeah, why?”

“Dessert. You’re eating dessert.” Seungcheol’s voice was filled with suspicion, like he was trying to uncover a secret mission.

Jihoon raised a brow, slowly lifting his gaze from his phone. “And?”

“And you don’t eat dessert.”

“People change, hyung,” Jihoon muttered, stuffing another bite into his mouth.

“People change, but this much?” Seungcheol muttered to himself as he walked away, still glancing back every few steps like he’d just seen a cat bark.

The biggest shock, however, came when Jihoon suddenly registered for a shooting practice course. Yes, shooting. With a real gun.

Jeonghan was the first to hear about it. “You’re lying,” he deadpanned as he sipped his coffee in the practice room.

“Swear on my solo album,” Seungkwan replied, eyes wide with disbelief. “I’m serious. Jihoon-hyung signed up for it. I even saw the receipt.”

“Why?” Joshua asked, looking genuinely concerned.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Seungkwan exclaimed, waving his arms like a detective on a dramatic reveal. “Jihoon. With a gun. Do you know how dangerous that is for us? He already has that death glare.”

“It’s always the quiet ones,” Jeonghan muttered, rubbing his temple. “The quiet ones are the scariest.”

When Jihoon casually walked into practice later, everyone’s eyes were on him. It wasn’t unusual for him to receive attention, but this time it was different. They were looking at him like he was a time bomb.

“What?” Jihoon asked, his eyes darting between them.

“Are you going through something?” Jeonghan asked cautiously, stepping forward like he was about to have a serious intervention.

“Do we need to talk, hyung?” Seungkwan chimed in, his voice filled with the kind of concern, reserve for someone about to shave their head or move to another country.

Jihoon gave them both a blank stare. “No.”

“Then why are you suddenly into guns?”

“Hobby.”

The room went silent.

“Since when do you pick up hobbies?” Seungkwan whispered dramatically.

Jihoon ignored them, walking straight to his spot in the practice room. He put down his bag and pulled out his phone. But as he scrolled, he caught himself smiling. He thought of you showing him how to gather "inspiration" from unusual places. "Do something new. It'll help you create." That’s what you’d told him once. He didn’t think much of it then, but somehow, it got to him.

The changes didn’t stop.

Some days, he’d leave his studio just to walk to a nearby cafe. Normally, he’d stay locked in his workspace for hours, only emerging to grab a quick meal. But these days, he’d grab a coffee, pick up your favorite dessert, and drop it off at your studio.

“Brought you this,” he’d say, setting it down on your desk like it was no big deal.

“Thanks, oppa!” you’d chirp, smiling brightly. He’d linger for a moment, watching you open it with childlike excitement. But before you could say anything else, he’d wave it off like it was no big deal. “Alright, I’m going back.”

It became a routine. Occasionally, he'd sit with you for a bit. Not as a co-producer, but as a friend. He’d watch as you flipped through manhwa on your tablet, eyes focused but relaxed.

“What’s that?” he asked once, tilting his head.

“A new series,” you replied, not even looking away. “You’d like it. It's about a musician who time-travels to fix his regrets.”

Jihoon raised a brow, interest piqued. “Sounds cheesy.”

“It’s not. The writer knows their stuff,” you said, eyes still glued to the screen.

He glanced at it once, intending to leave. But then he sat down. One episode turned into two. Before he knew it, you were both huddled on the couch, scrolling through each new chapter together.

“Next chapter’s locked,” you muttered, annoyed.

“Here,” Jihoon said, tapping his phone. “I’ll unlock it.”

You looked up, wide-eyed. “Oppa, did you just buy coins for a manhwa?”

He blinked, realization dawning on him. “...Yeah.”

The two of you stared at each other. Then, laughter. It echoed in the studio like bells, crisp and light.

“You’re not yourself lately, oppa.” you teased, nudging his side.

He glanced at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m not.”

Jihoon didn’t notice stares or whispered theories. He was too busy trying to figure out when he’d started picking up your habits. It wasn’t a conscious decision, but somehow, those little details had wormed their way into his life. The desserts, the manhwa breaks, the habit of sketching ideas before starting a track — they’d all become part of his process.

But it wasn’t just that.

He liked the way your voice sounded when you explained your reasoning for a certain sample choice. He liked how you hummed unconsciously when you were in the zone. He liked that you talked to him as a person, not just as "Woozi"

He... liked you.

But that was a realization he wasn’t quite ready to face yet.

Weeks later, Jihoon found himself staring at you. You were in the recording booth, headphones on, singing one of his demos meant for another female artist. The glow of the studio lights softened your features, and your focused expression drew him in more than it should have. His music engineer called his name, snapping him out of his thoughts, but Jihoon's eyes lingered on you for a moment longer. You glanced up through the glass, catching his gaze, and he quickly looked away, hoping you hadn't noticed.

"Are you okay, oppa? You seem... distracted," your voice crackled through the intercom, gentle but curious.

Jihoon leaned forward, pressing the talk button, masking his flustered state with a calm tone. "I'm fine. Just a bit tired. How about trying that line once more, Y/n?"

You nodded, adjusting your headphones and taking a breath before singing again. Your voice flowed smoothly, each note perfectly placed, your delivery effortless but full of heart. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes locked on you as you sang. It was a flawless take, but his mind wasn’t on the technicalities anymore.

He used to feel nothing but pride when hearing your voice — pride in your technique, your breathing, the way you controlled every note with precision. You’d always had that spark, even as a trainee, and he'd seen it from the beginning. Every time he heard you sing, he'd felt it — pride. Just pride.

But now, there was something more.

His chest felt warmer than it should have. The rise and fall of your voice, the slight quiver at the end of a sustained note, the way your eyes stayed focused on the lyrics in front of you — it all felt personal. Intimate. Like you were singing to him, just him, even though it wasn’t even a love song.

His brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. What is this feeling? It wasn’t pride, at least not the kind he was used to. This was something else entirely, something that crept in without permission. His heart felt oddly light, yet unsteady, like it was tiptoeing on a fragile edge.

He glanced at the music engineer, pretending to focus on the control board. But in reality, his mind was stuck on you — your voice, your presence, and that inexplicable warmth spreading in his chest.

Why do I feel like this?

The song ended. You glanced at him, your head tilted, waiting for feedback. He pressed the button again, his voice coming out steadier than he expected. "That was perfect. Let’s keep that take."

"Okay, oppa." You smiled, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

His heart did something strange. Something unfamiliar.

Fluttering?

No, that couldn’t be it. It shouldn’t be it. But as you removed your headphones, flashing him one last smile before stepping out of the booth, he knew it was too late to deny it.

He wasn't just proud of you anymore.

He was falling for you.

*

You found yourself in a whirlwind of confusion as your phone buzzed non-stop with notifications. At first, you thought it was some group chat chaos, but it didn't take long to realize it was something much bigger. Your social media follower count had shot up drastically, and it wasn’t slowing down. Annoyed but curious, you muted the notifications and scrolled through the mentions.

One message from a friend caught your eye. It was a link to a short clip from the HYBE Producing Camp Documentary — the event you attended a month ago. It had been a major industry event featuring global producers collaborating with HYBE's own producers and idol-composers. You’d thought nothing of it at the time, just another chance to grow and network. But apparently, that one clip of you had gone viral.

"The Pretty Producer of Sheice."

That was the title plastered across multiple posts and video edits. Clips of you talking, working on a beat, or simply smiling in the background had been cut and edited with captions praising your visuals and youthful look. Comments flooded in.

"She’s so pretty, why isn’t she in the group??"

"She looks younger than some of producers."

"Wait, she's a main producer? Are you kidding me? Goals."

You froze. It wasn’t exactly bad attention, but it felt... off. Too much. Too fast. You immediately put your account on private, heart racing as you reviewed your posts. Thankfully, it was all clean — just travel shots, song credits, and random hangouts with friends. Still, it felt like someone had opened a window into your private life without warning.

The teasing started the moment you walked into the studio.

"Ah, look who's here. The Pretty Producer of Sheice has arrived!" Bumzu announced with a grin as soon as you sat down.

You rolled your eyes, unpacking your laptop. "Don’t start, oppa."

"Oh, but why not? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime title. ‘The Pretty Producer of Sheice’ — it even sounds like a K-drama," he teased, leaning in with a playful smirk. "You should print it on your business card."

You tried to brush it off, but the more you ignored him, the worse it got. Bumzu was relentless when he sensed weakness.

"Honestly, if they’d just put you in the group, you’d have been the visual and the main vocal. What a waste, huh?"

That comment hit deeper than he probably intended. Your eyes lowered, fingers fiddling with the corner of your notepad. The words came out before you could stop them.

"I'm sorry… I didn’t debut," you muttered, your voice quieter than usual.

The shift in mood was immediate. Bumzu blinked, his teasing smile fading into surprise.

"Ah… I didn’t mean it like that," he said, his tone full of regret. "I crossed the line. I’m sorry."

You shook your head quickly, your chest tightening. "No, it’s not you. I should’ve worked harder back then."

Bumzu stared at you for a moment, his jaw tensing like he wanted to argue. He let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "That’s not on you. None of that was on you."

You didn’t respond. There wasn’t anything to say. The past was the past, and no amount of "what ifs" would change it. But guilt was a stubborn companion, one that didn’t leave just because someone told it to.

Bumzu glanced toward the door, clearly uncomfortable with the weight of the conversation. He wasn’t good with serious moments like this, but he cared. You knew that much.

"I’m heading out for a sec," he muttered, walking toward the hall.

As he opened the door, he nearly bumped into Jihoon, who was holding a plastic bag in one hand and his phone in the other. His eyes darted between Bumzu and the room behind him.

"Oh, hyung? Wanna join us for lunch?" Jihoon raised the bag with a light smile, oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere.

Bumzu put a hand on Jihoon’s shoulder, stopping him. "Don’t go in there yet. Give it ten minutes."

Jihoon tilted his head, confused. "Why?"

"Just… trust me." Bumzu gave him a pat on the back before walking off.

Jihoon frowned, glancing toward the studio door, but he didn’t go in. Instead, he leaned against the wall, phone in hand, scrolling mindlessly as he waited. Ten minutes never felt so long.

You pulled your hoodie over your head the moment Jihoon stepped into the studio. Quick and quiet, you shoved the crumpled tissues from the table to the farthest corner, like they could disappear if you just pushed hard enough. You coughed—loud and deliberate—rubbing your nose to sell the act before glancing at him.

"Hey, oppa," you greeted, forcing a casual smile.

Jihoon paused in the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at you. His gaze lingered on your face longer than usual, like he could see through every little move you’d made to hide yourself.

"You caught a cold?" he asked, stepping further in.

You nodded, still rubbing your nose. "Yeah, but don’t worry, it’s not contagious." You tried to sound convincing, but your voice cracked a little at the end.

Jihoon shrugged, pulling out the food he’d brought along. The faint aroma of warm soup and rice filled the room as he set it on the table. "Should’ve told me. I would’ve gotten you some porridge."

He glanced at you once more before unwrapping the utensils, eyes still cautious, still watchful. You knew that look. Jihoon wasn't the type to press you for answers, but he wasn't clueless either.

"What's up with you and Bumzu hyung?" he asked casually, opening the lid of his soup.

"Nothing serious. Just… song stuff," you mumbled, hoping that would be enough.

Jihoon paused, side-eyeing you as he stirred the soup with his spoon. "Hyung told me to wait outside for ten minutes."

Your eyes twitched, knowing exactly where this was going.

"And I waited," he continued flatly, tilting his head toward you. "So, what's wrong?"

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your hoodie sleeves. It was stupid, you thought. No reason to make a big deal out of it. But Jihoon was still staring at you like he had all day to wait.

"He joked about me debuting with Sheice," you finally admitted, eyes locked on the food in front of you. "It was just a joke, but it kind of… crossed the line, I guess."

Jihoon hummed, lips pursed in thought. "Yeah, I could see how that'd be awkward," he said, nodding slowly.

"It’s not like it really bothers me anymore," you said, more to convince yourself than him. "But sometimes I think… maybe he still feels guilty about it. I don’t want him to think he failed me or something. He did everything he could."

Jihoon set his spoon down and leaned back, his eyes on you again. They weren’t sharp this time, just steady. Calm.

"Do you think he still sees you that way?" Jihoon asked.

"I don’t know." You exhaled slowly, tilting your head back to stare at the ceiling. "But sometimes, I feel like people still do. Like, they pity me because I didn’t debut. I don't want that." You glanced at him then, something raw in your eyes. "Do you feel sorry for me, oppa?"

Jihoon blinked once, twice, like it was the dumbest question he'd ever heard. He snorted, picking up his spoon again.

"Why would I pity you?" he said simply. "You’re an amazing composer. If anything, I should pity myself for having to compete with you."

That startled a laugh out of you, soft but real. "Compete? With me?"

"Yeah." He raised an eyebrow, smirking a little. "Look at how fast you’ve grown. If we compare how long we’ve both been in the industry, you’re catching up to me too fast."

A grin tugged at your lips, warmth spreading through your chest. "Then, thank you, sunbae," you said with a playful bow, calling him the title of a senior in the industry.

Jihoon waved it off, shaking his head like it physically hurt him. "Don’t do that. Just eat before it gets cold."

You chuckled, grabbing a spoon and opening your own container. The steam hit your face, warm and comforting. You stirred it a little before taking a small sip, sighing at the familiar taste.

"By the way," Jihoon said suddenly, his voice casual but steady. "Debut or no debut, you would’ve been great either way."

You glanced up, caught off guard.

He met your gaze, eyes clear and sure. "You’re too good to be held back by something like that. You're already doing amazing things now."

His words sat in the air for a moment, slow and deliberate, like they were meant to be heard, remembered, and tucked away. Your face felt hot, and it wasn't from the steam rising from the soup.

"Thank you, oppa," you muttered, hiding behind another spoonful of rice.

Jihoon tilted his head, watching you for a second longer before returning to his food. "No need to thank me. Just the truth."

But you kept your head down, eating quietly as your heart thudded a little louder than it should have.

*

Your heart pounded harder with each second, panic settling deep in your chest. You couldn't find it — the letter. The letter that held years of feelings and the one thing you swore you'd never let anyone see.

Your hands tore through your bag for the third time, fingers digging into every pocket, but it wasn’t there. Your breathing quickened. Think. Think. Where did you last have it? Your mind replayed the past few days in flashes.

I put it in my bag, didn’t I?

Your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest. You stood, pacing back and forth in your small apartment before you made a decision. The company. It has to be there.

The moment you stepped into the quiet, dimly lit company building, you felt the weight of the silence pressing on you. It was nearly 3 a.m., the kind of hour where ghosts of mistakes haunted you the loudest. Every creak of your footsteps echoed down the halls as you retraced your daily route. Your eyes scanned the floors like you were searching for a dropped contact lens, desperate for any sign of the letter.

Where could it be?

Panic rose higher. If anyone finds it… You didn’t even want to finish the thought. It wasn’t just your name on that letter. It had his name too.

You stopped walking, closing your eyes for a second as you felt your heart clench. You knew exactly whose name was scrawled inside that letter. Lee Jihoon.

A confession letter. The one you wrote years ago as a trainee but never had the courage to give him. Somehow, instead of throwing it away like a normal, rational person, you kept it like it was some kind of sentimental treasure. A reminder of those fleeting moments when you believed in things like "what if."

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

You squeezed your eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Okay. Think. Where did you take your bag?

Your eyes shot open.

His studio.

Your stomach twisted into a knot. The worst possible place for a lost love letter. If Jihoon found it... No, no, no. Your feet spun you around, and you half-ran, half-speed-walked straight to his studio. The hallway stretched longer than usual, each step filled with growing dread.

Please be unlocked. Please be unlocked.

When you finally arrived, you tried the handle. It didn’t budge. Locked. It meant you couldn’t search, but it also meant he might be the one to find it. You pressed your forehead against the cool metal of the door, closing your eyes as you mumbled, "Why did I have to keep that stupid letter?"

You stayed there for a moment, face buried in your hands. It was too much. If he read it, if he knew you’d been crushing on him for years, you’d never be able to face him again. Forget quitting the company—you'd have to leave the country.

You went home that night but didn’t sleep. Your mind was a constant loop of what ifs and he’s going to find it. You called in sick the next day, and the day after that too. You were too paralyzed with embarrassment to step foot into the company. You lay in bed, scrolling aimlessly on your phone, hoping, praying that no one would text you with "OMG, did you write this?" or "You dropped something important, lol."

But there was silence. No texts from Jihoon. No invites for lunch. No coffee requests. No random desserts dropped off at your studio.

That’s not like him.

Your heart sank.

Was he avoiding you? Did he already find it?

You buried your face in a pillow, letting out a groan so loud it echoed in your small apartment. Why am I like this? You scolded yourself, biting your lip as you tried not to spiral further.

You should’ve burned it. The day they told you that you wouldn’t debut, you should’ve set it on fire and watched it turn to ash. But no, you kept it like a fool, like a keepsake of dreams that were never meant to be.

Tears of frustration pricked at your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Instead, you squeezed your eyes shut and let your mind drift to the past, to the day you met Lee Jihoon for the first time.

He wasn’t like the other producers. Everyone knew him as the genius behind Seventeen’s hits, but he didn’t carry himself like someone with that much success. He was humble. He'd visit the trainees during evaluations and offer advice, not just on vocals but on mental strength too. "Don’t be too hard on yourself. Progress isn’t always fast, but it’s still progress," he’d said once, looking right at you.

You remembered that moment too vividly. His eyes were sharp but kind, his tone firm but gentle. He never talked down to any of you, never made anyone feel small. He didn’t have to do that. He didn’t owe anyone his time. But he did it anyway.

That’s when it started, you realized. That’s when I started falling for him.

You had tried to crush it—tried to leave it behind when you left the trainee life. But love, it seemed, was a stubborn thing. It stayed with you. It followed you into every recording session, every lunch break where he'd pop in with a "What are you eating today?" It lingered in every glance you stole at him when he got too caught up in work to notice anyone else was watching.

And now, after all that, he might know.

You let out another groan, curling into a ball on your bed. Please, please, please, don't let him find it. Don't let him know.

But as you lay there, face buried in the blanket, your phone buzzed. You ignored it at first, too emotionally exhausted to care. It buzzed again. You reached out, grabbed it, and squinted at the screen.

It was from Jihoon.

"You feeling better?"

Your heart stopped for a beat. Then, it kicked up double-time.

Is he asking just because I haven’t been in? you wondered. Or is this about the letter?

You stared at the message like it might explode. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, second-guessing every response you could possibly send. Should you pretend nothing was wrong? Should you ask him directly?

Finally, you typed back,

"Yeah, just needed a break. Thanks for checking in."

Your eyes stayed locked on the screen, waiting, dreading, hoping he wouldn’t bring it up. But seconds later, his reply popped up.

"Okay. Come eat with me tomorrow."

Your heart jumped. Does that mean he didn’t find it?

Or worse—did it mean he did find it and was waiting for you to confess?

You flopped back onto the bed, phone on your chest, staring blankly at the ceiling. No sleep for you tonight, that was for sure.

*

“I saw it.”

Jihoon’s words hit you like a bolt of lightning. You froze, your body stiffening as you sat on the couch. Your eyes darted to him, heart thudding so loud it echoed in your ears. He saw it?

“Y-You did?!” you blurted, sitting up so fast you nearly gave him a heart attack. His eyes widened in surprise at your sudden outburst. He hadn’t expected that kind of reaction from you.

Jihoon watched you with mild confusion as you rubbed your face aggressively, letting out a muffled groan that sounded oddly like a character from an anime. Your face was flushed, a deep red spreading across your cheeks, and you refused to meet his eyes.

"You okay? You look kinda… flustered," he asked, leaning forward slightly, his eyes scanning you like you might be running a fever.

You sucked in a sharp breath and suddenly shouted, "I am!" Your hands shot into the air in a dramatic fist-pumping motion.

He blinked at you, entirely thrown off by your antics.

"When did you see it?" you asked in a rush, your voice laced with nerves.

"This morning," he replied casually, watching for your reaction.

You groaned like the world was crumbling around you, burying your face in your hands as you muttered something incoherent. Your words came out so fast and garbled that he could barely understand you. It was like you were speaking in fast-forward while trying to sink into the couch cushions to disappear.

“I’m so sorry,” you muttered, peeking out from behind your hands, only to bury yourself back in. "I have no courage to face you. I should've burned it. I should've burned it."

Jihoon blinked in confusion, tilting his head. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

You lifted your head, your eyes wide with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “Don’t act like you don’t know! You saw it! I sent you so many letters before! How could you tell me not to worry after you saw it?!”

“…Letters?” Jihoon leaned back, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. His head tilted as if he was trying to piece together a puzzle with missing pieces.

He was about to mention your viraled video from the producing camp month ago. He saw it this morning.

"Yes, the letters!" you said, your voice higher than usual. "The ones I used to leave near the bathroom! I sent them for you, Jihoon! For you!"

His eyes squinted as if his brain had finally caught up. Slowly, his eyes widened. "Wait. You were the one sending those letters?"

You didn’t answer, but the silence was all he needed. His gaze shifted to his desk, and then, like a lightbulb switching on, his expression changed. His eyes darted to the small box on his shelf—the one filled with old, unopened envelopes he’d kept for years.

“These?” he asked, walking to the desk and pulling out the box. He lifted it, glancing between you and the letters as realization struck him like a bolt of lightning.

Your eyes widened in horror, your breath caught in your throat. "You kept them?!"

He turned toward you, his lips twitching with something between shock and disbelief. “You mean… these letters were from you?” He opened the box, pulling out one of the older letters, his fingers carefully brushing over the familiar handwriting. He could almost hear your voice in his head now, realizing that the tone of the letters, the way certain phrases were written—it was you. It had always been you.

Jihoon looked back at you, his voice soft with wonder. “All this time… you were the one sending these?”

You buried your face in your hands, your whole body curling into the couch like a ball. Your ears burned red, and you muttered, “Yes, yes, it was me, okay? I’m sorry. I was young and stupid. I thought it was cute back then.” Your voice cracked with embarrassment. “I thought I could be bold through paper, but I couldn’t say a single thing to your face.”

Jihoon blinked, his gaze softening as he stared at you. Her? he thought to himself. All those letters he used to read when he was exhausted, those kind words that gave him strength when he was burnt out. The sender was you. You.

He placed the box on the table and picked up the envelope you'd pulled from under the couch earlier—the one that had started this whole mess, when you realized he wasn't talking about the letter then you had searched for it around his studio. His fingers moved to open it, his eyes darting to you for permission.

You saw his intent and bolted upright. "Wait, don't read that one!" You reached for it, but he quickly lifted it out of reach, his eyes narrowing playfully.

"Why not?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement now.

"Because!" you yelled, grabbing for it as he lifted it higher. "It's different from the others! Just give it back!"

"Different how?" he teased, still holding it above his head like he was holding candy away from a child. “More heartfelt? More honest?”

“Oppa!” you pleaded, standing on your toes, your hands gripping his arm in desperation.

But it was too late. He had already opened the envelope and pulled out the neatly folded letter. His eyes scanned the page, his playful smirk slowly disappearing with each line he read. His lips parted as his eyes moved slowly across the words, soaking in every single confession, every single feeling you'd buried in the ink.

I’ve liked you since the first day I saw you. I’ve tried to stop, I really did, but you kept being kind. You kept being you.

His heart pounded. His fingers tightened around the paper. His throat felt dry.

If you’re reading this, I’m either braver than I’ve ever been or the most cowardly I’ve ever felt. Because I never had the courage to tell you to your face. So this letter is my last attempt. I’m sorry it took me so long.

Jihoon swallowed the lump in his throat. His heart felt too big for his chest, like it might burst from the sheer weight of what he’d just read.

He looked at you. You stood there, eyes squeezed shut, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole. You were biting your lip, your face still stained red with embarrassment.

"All this time…” he whispered, his eyes never leaving you. “You’ve liked me since then?"

You didn’t answer, didn’t move, didn’t breathe. You just stood there, eyes squeezed shut like a kid waiting for the storm to pass.

“Do you still like me now?” he asked softly, stepping toward you. His voice was so gentle it barely registered at first. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t mocking. It was… sincere.

Your eyes slowly opened, and you looked up at him, lips parting in surprise.

He took another step toward you, now close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. His eyes searched yours for an answer. “Do you still like me?”

You bit your lip, eyes darting to the side. You’d come this far—might as well jump off the cliff now.

“…Yes,” you whispered. Your eyes flickered back to him like you were bracing for rejection. “I still do.”

For a second, neither of you moved. Silence hung in the air, heavy but not uncomfortable. Jihoon’s gaze softened, his lips tugging into a small, thoughtful smile.

"You're such an idiot," he said with a small laugh, his eyes crinkling with warmth.

Your heart stopped. "Excuse me?!"

"I mean, you could’ve just told me," he said, taking another step forward, so close you had to tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “You think I’m scary or something?”

“Back then, yes!” you blurted, cheeks heating up. “You are Woozi of Seventeen! You were the genius idol-producer. Who was I supposed to be?”

His eyes searched yours like he was seeing you for the first time. “You were you,” he said, his voice so soft it made your breath hitch. His gaze flickered to your lips for a second, then back to your eyes. “And you’re still you.”

He lifted the letter slightly. "Do you want me to burn this?"

You nodded weakly, still not trusting yourself to speak.

"Too bad," he said, tucking it into his pocket.

"Hey—!"

"I’m keeping it," he said firmly, his eyes locking on yours. "I’m keeping all of them."

This time, it was Jihoon’s face that turned a little red. His gaze dropped, but his smile lingered.

“Call it my treasure.”

*

The recording studio buzzed with quiet excitement as the final track of Seventeen’s upcoming album played through the speakers. It was a masterpiece—a blend of styles and sounds that showcased every member’s unique color. But there was something else everyone noticed.

Your name.

There it was, listed as a contributor on almost every track. It wasn’t the first time you’d worked on Seventeen’s albums, but this was different. Your involvement was undeniable, and the members couldn’t resist poking fun at Jihoon for it.

Mingyu leaned back in his chair, his grin wide as ever. “Looks like you don’t need Bumzu hyung anymore, huh?” His voice was full of mischief, his eyes locked on Jihoon.

“I need him!” Jihoon shot back, sitting up straight, his eyes darting toward Bumzu as if to prove his point. “Don’t twist it, Mingyu.”

But it was too late. That one comment had already ignited a chain reaction.

“Yeah, right,” Seungkwan snorted from across the room, his legs kicked up on the armrest of the couch. “Hyung’s been acting brand new ever since she started showing up in the credits.” He made air quotes around she as if it wasn’t already clear who he meant.

“Next thing you know, Jihoon will start writing love songs,” Joshua teased, his smile too innocent to be trustworthy.

“Check the tracklist,” Jeonghan chimed in, scrolling on his phone with a knowing smirk. “He already did.”

The room erupted into laughter. Even Seokmin, who was trying to stay professional, ended up doubling over, clutching his stomach.

Jihoon’s ears turned red almost instantly, and he pressed his back against the couch, arms crossed, sinking as low as possible. “Y’all are so annoying.”

“Oh, we’re annoying?” Soonyoung cackled, standing up to point an accusatory finger at him. “You’ve been humming that one hook for weeks, and I thought it was just some random melody. But nope! Turns out it’s a love letter disguised as a chorus!”

“Shut up.” Jihoon threw a pillow at him, but Soonyoung dodged it with ease, his laughter only getting louder.

Mingyu, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned forward on the table, resting his chin in his hands like he was about to spill some tea. “I mean, it makes sense now. Y’know, after that news.”

Everyone knew exactly what that was.

It had been months since Soonyoung made his now-infamous declaration in their group chat. He sent a long written-text claimed it by TigerNews, complete with a dramatic “🔥BREAKING NEWS🔥” articles in their group chat.

Soonyoung had 'officially announced' the relationship with a fake headline that read, 'Seventeen’s Woozi and Rising Producer Y/N Confirm Relationship in Exclusive Interview with TigerNews' — complete with dramatic quotes and a grainy, zoomed-in photo of you two at the company cafe.

The chat had gone wild. Memes were shared. Jokes were made. No one was spared.

“Congratulations, Romeo and Juliet!”

Minghao had typed with so many heart emojis it made the whole chat lag.

“Don’t embarrass them, hyung.”

Seungkwan had written right after, only to follow up with,

“Actually, never mind. EMBARRASS THEM.”

Needless to say, the teasing had been relentless ever since.

“Honestly,” Jeonghan drawled, flipping his phone like it was nothing, “this whole time, I was suspicious. My detective work was getting exhausting.”

“Detective work?” Seokmin scoffed. “You were just being nosy.”

“And I was right,” Jeonghan fired back, tossing a gummy bear into his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Back in the present, Bumzu leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, his eyes locked on Jihoon. Unlike the others, his teasing had a sharper edge. "He actually does need me," Bumzu said with a grin so sly it could cut glass.

“See?” Jihoon pointed at him like Bumzu was his last lifeline. “Exactly!”

But Bumzu wasn’t done. “He needs me to make sure he keeps his hands to himself.”

The entire room went silent for half a second before absolute chaos broke loose. Seungkwan’s scream echoed like an airhorn. Mingyu banged on the table, his laughter so loud it could be heard in the hallway. Soonyoung was on the floor, rolling around like he’d just seen the funniest thing of his life.

“NOOOO—!” Jihoon’s face burned bright red, his hands flying up to cover his eyes. He sank so low into the couch it looked like he was trying to disappear into the cushions. "I'M LEAVING!" he declared, attempting to get up, but Mingyu shoved him back down.

“Stay right there, hyung.” Mingyu grinned like a cat that just cornered a mouse. “We’re not done.”

Jeonghan leaned in, his eyes practically glittering with mischief. “So tell me, Jihoon, how long have you been ‘needing’ Bumzu hyung's supervision?”

“SHUT. UP.” Jihoon threw his second pillow, but Jeonghan caught it with one hand like it was nothing.

“Ohoho, look at him!” Seokmin gasped, pointing like he’d seen a rare species in the wild. “Look at his face! Redder than a cherry!”

Bumzu leaned forward, his grin widening. “You know, if you just admitted it, they’d probably leave you alone.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Jihoon shot back, glaring at him with the intensity of a supernova.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bumzu laughed, tossing a piece of candy into his mouth. “But it’s still funny.”

For the next few minutes, the teasing didn’t let up. Everyone had something to say, whether it was about your name in the credits or Jihoon’s ‘secret’ love songs. They teased him about how much you were in his head, how his melodies were sounding “suspiciously romantic” lately, and how even his synth choices had more "color" than before.

Jihoon sat there, his face a permanent shade of red, trying not to combust. He leaned back against the couch, tilting his head up toward the ceiling, eyes closed like he was begging the universe to end his suffering.

"How am I supposed to survive this in the future?" he muttered to himself.

Bumzu clapped him on the shoulder, his grin far too wide. "Oh, buddy, this is just the beginning."

"Please stop," Jihoon groaned. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Nah,” Bumzu said, shaking his head. “I’m on her side now.”

The room burst into chaos once again, and Jihoon could only bury his face in his hands, wondering how he’d survive the next album.

The end.

[t1red-twilight]

“not like that”

summary: there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that bob likes you back.

content/warnings: gn!reader, fluff, confession, gratuitous smooching (my fav)

wc: 1.2k

masterlist b. f. masterlist

you and bobby were taking a stroll on the beach. everyone else was inside the hard deck, likely getting in trouble with penny for something or other. the sun swam just over top of the water, leaving the water and the shore in a warm orangey glow. the light reflected off of bob’s skin in an almost mesmerizing manner.

neither of you had said anything in a few moments, merely just backing in each others presence for a while. that was one thing you loved about bobby; he was never uncomfortable with silence. occasionally when hangman would get too rambunctious or the bar would erupt with rooster’s piano playing, you and bob would slip away.

it was almost a wordless agreement, aside from the fact that phoenix would ask where you’d gone too, if she’d notice. “fresh air” was always bob’s quick response.

you really liked bob. he was quietly reassuring, soft spoken, and had a strong sense of self. over the past couple years or so, you’d gotten to know him really well. and, the more you knew him the more you liked him. the feeling was like an elephant sitting atop your lungs.

when he would smile at you, or wave at you across the room, your heart would beat a little faster. he was the first person you noticed and the first person you thought of.

sometimes you thought that phoenix knew that you liked him. she would linger too long when you and bob would talk, occasionally squinting like she was trying to figure you out. you’d admit you weren’t super close with her, but every interaction had always been more than welcoming. you just figured it was because she and bob were quite close and she was looking out for him.

you looked over at him, he had a pleasant smile on his face. he looked back over at you, and smiled just a little bit wider. “bob,” you started. maybe, just maybe, you should tell him. he fully turned to you, and hummed in response. “eh, nevermind.”

bob stopped in his tracks. “no, what?” his voice was soft. you rocked back and forth in your heels. this was a bad idea. a really, really, bad idea. you began chewing the inside of your cheek, and bob stepped a little closer to you. “you can tell me anything, you know that, right?”

“yeah! yeah, i do.” you took a deep breath. it was a bad idea, you knew you shouldn’t say anything. ruining what you had with bob was too big a risk. “it’s, uh- it’s not important.” you waved it off.

“okay,” he replied, still with his softened smile. the sun had set by now, and the only way you could see him was from the light from the bar; it glinted off his glasses. he turned to continue walking.

you almost went to go follow him, but you didn’t. your pause alerted him that something was still up, and he stopped and turned to face you. a look of concern was spread across his face, his brow furrowed and lips parted.

“wait, actually-“ you inhaled, and closed your eyes. “bob, i really like you.” there was a brief silence. all you could hear was the crashing of the waves; he was far enough away that you couldn’t hear him breathe.

when you opened your eyes, his smile has grown again. “i like you too!” he stated, voice rather chipper. this was not a reaction you had even considered. the oblivious nature of his statement wasn’t lost to you.

you fiddled with your fingers nervously. “no, um, i really like you.” bobs eyes widened into saucers as he realized what you actually meant. bob took a tiny step closer to you, as if to get a better gauge on if you were joking or not.

“really?” he whispered. despite how quiet he was, you could still hear him. his whisper was booming in your ears. shit. this was a bad idea. you opened your mouth and quickly shut it, trying to find a way that maybe you could explain your way out of this.

after some quick pondering you realized that there was no way that you would manage to weasel out of this one. bob was not stupid, you weren’t going to treat him like he was. “uh, yeah.” you gaze dropped to the sand beneath your feet.

your heart sunk to your stomach. you contemplated what he would do if you just ran in the other direction and sped off in your car. that wouldn’t work, if bob didn’t approach you about this you knew there was a chance phoenix would get involved. your breathing halted.

what bob said next genuinely surprised you. “no one’s ever… no one has ever liked me like that before. are you serious?” he asked in all seriousness. the sincere earnestness of his question really confused you.

what did he mean? he couldn’t possibly mean that no one had ever had a crush on him. bob was absolutely perfect husband material. like, meet the parents, “i’d really enjoy doing my taxes with you,” level perfect. you’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about growing old in a nursing home with him, on more than one occasion.

“yes?” you stated as a question. bob took a few more steps toward you and you didn’t dare step backward. you clenched and flexed your hands nervously. you tried to look anywhere but him, but his baby blues bore into your eyes and you couldn’t look away.

his voice was hushed when he said, “i never thought you’d feel the same way.” if you thought your heart had stopped before, it had exploded at this point. aside from the simple fact that you knew bob, and knew subsequently that he wouldn’t lie about this, the look on his face was enough to convince you.

“…what?” you exhaled.

bob nodded and got so close to you, you could feel the ends of his shoes touching yours. the brush of his breath tickled your cheeks. out of the kent of your eye, you could see him raise his hands and then falter. “can i kiss you?” he asked. immediately, you nodded.

he raised his hands and placed them so his thumbs were on your cheekbones. then, all of a sudden, he leaned in and it was like there were fireworks inside you. your heart began to pound so intensely you worried that he might hear it.

you grasped his shoulder and his neck and pulled him closer to you. for a moment you could hear him make a noise from his throat. he was tentative at first, gentle. then, he leaned further into you and nipped at your lip slightly.

when he pulled away, a string of saliva briefly connected you. you couldn’t remember your name even if you tried. who would have thought that bobby floyd would have been able to kiss you so silly, you couldn’t think anymore?

his eyes flicked back and forth from your eyes to your lips, and he kissed you shortly once more. “let’s just stay out here for a little longer,” he said. and, you could not agree more.

[moghedien]

their friendship in the book is so… like, Elphaba is the one who considers herself Galinda’s friend first before Galinda returns the sentiment. That’s why Caprice-in-the-Pines hurts her (and me) so much. Platonically at least, Elphaba fell first but Glinda fell much, much harder. TBH, reading the later books I sometimes wanna go “girl, get up!” when Glinda is horrendously down bad for someone she literally only knew for less than 2 years

you gotta remember that book Galinda like never left her hometown until she came to Shiz and is putting on airs to make herself seem better off socially than she actually is. like girl was trying SO HARD to make connections and friends of the proper sort right off the bat to elevate her situation, right?

but then she gets stuck with a scrangly green girl who is either ignoring her entirely or who just plops herself into Galinda's lap and is like "we're hanging out now." Like very vulgar, very frustrating, very much not what Galinda wants. Plus she's green and weird and tries to make Galinda talk about philosophy and religion and rhetoric and have like actual deep conversations with her that require her to actually think and not just say what she thinks is proper.

then this weird vulgar girl is the Thropp Third Descending and heir apparent to about a fourth of Oz. Some of the proper, well titled girls that Galinda is trying to befriend are the future subjects of this girl, actually. This girl has also been all over Oz and has lived in three of the four provinces and she's the exact same age as Galinda, who hasn't been farther than a carriage ride from where she was born and has never seen a city before she came to Shiz.

So that alone is a mind fuck to Galinda who is trying so hard to better her social standing and the actual best way to do that might actually be to befriend her weird roommate who's going to inherit all of fucking Munchkinland but doing that actually goes counter to all of the presumed ways she's supposed to elevate herself.

and then her weird roommate also looks weirdly compelling in Galinda's hats to the point where it makes Galinda feel uncomfortable to think about for too long or bring up with her friends

like Elphaba just existing around her fucked up all of Galinda's very sheltered views on how things work and what she should be doing and that's BEFORE they get wrapped up in conspiracies and murders

And flashforward to when Elphaba left her, which is weirdly the moment when Glinda seems maybe the happiest and maybe like she's reflecting on how she's grown and how Elphaba made her grow and changed the way she thought about things. Like her proper friends didn't make Glinda think about the nature of evil or religion or Animal rights, but Elphaba did. Elphaba MADE her talk about it and made her realize that she could and was leaning her in directions to at least be sympathetic toward the people affected by the Wizard's rule. Elphaba is the first person to make Glinda feel like she could do things and that her actual thoughts and actions mattered.

and then Elphaba left her

The one person that changed everything about how she thought about the world and who was like "we can do this shit" and dragged her to the fucking Emerald City in the middle of the night so that they could do some shit together turned around and was like "Actually, I can't do this with you here" and sent her home.

maybe Elphaba was protecting her. maybe Elphaba didn't trust that she could take the risks she needed to take if Glinda was there. We don't know. And Glinda doesn't know. She just knows that the person who affected everything about her worldview and who made her think that she could do better things than just social climb just told her that she can't do what needs to be done and then abandoned her. Abandoned her right when Glinda was accepting just how much Elphaba changed her and right when Glinda was accepted how much Elphaba meant to her and maybe right after she was extremely intimate with Elphaba and understanding what that actually meant

and the only thing Glinda knows about why is that somehow she wasn't enough for Elphaba to take along with her or for Elphaba to stay with.

Of course that fucked her up for the rest of her life and of course she never got over Elphie.

[literaila]

worth

gojo satoru x fem!reader

summary: the past comes back to haunt you, as it usually does.

warnings: angst, allusions to disassociation, hurt/comfort, mama is sad

last part | next part

*

year five.

"wait for me," satoru tells megumi, as soon as he starts walking away. 

you're watching as megumi hangs his head, looking like he'd failed at his one objective--escaping--and turns around, glaring at satoru. 

you've all been out shopping for the past two hours. getting the kids new clothes, shoes, whatever else satoru swears they need... 

honestly, he's kind of cute running around like a maniac from store to store. showing tsumiki a cute dress she could wear, or teasing megumi into trying on a sweatshirt that matches his. 

it's quite possibly the only reason you haven't complained. 

or pointed out that both of the kids are on the verge of whining all the way home. or that he doesn't need to spend 100,000 yen to make them happy. 

"hurry up," megumi tells the man, basically growling at him. 

satoru grins and ruffles his hair, resting a hand on his back as the two of them begin to navigate through the crowd. mostly likely, neither of them knows where they're going. 

you're not even sure where a bathroom is in this district. 

"we'll wait here," you call out, nudging tsumiki. satoru turns briefly to give you a little peace sign, a little grin, and then he murmurs something to megumi you can't hear and they're both gone. 

you're a little worried about them being alone together in this state but you ignore it.

"guess it's just you and me, miki," you say to the little girl at your side. she beams up at you, nodding. "do you want to sit down? how do the shoes feel?" 

"mmm," she looks down, blinking at the sparkly shoes satoru insisted were perfect for her. "they're rubbing at my ankles a little." 

"we can get some new socks, too. that should help. c'mon, i think there's a bench over there." 

she grabs your hand as you begin towards the bench, humming something under her breath. 

you look down to smile at her and don't notice the person walking by, accidentally bumping into them. "oh, i'm sorry, excuse us--" you turn and your entire body lurches away from you. 

for a brief moment, you're not yourself. your conscious moves in an instant, ready to defend itself from everything, anything. you're not yourself, but someone else. someone you used to know very well. 

"i--" you breathe, freezing at the person in front of you. 

tsumiki pulls on your hand a little, confused when you stop suddenly. she looks to the woman standing in front of you, with a bizarre look on her face, and then tsumiki's brown eyes go back to you, her face riddled with curiosity. 

"y/n?"

i don't remember a lot about her but i remember hugging her when she got home from work, and the way she said my name-- 

you want to forget it all. 

it's clear now, several years later, that you would rather forget everything about her--about this woman standing in front of you, basically a reflection of yourself--than have to do this all over again. then have to face the memories of what she did to you. then put that child through any of it. 

"hi--hey," you say because you have to. 

here's the thing about seeing your mom for the first time in a decade: you can't just pretend you didn't. 

you'd like to turn right around and walk away. you'd like to pretend that you've grown sometime in the past nine years, that you've turned into someone who doesn't need to stay and talk to her. you'd like to think that you're someone who can cut her right out of your life and feel all of the better for it. 

but you're not. 

you can't run away from your mother. you can't apologize for bumping into her and turn around with tsumiki's hand in yours and forget about it. actually, you can't even move right now. 

because there's still this girl inside of you.

there's still this child, a teenager who tried so desperately to earn the approval of this woman and never got it. who tried so hard to be everything that this woman wanted, but could never try enough. 

and she's clinging to your chest right now, breathing into your skin like a toxin, digging her nails into your heart and begging you to try again. telling you that you've got another shot, a chance she couldn't have--

so you can't leave now. not when you owe it to her, to yourself to try, to trick yourself into believing that it was just a fault of your own, that your childhood memories are only the result of some flaws you've already fixed. 

you can't walk away when your mind is stuck on her, her, and--tsumiki. 

your broken eyes turn to her.

your little girl who is standing right beside you, waiting for your next move. if you told her to run, she would. if you told her to stay by your side and say nothing, to hide behind you, she would. she wouldn't even ask you what was going on. 

but for no reason at all, you can't tell tsumiki anything. you can't whisper to her that it's fine, that everything is fine. you can't introduce her or drag her away. 

you can't do anything and it's never felt worse. 

"i thought that was you," your mother says, tilting her head at you. she's staring like this is just a casual bump in. like you're colleagues who haven't seen each other since she went on vacation. "you look... grown." 

you feel naive. there's nothing you can say to this woman to prove to her that you're better than you were. that you're far too good for her.

"thanks," you whisper, even though you know it's not a compliment. it's an instinct to appeal to her. to be polite and perfect.

your mom clasps her hands together. if you were looking at her--which you're not, you wouldn't dare--you might be able to tell that she's uncomfortable with you being there. almost surprised. 

maybe she just assumed that you'd die as soon as you left the comfort of your childhood home. maybe she thought that they would've kicked you out of jujutsu high a day after you arrived, leaving you to starve on the street just like she did. 

"well, how are you?" 

you swallow. "i'm good." 

she nods, and then she looks to your side and finally notices tsumiki there. 

tsumiki, with her precious face, her beautiful brown eyes, and carefully organized hair. 

you're not sure what your mother sees when she looks at her.

you wish more than anything that you could hide her. you don't want your mom's--you don't want this woman's eyes on her. you don't want her to say a single word to your daughter. 

"and who's this?" 

but you can't just send her away. you have no idea where satoru went, and tsumiki can't walk around on her own. not right now, not when you're so preoccupied. 

you just can't walk away. 

tsumiki holds her hand out, just like you taught her. "i'm tsumiki fushiguro." 

"it's nice to meet you," your mother answers, shaking her hand warily like she's certain that she might get an infection from tsumiki's skin. and then she looks at you, not daring to ask what she wants to.

you clench your jaw, wanting to slap her hand away from tsumiki. 

you should've put up a barrier a minute ago. the only possible block between you and a woman who doesn't deserve the pleasure of meeting tsumiki. who deserves no explanations from you. 

but your cursed energy is frozen in place, and you know that if you shut yourself in, you'll never get back out. 

"my daughter," you add, a bit louder now. 

your mom's eyebrows raise immediately and she pauses, looking between the two of you, searching for some useless resemblance. like it isn't obvious that you share a bond, just from the way your hands are intertwined. like it's not obvious that you braided tsumiki's hair, or helped her pick out the shoes she's wearing. 

like it might not be true. 

still, she asks tsumiki, "how old are you?" 

"twelve." 

and you know where her mind goes immediately. thinking that it can't be possible. she knew you when you were twelve, and you certainly weren't pregnant with the little girl standing beside you. you certainly weren't developing any maternal skills locked away in your room, with only the curse that liked to hide in the walls to teach you.

it brings that resentment to the surface of your core, threatening to burst through your skin. you feel suddenly so angry you can't bear it. 

and you're not that girl anymore, you realize. you haven't been since you met nanami and haibara and satoru. 

since you learned that you were only a child and not a trophy that needed to live up to its name. 

"well," your mom sighs, shaking her head. "i can't say this is what i expected." 

"excuse me?" 

"really, what do you know about children, y/n? don't you think you're a little young?" 

tsumiki looks up at you with a frown, about to ask what she means when you stop her. 

you squeeze her hand and look away, into the eyes of the woman who created you--who has that string of biology she just judged you and tsumiki for lacking--and still didn't care. 

she is nothing if not the proof that dna means absolutely nothing. 

"what do you know about children, mom?" you repeat, rhetorically. "at least i know that a ten-year-old shouldn't spend every hour of the day locked in their room, waiting for someone to come let them out." 

"i'm shocked that you--" 

"at least i know that a child is a gift and not a toy to hide away when you get bored of it." 

your mom scoffs. "i can't believe this--"

"neither can i," you say and look to your daughter, who's got wide brown eyes and a confused sort of fear on her face. she doesn't need to hear anything else you have to say to this woman. you smile at her, soft as ever. "go look for dad, okay? he shouldn't be far." 

it's been five minutes, and satoru's probably right around the corner, you rationalize. he's going to come pick up tsumiki and rescue you any second now. 

tsumiki nods immediately, letting go of your hand. she turns to go do what you said, but before she can there's a strong hand on your shoulder, a body right beside yours, and you almost gasp in relief. 

"found him," tsumiki tells you, softly. 

you turn to satoru, wanting to beg him to carry you away from her, to get you away from her--but the words won't come. you're too struck by the view of his face, and the knowledge that when you finally escape from this, he's going to be right there. 

satoru was there the first time, and he'll linger for the second. 

his shaded eyes look back at you, observing for a second, reading your mind, and then he turns. 

megumi is trailing at his side, holding a shopping bag. he looks between this stranger and you, a cautious look on his face. 

tsumiki is telling him something without any words. 

"hello," satoru says, smoothly, breaking the silence. "i don't believe we've met. do you know y/n?" 

your mother frowns, scoffing. "i'm her mother." 

you can see it when satoru reels back, looking between the two of you for a moment, an intense realization on his face. 

maybe he can see the resemblance. the face that might be your own in just a few years. 

or maybe, finally, he can feel the horrors of being raised by her. all of the things you've never dared to tell him. 

you're pleading satoru for something with your eyes but you're not even sure what.

"there's another one?" your mom asks, almost disgusted, as satoru processes. "how old are you?" 

megumi frowns. he walks over to tsumiki, who's already picked up your hand, and asks you: "this is your mom?" 

you nod at him, relieved more than anything that he's there, with the rest of you. and that if you can't explain, satoru will handle it. 

megumi considers it for a second. "are you sure?" 

and you want to laugh so abruptly that it shocks you. you want to grab him by the face and kiss all across his cheeks. 

tsumiki is already smiling at you like she knows this. her grip is strong against yours.

satoru smiles at your mom, a vicious ugly thing. "did you need something from her?" 

"i--no, we just ran into each other," she tells him, seemingly confused by his entire presence. she looks at you. "who is he? another child of yours?" 

satoru licks his lips. "not quite." 

you're about to answer when he grabs your empty hand, shaking his head. "i don't think there's anything y/n needs to say to you," he tells her, coldly. then he looks at you. "is there?" 

"no," you whisper, coveting the feeling of his hand in yours. the two children at your side, who know what it's like to be loved. megumi and tsumiki, who will never feel unwanted, as long as you have a say in it. 

satoru nods, guffly, and turns. "it was a pleasure to meet you," he says, and he moves all of you away. you can almost feel it when he shields the three of you from the rest of the world.

with his hand in yours, the other in tsumiki's, and megumi on the other side of her, satoru leads you all away from her. 

and you let him. because the three of them are more of a family--a better, safer one--than that woman ever was. 

you can't thank them all for being there, being yours, in this moment, but you will. 

at least you know that. 

*

satoru has been watching you for hours. 

since you all got home and the kids' questions began. 

that was your mom? 

yes. 

why haven't we met her before? 

i haven't seen her in a long time. 

was she upset? 

yes. 

why? 

because i'm happier than she thought i'd be, you said, i have a better family. 

are we going to see her again? 

absolutely not. 

after that, the two of them quieted. satoru could tell that they had more questions, that megumi was curious and tsumiki was worried--but neither of them continued. 

it was almost unspoken that you couldn't take much more. that you needed a break from it, even if you wouldn't say. so they both moved on, resuming their usual antics and talking about the clothes they got, when and where they'd wear them. 

well, mostly tsumiki. but megumi entertained her thoughts for a while at least. 

satoru just watched you. the tiny break within your eyes, the gap between you and the rest of the world. you've remained all the same since you got home. cursed energy small, unchanging. your face in one position like it'll kill you to move it. 

satoru can't stand it, but he doesn't want to intrude. he doesn't want you to push him away too. 

so he only sat there, trying to fill your role (which was impossible) at the dinner table. 

and several hours later, after dinner, after space, satoru still hasn't brought it up. 

but he doesn't get the chance to. because as soon as you've put both of them to bed--insisting on tucking them in and talking to them both separately tonight, like you're making up for something--you're sneaking into satoru's room. 

and he's waiting like he always is. his arms are wide open when you walk into the room, and there's not a moment of hesitation before you fall into them. you don't blink or breathe before you're right against him, keeping yourself up with nothing more than blood and bone. 

satoru hugs you close to him, trying to let everything he feels go, just for you. 

(because he's just angry. 

he's angry that she showed up and ruined your day. he's angry that he wasn't there to keep it from happening. he's angry that when he walked over he could tell there was something wrong because you were frozen--because you were almost barren. no cursed energy, no expression. nothing to draw him to you like usual. 

and he's so angry that he can't do anything to fix it. 

so angry that being the strongest sorcerer of the modern age means nothing when he really needs it to. 

satoru isn't a person who hates. he never hated the people who attempted to tie him down as a kid so he couldn't escape observation. he didn't hate toji when he cut him through the throat. he didn't hate suguru for leaving, or yaga for asking why he didn't stop him. 

he doesn't hate. 

but he hates her.

for taking your face and twisting it around. for stealing your childhood and pretending like she didn't. for holding your precious heart in her hands and acting like it was nothing of value.

he hates her.) 

you both sit there, rocking back and forth, sinking together for a moment. 

and then you sniff, and satoru closes his eyes against your head, not sure what to say to make it all better. 

what he can do to erase this feeling from your body. what he can do to prove to you that you're worth so much more. 

"do you think i'm a good mom?" you whisper to him, as he moves back and forth. 

his heart pauses, needing a moment to consider this. to not feel a fire in his soul at the very suggestion. 

satoru pulls back, frowning. and he makes sure that your eyes are on his when he says, "there's not a person in the world who could take better care of them than you do," he swears, feeling like it's the most honest thing he's ever said. 

he wants to brand the words into your skin just so you never ask such a ridiculous question again. 

"thank you," you say, voice breaking, and satoru wipes the tears falling down your cheeks away. each one a different memory, a terrible moment where someone showed you that you didn't matter. 

and when they continue to fall, satoru continues to wipe them away. 

"do you want to talk about it?" he asks, almost hesitating. he's not sure that he can handle hearing about it--but he would if you needed him to. 

"not tonight," you whisper and fall against him again. 

satoru holds you close. 

and he swears, to whoever is listening, that he'll love you enough to make up for that woman. he'll love you enough to make up for everything.

he loves you enough to be sure of it. 

*

next part | series masterlist

[aliceramblez]

Dating The BroZone Brothers 🎤🎶

Tags: Gender-neutral reader, Fluff, Some Angst (mostly for Branch lol), Also Broppy isn't canon here, obviously. But I love them dearly so don't come at me!

Follow me @taruchinator for more structured content and/or feel free to leave a request here in asks. Enjoy!

John Dory

We all know this man is a bit self-centered, and that doesn't stop at your relationship.

He'll find any opportunity to show off for you— anything from singing, to dancing, to just his ‘incredible leadership skills that make him the perfect boyfriend!’

He also definitely introduced himself as a member of the old boy band BroZone, which you may or may not have heard of, which may or may not have left him flabbergasted.

Despite all his faults though, John Dory will do his best to be a good partner for you. It's what you deserve, after all!

Keeping you safe from wild creatures, making sure you're always happy because he loves your smile, and also being the overprotective boyfriend who'll square off against anyone who even dares to make you uncomfortable even if they're 10x his size.

Small detail, but he also loves the fact that Rhonda took a liking to you instantly.

“She knows how to pick the good ones,” he'd say with a wink.

Talks about his brothers CONSTANTLY, but always in a way that makes it seem like he doesn't care and that it's their fault the band broke up in the first place. He obviously really cares about them, though.

Some nights, he'll reflect and regret all the stuff he said and did to them, and wishes he could go back and make it right. You reassure him through most of it, trying to convince him that he was young and just didn't know any better.

He stares at you in awe and disbelief because how could ANYONE think that what he did was justifiable? Abandoning his younger siblings all because of his stupid ego and personal insecurities.

“I really don't deserve you...”

Give him some time he's just emotionally constipated.

Also you BET he's gonna show you off to his brothers once they're reunited, so just let him. He just wants the most important people in his life to meet.

You can also expect them to try and embarrass John Dory with stories from their childhood, so be ready to have a good laugh as your boyfriend plots for murder in the background.

Spruce/Bruce

Probably the one who's best equipped to be in a relationship out of everyone in the group.

He is a family man, after all.

Speaking of which, if you think him settling down in the movie and having kids of his own was cute, it really is! But that just indicates that he has a way with children.

If you have a child or younger sibling, expect them to get dotted and taken care of to DEATH by this man.

He may not have been the sensitive one of the group, but was definitely the most reliable of the eldest, so he's got experience handling little trouble makers that come his way.

He still opens a cantina in Vacay Island, which is where you two met for the first time, and so you help run it occasionally whenever you have the chance. And even though you don't go there 24/7, all the regulars just think that you're the co-owner since you're dating Bruce.

You're the one who finds out that he's actually ‘Spruce’, the member of old boy band BroZone. You just happened to stumble upon an old record he kept in his room, and after confronting him about it, he reluctantly confirms your suspicions.

It was hard to recognize him since he was much older now and his body had definitely... grown over the years.

Bruce doesn't like preaching about those days, since he's quite embarrassed of the ‘immature ladies man’ he used to be back then.

But he won't deprive you of them either, since he'll happily share any stories on his misadventures with his brothers, funny backstage incidents, etc.

He misses them dearly and wishes they're all doing okay.

Two words: Hopeless. Romantic.

He's ‘The Heart Throb’ for a reason.

Roses, chocolates, dances— he can do it all!

Bruce will always make time in his busy schedule to spend time with you, taking you on dates to your favorite spots around the island, getting you meaningful gifts, and just overall expressing his love for you in any way he can.

He loves singing to you because it always serenades you and it puts a smile on his face.

People always joke that he's going to propose to you out of the blue one of these days, which always leaves him a flustered mess, but he never denies either.

“What can I say? I might be waiting for the perfect opportunity...”

Clay

Poor baby doesn't know what he's doing but he's trying, okay?

The two of you meet in the abandoned Bergen Golf Course, where you and Viva welcome him with open arms, and everything pretty much plays as in the movie, except that he really likes spending time with you and ONLY you, which he doesn't quite understand?

You're the one to ask him out cause otherwise you'd be playing this back and forth forever. He says yes.

He's never had a partner before, so he's justifiably worried that he'll mess up in some way, or that you'll end up finding him too boring after a while.

This becomes much more apparent after a particular bad night, in which after mumbling incoherently because of a nightmare, you find out that he has brothers and used to be in a boy band.

He doesn't open up about it at first, so you give him some space and reassure him that you'll be there when he needs you. Just give him some time and he'll tell you eventually.

He talks about how he could never be himself, since he was always expected to be ‘The Fun One’, and now he's basically tried to become the complete opposite in hopes of gaining some control over his life.

But he also worries that others will think he's too dull, and that he just isn't interesting enough to be around. Especially you.

You immediately take his face in your hands and look him in the eyes.

“I fell in love with Clay. Not ‘The Fun Troll from BroZone’ Clay. Also, you're fun in your own way!”

He basically falls for you all over again after hearing this.

After that, he becomes slightly less uptight and allows himself to enjoy the little things. You sometimes actually catch him dancing when he thinks no one's looking and you find it's the most adorable thing in the world, even after he realizes he's not alone and wants the earth to swallow him whole.

“Don't mind me, I'mma just crawl in a hole for a while...”

“No, no- Babe, it was amazing! I loved it! Pleaseeee show me more!”

Overall, he's a pretty good boyfriend all things considered.

He's incredibly overprotective of you, and will always give you advice and tools he thinks will be helpful if you're thinking of venturing outside of the Golf Course.

He asks Viva for dating advice CONSTANTLY and she DOES NOT let him live it down. Of course she has good ideas, though.

He'll pretty much do anything for you, even if it means going out of his comfort zone.

Floyd

Another great candidate for being in a good relationship.

Need I explain myself with this man?

His entire personality revolves around being caring and understanding, so he's definitely always on the lookout for anything that makes you sad or uncomfortable and will fix it ASAP.

Floyd is the kind of person who will ask for consent with pretty much anything you do— from holding your hand, to kissing you, to giving you a hug; he will ALWAYS make sure that you're okay with it even if you've given him the green light in the past.

He's not huge on PDA due to his somewhat shy nature, but if you are, he'll try his best to keep up with you.

This doesn't mean he dislikes physical affection, in fact it's his love language. He'll go out of his way to try and sneak in as many hugs as possible throughout the day and maybe a kiss or two if you'll allow it, which of course you do.

You also try your best to get involved in his own interests, because that's only fair after everything he does for you.

It isn't until one day that he sings for you that you compliment him and he nonchalantly comments that he used to be in a band when he was a teenager.

Cue the reveal of him having four brothers and you begging him to tell you all about them.

Which he does, but you can't help but notice the melancholic expression on his face, so you immediately stop him and apologize for being pushy on the matter and that he doesn't have to share anything he doesn't want to talk about.

He only looks at you with a small smile and shakes his head.

“No, I'm glad you asked. I haven't talked about them in years, so I like remembering the good times, even if they're in the past now.”

So he'll go on and on about them, one by one, and go into excruciating detail about what kind of person they are and what he loves about them. He's especially fond of his little brother Branch, based on everything he tells you.

When he gets kidnapped by Velvet and Veneer, you immediately go to Branch for help.

Once you're reunited, you two basically run to each other and hug with tears streaming down your eyes.

“Did they hurt you?!”

“No, I'm okay! Did they hurt you?!”

“Who cares?”

“I do!”

Floyd is then incredibly happy to introduce you to his brothers, who begin to affectionately tease him about getting himself a partner and you happily step in to protect him from any unwanted bullying.

You also tell him that you like the new hairdo, which only causes him to giggle and kiss your forehead affectionately.

Honestly you guys probably have the healthiest relationship out of the whole group.

Branch

I was really debating whether to include him or not since there's many Branch Reader Inserts out there, but I don't wanna leave my baby out so here we are!

You have a classic childhood friends to lovers situation with him, since you've known him ever since he was a member of BroZone, only being about a year older than him.

You'd help him practice for his concerts and would always give him pep talks whenever he felt worried that he'd ruin the show.

You're basically his number one fan— never missing a concert even if it meant dragging your parents with you so they'd let you get in.

The moment the group disbands and Branch is left all alone, you're there for him and wait alongside him for his brothers to return, reassuring him that ‘siblings would never break a promise’.

Cue his whole childhood trauma and him losing his colors, but it's only because of you that he doesn't completely isolate himself from society. He still builds his bunker though, since he's pretty much scarred for life thanks to the Bergens.

Just like with Clay, you're the one who takes initiative and asks him out, and he's just left gaping like a fish because why would you want someone like HIM?

After reuniting with John Dory, he's also dotting you about how big you've gotten and treats you like a baby, which actually irks Branch much more than it does to him.

He makes sure to remind his brothers that you both are grown adults, thank you very much.

Once the band gets back together, you kinda become a manager of some kind and help them in organizing their performances. Branch is eternally grateful and thanks you for staying by his side all these years.

[requiemforthepoets]

spain ⟢ FA14

⟢ part three of this time, i’ll love you much better

𖤓 series masterlist ⟢ playlist ⟢ part four ☽

PAIRINGS: fernando alonso x ex-wife!reader

SUMMARY: everything was going well for jullianna: finally meeting her father, fernando, after twelve years and getting to spend some time with him. that is until a new person inserts herself into the picture.

REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.

WARNINGS: no use of y/n, the parent trap inspo + plot, named side characters (except reader), twins switching places, poorly google translated spanish & french, inaccuracies with information, and minor typographical errors.

WORD COUNT: 10k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: this is a part 3 of my FA14 series that was inspired by ‘the parent trap.’ i’m so sorry if it took too long, but i hope you’ll enjoy this one! your comments/reblogs is highly appreciated. the taglist for this series is open, just comment or message me if you want to be tagged on the next part.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the sprawling estate, and Jullianna stepped out, eyes widening in awe. The house—no, the mansion, was even grander than the photos Sofia had shown her. The façade was a blend of old-world Spanish charm that Jullianna would often see in magazines, and it was blended with modern elegance—terracotta roofs, white stucco walls, and large arched windows that reflected the warm Spanish afternoon sun. The driveway was lined with towering cypress trees, and colorful bougainvillea climbing along one side of the building, adding a vibrant touch to the pristine exterior.

Before Jullianna could fully take in the whole grandeur of the place, a petite older woman with salt and pepper hair came rushing down the front steps. She was wearing casual clothes—a white loose shirt that is tucked in navy-blue jeans, and topped with a pair of Birkenstock sandals. Her face lit up with a radiant smile. This had to be Alejandra—it is Alejandra.

“¡Mi niña! Mi pequeña Sofía!” Alejandra exclaimed, her voice ringing with excitement as she hurried towards Jullianna.

Alejandra had wrapped Jullianna in a tight hug, arms surprisingly strong for someone her size. There was a hint of lavender scent soap clinging to her, and it almost felt like a comforting and familiar aroma that made Jullianna smile nervously.

“Hola, Alejandra,” Jullianna greeted, trying her best to hide her hesitation as Alejandra’s rapid Spanish filled her ears.

Well, Jullianna did catch bits and pieces of it—something about how grown-up she looked and how much Alejandra missed her, but the rest flew over her head. It was putting Jullianna’s basic Spanish knowledge that she learned a few years ago to the test.

Alejandra pulled back, holding Jullianna at arm’s length to get a good look at her. “¡Mírate! Eres toda una señorita ahora,” she said, beaming. Then, without missing a beat, she began firing off another set of questions. “¿Cómo fue el campamento? Have you made any new friends this year? Did you have a lot of fun?”

Jullianna blinked, trying very hard to process the torrent of words. But then quickly nodded in return, forcing a bright smile as she replied. “Sí, Alejandra. Fue muy divertido.” she hesitated for a moment, then added, “I did make a lot of friends this year.”

She clapped her hands together, clearly very delighted by Jullianna’s response. “¡Eso me alegra mucho, Sofía! I’m so proud of you, you’ve always been sociable.”

Jullianna bit back a nervous laugh. Sociable? Oh if only Alejandra knew.

“Ven, ven, entra,” Alejandra urged, already reaching for Jullianna’s bag. “Here, let me help you with your bags. How did you even handle all of these by yourself? Ay, niña, siempre tan independiente.”

“Ven, ven, entra,” Alejandra urged, already reaching for Jullianna’s bag. “Here, let me help you with your bags. How did you even handle all of these by yourself? Ay, niña, siempre tan independiente.”

Jullianna followed Alejandra inside, murmuring a quiet thank you as the older woman hoisted one of her bags with surprising ease.

The moment they stepped through the grand double doors, Jullianna was struck by the sheer scale of the interior. High ceilings were all adorned with intricate wooden beams, and sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the polished terracotta floors and elegant furnishings. The space was both luxurious and warm, with an undeniable Spanish charm in every corner of the house.

“Tu papá todavía está en Bélgica,” Alejandra informed her as they walked through the foyer, voice tinged with fondness as she mentioned Fernando. “But you don’t need to worry, he’ll be home right after the race. I’ll also inform him that you’re already home.”

Jullianna nodded, hiding her relief. “Okay. Thank you, Alejandra.”

They passed by a grand staircase that curved gracefully to the upper floors. Jullianna made a mental note of it, trying to remember the layout that Sofia had described. The last thing that she wanted was to get lost and raise suspicion.

“Deja tus cosas aquí,” Alejandra said, gesturing to a spot near the staircase. She smiled warmly. “I’ll go and prepare something to eat, I know you’re hungry after a long trip.”

Jullianna smiled back, grateful for the excuse to explore on her own. “Gracias, Alejandra. Suena bien.”

Once Alejandra disappeared toward what Jullianna assumed was the kitchen, she let out a quiet breath. This was her chance. She turned on her heels quickly and began making her way throughout the house, determined to familiarize herself with the layout.

Every room that she passed seemed to rival the last in terms of grandeur. The living room was massive, with plush sofas arranged around a stone fireplace and a large television mounted on the wall. Bookshelves lined one side of the room, filled with an eclectic mix of novels, biographies, and racing memorabilia.

The dining room was equally impressive, with a long wooden table that could easily seat twenty people. A stunning chandelier hung overhead, and the walls were adorned with tasteful artwork that reflected Spain’s rich culture, and a few expensive art pieces from famous painters that Jullianna can easily identify.

Jullianna then found herself wandering into a sunlit corridor that leads to what appeared to be a study. The walls were lined with trophies, medals, and framed photos of Fernando throughout his career. She paused as one framed photo caught her eyes—a framed photo of Fernando holding a baby in his arms. She quickly recognized the baby as Sofia—or herself, as everyone believed. Jullianna’s heart twisted slightly, she couldn’t deny the love that radiated from Fernando’s smile in the photo.

She didn’t know that there was a single tear that escaped her eyes, so she immediately wiped it away and shook herself out of her thoughts, and decided to move along. Jullianna eventually found the staircase that led to the upper floors, and step-by-step, she ascended, taking in the intricate wrought-iron railing and the soft runner underfoot.

The hallway upstairs was just as grand, lined with even more family photos and doors that seemed to stretch endlessly. “Okay,” she muttered under her breath. “If I were Sofia’s—my room, where would I be?”

She glanced at the guide Sofia had sent her on her phone, thankful for the clear instructions. A few doors down on the left, near the end of the hallway. When she finally reached the room, she pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Sofia’s room was very spacious and elegant, with a large bed draped in soft linens and pillows. One wall was entirely made up of windows, offering stunning views of the estate grounds. A walk-in closet and en-suite bathroom completed the space, it was very luxurious.

“Not bad, Sofia,” she muttered to herself. “Not bad at all.”

Jullianna took the time to roam around Sofia’s room, assessing every clothes and things she has, maybe judging a few outfit pieces that Sofia has. Their style when it comes to clothing is very different, both at the opposite end of the scale, but even though it’s not something that Jullianna would wear, she can make it work.

“Alright. You can do this, Jullianna,” she whispered, sitting down at the end of the bed. “You just have to keep it together. Breathe in, breathe out.”

The next day came. Morning light began to spill into the living room, the soft warmth brightening the white walls and casting a long shadow on the terracotta tiled floor. Jullianna walked in hesitantly, her steps light as she took in the scene. The large flat-screen television mounted on the wall was turned to a pre-race broadcast, showing a group of reporters passionately discussing the upcoming event. The whole room smelled faintly of fresh pastries and coffee, and the low hum of the TV added to the cozy atmosphere.

Alejandra was already seated on the plush white sofa, a wide grin spreading across her face when she saw Jullianna enter. “Sofia! Good morning! Come, come sit with me,” she said, patting the spot beside her.

Jullianna offered a polite smile, trying to suppress the nervousness bubbly in her chest. “¿Es…el día de la carrera?” she asked, recalling the Spanish words Sofia had insisted she memorize.

“¡Sí, exactamente!” Alejandra said enthusiastically, her face lighting up. “It’s the Belgian Grand Prix, and your papá will be racing today.”

Jullianna blinked, really unsure of how to respond. She hadn’t realized Formula 1 was so integral to Fernando’s life—Sofia hadn’t gone into much details about it during their swap planning, and in Jullianna’s defense, she’s not exposed in this kind of environment. But this was an opportunity to learn. She nodded and made her way to the sofa, taking a seat beside Alejandra.

On the coffee table in front of them, an impressive spread of snacks had been carefully arranged. There were small bowls of popcorn, sliced fruits, chips, and a plate of churros with a small dish of chocolate sauce on the side. Two glasses of freshly squeezed lemon juice sat next to the snacks, condensation dripping down the side of the glasses.

Jullianna glanced over the selection, noting how thoughtfully it had been prepared. She guessed that these snacks were all Sofia’s favorite treats.

“Alejandra, did you prepare all of these?” she asked, gesturing to the food.

“Claro que sí,” Alejandra replied with a proud smile on her face. “I always know that you love to nibble on something while we watch the race. Aren’t they your favorites?”

Jullianna hesitated for a moment before nodding. “Sí, sí. Gracias, Alejandra. It all looks very delicious.” she reached for a churro to keep up the appearance, dipping it in the chocolate sauce and taking a small bite.

Before long, the broadcast had shifted to the pre-race grid, and Alejandra’s excitement grew ever more. She pointed out the various cars and drivers as the camera panned across the starting line.

“Look, there’s your papá,” Alejandra said, leaning forward and pointing to Fernando’s green Aston Martin car. “He’s in eighth position today, it’s a good place to start.”

Jullianna squinted at the screen, catching a brief glimpse of Fernando’s face on the television as the commentator spoke about him. She nodded, hoping her feigned interest looked convincing. “That’s well…isn’t it?”

“Sí, very good,” Alejandra confirmed, her eyes glued to the screen. “¡Puede conseguir puntos desde allí!”

Jullianna tried to focus on the broadcast, but the flurry of information from the commentators was really overwhelming. They spoke rapidly, mentioning tyre strategies, DRS zones, and lap times—terms that meant nothing to her. She glanced at Alejandra slightly, who was fully engrossed, her hands occasionally clapping together in excitement.

As soon as the race started, the loud roar of engines filled the whole room, and the on-screen cars darted off the starting line like streaks of color. Jullianna leaned back into the sofa, watching as the camera cut from one car to another. Alejandra cheered every time Fernando’s car appeared, shouting words of encouragement as though he could hear her.

Jullianna, meanwhile, felt utterly lost. The cars all looked similar to her, their numbers and team liveries blurring together as they all zoomed around the circuit. The commentators’ explanations didn’t really help much, to her dismay. They had mentioned pit stops, overtakes, and track limits, but none of it registered in her brain.

During a commercial break, Alejandra excused herself to use the bathroom, leaving Jullianna alone in the living room. She seized the opportunity to grab her phone, quickly typing Formula 1 scoring system into Google. The first result explained that the top ten finishers earned points, with the winner getting 25 points and tenth place earning one.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself, scrolling further. “So, let’s see. Papá’s currently in P8, and it means that if he finishes in P8, he’ll get…four points?” Jullianna made a mental note, hoping that the information would stick.

When Alejandra returned, the race had resumed, and Jullianna did her best to appear engaged. She occasionally echoed Alejandra’s cheers, clapping along whenever Fernando completed a clean overtake. By the time that the race ended, Fernando had secured eighth place—started eighth and finished in eighth. Alejandra erupted in celebration.

“¡Lo hizo! ¡Fernando consiguió puntos otra vez!” she exclaimed, her happiness infectious.

Jullianna smiled, genuinely happy to see Alejandra so excited. “Estoy muy orgullosa de él,” she said, the words feeling a little bit more natural now.

Alejandra nodded, face still glowing with pride. “Tu papá es increíble. Siempre da lo mejor de sí.”

As Alejandra began tidying up the snacks from the coffee table, Jullianna leaned back against the sofa with a sigh, thoughts drifting away. Formula 1 was far more complicated than she had imagined, and the whole environment seemed very intense and all-consuming. She couldn’t help but think of how you must have navigated all of it, being married to someone like Fernando.

“It must take a lot of patience,” she thought to herself, her admiration for you growing.

She resolved to learn more about the sport. Jullianna knew that it was not just about cars, it was about understanding a significant part of Fernando’s life that she didn’t have the chance to get to know.

It has been a total of five days now of Jullianna being in Spain. The morning air was crisp, carrying a faint floral scent from the garden below as Jullianna sat curled up in a plush chair on the balcony. The blanket draped around her shoulders provided a sense of comfort, though it did little to settle the anxious thrum of her heart. The sunrise had been stunning—a gentle gradient of oranges and pinks melting into a clear blue sky, but Jullianna’s thoughts had been too preoccupied to truly enjoy it.

The balcony overlooked the sprawling estate, with its winding driveway framed by tall cypress trees. Jullianna’s gaze drifted to that driveway now, her stomach twisting into tight knots at the thought of Fernando’s arrival. She had not seen her father—Sofia’s father, in years, or perhaps, in Jullianna’s case, ever.

Her phone vibrated softly on the small table beside her, the screen lighting up to display the time. 9:07 AM. The sun was already high, casting golden light across the stone terrace. Jullianna sighed, stretching out her legs beneath the blanket. Just as she stood up, folding the blanket over the chair, the faint hum of an engine reached her ears. Jullianna’s breath suddenly hitched. She decided to walk towards the edge of the balcony, as she peered down, Jullianna saw an Aston Martin turn into the driveway, its polished surface glinting in the sunlight, and it came to a smooth stop near the entrance. As the driver’s side opened, there he was, her father that she had not seen in twelve years. Fernando Alonso.

Her heart pounded painfully in her chest as she took in the sight of her father—taller than she had imagined, his posture confident yet natural. Fernando was dressed casually, a plain white polo shirt, dark jeans, and sneakers. His hair was slightly tousled, and even from the distance, Jullianna could see the tired lines on his face, evidence of his grueling travel schedule.

The anxiety hit Jullianna like a wave, and she stumbled back from the railing, clutching her chest. Her breathing had quickened, and she immediately started the breathing exercises she had learned to overcome situations like this. In for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four. She repeated the process, Jullianna’s trembling hands slowly steadying.

“Jullianna,” she whispered to herself, as if the name would ground her. “No. Sofia. You’re Sofia.”

Before Jullianna could regroup completely, a familiar voice broke the silence. “¡Sofia!” Alejandra’s cheerful call carried up from below. “Tu papá ha llegado. Ven, baja.”

The warmth in Martha’s voice was enough to make Jullianna’s chest tighten further. She took one last deep breath, trying to push down the storm of emotions swirling inside her. You’ve prepared for this. You’ll be okay.

“I’ll be right down,” she called back, trying to keep her voice even and cheerful despite the nerves clawing at her throat.

Jullianna glanced at her own reflection at the balcony door’s glass, smoothing her hair and adjusting her posture. Taking one final deep breath, she whispered to herself again, “Remember, you’re Sofia. Sofia Alonso.”

Then, she turned and headed back into the house, ready—or as ready as she could be, to meet the man that she had spent her whole life wondering about.

As Jullianna descended the stairs slowly, her heart was hammering in her chest. She could hear voices below—Fernando’s deep, commanding tone interspersed with Alejandra’s lighter and cheerful one. They were speaking in rapid Spanish, far too fast for her to catch every word. She tried her best to pick out phrases but only managed to catch something about a one month break. It was clear that they were discussing plans, but Jullianna’s nerves would not allow her to focus.

When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped, her feet rooted to the polished wooden floor. There he was, in the flesh—Fernando Alonso. His back was facing her as he gestured while speaking, the confidence in Fernando’s demeanor unmistakable—posture very relaxed yet purposeful. Jullianna found herself staring, taking in every detail.

This was the man she had seen countless times in photos, television, online articles, and in the news. The man Jullianna had imagined meeting more times than she could count, and now, here he was, standing just a few feet away from her.

Alejandra turned, her sharp eyes noticing Jullianna’s presence immediately. Her eyes brightened, and she called out cheerfully, “¡Buenos días, Sofia! ¿Ya te levantaste?”

The sound of Alejandra’s voice drew Fernando’s attention. He turned around, expression softening as his eyes landed on Jullianna. A wide smile spread across his face, and he greeted her in a warm, excited tone, effortlessly switching between Spanish and English.

“¡Buenos días, mi niña! I missed you so much,” he said, holding out his arms invitingly. “Come here, give your old man a hug!”

For a brief moment, Jullianna froze. Her emotions hit her all at once—a mix of awe, nervousness, and deep aching sadness she had not fully anticipated. This is him, she thought. My father. He’s real. He’s here.

Before she could second guess herself, Jullianna rushed towards him, wrapping her arms tightly around Fernando. The hug was immediate and overwhelming. She clung to him, burying her face into his chest as tears began to stream down her face. Fernando’s arms closed around her in a strong, comforting embrace.

Fernando chuckled softly, though his voice was filled with tenderness. “¿Por qué estás llorando, Sofí? Why are you crying, mi vida?”

Jullianna didn’t answer right away. Her emotions were too tangled, mind too flooded with thoughts to form a coherent sentence. She could feel the warmth of his hand gently patting her back, and his other hand lightly brushing her hair as Fernando tried to soothe her. Alejandra just stood off to the side, watching the scene with a pleased smile.

“Mira lo feliz que está contigo en casa,” she said softly, more to herself than to Fernando. “La casa es tan tranquila cuando ella no está.”

Fernando pulled back slightly, just enough to tilt Jullianna’s chin up with his hand. His smile was teasing, eyes glinting with affection. “You missed me this much, huh?” he asked, tone playful.

Jullianna wiped at her tears hastily, embarrassed by her reaction, but unable to stop herself from smiling. “I did,” she said, voice shaky but sincere. “I missed you so much, papá.”

His face softened at her words. Fernando used his thumb to brush away the last of her tears, shaking his head with a small laugh. “Well, I missed you too, princesa. But no more tears, okay? You’re going to make me look so bad.”

Jullianna let out a shaky laugh, nodding as she stepped back. She felt lighter now, though the weight of the moment still lingered.

“How was camp?” Fernando asked, leaning casually against the edge of a nearby chair. “Did you have fun? Or should I never send you away again?”

Jullianna laughed again, this time more genuinely. “It was great,” she said, careful to choose her words. “I made new friends this year and had a lot of fun. But I did miss being home.”

“Good,” Fernando said with a satisfied nod. “I don’t like when you’re away for too long. It’s always too quiet here without you.”

Alejandra chimed in with a laugh. ”¡Eso es verdad! I told her the same thing when she arrived from summer camp. La casa no es igu sin ella.”

Fernando glanced at Jullianna, expression turning more serious but still warm. “Well, I’m here now,” he said. “And I have a one month break before the next race in the Netherlands. So we’ll have plenty of time to catch up.”

Jullianna hesitated for only a moment before blurting out, “can I come with you?”

“Come with me?” Fernando blinked, clearly caught off guard by her question. “To the Netherlands?”

She nodded quickly, heart pounding. “Yes. I mean, it’s a whole month, and I think we should spend as much time together as we can. School hasn’t started yet, so…”

Fernando studied her with a curious expression, tilting his head slightly. “You usually hate traveling to races, cariño,” he pointed out. “You always tell me it’s too much flying from one country to another, and too chaotic.”

Jullianna swallowed, hoping her enthusiasm didn’t seem out of character. “I just…I think it would be nice to go, and I want to spend more time with you. One month is not enough.”

His eyes softened, and after a moment of consideration, Fernando nodded. “Alright, princesa,” he said with a small smile. “If that’s what you want, then you can come with me. But don’t blame me if you get tired of all the chaos.”

“I won’t,” Jullianna promised, smile widening.

Fernando just laughed, shaking his head as he reached out to ruffle her hair. “We’ll see about that.”

Lunch was set up on the sprawling terrace overlooking the estate’s lush gardens. The table was adorned with simple yet elegant dishes—grilled vegetables, fresh bread, and a flavorful paella that Alejandra had prepared earlier. Fernando sat at the head of the table, comfortably relaxed, while Jullianna sat on his right side, attempting to mimic Sofia’s usual confident demeanor.

Fernando glanced at Jullianna with an easy smile, breaking the silence. “So, Sofia,” he began, setting his glass down, “how about some karting later this afternoon? Just you and me. A little father-daughter bonding time at the karting circuit.”

The fork in Jullianna’s hand froze midair, scraping against the ceramic plate as it slid sideways. The unpleasant screeching noise seemed to echo in her ears, and she winced, immediately setting the fork down as she forced a smile.

“Karting?” she repeated, voice an octave higher than usual.

“Yes, karting.” Fernando nodded, clearly amused by her reaction. “I thought that it would be fun. It has been a while since you came with me, and you used to love it when you were younger.”

Karting? Oh no, no, no. This is bad.

Jullianna’s mind began to race. Sofia’s guide had not prepared her for this. The closest thing she had ever done to karting was bumper cars at the carnival, and even then, she was not that great at it. The idea of climbing into a real kart and navigating an actual track was enough to send her anxiety into overdrive. but Fernando was watching her, his expression warm and expectant. How could she possibly say no without raising suspicions? She swallowed hard, summoning every ounce of courage she had.

“Well…” she trailed off hesitantly, trying to keep her tone light. “I mean, sure. Why not? It could be…fun.”

Fernando’s eyes twinkled with delight at Jullianna’s response. “That’s my girl!” he said enthusiastically, giving her a proud smile. “We’ll head out in the afternoon. Who knows? Maybe you’ll finally beat me this time, huh?”

She let out a nervous laugh, avoiding his gaze as she fiddled with her napkin. “Maybe,” Jullianna murmured, heart pounding.

Okay. It can’t be that hard, right? It’s just like bumper cars…only faster…and on a track…with actual rules. Oh no, this is a disaster waiting to happen.

Fernando, obvious to her inner turmoil, continued talking, his voice animated. “We’ll head over in the afternoon once it cools down a bit. I’ll teach you a few tricks, and we’ll have a little competition. Sounds good?”

“Sounds great,” Jullianna replied, forcing another smile.

When lunch finally came to an end, Jullianna excused herself, retreating back to the bedroom under the guise of ‘freshening up.’ But in truth, she needed a moment to collect herself. Her nerves were already frayed, but reminded herself that she had survived switching places with Sofia and meeting Fernando. Surely, she could survive a few laps in a kart. What is the worst thing that could happen?

The car hummed softly as it sped through the quiet streets on its way to the airport. Fernando was in the driver’s seat, hands casually resting on the steering wheel, occasionally glancing in the rear view mirror to check on Alejandra and Jullianna, who were sitting in the back. Alejandra, always chatty, was in the middle of telling a story about one of her family members.

Jullianna, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves. She tried really hard to focus on Alejandra’s stories, nodding at the right moments and forcing a polite smile, but her mind was elsewhere. Earlier this day, Jullianna had managed to sneak in a quick call with Sofia, desperate for guidance.

“You forgot to prep me about karting!” Jullianna had whispered urgently into the phone, pacing back and forth in Sofia’s bedroom.

Sofia’s voice on the other end had been rushed. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t think it would come up this soon. Okay, okay, listen carefully.”

What followed was a rapid-fire explanation about how to operate a kart. Sofia rattle off terms like throttle, apex, and breaking zones, leaving Jullianna guessing and more confused than ever.

“Wait, what’s an apex?” Jullianna interrupted, voice tinged with panic.

“It’s—ugh, it’s the inside curve of a corner where you need to turn. Just remember to break before you get to it, then accelerate out. That’s the basic idea.”

“Well that’s not basic at all, Sofia!” Jullianna hissed, glancing nervously towards the door to make sure that no one was eavesdropping.

Sofia sighed. “You’ll be fine! Just take it slow, follow papá’s lead, and don’t overthink it.”

Before Jullianna could protest any further, Sofia had abruptly said, “I gotta go! Dinner plans with—uh, never mind. You’ll do great, I promise!” then she hung up, leaving Jullianna staring at her phone in utter disbelief.

Now, sitting in the car, Jullianna groaned internally. She leaned her head back against the seat, closing her eyes in frustration. Thanks a lot, Sofia.

The rhythmic motion of the car and the faint hum of the engine eventually pulled her into a light doze. She figured an hour of sleep might help her reset, at least mentally.

Meanwhile, Fernando glanced in the rear view mirror, noticing Jullianna was resting against the window, face soft and peaceful in sleep. He smiled to himself, feeling a rare sense of contentment. It was not often they had uninterrupted time together, and he was really looking forward to the afternoon ahead.

As they neared the airport, Fernando lowered the volume of the music playing softly in the background. Alejandra, always the attentive one, leaned forward and whispered, “should we wake her?”

Fernando shook his head. “Let her sleep. She must still be tired, I’ll wake her when we’re boarding.”

The plane landed smoothly on the Asturias runway, the soft jolt waking Jullianna briefly before she drifted off to sleep again, only to be gently shaken awake by Fernando once they had fully disembarked.

“Vamos, Sofía, we’ve landed,” Fernando said softly, his voice a mix of excitement.

Jullianna blinked groggily, taking a moment to orient herself as she was ushered off the plane. The bright daylight of Asturias was a stark contrast to the dim interior of the cabin, and she shielded her eyes with her hand. From the plane, all of them moved seamlessly into a car that was waiting for them on the tarmac. The driver greeted Fernando warmly, and once everyone was settled, the drive to Llanera began.

The drive was peaceful and scenic, the lush greenery of Asturias that was surrounding them can be seen, looking like it came straight out of a painting. Jullianna was seated at the backseat, trying to appear calm despite the nervous energy bubbling beneath the surface. Fernando, sitting in the front, chatted with the driver in rapid Spanish, leaving Jullianna to her thoughts.

It wasn’t until they pulled into the gates of Fernando’s karting circuit that Jullianna’s attention snapped to the present. Her jaw dropped as she took in the sheer size of the whole place. It was not just a track, it was an entire complex. The main building loomed impressively, with sleek modern architecture that felt welcoming yet very professional.

“Wow…” Jullianna murmured under her breath, wide eyes betraying her awe.

Fernando turned around to glance at her, a smile tugging at his lips. “You like it, princesa? It was remodeled while you were away for summer camp. A little piece of home here Asturias.”

Jullianna nodded, unsure of what to say. Little? This is anything but little! As they all stepped out of the car, a group of staff members approached to greet Fernando, their faces lighting up with genuine enthusiasm.

“Ah! Buenos días, boss!” one of them said, before their gaze shifted towards Jullianna. “Hola, Sofía! Been a long time, huh?”

She smiled politely, nodding at them. “Hola!” she replied, voice steady despite the sudden knot in her stomach.

Jullianna could tell they assumed she was Sofia. Their warm, familiar greetings made her feel both welcomed and uneasy—uneasy because what if one of them picked up on something off? But she forced herself to focus, mirroring the relaxed but confident demeanor she had observed in Sofia during their time at camp. Once the greetings were out of the way, Fernando gestured for her to follow him inside.

“I had the track closed for today,” he explained casually. “Just for us, no interruptions.”

The weight of Fernando’s words hit her. No interruptions. No distractions. Just me and papá. The idea should have been comforting, but instead, it magnified her anxiety. Inside, a staff member handed Fernando a black bag, which he opened to reveal a pristine racing suit. He then handed it to Jullianna with a proud smile.

“Here mi vida. Go change, the fun starts soon.”

Jullianna took the suit gingerly, its fabric heavier than she had expected. “Where should I, uh, change?”

Fernando pointed toward a nearby hallway. “Second door on the left. You’ll see the sign.”

Nodding, she turned and walked towards the changing room. Thankfully, she found it on the first try. When she opened the door, Jullianna was greeted by a spacious and clean room, with a row of lockers lining one wall with a long mirror on the other. Jullianna held up the racing suit, inspecting it like it was some kind of puzzle—zippers, straps, and padding made it all look more complex than it probably was, and she just sighed deeply.

“Calm down, Jullianna. Calm down.” she muttered to herself as she set the suit down on a nearby bench. “This is fine, okay? Totally fine.” she then pulled out her phone and opened youtube.

How to wear a racing suit. Jullianna quickly typed it into the search bar, scrolling through the results until she found a decent one—a step-by-step tutorial. The video began, and she started to follow along, pausing frequently to ensure she doesn’t miss anything. She slipped one leg in, then the other, zipping up the suit carefully.

“Okay, alright…not too shabby. I think I can be a racer someday, huh,” she murmured, smoothing down the fabric in front of the mirror. “Oh who am I even kidding?”

The gloves and boots were next, and Jullianna paused the video again to double check everything if she had put them on correctly. By the time she finished, she was feeling a mix of relief and pride. I did it. To be sure with everything, she turned back to the mirror again, doing a quick once-over. The suit fits perfectly, hugging her frame without being restrictive.

“And one last thing…” she clicked on another video, this time, it was titled karting for beginners. The tips were pretty basic—how to start, use the pedals, and steer, but even those felt overwhelming.

“The things that I go through.” Jullianna grumbled under her breath, closing the youtube app.

Satisfied that she was at least presentable, Jullianna took one last deep breath, patting her own shoulder, and whispered, “good luck and don’t die.”

Jullianna stepped onto the track, the warm afternoon now casting long shadows over the asphalt. Fernando stood nearby, adjusting his gloves, excitement unmistakable as he began to explain the basics of karting.

“Alright, Sofí, I know it’s been a while since you last karted, but you’ll pick it up quickly,” he said, voice light and encouraging. “It’s like riding a bike—you don’t forget.”

She nodded, forcing a confident smile. “Yeah…just like riding a bike,” she repeated, though her nerves were humming.

Fernando led her to the kart she would be driving. “I brought out your own kart, and checked it.” he said, patting the side affectionately.

As Fernando explained the controls, Jullianna focused intently, trying to absorb every word as much as possible. “I know it’s been a while, but just a refresher, this pedal is for the gas, this one for the break, and your grip should always be at nine o’clock and three o’clock. Always ease into the throttle—don’t slam it, and when you’re cornering, don’t break too hard, just enough to control the speed.”

“Yes, papá, don’t worry. I got it. It’s not like it’s my first time driving a kart,” she said, chuckling nervously as her heart was beating rapidly.

Fernando crouched beside Jullianna’s kart, inspecting it one last time. “I’ll go easy on you first,” he teased, flashing her a grin. “But don’t expect me to let you win that easily.”

Jullianna chuckled again, still nervous, as she climbed into the kart. She adjusted the seat and gripped the steering wheel, hand slightly getting all clammy. Fernando handed her a helmet, which she slipped on carefully, ensuring it fits snugly.

“Ready to beat your old man?” he asked, stepping back.

“Ready!” Jullianna replied, voice muffled by the helmet.

Fernando climbed into his own kart, matching the ones Jullianna was on, and started the engine with practiced ease. Jullianna followed his lead, turning on the power and feeling a thrill as the engine roared to life beneath her.

“Follow me for a few laps,” Fernando instructed over the headset built into their helmets. “Get a feel first of the track, and then we’ll race.”

Jullianna nodded, gripping the steering wheel tighter as she eased onto the track behind him. The kart felt different than she expected—lighter, faster, more responsive. Of course she wobbled slightly on the first corner, foot instinctively slamming on the brakes.

“Easy on the break,” Fernando’s voice came through, calm and steady. “Let the kart flow through the corner.”

“Right,” Jullianna muttered, adjusting her grip. She tried again, this time pressing the brakes more gently and allowing the kart to glide smoothly.

After a few laps around the track, Jullianna began to relax. The initial awkwardness fading as she found her rhythm, her confidence building with each turn. The sensation of speed was exhilarating, with the kart zipping along the track like an extension of her own body.

“Good job, Sofí!” Fernando praised. “You’re getting it.”

Jullianna couldn’t help but smile under her helmet. She admitted that she was really enjoying herself. Once Fernando was satisfied with her progress, he pulled over to the side of the track and gestured to her to do the same.

“Alright, now for the fun part,” he said, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“What’s that?” Jullianna asked, even if she already knew the answer.

“The race,” Fernando replied with a grin. “We’ll do three laps, and the winner gets bragging rights.”

“Bragging rights?” she echoed, laughing.

“Trust me, they’re worth it.” he replied. They both lined up at the starting line, with Fernando counting them off. “Three, two, one, go!”

Jullianna floored the gas pedal, the kart surging forward. Fernando quickly took the lead, as expected, with his kart weaving effortlessly through the first series of turns. Jullianna followed close behind, determined not to fall too far behind. She focused on her technique, remembering Fernando’s earlier advice. Brake gently, accelerate smoothly, and stay on the racing line. Then, by the second lap, she was gaining on Fernando, and he was clearly impressed.

She laughed, her nerves melting away in the heat of the competition. Jullianna took the next corner perfectly, closing the gap between them. On the final lap, she saw an opening on the inside of a tight turn. Summoning all of her courage, she took the risk, slipping past Fernando with a bold move. With the finish line just up ahead, Jullianna pushed the kart to its limit, crossing first by a fraction of a second.

As Jullianna rolled to a stop, she pulled off her helmet, cheeks flushed and heart racing. Fernando parked beside her, laughing as he removed his own helmet.

“Well done, mi vida! Can’t believe you beat your old man!” Fernando exclaimed, pride evident.

Jullianna grinned, trying to catch her breath. “I had a good teacher.”

Fernando just laughed at her reply, and pulled her into a quick hug. “That was impressive. I’ll have to step up my game next time, eh?”

Jullianna felt really proud of her accomplishment. She had managed to hold her own, and for a brief moment, she forgot all about her nerves and the pressure of pretending to be Sofia. For now, she was just a girl spending time and having fun with her father.

After the race, it had been decided to take a rest for a while, and now, Jullianna is currently crouched next to the kart, nodding along as Fernando patiently explained the mechanics of the engine. He was animated, gesturing as he described how the karts power translated to see its speed, his enthusiasm contagious.

“You see this part here? This regulates the throttle response,” he said, tapping the side of the kart with a wrench.

Jullianna nodded again, her focus intense. “Okay, got it,” she murmured.

Her mind was still processing the earlier laps and how much she had actually enjoyed the experience. But just as Fernando leaned in to point out another detail, a high pitched shriek shattered the air, causing both Jullianna and Fernando to freeze. They exchanged confused glances before turning toward the source of the commotion—a young woman. She ran towards them at full speed, her excitement evident.

“¡Fernando! Estás aquí!” she squealed, voice shrill as she closed the distance.

Before Fernando could react, the woman threw herself into his arms, wrapping them around his neck and planting kisses all over her face. Fernando looked momentarily startled before managing a polite laugh, gently easing the woman off of him.

“Stephanie,” he said, tone a mix of surprise and mild discomfort.

Jullianna blinked, mouth slightly agape as she watched the whole scene unfold, processing everything even. The woman—Stephanie, looked young, probably a few years older than herself, with long, perfectly styled hair, and an outfit that screamed designer labels, which were all common brands but would not see you wearing. Jullianna could immediately sense the tension in the air, especially when she caught a glimpse of Alejandra standing off to the side, expression cold and disapproving.

Stephanie had finally decided to step back, with her hands lingering on Fernando’s arm as she beamed up at him. “I had no idea you’d be here today! You didn’t tell me you were coming home!” she exclaimed, tone overly sweet to Jullianna’s liking.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Fernando replied with a small chuckle, stepping subtly away from her. “This was a last minute decision.”

Stephanie’s gaze shifted to Jullianna, her smile widening in a way that made Jullianna’s stomach churn. “And who’s this cute little girl?” she asked, voice dripping with curiosity.

Fernando turned to Jullianna, placing a hand on her shoulder. “This is Sofía,” he said proudly. “My daughter.”

“¡Ay dios mío!” Stephanie’s eyes widened in an exaggerated display of delight. “I’ve heard so much about you!” she gushed, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Jullianna forced a polite smile, shaking Stephanie’s hand briefly. “Nice to meet you,” she said, voice carefully neutral.

“You don’t know how much I’ve been wanting to meet you,” Stephanie continued, words spilling out in rapid succession. “Fernando talks about you all the time! I wanted to visit you this summer, but you were at camp, and—oh, you’re even gorgeous in person!”

Yeah, bet you did do that. Thanks for the compliment, I totally got it from both papá and mamá, but mostly mamá.

“Thanks,” Jullianna said simply, overwhelmed by the onslaught of words and overly saccharine tone. At this point, she doesn’t trust herself to say more.

As Stephanie continued to chatter, Jullianna glanced at Fernando, who looked slightly uncomfortable, and then at Alejandra, who stood with her arms crossed, her disapproval practically radiating.

“So, what are you two doing here? A little father and daughter bonding time?” Stephanie asked, eyes farting between them.

What do you think, Cruella?

“Yes,” Jullianna replied quickly, tone more firmer than she intended. “Papá and I are spending time together.”

“Qué lindo!” Stephanie cooed, completely ignoring the slight edge on Jullianna’s voice.

Stephanie turned back to Fernando, launching into a story about something that happened while he was away. Jullianna could feel her own patience wearing thin. The day had been going so well, and now, this woman—stranger, had swooped in and disrupted everything. She tried to tune out Stephanie’s really annoying voice, but the exaggerated laughter and overly familiar gestures were grating on her.

Finally, Jullianna couldn’t take anymore of it. She took a step back, clearing her throat. “Excuse me,” she said, tone polite but curt. “I need a moment.”

Fernando looked at her with mild concern. “Sofí, are you okay mi vida?”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly, forcing a small smile. “Just need some air.”

Without waiting for any response from Fernando, Jullianna turned and walked away, heading towards the quieter edge of the circuit. Despite walking farther away from them, she could still hear Stephanie’s annoying voice in the background, but it all soon faded as Jullianna put distance between herself and the group.

Upon reaching a shaded spot near a row of trees, Jullianna let out a deep sigh, sat down criss crossed and arms folded to her chest, and leaned back on the tree. The frustration bubbled inside her. This day was supposed to be about her and Fernando, a rare chance to bond with her papá, and now it felt like she was competing for his own father’s attention.

The sound of approaching footsteps broke her thoughts. Turning her head slightly, Jullianna saw Alejandra making her way over, her expression was soft but tinged with concern. Alejandra stopped beside her, tilting her head to study her closely.

“¿Estás bien, Sofí?” Alejandra asked, voice gentle.

Jullianna hesitated, glancing back towards the circuit where Fernando and Stephanie’s figures were still visible in the distance.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, word slipping out before she could stop them. She sighed heavily, deciding to just let it all out. “Actually, no. I’m not okay.”

Alejandra’s brows furrowed. “Is it Stephanie?”

She nodded, voice growing more animated as she began to explain. “She just…she just ruined everything. This was supposed to be papá and I’s day, and then that woman shows up out of nowhere, clinging to papá like some leech, acting like she owns the place. I don’t even know who she is in our lives, but I can tell that she’s not even genuine.”

Alejandra nodded slowly, lips pressing into a thin line. “I thought you might feel this way,” she said quietly. After a moment of hesitation, she took a deep breath.

“Stephanie,” Alejandra started, “is someone your papá met at a charity gala a few months ago. She was very persistent, made sure to stay in his orbit, always showing up where she was. At first, I thought it was just a coincidence, but it became clear to me that she was doing all of it on purpose.”

Jullianna’s eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her crossed arms.

“She began to visit the house not long after. Always unannounced, always with some excuse. She claimed she wanted to get to know the family better, but I could see through her act,” Alejandra continued, tone growing sharper. “She’s very good at pretending to be sweet, but underneath all that makeup and designer clothes…Está podrida hasta el fondo, mi chica. A manipulative woman who only cares about herself.”

Jullianna’s jaw clenched as Alejandra’s words sank in. “Does papá even know all about this?” she asked carefully, though a part of her already suspected the answer.

Alejandra shrugged, shaking her head. “Your papá’s not blind, but he can be too trusting. That woman really does know how to pull someone in, but I see right through her. She’s only after what she can gain from being with your papá—money, status, connections. Todo eso. Your papá is a kind man, but that makes him vulnerable to people like Stephanie.”

Jullianna blinked, she was stunned into silence. Her mind raced with questions, but one thing Alejandra said suddenly clicked in her brain. “Wait a minute. Alejandra, how old is she?”

Alejandra hesitated before answering. “Veintiocho,” she said, tone casual, as if trying to downplay it.

“What?!” Jullianna’s reaction was immediate, her voice was loud enough to make a few nearby birds flutter away. “That woman is twenty-eight?! She’s old enough to be my sister!”

“Yes, exactly.” Alejandra couldn’t help but smirk at Jullianna’s sudden outburst. “And she behaves like a spoiled child, that’s why I don’t trust her. Everything about her is calculated, from her clothes to the way she speaks. Esa mujer sabe jugar el juego.”

Jullianna felt her blood boiling now, anger mixing with her earlier disappointment. “And she’s been coming here? While I was at camp?”

Alejandra nodded again, folding her arms. “Almost every week. She claimed it was to ‘support’ your father, but I know better. That woman wants to attach herself to everything, and she’s made it clear she’ll do whatever it takes.”

Jullianna then looked back towards the circuit, where Stephanie was now all over Fernando, laughing at something her papá had said. The sight made her stomach churn.

“I can’t believe this,” she muttered, voice tight with frustration. “Todo el día está arruinado. I don’t even want to be here anymore.”

“I know it’s frustrating, mi niña,” Alejandra placed a reassuring hand on Jullianna’s shoulder. “But don’t let her ruin your time with your papá. That woman thrives on attention, if you ignore her and focus on what matters, she’s defenseless against you.”

Jullianna nodded slowly, though her anger and disappointment still burned in her chest. She looked back at the circuit, her mood now completely soured.

“I just want to go home,” she muttered. “I’m done with today.”

Alejandra sighed, giving Jullianna’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come on, let’s head back. Necesitas descansar. Don’t worry about her, cariño. She’s not worth your energy.”

The journey back to their home in Madrid was subdued, the tension almost palpable in the air. Jullianna sat in the backseat, her face turned toward the window as the evening sun cast streaks of orange and gold across the countryside. Fernando glanced at her through the rearview mirror a few times, concern etched on his face, but he chose not to push it. Jullianna’s silence spoke volumes, and he didn’t want to risk saying something that might upset her further.

Alejandra, who was seated beside Jullianna, kept her eyes at the window, hands folded neatly on her lap. She had already decided that this was something Jullianna needed to process on her own. When they finally pulled into the driveway, Fernando parked the car and turned to Jullianna.

“Sofia, we were supposed to visit your abuelo and abuela today, but maybe we can do it some other time, sí?” his voice was soft, almost tentative.

Jullianna just gave Fernando a small nod, gaze still fixed on the floor of the car as she unbuckled her seatbelt. She then murmured, “okay,” before slipping out of the car and heading towards the house, with Fernando and Alejandra following suit.

Fernando sighed as he watched Jullianna’s retreating figure. “¿Qué le pasa?” he asked, turning to Alejandra. “She was fine earlier. Did something happen that I didn’t see?”

Alejandra hesitated, feigning ignorance. “I’m not sure, Fernando. Maybe she’s just tired, you know how moody teenagers can be—moods change so quickly. Give her some time, I’m sure she’ll feel better by tomorrow.”

Fernando nodded, though his worry didn’t dissipate. “Maybe I pushed her too much today,” he said, almost to himself. “It was supposed to be fun, but…”

“No, no, tranquilo,” Alejandra interjected, tone firm but kind. “This isn’t your fault. She just needs space right now, don’t overthink it.”

He ran a hand through his hair, brows furrowed. “I hate seeing her like this. She was smiling earlier, laughing even. Now…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

Alejandra offered him a reassuring smile. “She’ll be okay, Fernando. Trust me. Déjala descansar esta noche, ¿de acuerdo?”

As Alejandra turned to leave, Fernando called after her. “Wait, Alejandra, I won’t be home tomorrow. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be back by the evening.”

Alejandra nodded. “Alright. I’ll take care of things here, don’t worry.”

“And…” Fernando hesitated for a moment. “Can you cook Sofia’s favorite meal tomorrow for breakfast? Maybe that will cheer her up a bit.”

She smiled. “Por supuesto, consideralo hecho.”

Fernando sighed, leaning back against the wall as Alejandra left the room. Despite her reassurances, a pang of guilt still lingered in his chest.

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft patterns across the bedroom walls as Jullianna slowly blinked awake. She lay still for a moment, cocooned in the quiet of the house. The event of yesterday lingered in her mind, a heavy weight pressing down on her chest. She groaned softly, pulling the blanket over her head.

A sharp knock at the door startled her. “Sofia,” Alejandra’s voice called out, light but firm. “Breakfast is ready. Come down soon, okay?”

Jullianna exhaled deeply and sat up, the blanket falling to her lap. She stretched, joints cracking softly in the stillness. After taking a few moments to gather herself, she slipped out of bed and padded over the door.

When she got down, the house was quiet, eerily so, as she made her way downstairs. The faint aroma of freshly toasted bread and coffee drifted from the kitchen. Jullianna noticed Fernando’s absence immediately and glanced at Alejandra, who was tidying the kitchen counters.

“Alejandra, where’s papá?” she asked, voice soft.

Alejandra turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “He left early this morning. Said he had something important to take care of, but he’ll be back by evening.”

Jullianna just nodded slowly, her gaze drifting to the table. The breakfast spread was simple yet inviting—fresh bread, tortilla española, slices of jamón, pan con tomate, and a small dish of olives. It was distinctly Spanish, and Jullianna assumed that it was all Sofia’s favorite. She sat down without a word, her stomach grumbling faintly.

As she began to eat, she glanced at Alejandra. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Alejandra shook her head with a small smile. “I’ve already had my breakfast, chica. This is all for you.”

Jullianna nodded again, her focus returning to her plate. The silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the gentle clinking of pans as Alejandra washed up. Then, after breakfast, Jullianna decided she needed a distraction, something to clear her head. So she went back to her room and rummaged through her suitcase, pulling out a simple one-piece swimsuit. Over it, she threw on an oversized shirt that fell past her thighs, providing just enough coverage to make her comfortable.

The pool had been a quiet haven during her stay, and she hoped for the same serenity this time. As she descended the stairs, her mood soured instantly. Stephanie was in the living room. She was perched on the edge of a plush armchair, scrolling through her phone, legs crossed elegantly. The sound of her clicking heels on the floor must have been what Jullianna heard earlier.

Alejandra, who was arranging some magazines on the coffee table, caught Jullianna’s eye and gave her a look, one that said, I don’t know why she’s here, I didn’t invite her. Jullianna sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. Stephanie, of course, noticed her immediately and squealed in delight.

“¡Sofía!” Stephanie practically jumped out of the armchair, her excitement so exaggerated that Jullianna instinctively covered her ears. “Oh my goodness, I was hoping I’d run into you!”

Jullianna fought all of her urges to roll her eyes. Instead, she forced a polite smile. “If you’re here for papá, you’re out of luck,” she said, tone flat. “Papá won’t be home until this evening.”

Stephanie blinked, her smile faltering slightly. “Oh, well, I didn’t know that.” she quickly recovered, brushing a strand of perfectly styled hair behind her ear. “But that’s fine! I can wait. We can hangout, just the two of us for the meantime.”

Jullianna froze for a split second, Stephanie’s words sending a chill down her spine. “Je vais laisser tomber,” she muttered quietly under her breath, turning on her heel and heading for the pool.

Behind her, she heard the unmistakable sound of clicking heels. Jullianna groaned inwardly as she realized Stephanie was following her. She stopped abruptly at the door leading to the pool, turning to face the woman.

“What are you doing?” Jullianna questioned, trying not to sound snappy.

Stephanie gave her a puzzled look. “I’m coming with you, of course! It’ll be so fun! We can sunbathe, maybe take some selfies.”

Jullianna stared at her for a long moment before sighing heavily. “Sure,” she said finally, tone dripping with sarcasm. “Fun.”

Without waiting for a response, she pushed open the door and stepped outside, the warm sun hitting her face. The pool glistened invitingly, but the thought of spending even a second more with Stephanie was enough to sap any excitement she had felt earlier.

“Ay dios mío,” Jullianna muttered to herself as she still heard Stephanie’s heels clicking against the patio. “La journée va être longue.”

Jullianna placed her towel neatly on one of the sun beds, the fabric a stark white against the bright blue of the pool tiles. She adjusted it carefully, ensuring no corner was left out of place, before tugging off the oversized shirt she wore over her swimsuit. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Stephanie perched on a nearby sun bed, watching her with curious intensity that made Jullianna’s skin crawl.

With deliberate calm, Jullianna folded her shirt and set it next to her towel, ignoring the scrutiny. Without a word, she walked to the edge of the pool, took a quick breath, and leapt in, her body slicing through the water before surfacing with an intentionally big splash. The spray of cool water arched through the air, some of it landing on Stephanie, who let out an exaggerated squeal.

“¡Ay!” Stephanie cried, jerking backward as though she had been doused with a bucket of water. She reached for a towel, dabbing delicately at her face and arms.

Jullianna resurfaced, brushing her wet hair out of her eyes and blinking innocently. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” she said, voice dripping with mock concern. “I didn’t mean to splash you, Steph.”

Stephanie glanced at her, the corners of her mouth pulled into a strained smile. “It’s okay, cariño,” she said, though her tight grip on the towel showed her irritation. “Really.”

Jullianna suppressed a smirk, knowing full well that Stephanie was seething because one of her designer clothes was splashed with water. With a nonchalant shrug, she swam towards one of the floaties bobbing near the middle of the pool. She grabbed it, resting her arms on the inflatable surface as she turned to face Stephanie.

Stephanie had settled back on her sun bed, legs crossed elegantly as she faced Jullianna directly. Her eyes scanned Jullianna for a moment before she began to speak.

“So, Fernando had told me so much about you,” Stephanie said, tone saccharine. “I had no idea how close you two were.”

Jullianna raised a brow, tilting her head slightly as she tread water. “Well,” she said, a faint smile playing on her lips, “that’s because we’re each other’s halves.”

Stephanie blinked, caught off guard by the response, but quickly recovered. She leaned forward, clasping her hands together. “That’s sweet,” she said. “I mean, it’s obvious how much he loves you. He talks about you all the time.”

Jullianna hummed, the sound of it almost dismissive. She rested her chin on the floatie, watching Stephanie with a calm that belied her irritation. Stephanie’s gaze flickered briefly, confidence faltering for a moment before she plastered on another smile.

“Actually,” she began, tone light, “while you were away at camp, your papá took me karting. It was so much fun, and—well, I hope you don’t mind, but he let me use your kart.”

The faintest flicker of annoyance flashed across Jullianna’s face, but she quickly masked it. “Oh, that’s fine,” she said breezily, waving a hand in the water. “It’s pretty normal for him to let someone ride my kart.”

Stephanie smiled, seemingly appeased, but Jullianna was not done. She let her lips curl into a sly smile, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You’re actually number twenty-nine on his list, you know.”

“What…list?” her smile faltered.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Jullianna said, feigning surprise. She propped herself up on the floatie, her tone conspiratorial. “It’s just this thing papá does. Whenever someone new comes into his life, he always takes them to his circuit. It’s kind of his way of testing people, I guess. There was Paula before you, and then Francesca before her…honestly, I’ve lost track of the names. But if I’m not mistaken, you’re number twenty-nine, and twenty-nine is a lucky number.”

Stephanie stared at her, expressing a mix of confusion and growing irritation. “I…didn’t realize,” she said slowly, voice tight.

“Yeah, it’s just one of his quirks. I guess he really likes seeing how people handle themselves at the circuit, well in life, generally. Some do great, others…not so much.” Jullianna shrugged, pushing off the floatie and swimming lazily towards the pool’s edge. “I’m sure you’ve made your mark since papá decided to keep you around. But I always say, it’s none of my business if a man his age wants to make a fool out of himself. Although, maybe he’s changed and you’re the real thing, Steph.”

Pulling herself out of the pool, Jullianna stood, water dripping from her as she grabbed her own towel. She dried herself off slowly, the teasing smile never leaving her face as she glanced back at Stephanie.

“Oh, one more thing, Steph,” Jullianna said casually as she flung the towel over her shoulder. “If you’re planning on being with him in the long run, you’ll have to try a little harder. Papá’s got a pretty high standard when it comes to people he lets stick around.”

Stephanie’s mouth opened slightly, as though she wanted to respond, but Jullianna didn’t give her the chance.

“Well, it has been a pleasure meeting you, but I’ve got some things to do,” Jullianna said, turning towards the house. “Enjoy the pool, Steph. It’s all yours. Toodles!”

taglist : @qghosty , @seonghwaexile , @linnygirl09 , @tallrock35

[fushiguruuzzzz]

+ CHAPTER SIX // GROUPIES 

series mlist 

Tags — alcohol, Toge highkey jumpscares yn like he’s from fnaf, “he’s right behind me isn’t he… 😟” type moment, that’s all I think?? Words — 1.0k 

It took you a moment to realize what was going on. The lighting in the rustic, shabby bar was dim, just barely casting a glow over the sharp edges of the many faces before you. Nobody should’ve expected you to be paying attention to that, your only duty was to keep your voice melodic and make sure you didn’t trip on the chord of the microphone. You failed to notice the odd glances shared by the instrument players behind you, as well as the eyes wide as saucers staring at you from the farthest wall. 

Only when the set was over and you finally got a chance to breathe—or so you thought—did you get an inkling of awareness. You were leant against the battered wood of the bar, the material oddly cool compared to your flushed skin as you waited for your drink. Nobara was beside you, mindlessly chattering away about the rip in her favourite skirt or the way a guy in her class was looking at her, but then her expression changed. She glanced anxiously behind you, making motions with her head that were meant to be some sort of signal but ended up making her look like some sort of challenged bird. 

“Y/n,” she gritted, eyes narrowing. “Be…hind… you…” 

Your head turned, but you didn’t even get a glimpse of him before he spoke. His voice was teasing, but it cut through the background noise like a gunshot in the midst of a quiet night. “So this is why you couldn’t go out with me?” 

Nobara’s eyes widened, but there was a knowing gleam in them that told you she had this all figured out. She might’ve seemed dull, a hot-headed, fashion obsessed girl concerned with nothing much, but there were more layers to her than her well-coordinated outfits. “I’ll leave you to it,” she smirked. She swiped her drink from the counter, and then all that was left of her was spilled droplets of her overly fruity beverage. 

You turned, meeting his eye. Your hip pressed into the wood, casual and inviting as you smiled. “If I denied that, would you believe me?” 

He shook his head, a huff of amusement leaving him. In the low lights, his hair reflected a soft gold, his skin looking smooth and ivory. He looked… good. Really good. You barely knew him, yet it was taking everything in you not to reach out, to run your hands over the sharp ridges of his face, stare into the soft, purple eyes that looked at you now. You’d never taken much interest in boys, never giggled and gossiped with the other girls at sleepovers while you painted your nails and braided each other’s hair. Toge seemed to flip that 180°, to give you that giddy feeling in your stomach that you’d grown to know as butterflies, but never felt personally. Not until now, at least. 

He leaned forward just a small bit, almost unnoticeable, almost involuntary. His face didn’t show it, but he could feel his heart pulsing in his ears. “You know, I figured this—” he motioned to the stage, microphone sitting prettily where you’d been standing just minutes before.  “—would be something worth mentioning. An ice breaker, maybe?” 

Your chest rose and fell with a quiet chuckle, one that couldn’t be heard beneath the clinking of glasses and drunken chatter. “But then I’d lose my mysterious allure, wouldn’t I?” 

“No offence, but I’m pretty sure stuttering over text cancels that out,” he shot back. His lips curled up into a grin, wide and genuine. You two seemed to be on the same frequency, something new and refreshing and undeniably enticing, growing with every retort. You laughed, and he felt his smile grow until it hurt his cheeks. “I can’t say I’m any better, though,” he admitted, leaning an elbow on the corner of the bar. 

“I know.” 

His brows knitted together in playful offence. “Hey! You’re not supposed to agree.” 

“You want me to lie?” 

“You lied about being a literal rockstar, so is a fib to protect my emotions that much of a stretch?” he said dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. Your body curled forward with laughter, eyes crinkling and hand reaching to cover your mouth. Maybe it was the alcohol or the breathlessness from singing, but you were pretty sure your head spinning was caused purely by Toge. His energy, the way the air around him seeped into you like it was meant to mingle with you all along—it drew you in like a magnet and sent your senses into orbit. 

He laughed with you, soft and carefree. It might’ve been nothing but a 30 minute break in the show, yes, but the moment seemed infinite to you. Being around him didn’t feel like a collection of moments, it seemed to stretch on, an endless tunnel of golden lights and coffee and smiles that left your face feeling sore. 

Across the room stood your friends, all clumped together and oddly silent. They gazed across at your figures, seeming to glow with the warmth that could only be brought from within. You didn’t know it, but they all knew what was to come, and they were… happy. For you. For him. They didn’t know Toge very well, and you didn’t either, but things felt different when he was around. Your eyes gleamed with just a little more light, something soft and bright and doughy, like how you looked when you came home after a long time away. It was slightly unnerving (in Megumi’s words), sure, but beautiful nonetheless. There was an unspoken sense of acquaintance between the three, shared between glances and the distance between you and them. 

Just then it was only you and Toge and the heavy warmth in your chest, and that was completely okay. 

Cat’s outta the bag ig???

maybe that should’ve been the chapter name

whatever I already had them planned out

Toge is yn’s groupie confirmed

I haven’t mentioned whether maki and Megumi are cousins this time, so view it as you wish

Hitting the halfway mark… this one is a very different dynamic than bttoh I think… Maybe I don’t have this series as much as I like to pretend I do… ig… I’ve been so chopped lately someone kill me. AND the Moodboard I posted flopped really bad do yall hate me be honest

Taglist — 50/50

@anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @adoresia @auroratumbles @sh0ot1ngst4r @soobin1437 @mystic-megumi @cinnamxnangel @lizbix @s3ns4ti0n4l @anonnieghost @s4toruz @gumims @bubybubsters @k4ss11333 @rreveurdoll @kaged-kitty @rwura @aldebrana @hqnge @good-mourning0 @daisies-and-domming @vi0let-writes @dazaisfavgf @hearts4aloise @coolgirl458 @keyaea @jealovsie @sirenla @academiq @mammoanlmao @moonchhu @ichcocat @blubearxy @hayl09 @q2uq2u @potteraep @fiannee @lailakys @jxisnwaol @treeguzzler @nanaanatiion @zayuriluvs @kr1nqu @cloudxox @azinniyaa @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @rottingvxmpire @gradmacoco @spkyssn

[bauwhores-blog]

Impulsus

emperor geta x fem!reader

summary: Since childhood, she has stood by Geta’s side, offering him quiet devotion he never fully returns after becoming emperor. Realizing she can no longer chase a love he refuses to share, she leaves Rome forever, but not before writing him one last letter, a farewell he may never read.

contents: no warnings, just a bit depressing and sad

a/n: its been a while since I’ve published any of my writing but I got emotional so I incorporated something personal of mine in this piece. (a story for another time lmao) It’s small just a little something for shits and giggles

She had loved him for as long as she could remember.

Not in the way the poets spoke of, not with grand declarations or gilded promises, but in quiet moments, in unspoken understanding. Yet love, unreturned, had a way of wearing one down.

They had grown up together. From the moment they met, there was something about him a quiet intensity, a sharpness in his gaze, and a mind that always seemed to be far ahead of everyone else. He and he is was a bright individual sharing her interests.

They laughed together, played together, shared secrets no one else knew. But as time passed, their bond began to shift. The weight of obligation and loyalty to the crown and his twin brother Caracalla weighed him down.

He began to pull away, confining himself away in his champers or swimming in alcohol and women. And she, always the quiet observer, found herself left in the space he once filled with warmth and trust.

It wasn’t sudden. No, it was gradual, like the slow movement of the seasons. She waited for him to let her in, to show her the part of him he kept so carefully guarded. But he never did. And somehow, she kept hoping. Hoping that her Geta, the little boy she met once and her first love would be back.

Now, with ink-stained fingers and a heart too heavy to carry any longer, she wrote to him one last time before she was gone forever, leaving him to drown in his newly found position as emperor.

Dear Geta,

It’s been more than a year now. You and Caracalla have been ruling with an iron fist. You’ve become unrecognisable, a different boy than the one I met years ago. I have missed you. I mourn you Geta as if you are no longer here.

There’s still a dull ache accompanying the thought of you, your face, your voice, which I’ve started to forget, and the quiet, almost imperceptible laugh you’d release under your breath every time you found something amusing or challenging. But it was always subtle. A half-breath. A signal, you could say. Never a full smile, always a smirk, a fleeting exhale that might resemble a laugh. But never a carefree expression. Never. You never let me in that way.

You entrusted me with things you’ve never shared with anyone else. Your words, not mine. And yet, you refused to offer me something so insignificant, or better yet, something so simple as a genuine smile. Was I not enough? A patient listener, but never the one being heard, am I right?

Anyway, you’re resilient. You don’t need it. That’s what you thought, right? After our discussion in your champers, the moment my expression shifted, became guarded, distant, cold.

You were surprised to see that I had now built the same walls you’ve always carried. You were surprised to see that maybe I wasn’t feeling as much as you assumed I did. You were surprised to witness the weight of your actions etched into my face. My face, a testament to your naïveté and impulse.

Impulse: a sudden, fierce, and unrefined urge to act without reflection.

I am your mirror, your unrequited desire, and the one thing you curse fate for bringing into your life. Sometimes, I hope you stop what you’re doing to think of me of what it could have been, or what it couldn’t and wouldn’t. I’m almost certain you do, but not for me. Not to mourn us, but for yourself. For your impulse.

Because I believe, no—I know—you regret it. But your pride, your ego, as always, holds you captive. Because you’re infallible, and your carefully constructed plans, your ambitions, are the only ones that matter. You see emotion not as strength, but as a distraction. Desire as a vice, and love as a weakness.

What is there left for you? Your obsession with perfection and validation will destroy you just as much as you claimed love will destroy me. Or perhaps your plight is far worse, you’re cursed. Cursed in a cell made of gold and power.

Love is not merely a fleeting emotion it is a way of living. A path to something greater than the cold perfection and calculated order you so desperately cling to in your world. It is a way to either freedom or enslavement.

The difference, my love, is that love, seen through a different lens, is beautiful. Perfection and calculation, no matter how meticulously you arrange and observe them, are prisons. Your prison. Your undoing.

Goodbye Geta,

I love you.

Y/n

[wonnieluv]

Goodness knows, the wicked’s lives are lonely - Sim Jake

Summary: Jake Sim doesn’t know what year it is, he doesn’t know what month it is, he doesn’t know what day it is, and he doesn’t care. Ever since that fateful day in 1692, he stopped caring. Now, it’s 2024 and he’s grown more violent, more vengeful, more cold, more… alone

vampire!Jake x fem!reader

warnings: death, themes of reincarnation, blood, y/n’s life is not easy, suggestive, biting, kissing. lmk if I missed anything

masterlist

The smell of fire was overpowering, screams echoed off of the trees but they were not afraid, no… they were… excited, passionate, enraged.

He remained where he was, hidden in the trees as he watched the people march through the forest, his forest. They carried torches that burned an angry shade of orange against the trees.

The angry crowd halted at a large tree deep in the forest. Not much could be seen from the back of the crowd, but through the smoke, a young girl could be seen climbing a platform. Her tear streaked skin illuminated by the glow to the torches as the crowd shouted curses at her.

“Burn the witch!”

“Kill that spawn of Satan”

As she looked upon the sea of angry faces she once knew. The smiles she used to see now replaced with scowls as their mouths cursed her.

In the midst of her thoughts she failed to feel the toughness of the rope against her neck until it was too late. Harsh hands shoved her off of the platform. Her told hands keeping her from struggling as she was left there to die

“what… have you done”

An angry voice boomed from deep within the woods. He stepped out onto the path. Fangs gritted in a snarl, claw-like hands bared, eyes glowing a bright red due to the reflection of the fire form the torches. His aura was fierce and intimidating as he approached the crowd. He was angry.

Without hesitation he immediately began to kill. Clawing hands clawing the chest of anyone who dared step in his path. Fangs plunging deep into the necks of every person in his sight.

By the time he laid your body on the ground, your head in his lap; tears no longer fell from your eyes. The heat that once warmed his palms as he caressed your cheeks has now almost completely disappeared. Your eyes still wide open as they gazed up at him as his own tears began to wet your pale cheeks.

“I’m so sorry… I didn’t protect you… I couldn’t save you on time my love…”

“Return to me please… Y/N…” He finished with a final kiss to your forehead as he lay you peacefully to rest.

From that moment forward, Sim Jaeyun would proceed to break every single promise he once made you.

He began to feed on humans again as he did before he met you, only this time, he was far more violent, more cruel, more… wicked.

࿎

Within the vampire world, there are councils and laws to regulate how much human blood vampires were allowed to consumed within certain time frames as the consumption of human blood has the ability to increase a vampires powers.

Sim Jaeyun no longer cared for the rules. He fed, and fed, and fed, and fed. He recklessly killed any human he wanted whenever he wanted. He didn’t care. No matter how many he killed, he couldn’t satisfy the need for revenge.

In response the higher powers banished him to an eternal prison deep in the forest where he now resides.

“They say he is bound by a magical barrier and is unable to leave the woods. They say that’s why the woods are off limits because you can no longer be protected if you step into the barrier. They say- what?! I’m not done yet” the older boy sneered at the 4-year-old who eagerly raised a hand.

“W-well what about his family. Does he get to see his mom and dad?” She asks with wide eyes

“Are you serious” the boy scoffs “He’s a monster, a wicked, blood-thirsty monster. He’s better off alone. Anyways as I was saying…”

You had heard many of the tales of the castle nestles deep within the forest. Whether you believed them or not, you were still unsure. All you know, is that the castle exists and anyone who has ever step foot in the forest has not lived to tell the tale.

Now, at the age of 20, you stare out the window at the looming spires you can see just over the tree line from the window of the orphanage you work in. The orphanage you once called home- well, still called home. Your life had been nothing easy.

Since you can remember, you’ve lived within the walls of the orphanage. No family in the town wanted to adopt you, so, you found yourself staring out the window wondering what life was like in the rest of the world. What life would be like when you finally escaped this forsaken town.

Now, as you stumble into adulthood, you’re not sure if you ever will. You were smart enough, forced to quit high school halfway through to help the older women with the young kids at the orphanage.

As December came with the cold whisper of winter, things proceeded to go as they always did. That is, until the prized daughter of the mayor of your town disappeared into the woods one night. The mayor had decided enough was enough.

“On the night of Christmas Eve, we shall sacrifice a loyal town member, a pure member of our community to try and please whatever lays beyond the edges of the forest”

I pity the poor soul who’ll end up being sacrificed due to the madness of this town. You thought as you continued to clean.

What you didn’t expect, was to be the poor soul stood at the edge of the woods while the entire town beckoned her to step in. To walk the old path to the dark castle deep in the forest. But who were you kidding no cared for an unwanted orphan anyways

You held your head high and stepped onto the path. Faint footprints of the forests last victims still visible as you trudge through the cold. You don’t look back, you don’t cry, you just walk.

You keep your eyes ahead of you, bracing for whatever lies ahead of you. Eventually the footprints in the snow disappear. Maybe the last victim didn’t make it this far, or maybe the snow covered them. You opt to believe the second option in naive optimism.

The first gets thicker as you move further into the forest until you make it to the one place you never imagined you’d ever be. The castle.

In that instance you hear rustling behind you. As you turn around, the last thing you see is the movement of black fabric against the wind before the whole world goes dark.

࿎

It’s been 331 years and 90 days since you were taken away from him but who’s counting.

Jake is. Does he know what year it is? No. Does he know what month it is? No. Does he know what the date is? No. All he knows is it’s been

331 years and 90 days since you were taken from him.

331 years and 90 days since he’s vengefully killed every human who put you to death.

331 years and 90 days since he has felt any emotion other than hatred and anger.

You see to him, loving you was the easiest thing he’s ever done.

Having you by his side was more important to him than drinking human blood, than hearing the screams of fear and pain as he drained his victims, than having people cower at the mention of his name.

But you were gone…

And now here he is, banished to these woods where he can only feed on the few foolish humans who attempt to prove he doesn’t exist.

Very few animals live here anymore, he killed them all.

He lounges around the castle until the scent of his next meal hits his nostrils, he rushes to claim his next victim before returning the castle and waits around for the next one.

This has continued for years, probably centuries at this point, but again… who’s counting?

Here he is today, he could sense the presence of a large group of people outside the forest, maybe this time he’ll have a feast on his hands. He smirks at the thought. He decides to take his time with this one. Why not play with his food a little?

Well that was the plan, until he smelled something. A scent he hasn’t smelled in 331 years and 90 days.

it can’t be…

Before he knew it he was standing behind a young girl in a white cloak as she trudged along the path shivering in the cold with nothing but a lantern to light her way.

“Y/N” he whispers to himself

He continued to follow you silently as you continued on your way towards his castle. Your scent was intoxicating. It has taken every last bit of self control for him to not bring you into his arms and turn you for eternity as he should have over 300 years ago. But he resisted as he knew, you aren’t the same person he once loved.

As you reached the bottom of the palace steps, he stepped out of the shadows. He noticed your body trembling as your features have become pale due to the cold of the winter. In a blue of panic and impulse he rushed to you. The next thing he knew, your body had fallen limp in his arms.

He just sat there. On the steps of his castle with your body limp and cold in his arms. The image reminiscent of that day he lost you for what felt like an eternity.

He rushed inside the castle with you in his arms. He laid you gently on the bed in the bedroom he kept as his own (despite the fact that he doesn’t sleep). With panicked eyes and shaky hands he tended to you. Wrapped you warmly in the blankets and even lit a fire in the fireplace while surrounding the bed with candles to keep you warms.

Once he felt he had done enough, he sat on the floor next to the bed and help your hand in his as he stared at you. He wanted nothing more than to take you into his arms and hold you once again, but he knows that wouldn’t be fair to you, so he’ll wait. He’s waited an eternity to see you again, what’s a couple more hours until you wake up?

࿎

Hell. That’s where you’ve deemed you are. In the deep pits of hell. Your body sweating, your head throbbing. The first thing you see when you open your eyes is red. Red walls, red furniture, red blankets.

Where in the 50 shades am I…

You use your hands to help yourself sit up, or… you tried to. As you look to your left hand you see it’s being held… by another hand. When you trace the hand to its owner your met with the pale face and dark eyes of a man you’ve never seen before.

“Oh my god!” You immediately jump back

“No no! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…” he immediately stands up trying to reach out to you

“Don’t touch me!” You continue to back away from him until you reach the other end of the bed. You immediately stand up on wobbly legs

“Please sit back down. I’ll explain everything! your body is still recovering form the cold…” he says in a panicked manner.

You look into his eyes as you try to read him but you can’t. Yet for some reason, your mind is giving you no reason to not trust him and your heart… your heart is urging you to move closer to him.

You only partially listen to your heart as you sit back down on the edge of the bed.

“Who… who are you?” You ask

He sits next to you, leaving a reasonable amount of space before he answers.

“My name is Sim Jaeyun… but you can call me Jake... and I’m the vampire who resides in this forest.” He softly explains

Your breath hitches “so the stories were true…”

“Mmm” he hums in response

“So you’ve killed all those people… all this time… and I’m next…?” You don’t look at him as a tears trickles down your face. You know the answer already but you still asked.

“Yes… I did kill all of those people… but no… I’m not going to kill you” He says as he slightly inches towards you and reaches up to wipe your tears.

You slightly flinch at the contact of his hand on your face before your body subconsciously relaxes into his touch.

“Hey… look at me” he cups your face with both of his hands guiding you to look at him “I won’t kill you. I would never kill you. I can’t lose you… not again…” his voice trails off at the end

“…again…?“ Your head snaps up as you try to search his eyes for an answer

“I’ll explain that in time but… you need some warmer clothes and some food” he points to a bathroom behind you “there’s clothes in there for you. I’ll be downstairs in the kitchen when you’re done” he smiles as he rises from the bed.

You almost want to pull his wrist back, missing to feeling of him being near you but you remind yourself this is a deadly vampire.

I’m the moment your stomach grumbles.

Well if he poisons me at least I’ll die with a full stomach

࿎

After changing into new warm clothes, you make your way to the kitchen. The smell guiding your nose to the spacious kitchen where you see Jake cooking… ramen?

“I didn’t know supernatural beings ate ramen? I thought you were bound to this forest?” You try to suppress a giggle

He whips his head around in surprise not hearing you approach despite his heightened senses.

“Oh! Uhhh… yes… well no… I’m not bound. I can leave the forest I’m just invisible to humans. They can’t see me… I can’t touch them” he scratches the back of his neck. You could’ve sworn that if he had blood running through his veins it would’ve rushed to his cheeks.

“It was the first thing I saw when I went to get food” he said sheepishly “if you don’t like it I can go get something else!” He rushes out.

You just laugh at this point. How are you supposed to believe this is the feared vampire that has terrorized your town for generations. This man who doesn’t look over 23 years old, who’s fumbling over making ramen for you… a monster…? There’s no way.

“W-what’s so funny” he says with a nervous smile

“There is no way in hell that you are the monstrous vampire everyone is afraid of… this has to be a prank” you turn around “okay guys! Jokes up! This was funny-”

You barely finish your sentence before your back comes in contact with the counter behind you. You wince slightly and when your eyes open again Jake’s face is hovering above your own adorning a devilish smirk.

“I wish I could prove you right darling…” he chuckles as you feel his breath fan your face “but unfortunately…” he lowers his head to whisper into your ear “I am the monster”

A shiver runs down your spine as you put your hands on his shoulder to support yourself as his head dips down to your neck.

“And I could kill you too…” your breath hitches as you finally feel the sharpness of his fangs graze your neck as his hand cradles your head to keep it in place “but I’ve waited too long to have you with me again”

He leaves a light kiss on your neck before lifting you up to sit on the counter with him in between your legs “so… you should get used to it my love…”

The next thing you know he’s off of you and back to tending to the ramen you had long forgotten about as you’re sat stunned on the counter.

“Now you should eat and get more of your strength back” he smiles at you as he sets a bowl down for you on the table.

You snap out of your daze and hop off of the counter to sit at the table and eat the ramen. You say nothing as your stomach takes over and you begin to eat. As you’re halfway through the bowl you notice he’s staring at you.

“What?” You say as you swallow the next bite.

He blinks out of his trance and clears his throat “oh… nothing”

You continue to eat as he glances at you. You know he’s trying to not stare at you but you decide to not ask about it quite yet and you focus on eating the delicious ramen in front of you.

࿎

After you’ve eaten Jake guided you back to the bedroom you were in earlier.

“You should sleep for now. You’re probably still recovering from the cold earlier” He goes back to the fireplace to tend to the fire to keep the room warm for you.

“How do you know my name…?” He freezes at your question

“W-well… you told me earlier… remember?” He says as he turns back to the fireplace

“No. I didn’t... also I’m not gonna be able to sleep if you don’t answer some of my questions so… why avoid it”

He sighs turning to you “fine… but please… just… ugh” he groans out “no questions until the end”

You nod. He gestures for you to sit on the bed and you do. He sits down with you taking a deep breath.

“I knew you a long time ago” he starts looking out the window. An unfamiliar light in his eyes.

“How long ago?”

“Over 300 years ago”

Your eyes widen at his answer

࿎

Your heart raced in your chest as you ran through the forest. Your lungs burning. You had stayed out far too late and now it was dark. You had to make it home by morning so your only option was to go through the forest by yourself in the dark.

Not far into your journey, you hear the sound of footsteps behind you. Without looking back you ran with everything you had. Unfortunately the light of the moon shining above you was obstructed by the thick trees and you tripped on a branch you had not seen.

“Well well… look what he have here…” a man chuckled from behind you.

You turn around and begin to back away seeing two men begin to close in

“No please!” You try to beg

“Look at her… she’s so scared. I bet her blood’s delicious” his tongue poking out to lick over the prominent fangs as the two of them immediately rush at you picking you up and pinning you to a tree

“No…” you flinch bracing to feel the pain but the next thing you know, their hands are off of you…

You look up and see another man fighting both of them off.

“Stop hunting in my territory if you know what’s good for you” he seethes

“Next time you won’t be so lucky Sim” one of the two men spat out as they both turn and in the blink of an eye disappear into the forest

The man they called Sim turned to face you. “Are you alright…”

You flinch back as he tries to approach you “please… just let me be on my way”

He says nothing as he scoops you up into his arms “hold on tight m’lady”

You obey as you lock your arms around his neck. You feel a breeze as he rushes through the forest with you in his arms. It’s all so overwhelming so you bury your head in his neck and close your eyes

“We’ve arrived darling…” he gently lets you down. You open your eyes and immediately recognize the entrance to your town.

“How-? I-I… Thank you sir-” You turn to properly thank him but he had disappeared as quickly as he had appeared in the first place.

You searched for weeks for him until one day you stumbled across his hut in the woods.

He did everything in his power to get you to stay away but you were stubborn. You showed up at the same time every Tuesday and Saturday and just like that… his undead heart began to yearn for you.

He had fallen in love with you. He knew he would do everything to keep you by his side. He loved you passionately as if you’d disappear at any moment until one night… you did.

He searched endlessly for you until he found your scent parked with the smell of… smoke?

“They hung you… someone accused you of witchcraft and that was the end of it…” he breathed out

“The day they took you from me… I vowed to never protect a human the way I had protected you…” you could sense the anger in his voice as he continued.

“I-I didn’t know what to do… I was so angry so I just killed. I killed and killed and killed. All of them-” his words were interrupted by a sensation he never thought he’d ever feel again for the rest of his cursed eternal life

Your soft, warm lips on his

But before he could kiss you back you had pulled away.

“Jake…” you look into his eyes with tears in your own as you hold his face in your hands.

You places on of his hands over your own as he looked into your eyes and for the first time in 331 years and 90 days, a tear slid down his cheek.

“Y-you were- are my everything… and they just took you away from me… I didn’t know what to do” you continue to hold his face in your hands as you wipe is tears as they fall.

You maneuver him to lay down on the bed as you lay with him resting your head on his chest. His arms immediately circle your waist.

“I can’t lose you again” he says as he buries his head into your hair.

“You won’t have to… they all probably think I’m dead…” you say with a hint of sadness lacing your tone.

“What to you mean… they would want to know you’re alive” he runs a hand through your hair

You shake your head as tears of your own form in your eyes “I was sacrificed… to you” you look up at him

You see an immediate shift in his features to anger “how dare they… those filthy humans… they should know better that one sacrifice wouldn’t have been enough anyways, I’ll kill them all some day-”

“Hey hey…” you cut him off “maybe it’s for the best…”

“Y/N… how is this for the best… don’t get me wrong, I’ve yearned for the day I could have you here all to myself for all of time but… that’s not fair to you. What about your family… friends…” he caresses you cheek as worry laced his tone.

“I don’t… have any… I’ve been an orphan my whole life Jake… I’ve been… alone my whole life”

He sits in silence. The anger coursing through his veins only gets stronger hearing you recount how lonely your life has been but he decides to say nothing about it this time. Instead… he utters the words he’s never uttered before…

“Let me turn you… my love. Spend an eternity here… with me…” he says with a kiss to your forehead as he gently caresses your waist where his arm lays.

You look at him. You’ve known this man for a matter of hours, he’s given you no reason to trust you because granting you the ability to keep your life… so why… why do you believe every word that comes off of his tongue. Why do you want to say yes and spend the rest of your life by his side cursed with eternity as you live out your days with him in the castle. Why do you want to let him turn you into the monster everyone believes him to be…

Maybe because… he never was a monster to you. Because you knew deep down as you heard the tales, the whispers of his name on the street… that there’s more to Sim Jaeyun. You’d spent your entire life alone… Jake had spent 331 years and 90 days alone. Maybe, just maybe, he’d make you as happy as he did in your supposed past life.

Your heart speaks before your brain has the chance to…

“Please… let me spend the rest of eternity with you.”

He brings you into a passionate kiss. You can feel every emotion flowing from him. The love he holds for you, the yearning he has felt all this time, the pain he’s felt due to you not being here with him, and the desperation to have you as close as possible.

As he turns your bodies to lay you onto your back he breaks the kiss and looks deep into your eyes

“I’ve waited for this day, for centuries… but I cannot undo it once it’s done my love…” he says as he caresses your cheek once again “are you sure you want this?” He asks searching your eyes.

You nod with a soft smile “Yes Jake… I’m sure”

He smiles before giving you a soft peck.

The next sensation you feel is like fire across every part of your body. It burns but it doesn’t hurt. The venom of his fangs sinking deep into your skin as you link your fingers with Jake’s in one hand and grasp onto his hair with the other. The sensation like nothing you could describe. It was uncomfortable yet soothing. It coursed through your veins until you felt across every inch of your body, and then all the sudden… everything went cold.

As Jake detached from your neck, you could see with blurred vision the blood dripping from his fangs before he rolled over to the side and pulled your back to his chest. With one last kiss to the back of your head he whispered

“Sleep for now my love, when you wake… you will be hungry…”

With that you let your eyelids close knowing that when you woke… Jake would be right there beside you, where he would remain for all of eternity.

This was like 10x more suggestive than I wanted to be so sowwy

tags: @chlorophylliaa

[crguang]

games people play

You belong on the stage, you think, under blinding lights and at the forefront of an applauding audience. Most importantly, you only care to play along if Kafka stars in the play right alongside you.

afab!reader, kinda fluffy actually, smut, toys used, kafka is strapped and im not talking about the gun, dom!kafka, sub!bratty reader, some edging, rope play, kinda possessive kafka, 6.3k words…

A/N: this got away from me. i have nothing to say for myself.

Infiltration missions are your favorite; slipping into another person’s skin for a few hours, coming up with traits both obnoxious and serious in nature and performing in front of a naive, ignorant audience fills you with exhilaration.

Improvisation is even better, the anxiety of making up things on the fly feels like a hundred little bees buzzing in your stomach and you’ve grown so accustomed to its uneasiness by now that you often seek it out, it’s become a sort of addiction. Your team doesn’t understand— Silver Wolf prefers causing trouble from behind a screen and away from the action unless she needs to stretch her legs, Blade has too much on his mind to bother adding different characters into the mix, Firefly dreams to only live as herself. None of them share your excitement for acting and it would have been a great disappointment if it wasn’t for Kafka. Beautiful, guarded, eccentric Kafka. Constantly in search of adrenaline and always in movement, she is the only other member of your little illicit troupe of performers. Being with her is often the same as stepping on stage, what with all the half-truths and misleading statements, she is hidden under layers of costumes sometimes extravagant and other times impressively mundane. Even now, if she truly wishes to keep you at bay, you won’t be able to read her. It’s intoxicating. She plays you like the lines of a movie and together, under glaring lights and unsuspecting spectators, you dominate the stage.

You’re clasping the buttons of your shirt at the wrists, often slipping and having to start over, but despite the faint feeling of annoyance as you get dressed, you’re excited. Another evening of performing is ahead of you and it’s in times like this where you truly enjoy the work of the Stellaron Hunters. Having to blend in, to navigate a crowd of arrogant businessmen and pretentious admirers of the arts in order to steal the prized item of this auction feels like a scene straight out of a spy movie. What’s better is that you’re not meant to do this alone; Silver Wolf will be on comms as usual, hacking into the building to assure that the infiltration goes smoothly and Kafka will be right by your side, gloved hand in yours. Pre-performance jitters tingle your fingertips and toes. The sensation is welcome.

You tuck your shirt into your slacks and buckle the belt around your waist. You can hear shuffling and rummaging from the bathroom connected to the bedroom because of its open door. You pick the tie you laid out on the bed with the rest of your outfit earlier and wrap it around your neck, fiddling with it for some time before accepting the fact that you have no idea how to tie a tie and letting out a sigh of frustration. This is your first time wearing such a professional-looking suit complete with the loafers and tie, and you don’t know how to feel about it. It was slightly altered by your request, so it isn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. You stand in front of the full length mirror with your undone tie, turning this way and that. Your hair is done in a style you like and with the shoes on you have to admit that you look nice.

You hear the faucet being turned on in the bathroom and stalk towards it.

“Can you tie this for me?” You ask as you step inside and glance at the mess of beauty products on the counter. Some of them are yours used in your hair, but most are Kafka’s. This is her room, after all.

Kafka’s applying a thin coat of mascara on her lashes when you walk in, focused on her reflection in the mirror. She doesn’t spare you a glance until she puts the brush back into its tube, flutters her eyelashes a couple times and deems her work perfect. She turns to you, an amused smile growing on her lips at the tie resting around your neck.

“Don’t know how?” Kafka steps into your space and runs her fingers over the fabric. She starts to loop it around and over itself as you stand.

“Never had to learn.”

From this close, you can appreciate the eyeshadow at the corner of her eyes and the highlights on the apple of her cheeks. She hasn’t put on perfume yet or finished doing her lips, but she’s dressed in a form-fitting dark magenta dress that ends a little above her ankles, with thin straps and an open back. You feel no shame observing her backside through the mirror since she’s facing away from it. She’s stupidly gorgeous; you bring your eyes back to the dangling pearl earrings in her ears and the few strands of hair that cover them. If for some reason she stands out from the crowd tonight, it’ll be because she’s the most beautiful person in the room.

Kafka finishes tying your tie and pats your chest twice. She steps back and looks you over with a hum and a couple knuckles under her chin. When her gaze travels back up to meet yours, you catch a shimmer of appreciation in it.

“Well, you look dashing,” she says, her eyes following the movements of your hands as you smooth out your shirt.

You grin playfully, approaching her to lightly rest your hands on her waist. “The suit is doing it for you, isn’t it?”

Kafka lifts your chin with two fingers. “It is.”

Her honesty makes you huff out a laugh and the smile on her lips grows somewhat at the sound.

“I’ll have to come up with excuses to get you to wear it more often.”

“You could just ask.”

“That’s boring.”

You roll your eyes, glancing at the watch on your left wrist. “We have to meet Silver Wolf outside in 20 minutes.” You lean forward to plant a chaste kiss on her lips before letting go and leaving her to her makeup.

Fifteen minutes later, you’re shrugging on your coat when Kafka emerges from the bathroom to clasp a necklace around her neck and put on her heels. She carefully handles her own coat as she takes it out of the closet, putting it over her shoulders to complete her look. Her hair is secured in a low ponytail, as usual. The chain of her pendant rests between her breasts and the low neckline of her dress draws your attention to her chest for half a minute while you wait for her near the door.

You meet up with Silver Wolf with two minutes to spare and set off for the venue. It’s this city’s grandest museum, its marble columns can be seen from a distance as you approach in car. The streets are bustling with activity, glowing lights are shining on skyscrapers and stores have their doors open to assure a healthy flow for the customers coming in and out of them. The arts are greatly valued here, it shows in the pristine buildings and advertisements all around. You know it’s only because this is a richer neighborhood and surmise that the rest of the city doesn’t look as well put together. The ride to the museum is filled with Silver Wolf’s rock music in the speakers. Everything is in place, the comms she gave you are installed and all that’s left is to put on a show that the audience won’t forget.

Silver Wolf acts as your valet when you reach the venue and step out of the car, Kafka’s hand in yours. She slips into the driver’s seat and drives off to park somewhere close and inconspicuous. She’ll be supervising the mission from the back seat while the two of you do the heavy lifting.

Kafka curls a hand around your arm as you walk up the steps of the museum. You feel a little smug knowing that she’s here with you, at your arm. Getting inside is child’s play; your invitations are checked and the metal detector is no match for Silver Wolf’s genius tech, not that you’d ever tell her that. The interior is as impressive as its outside, with high ceilings, ceramic floors and precious artifacts displayed inside tall glass cases. You and Kafka make your way to where the Attouine Universal Auction will take place in one system hour, stopping to mingle with previously chosen targets on the way. You mingle among the upper crust, politicians, businessmen, academics alike so that Kafka can use her Spirit Whisper on them. The guest list isn’t large, only up to a total of 67 people, including you two. Lying to them is easy, pretending to be in love with Kafka is easier and you’re actually having fun half an hour in.

Kafka doesn’t let you do all the talking, she has no issue following your train of thought and assuring her advantage in the conversation. It’s admirable and effortless, you don’t get tired of seeing her in action. She has a champagne flute in one hand, occasionally pensively stirring the clear liquid inside. Her smile is rehearsed and comes as naturally as breathing when a couple sparks up a conversation with you. You’re happy to play along in front of the short woman and her husband, judging by the wedding band on her finger.

“What a beautiful pair you two make,” the brunette says, an air of forced politeness about her. She seems a little out of place, like she’s not used to these kinds of events. You guess that she’s only accompanying her husband to them and that he’s actually the one with recognition.

Her husband, however, stands with his chin high and his shoulders straight. He belongs there, or believes he does, and makes a show of showing everyone else.

You take Kafka’s hand in yours and bring it to your lips. “Thank you. She’s a diamond, isn’t she?”

The man follows the motion with his eyes but his wife replies before he can open his mouth. You hear Silver Wolf gag over the comms.

“Oh, how cute! Have you been together long?”

“A year, just about,” Kafka answers, looking at you. “This one’s always a charmer.”

“I can see that!”

You smile. “I’ve got to keep you around somehow… I’m aware of what a blessing you are.”

A sparkle of amusement shines in Kafka’s eyes, the corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly at your cheesy reply. You maintain your facade, but you also feel like laughing at how silly you sound. It’s not an untrue statement per se… it’s just weird to say such things out loud because all the both of you do is beat around the bush when it comes to genuine emotion. You’re playing a character but it feels a little like the lines between fiction and reality are blurring.

In your ear, Silver Wolf groans, “One more corny line and you’re getting muted. You both disgust me.”

The woman poses a hand on her husband’s arm, addressing him while keeping her eyes on you. “They’re just like us, aren’t they, Len?”

Your gaze flickers to his at the mention of his name and he immediately looks away into the distance to pretend he wasn’t staring at the necklace between Kafka’s breasts. You feel a faint tinge of annoyance flare up inside your chest.

“Yes, very lovely,” he says, faking the unbothered tone of his voice.

You don’t know what offends you the most; his atrocious acting or his unashamed ogling.

“I notice neither of you are wearing rings,” the woman continues with interest. “Will things be made official in the near future, perhaps…?”

Kafka lets out a chuckle— you can tell it’s a genuine one— and turns to you with a teasing smirk, “Oh, I don’t know… will they?”

You feel the familiar sensation of bees in your belly as you’re put on the spot. All three of them expect your answer so you decide to play Kafka’s game. You meet her stare with the most innocent, lovesick look you can muster, your thumb rubbing the base of her ring finger. You find that you don’t have to try that hard.

“I don’t know about the near future, but… I know I’ve never been in love before knowing her.”

Kafka’s face doesn’t change, her meticulously practiced mask never slips, and you look at each other with equally heavy stares. Time seems to slow if only for the few seconds it takes for your new acquaintance to make an exaggerated sound of excitement. The moment breaks, you both look away at the same time and the conversation quickly resumes with pointless inquiries about your (fake?) relationship and the auction.

After some time, you glance at your watch and feel somewhat vindicated by the fact that the auction will start soon, giving you a reason to excuse yourself from the conversation. You’re also excited by what will happen next.

“It was nice meeting you both,” you offer the woman a smile and a nod, not dwelling on the blush of her cheeks, “but we have to find our seats. It’d be a shame to be all the way at the back with so many almost priceless items on display tonight.”

She laughs quietly and you miss the furtive look Kafka sends your way.

“Of course, of course…” The brunette sighs, then smiles sweetly. “Maybe we’ll end up seated next to each other.”

You don’t say anything to that. Kafka politely bids them goodbye and walks in the opposite direction, the hand laced with yours tugging you along. You meet with the rest of the guests, spark up short conversations from every corner of the room. Despite enjoying your performance, you find your audience lacking. Arrogance and pretentiousness reside in every business man, celebrity, political figure that you talk to and you quickly develop disdain for almost every person at this event. None of them deserve the social advantage that they have; you feel restless with the desire to humble them.

With each guest filing into the auction room until all the seats are filled, it’s time for the next part of the script to unfold. You take your seats at the front right near the small built-in stage. Two staff members carefully roll out the auction items as the auctioneer steps before the microphone and greets his audience. Kafka’s hand is on your knee, forefinger tracing insignificant patterns into the fabric of your pants while you wait for the last and most important item to be presented. The Stellaron, trapped inside a large, almost translucent mineral, emits an energy felt by the entire room as it’s brought on stage in a glass case. It glitters in the light like a precious jewel and catches the attention of each buyer. Kafka squeezes your knee once. It’s go time.

Stealing the Stellaron is laughably easy. Due to Kafka’s Spirit Whisper, not a single member of the audience can find the strength to stand up from their seat as you hop to your feet and saunter on stage. The auctioneer stammers about it not being allowed, but he’s dealt with just as the others are and soon, he’s frozen where he stands, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Confused murmurs and panicked shouts fill the air when the guests realize their predicament, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Kafka handles the Stellaron with care while you browse the selection of items on display with a pensive hum.

An antique vase catches your eye. It curves at the top and opens like a blooming flower; designs that mean nothing to you seem carved right into the glass, so you take it out if it’s case for a closer look. It’s a bit heavy despite measuring less than two feet. You decide to keep it and eventually gift it to Kafka knowing she would be able to find the beauty in it. As the clamor of people’s voices rise around you, an idea strikes you. You turn to Kafka.

“The script only said we would steal the Stellaron and leave the museum at 20:56 system time…”

A small smile appears on Kafka’s lips. “What are you thinking?”

“This place reeks of supposed social superiority,” you trail your fingers on top of a case containing an old ceramic disk with contrasting colors and patterns. You push it off the table and it explodes into cutting shards. Amidst the chaos, loud gasps of indignation follow. “I want to tear it down.”

Kafka’s smile widens.

Twenty minutes later, you’re on your way back to the base exactly as Elio foresaw, with Silver Wolf in the driver's seat making a quick getaway as the museum’s alarms sound behind you. You huff out a breathy laugh once in the back seat, heart thundering in your chest from the adrenaline. You had to incapacitate some security guards on the way out, the chase is your second favorite part. It feels great, your fingertips twitch with exhilaration as the car swerves between other vehicles on the road, ignoring red lights and stop signs. Kafka leans on the head rest next to you, looking at you with something you can’t fully decipher. In the darkness of the backseat it’s hard to read her gaze, especially with her contacts on, but you recognize the way her eyes flicker between yours, then to your mouth. She doesn’t have to say anything, your hands suddenly cup her cheeks and your lips crash into hers. The breath is knocked out of you with both her kiss and the lingering adrenaline. Her hand snakes around your neck to bring you closer, her teeth sink into your bottom lip when she pulls away for half a second. She’s rougher than usual with a sense of urgency accompanying her touches; her free fingers sneak under your coat to grip your shirt.

“Can you not?” Silver Wolf makes a noise of disgust and her sudden intervention pulls you out of the daze you were in. “I swear, I’ll crash this stupid car.”

Kafka chuckles, separating herself from you. Her hand stays beneath your coat. “Don’t be so dramatic. A mission well done deserves a proper celebration, don’t you think?”

“I don’t care what you do, as long as it’s not in front of me.”

“We’re behind you…” you mutter, inhaling deeply to calm your shaky hands.

You ignore the middle finger Silver Wolf sends your way. You lean into the seat, eyes closed, and regain full control of your body with a few slow breaths. Kafka’s hand trails down your shirt to your lap. As you turn your head to look at her, you find her gaze already on you. The unfamiliar glint in it is still present, seemingly making her irises darker, then the corners of her mouth lift in a softer smile than she’d normally offer you.

“Let’s play a round of Truth or Lie,” she says suddenly.

Apart from being a fun game you both enjoy, it’s somewhat become your way of discussing serious matters without having to lay yourselves bare. The existence of a lie adds a layer of protection that neither of you can go without. You tilt your head at the suggestion.

“Okay. You start.”

Kafka takes a few seconds to reply, as if thinking of how to phrase her question. You’re careful to school your features into a picture of neutrality so as to not be caught off guard. She hums, then speaks up.

“Did you mean what you said earlier, to that woman?”

You don’t need to ask for clarification on what she’s referring to. Though her smile hasn’t slipped off her face, Kafka’s expression is guarded.

“Am I that good a liar you couldn’t tell?” You tease, an eyebrow raised.

“Is that one of your questions?”

You look past her as you think. Yes, something in you meant what you said then. You recognize this certainty, it’s as real as the earlier thrill in your veins. Being with Kafka is never boring, always brings something new, and you’ve never felt this way before meeting her. It’s an electrifying feeling that travels from your toes to wake the rest of your body, not unlike a shock, except that this is something you can’t help but crave. Beyond the curtains of this beautiful stage you act in lies a sort of yearning for more of how she makes you feel, of her hand in yours as you reenact this rehearsed play of two emotionally guarded beings finding closeness in each other. Are you in love with her? Yes, you are.

“No,” you shake your head, “to answer your first question. I was in character.”

Kafka stares at you for a moment, searching your face for the truth. You smile at her.

“Mm. You turn.”

Your fingers fiddle with her hand on your lap. Silver Wolf takes a sharper turn than necessary and the car swerves to the right. “Are you disappointed by my answer?”

“…No. I’m not.”

You can’t read her at all. You suppose that’s the point of the game. You arrive at your destination before you can finish the round and Silver Wolf wastes no time in hopping out of the car and into the building. There’s a spring in your step as you follow suit with Kafka in tow.

You’re already working towards unbuttoning your coat and uncuffing your shirt when you step into Kafka’s dark room. She flicks the switch behind you, illuminating the room. She takes off her earrings and you take a seat on the bed after slipping out of your loafers. You stretch your arms above your head, letting out a long sigh. Kafka discards her jewelry on top of a dresser.

“You know…” she turns to you before leaning into the furniture and looking you over like she did earlier this evening. You stop loosening your tie as she speaks, lifting your head to meet her eyes. “You looked beautiful tonight.”

You feel a playful smile stretch your lips. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mm. You nearly had that poor woman combusting in place.”

Your brows furrow briefly as you recall the exchange. You viewed her interest as superficial, something she felt compelled to be because of how obviously uneasy social events of that nature made her. It showed in the way she clung to her husband and how clumsy she was at navigating the conversation. Still, Kafka’s words are laced with a tinge of possessiveness you almost never see in her. A smirk slowly spreads across your face.

“She had a husband,” you remind her.

“Who spent half the conversation looking at my chest. They likely had nothing between them. But you knew that.”

You did not. You genuinely thought she was overcompensating and were too busy playing a clip of her husband getting fatally injured over and over in your mind after catching his eyes on Kafka. It’s funny that she would think you were flirting on purpose, though.

Kafka takes slow strides towards you. She stands in front of you and a bare foot slides between your calves to nudge them apart. You take hold of her waist, looking up at her with an innocent smile.

“You liked the attention,” she states with a finger under your chin. She wears a smile as her other hand comes up to strike your hair.

“You sound jealous.”

Kafka laughs softly, fingers splaying out over your cheek. Her thumb soothingly rubs your skin. You resist the urge to close your eyes. “Cute. What’s there to be jealous of when you’re pliable in my hands?” Her knee sinks into the mattress between your legs and she leans closer. “A block of clay to be shaped and molded. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re so eager to put your hands on me, to have me for yourself that another woman laughing at my jokes tickles you.”

Her thumb traces the outline of your bottom lip. “Eager?”

“Like a pup.”

Her smile doesn’t waver. She pushes her digit past your lips and it gets caught between your teeth as you make a noise of surprise at the sudden intrusion. You relax after a second, your tongue swirling around her finger while you maintain eye contact with her. There’s a dangerous heat in the way she looks at you, an unsaid warning that you choose to ignore.

“Brat.” Kafka takes her thumb out of your mouth and observes how it shines in the light. “You know what I do with them, don’t you?”

“You fuck them?”

The smile on her face grows larger. The way she touches you is inherently condescending, the overly sweet strokes of your hair and fake gentleness as she cups your cheek and leans close to you as if to kiss you are subtle reminders of her control over you. You stare into her eyes with fluttering eyelashes.

“Sweet girls get orgasms. A brat like you, on the other hand…”

You feel her breath on your parted lips and expect a kiss that doesn’t come. Instead Kafka tears herself from you and straightens up. Your hands leave her waist as she takes a step back and brings her hand to her chin in contemplation.

“I think I’ll tie you up.”

She does just that. You bite your bottom lip to muffle a whine, wrists absentmindedly tugging against their pretty, silken restraints. Kafka’s ropes hold your arms above your head to each corner of the headboard and slightly dig into your skin the more your muscles struggle. She effortlessly ties you up like a lovely present before you can prepare a snarky remark. The pink webs obey her command, unlike you, and keep you in place while she climbs over you to leisurely undress you. She starts at your neck, loosening your tie to place wet kisses on your skin. Her teeth sink into your flesh and she is without remorse when you hiss at the sensation. She suckles the bite, her tongue occasionally darting out to soothe the mark in slow strokes. Her hands expertly undo the button of your shirt without needing to look at her work. You feel her warm tongue trailing down to your collarbone as she removes your shirt. One of her knees stays between your thighs, unmoving.

Kafka lifts her head to look at the reveal of your skin once your shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor. Her palms travel up and down your stomach, squeeze at the waist and knead your covered breasts over your bra, all the while following their movements with lidded eyes. You swallow. You don’t say a word because you know she’ll go even slower if pressured to pick up the pace, but your skin is hot and your cunt already pulses between your legs at her tame ministrations. Kafka pulls down the cup of your bra with a finger, freeing a hardened nipple.

“Erect already?” She teases. “I only took off your shirt.”

“Shut up,” the words leave your mouth without thinking and your lips part in surprise when she uses two fingers to harshly twist your nipple. “Ah!”

“Wanna try again?”

You take a breath. “Acting like I’m the eager one when I know you’ve already ruined your pan— Mmh!”

Pleasure courses through you as your nipple is pinched between her fingertips. Her hands run around your chest to unclasp your bra and toss it aside, then resume their work on your breasts. Her thumbs swipe over your nipples, applying pressure that pathetically quickens your breathing. Kafka licks her lips but doesn’t use her mouth on you. She watches how your plush mounds move under her hands and take whatever shape she wants them to. She grabs a handful of each breast, squeezing and kneading until you’re exhaling through your mouth. Then she slowly moves down to your hips, rubbing the skin. She has to adjust her position in order to take off your pants and she settles between your thighs once the task is done.

Your thighs spread apart to accommodate her body. Kafka looks up at you, amused, but doesn’t comment on the gesture. Her palms rub into your soft skin, trailing up and down your inner thighs. A dark spot spreads from where arousal dampens your gray underwear.

“If only you could see how wet you’re getting,” she sighs lustfully, “maybe we should do this in front of the mirror. What do you think?”

You bite the inside of your cheek at the suggestion. Kafka hooks a forefinger under your underwear and pulls to reveal your glistening sex. Her voice lowers perceivably.

“Mm? Is thinking about me fucking you in front of a mirror getting you all wet?”

Her index trails down your folds and touches your clit as it does, making you suck your lip into your mouth to keep in a low moan. Kafka observes her finger between your lips, how your arousal coats the better part of it as it teases your pussy. She’ll have you a complete sticky mess before the night is over. The thought makes her cunt clench. She slides your panties down your legs until they no longer hide your puffy pussy from her sight. She uses two fingers to spread your lips and looks up at you.

“If you were well-behaved, I’d be licking you clean right now. Too bad you’re not.”

You groan in slight frustration. “Come on. Just fuck me like you mean it.”

“Oh, I’ll fuck you.” Kafka’s eyes narrow. She pulls her fingers away from your cunt completely. “And when I do, you won’t be able to remember a thing but how good I feel inside you.”

Kafka stands upright, ignoring your little whine to rummage through her drawers instead. She picks up a couple of things and you’re breathless when you see the strap-on and vibrator in her hands as she returns to your side. Your thighs clench together in a fruitless attempt at relieving pressure in your lower belly. You feel your arousal on your inner thighs, coating them in sticky juices. Kafka waves a hand and silk threads wrap around your flesh, forcing you to keep your legs spread for her. You try to move but apart from the quiver of your muscles, nothing happens.

“You haven’t earned that one yet,” Kafka gestures with the plastic cock and tosses it on the bed. She turns the small vibrator over in her palm, messing around with the settings until she finally settles on the lowest one. It pulses as it’s pressed against your cunt and you don’t bother covering up the moan that escapes you. “This will do for now.”

The vibrations on your pussy are so good, so relieving you throw your head back with a breathy moan. You feel each one reverberate through your body and soon, your hips are trying to move along for more friction. You buck your hips, hoping the movement will make it touch your clit for even a second. Kafka watches your growing desperation with apathy. She runs the vibrator up and down your slit, purposely ignoring your aching clit. Positioning it at your entrance covers the head in arousal and she’s tempted to push it in just to see how your cunt greedily sucks in anything she gives you. She makes you suffer longer, caresses your labia with the toy and pulls it away when she sees you clench from the pleasure. With it being at the lowest setting, the throb is a welcomed sensation but isn’t enough to make you come. Trying to move your body is useless; the thin ropes around your limbs keep you exactly how Kafka wants you: defenseless.

You inhale sharply through your mouth as she rubs the toy into your cunt. You know begging won’t help your cause and will only serve to humiliate you. Pleading to her good conscience is just as worthless, but you need to come so badly and Kafka will only allow you to do it on her terms. So, you provoke her.

“That— Mmh, that woman from the auction,” you manage to breathe out, and Kafka instantly meets your eyes. “Bet… she’d be so eager to make me come if I asked.”

Kafka doesn’t move for a moment. The vibrator is still pressed against your pussy, making you let out little whines, but her hand isn’t moving and she’s simply looking at you like she’s trying to figure you out. You know she sees through you, your mind is too taken by the idea of pleasure to bother hiding yourself from her searching gaze. She seems to debate with herself on something and when you think she just won’t bite your bait, she turns off the vibrator. You watch as she stands to let her dress slip to the floor. Apprehension curls around your throat as she steps into the harness of the strap-on and adjusts it around her hips. Her silence makes your gut flutter with nervousness. Then she chuckles to herself and that only worsens the feeling.

Kafka hovers over you, fingers digging into your skin as she grabs your jaw and guides your gaze to hers. Her nails will surely leave crescent marks behind, but you can only focus on the dull pink of her irises. With her free hand, she guides the plastic cock between your folds, coating it in your slick and grazing your clit in the process. Your following moan is muffled by the grip on your jaw. She spreads your arousal over the dick, pumping it once, twice, three times before her sticky fingers grip your waist and she pushes half of the length into you at once.

You groan in surprise, unaccustomed to the sudden fullness. You feel the toy stretching your walls and Kafka doesn’t allow you to get used to the sensation before thrusting the entirety of it inside your fluttering cunt.

“Fuck, w— wait…” you gasp out, wrists struggling against the ropes and thighs trembling. “I was—” A whimper escapes you as Kafka pulls out almost completely just to drive into you again. “Was joking, baby…”

“Shut up and take it.”

You have no choice but to comply. Kafka thrusts into you, unrelenting and apathetic to the way the sensations overwhelm you instantly after so much teasing. Her dick rubs your walls deliciously and the wet sounds of it pounding into you has you choking out a cry. You don’t get used to the pace, it’s too rough, too fast, and has your orgasm building after only a minute of her inside you. You can’t last, not with Kafka playing you as rigorously as she does the violin, fingers digging into the flesh of your love handle for stability. You take her cock as she orders you to and whimper against her lips when she leans forward to press her mouth to yours for the first time tonight. Her kiss is as rough as her strokes, leaving you breathless, a mindless puppet only able to mutter her name. As her tongue enters your mouth to tease yours, the hand around your jaw leaves so that her middle finger harshly rubs your clit. It’s too much for you to handle at once. Your cunt swallows her cock as you come with her name out your lips, squeezing her like a vice.

Kafka doesn’t slow down her thrusts, fucking you through your orgasm and maintaining the pressure on your pulsing clit until you feel another one coming.

“Kafka—” You whine, throat hoarse, “too much…”

“Mmh? That’s what you wanted. Be grateful I didn’t leave you there, cunt aching for me to fill you. You’ll take what I give you.”

Her eyes drink you in, she commits your twisting brows and trembling lips to memory; her mind takes live pictures of you under her, whimpering as you greedily take her cock, until there’s an entire gallery of your fucked out expression inside her head. The sight makes her wetter and needy for release, but it’s not enough. With an arm around your shoulder and the use of her webs, Kafka manipulates your weak body into straddling her lap as she sits up on the bed. Your wrists are still tied together, your arms around her neck, but your thighs quiver as the ropes vanish around them. She holds you up with two hands on your hips and pushes you down onto her length. Your eyes are closed, your lips parted, and you let her guide you up and down her cock until you’re coming again. Kafka watches your slick slide down the dildo and groans, wishing she could pump her own cum into your cunt and watch it leak out of you as she fills you. The toy is drenched in cum and she doesn’t look away as it disappears inside your throbbing pussy, can’t; she feels her own slick run down her thighs just from watching how messy you’re getting her cock.

“Can’t take it,” you breathe out, “mmh…”

Kafka looks up at you. She briefly takes your nipple in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, before letting go and murmuring into your skin, “You can, baby. You’re taking me so well.”

You whine, hips faltering. The length of her cock buries into you in a harsh thrust upwards and you can’t make a sound as you come hard, your face in Kafka’s neck. Your arms shake from the pleasure that assaults you at once. Your toes curl and the breath leaves your lungs. Kafka doesn’t pull out as you come down from your high a panting mess. Your limbs feel twice as heavy. Her hand strokes your hair while you breathe in and out sharply. She gives you some time to calm down, then pulls you away from her neck with the hand in your hair and kisses you messily; you feel her tongue on your bottom lip and her saliva mix with yours. She breathes out into your open mouth, a low moan escaping her.

Kafka squeezes your hip and mutters into your mouth, “You’ll give me another one, won’t you?”

Though it’s phrased as one, you know it’s not a question at all. This is what you get for provoking her, and she won’t stop until she’s entirely satisfied.