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bueckets · 10 days ago

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The Hit List | 02.5

Pairing: fuckgirl!Paige x Mechi Student!reader

Masterlist (TBA) | Part One | Part Two (READ BEFORE 2.5)

Genre: romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, kinda funny?, they fuck, n its hot n sweaty, cat n mouse

Description: What starts as a game of avoidance turns into something far more dangerous when old grudges and unfinished business crash headfirst into a truth neither of them are ready to face. Armed with a stubborn streak, a boyfriend you're trying too hard to believe in, and a simmering resentment that burns just as hot as desire, you swear you won’t let Paige win.

But when history keeps rewriting itself in glances, in touches, in words that cut too close—you start to wonder if you've had control of the game at all.

wc: 24k, yes, 24k

Authors Note: sorry this took forever, too many words so this is split into two parts (THIS IS part 2 chap 2)

Three Weeks Later

Midterms came and went, dragging you through hell and back. The sleepless nights, the cramming, the fucking Systems Engineering project that nearly made you throw your laptop out a window. It’s over. You survived.

And somewhere in between all of it—Paige Bueckers became just a name again.

Not a person. Not a presence. Not someone orbiting your every waking moment.

Just a name you see online.

A headline when UConn wins another game.

A clip someone reposts on Twitter, her pulling up from three like it’s muscle memory, making it look so goddamn easy.

Her life moves forward at full speed.

The season’s in full swing, meaning the team’s constantly gone—traveling for games, disappearing for days at a time, too busy to be anything but motion.

It’s weird.

Because after that night—after the fucking laundry room, after the way she felt against you, the way her breath tangled with yours—you thought she’d stick. Thought the weight of her would still be there, pressing into your ribs, twisting your stomach every time you caught a glimpse of her across campus. But she’s gone.

Not in the literal sense. You still hear her name, see her in passing, watch her run drills on the court like she owns it. But she’s not here. Not in the way that matters. She’s everywhere else—on screens, in headlines, living a life that no longer overlaps with yours.

And you hate that the only way you see her now is through a fucking phone. A video of her laughing on the sideline, hair damp with sweat, head thrown back like she doesn’t have a care in the world. A post-game interview where she’s loose, confident, rattling off the same media-trained answers like she’s never lost control of anything in her life. She’s fine. She’s thriving.

And the worst part? She probably doesn’t think about you at all.

So you adjust. You fall back into routine. Class. Studying. Work. You go to parties, sometimes. You drink. You dance. You make out with people whose names you don’t bother remembering. You kiss Eli again—once, just to see if it sparks something, if it fills the void she left behind. It doesn’t. It never does.

And then, just as fast as she disappeared—

She’s back.

It happens out of nowhere. One second, you’re dragging yourself through campus, brain fogged with sleep, the winter air biting at your skin, coffee scalding the tip of your tongue. And then—her. Right there. Like she never left. Like she hasn’t spent the last few weeks bouncing between cities, arenas, flashing cameras. Like she isn’t something bigger than all of this.

She’s standing outside the training facility, hoodie pulled over her head, joggers slung low on her hips, a duffel bag hanging off her shoulder. She’s talking to someone—one of her coaches, maybe—but she’s different. Not in the way she looks. No, she’s exactly the same, infuriatingly so. It’s something else, something in the way she carries herself, like she’s spent so much time away from this part of her life that she almost forgot it existed.

Like she almost forgot about you.

Your breath stutters. Your steps slow.

She’s close enough to touch. Close enough to reach out and prove she’s real.

And yet, she might as well be a ghost.

Because when she finally turns, finally glances up—she sees you. You know she does. But there’s nothing. No reaction. No flicker of recognition. No teasing smirk. No raised brow, no knowing glance, nothing. Just a passing look, empty and indifferent, before she turns away.

Like you’re nobody.

Like that night never happened.

Like you never fucking existed.

And it wrecks you. Because for the first time since this whole fucked-up, tangled thing started—

It feels like you lost.

Two Months Later

Dating Eli is easy. That’s the problem.

There’s no push and pull, no fire curling under your ribs, no moments where your pulse spikes so fast you think you might actually combust. There’s no game. No tension. Just quiet, steady comfort. He’s sweet—thoughtful, even. Picks you up for class sometimes, walks you to your dorm even when it’s out of his way, texts you good morning despite seeing you every day. A good boyfriend. The kind you’re supposed to want.

And you? You go through the motions. You hold his hand. Let him kiss you. Let him slip an arm around your shoulders as you walk across campus, even though it still feels foreign. Even though it still feels wrong. But you let it happen because it’s safe. Because he doesn’t make your stomach drop. Because he doesn’t wreck you.

Because he’s not her.

And that’s exactly what you need. Because Paige Bueckers doesn’t know you exist anymore.

She came back from the season like she shed you—like you were just something she outgrew. Whatever happened between you was nothing. A passing thought. A mistake so inconsequential she didn’t even have to acknowledge it. And if she doesn’t care? Then neither do you.

So you lean into Eli.

And when he invites you to a UConn game—something casual, something low-stakes, something he’s excited to take you to—you say yes. You say yes because it makes sense. Because this is your life now. Because Paige Bueckers is just another player on the court.

And that’s all she’s ever going to be.

The stadium is packed, the early spring air crisp, cutting through the warmth of the sun. You follow Eli up the steps, scanning for open seats, the scent of popcorn and hot dogs thick in the air. It’s different from the last time you were at a game. Not indoors, not under the blinding arena lights. The energy is looser, more relaxed, fans chatting easily, kids waving oversized foam fingers.

You take a breath, steadying yourself. It’s fine. It’s just a game. And you’re here with your boyfriend.

Eli finds seats near the middle, pulling you down beside him, arm draping lazily over your shoulders. You lean in, let yourself sink into the warmth of his body, let yourself pretend like this is all normal.

On the court, the team is warming up. Players jog across the pavement, stretching, shaking out their limbs. Your gaze drifts over them, detached, unfocused, not looking for anything in particular—

And then—her.

It shouldn’t feel like a fucking collision, but it does.

Your breath catches, body locking up as if it knew before your brain did. As if some deep, unshakable instinct recognized her presence before you could stop it. Paige jogs across the court, her shorts hanging loose around her thighs, her hoodie still on, dribbling lazily like she doesn’t have a single care in the world. Like she’s untouchable.

Your chest tightens. She still looks the same. Still is the same. And yet—something’s different. Maybe it’s the way she seems even more unreachable now, like she exists in a space just beyond your grasp.

You exhale sharply, force your gaze away.

You’re here with Eli.

You’re fine.

This means nothing.

Eli nudges you. “You good?”

You blink, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

He smiles, presses a kiss to the side of your head. “Get ready. She’s gonna put on a show.”

You force a laugh.

And when you chance another glance at the court—Paige is already looking at you.

But this time, she reacts.

Just slightly. Just enough.

A shift in her eyes. A flicker of something.

And then—she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just the barest curve of her lips, like she knows. Like she sees you sitting there, tucked under Eli’s arm, playing house, pretending like you’ve moved on. And for the first time in months, you know—

She hasn’t forgotten you at all.

You don’t watch the game. Not really.

You hear it—the sharp squeak of sneakers against pavement, the shrill whistle of fouls, the deafening roar of the crowd when UConn scores. You see it—the blur of white and navy jerseys cutting across the court.

But your focus is off.

Because all you can feel is the weight of her presence.

And the fact that she knows you’re here.

It fucks with you.

Because it had been easy to believe she forgot. That she let it go, left you in the past, moved on like you were nothing. But now—now she’s looking at you between plays. Not constantly. Not obviously. Just enough.

A glance while she’s standing at the free-throw line, hands on her hips, chest rising and falling. A flicker of her eyes when she jogs back on defense, scanning the crowd, skimming right past Eli like he doesn’t even exist.

And that fucking smirk when she sinks a three-pointer, lets it hang in the air for just a second before she turns, wiping the sweat off her brow with the hem of her jersey.

It’s deliberate. Calculated.

And it’s working.

Heat curls up your spine, a suffocating mix of frustration and something you won’t name. Your arms lock tight across your stomach, fingers curled into your sleeves. Beside you, Eli cheers, completely oblivious.

You wish you could be.

You wish you could tune her out. Pretend she’s just another player on the court. Pretend she doesn’t get under your skin.

But she’s in your head again. She won’t leave.

And worse—she knows it.

The game stretches on, endless. Every second is another reminder that she’s still there. That she’s not just some passing thought, some unfinished mistake. She’s real. She’s here. And she’s still in this fucking thing with you, even if neither of you are saying it out loud.

By the time the final buzzer sounds, you feel like you’ve been through a war.

Eli’s arm tightens around your shoulders, shaking you lightly. “See? Told you she’d put on a show.”

You nod, force a tight smile, but your chest feels hollow, your stomach twisted into something you don’t know how to untangle.

Because the game might be over—

But this?

This is just getting started.

The crowd filters out in waves, a slow, steady stream of bodies stretching stiff limbs, shaking off the lingering chill, still thrumming with energy from the win. Eli stands, his hand warm around yours as he pulls you up with him, his voice easy, unbothered, spilling into the space between you with post-game analysis—stats, highlights, a play he wants to rewatch later.

You nod when you’re supposed to, hum responses that sound just engaged enough, but none of it sticks. Your mind is elsewhere.

Because she’s still here.

Not with the team. Not caught up in post-game celebrations or media duties. No cameras, no noise, no excuses. Just lingering.

Sweat still clings to the curve of her neck, damp strands of blonde hair curling against her skin. Her hoodie is pulled over her head, water bottle hanging loose from her fingers, body relaxed like she has nowhere to be. But she’s not just standing there.

She’s watching.

Not outright. Not obvious. Just enough.

And Eli? He doesn’t notice.

Because why would he? He’s here with his girlfriend, celebrating a win, caught up in the moment, assuming she’s just watching the team clear out, thinking nothing of it.

You, on the other hand—

You can’t fucking breathe.

Every nerve is stretched too tight, buzzing under your skin, prickling like static, like she’s marking you without even touching you. Like she’s still fucking with you, seeing how much space she can take up in your head before you break.

And the worst part?

She looks fine.

Completely untouched. Unshaken. Not like she’s been thinking about you. Not like this has cost her anything.

And that—that is what undoes you.

Because this was supposed to be over.

You were supposed to be fine.

But here you are. Crumbling.

Eli tugs on your sleeve, easy, unaware. “Come on, let’s head out before traffic gets bad.”

You blink, drag yourself back into the present, nodding too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

One step.

Then two.

And then—

You don’t mean to look.

But you do.

Just for a second.

And she’s still there.

And she smiles.

Not big. Not obvious. Just that same, slow, knowing curve of her lips.

Like she sees right through you.

Like she knows you’re unraveling.

Like she’s won.

It’s three days after the game when the email comes in.

You don’t think much of it at first, just another facilities request forwarded to you through the engineering department—something about a faulty vent system in the women’s basketball locker room. Nothing urgent, nothing particularly exciting, just another task to check off your list between classes and whatever project is currently draining your soul. You’re barely skimming the details as you type out a confirmation reply, promising to stop by that afternoon, when it hits you.

Women’s basketball locker room.

Your stomach tightens.

For a second, you debate forwarding it off to someone else. Someone more qualified, someone with less history hanging in that space. But that’s fucking ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s been three months. Three months since the laundry room, since she pretended you didn’t exist, since you started playing house with Eli like it was supposed to fix everything. Three months of routine, of pretending you don’t track her name through game highlights and Twitter clips, of pretending you don’t feel her presence like a ghost in the back of your head.

You should be fine.

This shouldn’t be a thing.

It’s a fucking vent. You’re going to walk in, tighten some screws, maybe clean out a filter, and walk right back out. No big deal.

And yet, as you step into the building later that afternoon, tool bag slung over your shoulder, the cold press of the metal door handle beneath your palm, you feel something coil tight in your chest, something uneasy and electric, something that tells you this won’t be as easy as you want it to be.

The locker room is quiet when you step inside, the kind of silence that feels thick, like it’s waiting to be broken. The scent of sweat and body wash lingers in the air, fresh from practice, steam still clinging faintly from the showers in the back. Rows of lockers stretch across the room, some still open, jerseys draped lazily over the benches, sneakers kicked off in pairs on the floor.

You exhale slowly, adjusting the strap of your bag as you move toward the vent panel along the far wall. The faster you do this, the faster you can leave. You crouch, fingers working quickly to loosen the first few screws, trying to focus on the movement, the mechanics, anything but the slight tremble in your hands, anything but—

“Didn’t think I’d see you in here.”

The voice is unmistakable.

That low, casual drawl, edged in something sharper, something teasing, something that shouldn’t still make your breath catch the way it does.

You don’t turn immediately.

You keep working, keep your gaze locked on the vent, pretend like your pulse hasn’t just doubled. “Just fixing a maintenance issue,” you say, voice as even as you can manage. “Won’t be here long.”

There’s a pause, a shift of movement, the unmistakable sound of sneakers against tile. She’s coming closer.

“Shame,” Paige murmurs, and fuck, you feel it.

The weight of her gaze. The presence of her body somewhere behind you, close enough to make the air feel different, charged, suffocating.

You grip the screwdriver tighter.

She shouldn’t be here. Not now, not after all this time, not when you’ve spent months convincing yourself she doesn’t matter.

But she is.

And she’s talking to you.

You swallow, working another screw loose, forcing yourself to focus. “Shouldn’t you be at practice?”

She hums, and you hear the smile in it before you see it. “Finished early.” A pause, and then, “Didn’t know you were doing this kind of work.”

Your jaw tightens.

Of course, she didn’t. Because you don’t exist in her world anymore, do you? Not unless she decides you do.

You finally turn, slowly, pushing up from your crouch, letting yourself look at her.

And fuck, that was a mistake.

Because she looks good, better than you remember, the months of training and travel and games only sharpening her in ways that make your stomach twist. She’s standing there in sweatpants and a UConn tee, hair damp from a post-practice shower, arms crossed over her chest, watching you like she’s curious, like she’s interested, like she hasn’t spent three months pretending you were just another passing face in the crowd.

And it pisses you off.

You force a shrug, tilting your head slightly. “Didn’t know you cared what I was doing.”

Her smirk twitches. Just barely. Just enough.

“Didn’t say I did,” she replies smoothly, but the way she’s watching you says otherwise.

There it is.

The push and pull. The old game slipping back into place like it never left, like three months of avoidance didn’t mean shit.

And you should walk away. You should finish the job and leave, act like you don’t feel this, act like she’s just another person in another room.

But you don’t.

Because something deep in you, something bitter and unresolved and desperate, needs to know if this still means something.

So you take a step closer, watching the flicker in her eyes as you do.

“Then why are you standing here?” you ask, voice low, steady, challenging.

Paige doesn’t move. Doesn’t step back, doesn’t flinch, just holds your gaze, her mouth curving slightly, like she’s enjoying this, like she knows she’s getting to you.

“Maybe I’m just curious,” she says, tilting her head. “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Three months.

Three months of silence. Three months of pretending. Three months of you thinking you were the only one who remembered, the only one who cared, the only one still feeling it.

And now?

Now she’s standing here, looking at you like she never forgot at all.

You don’t answer.

Because what is there to say? That, yeah, it’s been a while, and yet somehow it still feels like she never left your fucking head? That you’ve spent the past three months trying to scrub the memory of her hands off your skin, only to have them crawl back the second you laid eyes on her again? That seeing her at the game did something to you—something ugly, something desperate, something you don’t want to name?

No.

You won’t give her that.

So instead, you just lift a brow, forcing something casual onto your face, like her presence isn’t making your chest feel too tight. “Yeah. Guess it has.”

Paige watches you for a second longer, and you can see it happening—her weighing the moment, deciding how she wants to play this. Because that’s what she does, isn’t it? She plays. Gives you something, just a taste, just enough to make your stomach flip, before she rips it away.

And you should know better by now.

You do know better.

But then she shifts, weight rolling back onto one foot, arms still folded, her mouth quirking into that slow, almost lazy smirk—the one that’s never meant nothing.

“So,” she says, tilting her head, “are you gonna keep ignoring me, or are we past that now?”

Your pulse stutters.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver in your hand.

You weren’t expecting that.

For her to just say it. To acknowledge it, to drag it into the light, the weight of your silence, the way you spent months dodging her like it might actually fix you.

You scoff, shaking your head, turning back to the vent, to anything that isn’t her mouth forming words that fuck you up. “I haven’t been ignoring you.”

It’s a lie.

Paige knows it’s a lie.

She steps closer—just enough that you can feel the shift of air between you, just enough that you catch the faint scent of her shampoo, something fresh, something clean, something too close.

“You sure?” she murmurs. “Because it kinda seemed like you were.”

Your teeth clench.

She’s doing it again.

The push and pull. The little tug, just enough to make you stumble, to throw you off balance, to remind you exactly who you’re dealing with.

You exhale slowly through your nose, focus on the screw you’re twisting into place, force your voice to stay neutral. “You seemed fine with it.”

There’s a pause. Just for a beat. Just long enough that you think maybe—maybe—you landed something.

Then—soft, amused—Paige says, “You think that?”

And it’s not fair.

The way she says it, the way it slides under your skin, the way it makes your chest squeeze, makes you feel fucking stupid for believing, even for a second, that maybe she really had forgotten you.

Your fingers tighten around the screwdriver.

She’s playing with you.

And the worst part?

You let her.

You don’t turn. Don’t face her. Don’t give her the satisfaction.

But your voice is quieter when you say, “Why do you even care?”

Another pause.

Then—

“Maybe I don’t.”

Your stomach drops.

It’s so fucking typical. Just when you think she’s giving you something, just when she pulls you an inch closer, she yanks it away.

You clench your jaw, inhale sharply, force yourself to stay still.

And then—because you refuse to let her win this—you huff a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Right. Of course.”

You finish tightening the last screw, closing the panel, standing up. You finally turn to her, tilting your head slightly, forcing something light onto your face, like you’re fine, like she isn’t doing what she always fucking does.

“Well,” you say, slipping the screwdriver back into your bag. “It’s been great catching up, but I have shit to do.”

You move to step past her.

But she shifts, blocking your path.

Not aggressively. Not obviously.

Just enough.

Just enough that you have to stop.

Just enough that you have to look at her.

Paige licks her lips, considering you, and her voice is quieter this time, almost thoughtful. “You don’t like when I do that, do you?”

Your stomach tightens.

You keep your face neutral. “Do what?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Give you something, then take it away.”

You swallow.

Because the fact that she’s saying it out loud—naming it, acknowledging it—makes your chest squeeze so hard it’s almost painful.

You force a shrug. “You do whatever you want, Paige.”

You step around her, adjusting the strap of your bag like the conversation hasn’t just sunk claws into your spine, like you aren’t already burning up from the inside out. You throw one last casual glance over your shoulder, just to make a point, just to show her this doesn’t fucking matter.

And then—

“Is he your boyfriend?”

It’s smooth, deliberate, cutting through the silence with the ease of a well-placed knife.

Your body goes rigid.

Not enough to be noticeable. Not enough to give her the satisfaction. But she notices.

You school your face into something neutral before turning back to her. “Yeah.”

The second the word leaves your mouth, Paige scoffs. Then—slow, quiet, like she’s really thinking about it—she laughs.

It’s not loud. It’s not obvious. But it hits.

It slides under your skin, needles into your chest, presses against something raw and unsettled.

You know exactly what she’s laughing at.

Not at Eli, not really.

She’s laughing at you.

At the fact that you’re standing here, pretending like that word doesn’t feel foreign in your mouth, like it doesn’t taste like something you don’t quite believe.

At the fact that you’ve spent months throwing yourself into a version of reality where he is the answer.

At the fact that she knows—she fucking knows—that if he really was, you wouldn’t be here.

Your throat tightens.

You square your shoulders. “Something funny?”

Paige shakes her head, smirk barely there, but sharp. “Nah.” A pause, her gaze flicking over you like she’s amused, like she’s bored. “Just wasn’t expecting that.”

Your fingers curl around the strap of your bag, tight enough to sting.

She tilts her head slightly. “Does he know you’re here?”

You force your jaw not to clench. “Why would it matter?”

Paige hums, the sound lazy, almost dismissive. “It wouldn’t.”

You don’t know why that lands deeper than it should, why it hits like something solid in your chest.

She doesn’t fucking care.

You exhale sharply, roll your shoulders, force yourself to act like you don’t feel like she just pressed a finger right against something bruised inside you.

“Well,” you say, tone light, detached, like this whole conversation hasn’t just put a fucking stone in your stomach, “great catching up.”

And this time, when you walk out—when you force your feet to move, when you push through the door into the cooler hallway air—you don’t look back.

You don’t have to.

Because you can still feel her there.

Still hear the low echo of her laugh.

Still fucking feel her.

And you hate that it still makes your chest tighten.

The locker room door swings shut behind you, but the conversation doesn’t leave with it.

It sticks.

It clings to your skin, coils in your stomach, presses into your ribs like something sharp and unshakable.

You walk down the hallway fast, like you can outrun the weight of her laugh in your ears, like you can erase the way she looked at you when she said that’s your boyfriend?—like the words weren’t just words, like they were something else, something heavier, something soaked in disbelief and mockery.

You should be over her by now.

But then why does your skin still burn? Why does your pulse still hammer against the inside of your wrist? Why does the way she said it—casual, unbothered, like it didn’t even fucking matter—make something in you want to break?

The night stretches out after that, long and restless. You try to study, but you can’t focus. You try to sleep, but every time you close your eyes, she’s there. Her smirk. Her scoff. The way she laughed like you were a joke. Like he was a joke.

You spend the next week avoiding places where you might run into her, avoiding anywhere that makes you feel like a live wire, avoiding thinking about her—

And it works.

Until it doesn’t.

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers is that she has a way of creeping back in, of making herself known, of pulling you back into her orbit whether you want to be there or not.

It happens at another party.

A packed house, music pulsing through the walls, the kind of night where people are drinking like they’re trying to forget something, where everything feels just a little too loud, a little too bright, a little too much.

You’re standing in the kitchen, fingers curled around a red cup, Eli close behind you, talking to someone you don’t know. His hand is warm where it rests on your hip, an absentminded touch, a casual claim.

It’s fine.

You’re fine.

Until you’re not.

Until your eyes flicker past the crowd, past the shifting bodies and pulsing bass, past the open doorway—

And land right on her.

Paige is in the next room, leaning against the wall, head tilted, that lazy, practiced ease draped over her like armor. She’s watching something—someone. A girl. Pretty. Brunette. Standing too close, laughter spilling past glossy lips as she hangs on whatever Paige just said.

Paige isn’t even touching her. Doesn’t need to. Just standing there, looking, smirking, waiting. And the worst part? You know exactly what she’s doing.

Like she could have her if she wanted.

Like it’s not even a fucking question.

Your stomach knots, tight and hot. Not with jealousy—no, it’s worse than that. It’s recognition.

Because you know what it’s like to be on the other side of that look.

You know what it’s like to be wanted by her.

The ghost of it slams into you like a fist to the ribs—how it felt to have those eyes locked on you, sharp and knowing, pinning you down like a game she was already winning. How it felt when she had you right there and she knew it.

Your grip tightens around your cup, fingers digging in like it’s the only thing holding you together. Your breath stutters, the air too thick, the room suddenly too small.

She hasn’t seen you yet.

She’s too caught up in her game, too wrapped up in not caring.

So you do the same.

You force yourself to turn back to Eli, to play your part. You smile, lean into his touch, let him press his lips to your temple like it’s easy, like it’s nothing. Like it means something.

And maybe it works.

Maybe it doesn’t.

Because when you chance another glance—just for a second—

Paige is already looking at you.

And this time—

She smirks.

Slow. Deliberate. Like she’s been waiting for you to look. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she knows exactly how much space she still takes up in your fucking head.

And that’s when you snap.

You don’t think.

You move.

Your cup clatters onto the counter, liquid sloshing over the rim, but you don’t care. You slip out of Eli’s reach, push through the crowd—away, anywhere, somewhere with air that doesn’t taste like her.

Your pulse is a riot, hammering against your ribs, deafening in your ears as you shove past people pressed against walls, past laughter and voices swallowed by the music, past the tight, choking heat in your chest.

Your hands are shaking. Your breath is uneven. You need a second.

Just one fucking second to breathe—

And then—

A door swings open, and suddenly—

She’s right there.

Paige.

Still smirking.

Still looking like she has all the time in the world.

Still making your stomach feel like it’s caving in on itself.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, heat crawling up your neck, pooling low in your stomach, everywhere.

She leans against the doorway, casual as ever, the light behind her casting long shadows over the sharp angles of her face. She looks obnoxiously good, like she knows exactly how lethal she is.

She tilts her head. “What’s wrong?” she murmurs, voice low, teasing, like she already knows the answer.

And fuck her.

Fuck her for this.

For knowing you this well.

For still knowing you this well.

You shove past her, shoulder knocking against hers, but she moves at the last second, stepping just enough to block you—

And then—her hand.

Fingers curling around your wrist. Not hard. Not pulling. Just there.

You suck in a sharp breath.

She’s not holding you here. Not keeping you against your will.

But she doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

The air between you crackles, thick, heavy, dangerous. The weight of something unsaid presses into your ribs, clinging to your skin, wrapping around you like a fucking chokehold.

Paige watches you.

And this time—

She doesn’t laugh.

She doesn’t smirk.

She waits.

And maybe—just maybe—

This time, you’re the one who moves first.

The space between you is electric, charged, something twisting tight in your chest like a live wire ready to snap. The hallway is dim, shadows stretching long against the walls, muffling the noise of the party outside, trapping you in this thing you’ve been running from for months.

Paige’s fingers are still around your wrist, not tight, not forcing—just there, anchoring you, keeping you from bolting like you probably should. Her eyes flicker over your face, searching, waiting, and fuck, you hate how easily she does this, how effortlessly she pulls you back into her gravity like you were never gone at all.

Your breath is uneven. Your pulse is pounding in your throat, but your voice is steady when you say, “What game are you playing at?”

She blinks, just once, slow and measured. Then the corner of her mouth curves, something smug, something dangerous. “Don’t you have a boyfriend?”

Your stomach drops, rage curling up into your throat so fast it makes your vision go sharp.

You shove her.

Harder than you should, more than just frustration, more than just anger. It’s months of this—of her pushing, pulling, giving you something and then acting like it never fucking happened. It’s her laugh in the locker room, her smirk at the game, the way she looked at you through the crowd like she was daring you to react, to feel. It’s all of it—the way she still owns you and acts like she doesn’t even care.

Paige stumbles back a step, but her hand never leaves you.

Instead, she grabs your other arm, fingers tight around your biceps, steadying herself, steadying you. Her grip is firm, strong, the heat of her palms burning through your sleeves.

Her smirk is gone.

And when she speaks again, her voice is different. Lower. Rougher.

“I’m not playing at a game.”

Your breath catches.

Because it’s not cocky. It’s not teasing. It’s real.

Her hands flex slightly on your arms, like she’s bracing herself, like she needs you to hear this.

And you do.

It sinks under your skin, gets lodged somewhere between your ribs, breaks something open inside of you that you’ve been trying to keep sealed shut.

Your heart is hammering. Your whole body is buzzing, tight, waiting.

Paige is still holding you.

And she’s so fucking close.

You can feel her breath against your lips, can see the flicker in her eyes, the way her chest is rising and falling just as fast as yours.

You don’t know who moves first.

Maybe it’s her. Maybe it’s you. Maybe it’s both of you at the same fucking time, colliding like you were never meant to be anything but this.

Your mouths crash together, hot and desperate, months of tension unraveling all at once, burning through every nerve in your body.

Paige exhales sharply against you, hands tightening around your arms before sliding up, up, framing your face, pulling you deeper into it, like she’s afraid you might disappear again.

You fist the fabric of her hoodie, dragging her into you, needing her closer, needing more.

Her body presses against yours, her lips insistent, rough, a little reckless, like she’s been waiting for this just as long as you have.

The hallway feels too small, the walls too close, your hands too desperate where they roam—her waist, her shoulders, the sharp edge of her jaw.

Paige groans softly against your mouth, and it wrecks you.

It fucking destroys you.

Because it’s real.

Because she wants this.

Because for the first time, she’s not taking it away.

You don’t stop.

Neither does she.

It’s all heat, all breath, all want. Paige’s mouth is rough, greedy, like she’s making up for every second you’ve spent apart, every time she pretended she didn’t see you, every time she smirked at you like this was just a game. Her hands are everywhere—your waist, your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt like she’d die if she let go.

You’re no better.

Your fingers fist in her hoodie, tugging her closer, dragging her against you, needing her body against yours, needing her to feel what she’s doing to you. The hallway barely exists anymore—the party, the noise, Eli—none of it fucking matters. Just her. Just her mouth, her hands, the way she kisses you like she’s starving for it.

Then, between kisses, between desperate little gasps, she murmurs it.

“I need you, baby.”

It wrecks you.

Fucking destroys you.

The word slips out easy, unthinking, raw. Not teasing, not smug, not calculated. Just real.

Your breath catches.

Paige must feel the way your body reacts, the way your nails dig into her arms, the way your hips press forward into hers, because she groans against your mouth and drags her teeth over your bottom lip.

You’re moving before you can think.

Paige is pushing you, guiding you back, back, until your shoulder blades hit a door, until she’s fumbling with the handle, barely breaking the kiss long enough to shove it open.

The room is dark, empty. Some random spare bedroom, barely furnished, barely even fucking registered because the second the door slams shut, Paige is on you again.

Her hands slide under your shirt, rough palms dragging up your ribs, fingertips pressing hard, desperate. Your breath is uneven, your body thrumming with something electric, something you can’t stop, something you don’t want to stop.

You don’t think.

You don’t need to think.

You just pull her hoodie up over her head, fingers tangling in the fabric for a second before it’s gone, discarded somewhere on the floor. Paige exhales sharply as you press into her, as your mouth moves against her jaw, down her throat, tasting, taking.

Her fingers slip into your hair, tugging just enough to make you feel it, enough to make you moan against her skin.

“Fuck,” she mutters, voice rough, breathless, like she’s unraveling, like you’re doing this to her.

You are.

And she fucking loves it.

Her hands move lower, sliding over your hips, gripping tight, like she’s anchoring herself, like she can’t stop touching you, like she’s making sure you’re real.

You kiss her again, harder, messier, pushing her back until her legs hit the edge of the bed, until you’re both toppling onto it, tangled together, all mouths and hands and heat.

Paige knows she’s winning.

You can see it in her eyes, the slow drag of them over your body, the way she takes her time, drinking in every reaction like she’s cataloging them, memorizing what makes you shiver, what makes you squirm, what makes your breath hitch in your throat.

She still likes the game.

She still likes to play.

But this time, she isn’t letting you pull away.

This time, she’s going to take everything.

Her fingers skim over your stomach, slow, teasing, just enough to make you feel it but not enough to satisfy anything. Her mouth follows, lips pressing soft, lingering kisses down, down, down, like she has all the time in the world.

Your head tilts back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut, but then she stops.

She stops completely.

The heat of her, the weight of her, everything—just gone.

Your eyes snap open, and she’s just looking at you, smug, comfortable, settled between your legs like she owns this moment, like she knows she has you right where she wants you.

Her fingers trail up your thigh, featherlight, barely there.

“You want this?”

Your stomach clenches.

She knows the answer.

She fucking knows.

You glare at her, shifting under her touch, frustrated, dizzy, so strung out you can barely think. “Paige��”

She smiles. Slow. Wicked.

And then, just as easily, “Say it.”

Your breath shudders out of you.

Because this?

This is her game.

She wants to hear you admit it. She wants to make you admit it.

She wants you to lose.

Your fingers dig into the sheets, your pulse a steady riot in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs where she still hasn’t fucking touched you.

But you can’t play this game forever.

Not when she already owns you.

Not when she already knows.

Your voice is thin when you say it.

“I want you.”

And the second the words leave your mouth—

She moves.

Paige grins, low and satisfied, and then she finally stops playing.

She knows she has you, like she’s been waiting for this moment, dragging it out, savoring every second of watching you come undone beneath her. She doesn’t rush. She doesn’t give you everything all at once. No, she takes her time, letting her fingers trace the curve of your hip, pressing light, teasing kisses down your stomach, exhaling slow like she’s enjoying this, like this is just as much for her as it is for you.

You’re burning alive.

Your breath is uneven, your hands twisting in the sheets, thighs already trembling with the anticipation of her next move. But she doesn’t move—not in the way you need her to.

Instead, she just looks at you.

From between your legs, eyes dark, lips parted, expression unreadable, like she’s still deciding how she wants to do this.

Your stomach clenches.

“Paige—”

She presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, slow, deliberate, her nails digging in just slightly when she grips your hips, holding you in place.

“Shh, baby,” she murmurs, and fuck, there it is again.

That word.

Casual, unthinking, sliding out of her mouth like she doesn’t even realize she’s saying it. Like she means it.

You shudder.

Paige notices. Of course, she does.

Her smirk curves against your skin, and then—

She finally stops playing.

The first press of her mouth sends a raw, electric jolt through you, your hips jerking up on instinct, fingers clawing into her hair like you’ll die if you let go. But she’s already moving—already fucking dragging this out like she wants you begging, like she’s savoring every second of your desperation. Her tongue flickers, slow and teasing, pressing, stroking, curling, soaking you with her hunger, her need.

She moans against your cunt like she’s been fucking starving for it. Like she’s been waiting, aching, dreaming of this moment for weeks, and now that she’s got you open beneath her, there’s no way she’s letting you go easy.

She drags it out.

Like she wants to ruin you.

Like she wants to tear you apart and put you back together with her tongue.

Your nails scrape against her scalp, hard enough to hurt, but she only groans, only pushes deeper, her tongue slipping, flicking, thrusting into the dripping heat of you. You’re gasping now, thighs trembling, back arching, breath catching in desperate, broken moans you can’t even bite back. You can feel her smirk, the way she’s reveling in it, the way she’s enjoying every single fucking sound you make for her.

Her fingers press in, spreading you, holding you open, her tongue working, her lips sucking, teasing, devouring—like she’s trying to drink every last drop of you. The obscene, wet sounds of her mouth on you make you whimper, make you grind down against her, make you clutch her hair so tight she groans into your slick heat.

Your body is shaking.

Paige tightens her grip, keeps you there, keeps you spread for her, keeps you exactly where she wants you—helpless, ruined, fucking wrecked on her tongue.

And just when you think you can’t take it anymore—just when the pleasure coils so tight in your stomach it’s about to snap—she fucking speeds up.

And you’re gone.

You don’t know if you scream her name. You don’t know if you sob it. But the pleasure detonates inside you like a fucking bomb, ripping through your body, setting every nerve on fire, leaving you shaking, gasping, falling apart beneath her mouth.

When you finally come back down—breathless, wrecked, soaked and still trembling—Paige is looking up at you from between your legs, her lips swollen, her chin glistening, her eyes dark and wicked.

Paige’s brow quirks up and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. You’re still gasping, still trembling, your body melted into the mattress, legs spread, thighs twitching from the aftershocks of what she just did to you. But she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t crawl up to lie beside you, doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath.

She licks her lips, smirks, and says, “I’m not done with you.”

And then she’s moving.

Crawling back up onto the bed, her body sliding over yours, her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wider before she finally lets her weight press down. Her skin is hot, slick, her breath heavy and sweet, her thigh slotting between yours as she pins you there beneath her.

Then she grabs your tits.

No teasing, no hesitation—she palms them, squeezes, kneads, rolling the soft flesh in her hands like she owns you, like she’s claiming every inch of you all over again. Her thumbs flick over your nipples, once, twice, before she leans down and takes one into her mouth.

The heat of her tongue, the wet pull of her lips—it makes you cry out, makes you arch into her, makes your hands fly up to grip her head as she sucks, hard, her teeth scraping just enough to make your whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” you whimper, thighs clenching around her, but she just chuckles against your skin, her mouth latching onto your other nipple, her fingers tweaking and rolling the one she just left wet and swollen.

Then her hand moves up.

She grabs your chin, tilts your face up, and before you can even process it—

She shoves her fingers into your mouth.

Her fingers, still wet from you, slip past your lips, pressing against your tongue, forcing you to taste yourself as she pushes them deeper. Your lips part around them, your tongue curling against the salty-slick heat of her touch, a soft, helpless whimper slipping from your throat.

Paige groans at the sight, eyes dark, lips parted, her fingers flexing inside your mouth before she pulls them out—

And spits.

Right into your mouth.

A hot, wet drop onto your waiting tongue, mixing with your taste, with the slickness she just forced you to swallow.

“Swallow it,” she breathes, her voice thick, rough, her fingers trailing down your throat as you do exactly what she fucking tells you.

And then her hand is between your legs again, fingers slipping through your soaked, throbbing heat, pressing in, pushing deep—

Fucking you all over again.

Paige’s fingers drive deep, knuckles sinking into the wet heat of you, her palm grinding against your swollen clit as you gasp, as you choke on the pleasure, your body arching into her touch like you can’t help it. Like you’re made for this. Made for her.

"Fuck—yeah," she groans, watching you, watching the way your body reacts to her. "You feel that? Feel how fucking good I make you take it?"

Your breath stutters, your hips rolling down against her hand, your mouth falling open, nothing but desperate little whimpers spilling from your lips.

Paige smirks, dark and wicked, pressing in deeper, curling her fingers just right, just enough to have you fucking shaking. "Bet he never got you this wet, huh?" she taunts, her voice thick with heat, with possession. "Bet he never made you moan like this."

Your fingers clutch at her shoulders, nails digging in, your head tilting back against the pillows as she fucks into you, slow but deep, deliberate, like she’s making a point. Like she’s proving something.

"You wanna lie to me?" she murmurs, lips brushing your ear, her breath hot against your skin. "Wanna tell me he’s ever made you come like this? That he’s ever had you dripping down his fingers like a desperate little slut?"

You whimper, shaking your head, unable to speak, unable to do anything but take it.

"That’s what I thought," she breathes, grinning against your throat, her teeth scraping over your pulse before she drags her tongue along your skin. "That little boyfriend of yours wouldn’t know what to do with this pussy if it fucking begged him."

She pulls her fingers out, slow and teasing, leaving you empty, aching—only to shove them back in, hard, deep, her palm slapping against your soaked skin as you sob, as you fucking fall apart.

"He ever make you scream?" she growls, fucking you rougher, faster, her fingers pressing against that spot inside you that makes your whole body jolt. "He ever make you soak the sheets like this?"

Your back bows, pleasure slamming through you, your nails raking down her back.

"You’re fucking mine," Paige groans, her mouth on your jaw, your throat, her tongue tasting the sweat on your skin. "This pussy? It’s mine now. Say it."

You barely manage to breathe out the words—"It’s yours"—before she presses her palm against your clit, her fingers curling just right, and you break.

Pleasure rips through you, white-hot and shattering, your whole body shaking, your vision going hazy as you come, as Paige fucks you through it, as she watches you, revels in it, grins like she just fucking ruined you.

And she did.

She fucking did.

——-

You wake slowly, the kind of slow that doesn’t feel like rest. The kind that feels like being pulled from something deep and heavy, like your body’s been wrung out and put back together all wrong. The sheets are soft, warm, unfamiliar, and there’s a weight draped over your hip—solid, steady, too much. Your breath stutters before your brain even catches up.

Paige.

She’s there.

Heat ghosts against the back of your neck, steady and unhurried, the rhythm of her breathing lulling, like sleep still has a hold on her. Her arm is slung around your waist, fingers curled lazily against your stomach, like she belongs there. Like she’s never left before.

And that—that is what makes your chest tighten.

Because this isn’t just some drunken mistake. This isn’t heat or tension or something you can chalk up to unresolved bullshit. This is her in your space, in your bed, in the quiet after. And she’s never stayed before.

Your pulse kicks up, your fingers twitch against the sheets. Last night slams into you all at once—the scrape of her teeth, the press of her hands, the way she looked at you, like she was done playing. Like she wasn’t giving you a choice anymore.

Your stomach clenches.

You don’t know what to do with this.

With her.

So you move, slow, careful, trying not to wake her as you shift out from under her arm. But the second you pull away, Paige stirs, her breath hitching, her grip tightening for just a fraction of a second before her eyes flutter open.

She blinks at you, still groggy, still soft, and for one, dangerous moment, she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you.

And you can’t breathe.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the softness vanishes.

Paige stretches, rolls onto her back, runs a hand through her hair, like she does this all the time, like she’s just woken up from any other night, not this one.

“Morning,” she mutters, voice rough with sleep.

You swallow, force yourself to move, force yourself to sit up and swing your legs off the bed. You don’t look at her.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “Morning.”

You feel her watching you.

Feel her waiting.

For what, you don’t know.

But when you stand, reaching for your clothes, Paige finally speaks again.

“You leaving?”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt.

You could stay. You could let this morning linger, let whatever this is stretch out just a little longer.

But the longer you stay, the harder it’ll be to pretend like this isn’t something.

So you nod, still not looking at her. “Yeah.”

Paige exhales through her nose, shifts behind you, and you expect her to let it go, to brush it off like she always does.

Instead—

“You gonna tell him?”

Your stomach drops.

You don’t need to ask who she means.

Eli.

The name rings in your head like a warning, like something cold and sharp, and you hate that she’s the one who brought it up, that she’s the one forcing you to look at it when you were this close to just leaving without dealing with the weight of it.

You squeeze your eyes shut for half a second before turning to face her.

Paige is propped up on one elbow now, watching you with something unreadable in her expression, like she’s testing you, like she’s seeing if you’ll break first.

You lick your lips, pulse hammering. “That’s none of your business.”

Paige’s lips twitch, and for a second, you think she’s going to let it go.

But then—

She scoffs. Shakes her head. Leans back against the headboard with a lazy, almost bored kind of smirk.

“Right. Forgot you’re still playing house with him.”

Your whole body goes rigid.

She’s doing it again.

Tugging at you, pushing you, seeing what you’ll do.

Your jaw clenches, fingers fisting into the hem of your shirt. “I’m not playing anything.”

Paige hums, unconvinced. “Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Something inside you snaps.

Because how dare she?

How dare she act like you’re the one playing games when she’s the one who ignored you for three months? When she’s the one who smirked at you across a fucking stadium like she knew she had you? When she’s the one who—

You exhale sharply, shaking your head, forcing yourself to breathe.

This is exactly what she wants.

So you don’t give it to her.

You pull your shirt over your head, reach for your shoes, straighten up.

Then, voice even, you say, “This didn’t mean anything, right?”

It’s a test.

You can see the flicker in her eyes, the quick way her throat bobs as she swallows.

But it’s gone in an instant.

Paige shrugs, casual, careless, like she’s already over it.

“Right,” she echoes. “Just a good time.”

Your chest tightens.

You don’t know what answer you wanted, but that—

That wasn’t it.

You nod once, sharp, then turn for the door.

And this time, you don’t fucking stop.

The door slams behind you, the force of it rattling down your spine, but you don’t stop moving.

You storm down the hallway, your breath sharp, hands curled into fists, every nerve in your body buzzing like a live wire. You don’t let yourself think. Thinking would mean feeling, and you can’t—won’t—give her that.

Not after what she just said.

Not after this didn’t mean anything, right?

Not after she agreed with you.

Just a good time.

That’s all it was. That’s all she wants.

You push through the front door, stepping into the cold air outside, your breath coming fast, too shallow, like you just ran ten miles. You shove your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie, fingers curling against the fabric, trying to ground yourself, trying to—

Your phone rings.

Or at least, you think it’s your phone.

The vibration against your palm jolts you, and you pull it out, ready to decline the call, ready to shut the entire fucking world out.

But then—

You see the name.

Taylor.

Your breath catches.

Your chest tightens.

The cold bites at your skin, but suddenly, it’s like everything else stops.

Because this isn’t your phone.

This isn’t your hoodie.

You look down at yourself, the oversized sleeves, the familiar weight of the fabric, the scent clinging to it—her scent.

Paige’s hoodie.

Paige’s fucking phone.

And Taylor is calling.

Your stomach lurches.

Right back where you started.

The phone keeps ringing, vibrating steadily in your hand, demanding something from you that you can’t give.

You stare at the screen, at the name that shouldn’t be your problem, at the proof of what Paige just walked away from.

And something inside you snaps.

You spin on your heel, shoving back through the front door, retracing your steps, moving fast, fueled by something you don’t even have a name for.

You don’t knock.

You don’t hesitate.

You shove the door open, expecting her to be there, expecting her to still be sitting on that bed with her legs spread and that fucking look on her face, smug and satisfied and untouchable.

But she’s gone.

Just fucking gone.

Like she was never here at all.

The phone stops ringing.

Silence.

You stand there, chest heaving, hoodie too big on you, your fingers still curled around a phone that doesn’t belong to you.

The phone is still warm in your hand.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a piece of plastic, just a screen with a name that shouldn’t be your problem. But it is. The weight of it presses against your palm, solid and damning, the name Taylor burned into your retinas, a fucking mockery of everything that just happened.

Paige left.

Vanished like this was nothing, like she didn’t just dig her fingers into you and pull you under, like she didn’t just whisper your name against your skin, like she didn’t just look you in the eye and say just a good time before slipping away like a fucking ghost.

Like she didn’t just ruin you.

And if she thinks she gets to walk away from this untouched—

She’s wrong.

Your feet move before your brain even catches up, before you can think about how reckless this is, before you can stop yourself from doing exactly what she wants. Because you already know where she is.

Where she always is.

The athletic facility is quieter than usual this late at night, the halls dimly lit, silent except for the distant hum of vending machines and the soft squeak of your shoes against the polished floors. But the second you push through the doors to the locker room—

The silence shatters.

Laughter.

Voices overlapping, casual, easy, still thrumming from practice, still buzzing with energy. The kind of normalcy that makes your blood boil, because your world is fucking spinning and yet—

She’s here.

Paige is here.

Leaning against the lockers, towel draped around her neck, a lazy grin curling at her lips as she listens to something one of the girls is saying. Loose. Relaxed. Unbothered.

Like she didn’t just leave you standing in the wreckage she made.

Heat slams into your ribs, a pulse of something violent and ugly crackling under your skin. Your fingers tighten around the phone, nails digging in, breath sharp and unsteady. And before you even fully register what you’re doing—

You move.

The door swings shut behind you with a slam, the force of it cutting through the noise, making heads turn, making conversation die mid-sentence.

Paige doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

But her shoulders go rigid for half a second before she shifts—casual, calm, fucking unhurried.

Like she already knows it’s you.

Like she felt you coming before she even looked.

And when she finally does—

The smirk is already forming.

Already settling into place like armor. Like a mask. Like she thinks she still has control of this.

But she doesn’t.

You stop in front of her, too close, way too close, enough to make the other girls shift where they stand, enough to make the laughter fully die out, enough to make the air feel thick.

Paige stays leaned against the lockers, pretending, but her eyes flicker over you, sharp and calculating.

Assessing.

Waiting.

So you don’t make her wait long.

You lift the phone, hold it up between you. Let her see it. Let her know why you’re here.

And then—voice low, rough, barely steady under the weight of your fucking anger—

“You think you can just fuck me and play me while your girlfriend still calls?”

The reaction is instant.

The shift in the room is immediate.

Someone swears under their breath. One of the girls lets out a quiet oh, shit. Another shifts awkwardly, eyes darting between you and Paige like they just walked into a fucking war zone.

But you don’t look at any of them.

You only see her.

And Paige—

For the first time, she doesn’t have a comeback.

Her lips part slightly. Her throat bobs as she swallows. Her fingers twitch just slightly around the towel slung over her shoulder.

It’s subtle.

Barely there.

But you see it.

The hesitation.

The way she’s trying to catch up to you, trying to find the right move, trying to figure out how to pull back control.

But there isn’t one.

Because this time, you’re the one leading.

This time, she’s the one who doesn’t know what to say.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, pressing into your ribs, into your throat, into her.

Then—slowly—Paige exhales through her nose, shifts against the lockers, expression smoothing into something blank, something unreadable.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes flickering over your face, voice deceptively soft when she says—

“You done?”

Your stomach twists.

Not with pain. Not with embarrassment.

With rage.

Because she isn’t sorry.

She isn’t guilty.

She’s just pissed that you called her out in front of them.

Your grip tightens around the phone, your pulse hammering in your ears, and for a second, you think about throwing it at her.

Then, just as quickly, you step forward—lean in close, so only she can hear—

And whisper, voice like a knife—

“You’re a fucking coward.”

Paige’s jaw locks.

Her whole body tenses.

And that—

That’s how you know you landed a hit.

You hold her gaze a second longer, long enough to make sure she felt it, long enough to see the way her breath catches, the way her fingers twitch, the way she’s fighting to stay still.

Then—

Without waiting for a response—

You shove the phone against her chest.

She catches it automatically, fingers closing around it, but she doesn’t look down.

She just looks at you.

Expression unreadable.

Eyes sharp, dark, burning.

You should look away first.

You should be the one to turn and walk out.

But you don’t.

You hold her gaze.

Daring her.

Challenging her.

Waiting.

For what, you don’t fucking know.

But you can feel it.

Feel something shifting, feel something breaking, feel something coming.

And for the first time—

You think Paige might feel it, too.

But then—

She swallows.

Nods once.

Slips the phone into her pocket like it doesn’t matter.

Then—voice low, smooth, too fucking even—

She says, “See you around.”

Like this was nothing.

Like she didn’t just lose.

Like she’s already planning how to fucking win.

This is war.

615 notes · View notes

lilislegacy · 8 months ago

Text

i think that when annabeth and percy move to california for college, they start having dinner with annabeth’s family once every 1-2 weeks. it’s probably a little tense at first, and annabeth is likely anxious about it. percy could either be pissed off and angry with them about how they treated her, or he could be really nice and trying to diffuse the tension to make things easier for annabeth.

but either way, i think one thing would be abundantly clear: percy is her family. not them. at least, not in the ways that matter.

mr. and mrs. chase have probably only ever seen annabeth with her walls up. never letting her guard down. she’s always tough around them, and never lets herself become trusting of them. because she has to protect herself from letting them hurt her again. as a young child, she felt unloved and resented by them enough that she preferred the cold dangerous streets to being with them. so even if their relationship begins to grow better - and i really do think it gets good eventually - she’s careful around them. she protects herself, and therefore isn’t super warm and fuzzy around them. since she’s grown up, there’s a good chance they’ve never seen her show true emotion. they’ve probably never seen a true smile from her. they’ve probably never seen her lean on someone.

but then she brings percy. they would see that the 14 year old little boy who they once met grew up into a tall, striking, intimidating young man. he has the same look in his unique sea green eyes that makes you know he’s been through horrible trauma. he’s carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. (literally). the rest of him may appear 18, but his eyes look 100 years old. he’s the first person they’ve really known who is like annabeth in that way.

and here’s the thing: percy and annabeth are a team. there’s an unbreakable bond between them. they move and fight as one. they are best friends in the whole world, and it’s clear to anyone who sees them. but they are also hopelessly in love, and that’s also clear to anyone who sees them. so imagine annabeth’s family, who’ve only ever known her to be distinctly independent and closed off, seeing her and percy holding hands. seeing them sit so close together that they’re nearly on top of each other. seeing her put her hand on his arm and kiss his cheek, or seeing him wrap his arms around her and gently kiss her forehead. and nevermind the touches, imagine them seeing her just look at him. a look full of vulnerability and adoration and complete trust. full of love and warmth and emotion. because that’s who annabeth really is. she’s emotional and sensitive and warm. but she’s always had to be someone else around her family, because in her mind, the true her wasn’t good enough for them.

but now they see her, all grown up, and with this young man by her side who is clearly her everything. and i think it would be a punch to the gut seeing them together. because it would be the first time they realize that she doesn’t think of them as her family. percy is her family, and percy alone. annabeth does not regard them - her own dad and step-mom and brothers - as her real family. percy fills that role all by himself. and it’s entirely their own fault.

#i hope they know that he is her present and her future #they are her past #and they’re gonna have to put in the work to be her anything else #percy is her family #they can see he loves her more than anything #percabeth #percy jackson #annabeth chase #pjo #heroes of olympus #percy jackson and the olympians #rick riordan #riordanverse #analysis #pjo headcanons

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dontsh0vethesun · 1 year ago

Text

pretty when you cry

therapist!wanda maximoff x fem!reader

18+: mommy issues, minimal therapy talk though, smut; mommy kink, dacryphilia, thigh riding, praise kink, fingering, darkish in the fact that, not only is it an inappropriate relationship, she almost uses r’s weaknesses(?) against her, manipulative ish and a lot of language inferring r being dependent on her? idk how to describe it :/

wc: 1.5k

Wanda listened to the way your intake of breath was shaky. She watched the subtle tapping of your foot against the carpeted ground and the way you played with your fingers in your lap.

“You never deserved to be treated that way,” she spoke. “I hope you know that.”

“The realisation of the pain almost feels worse than living through it,” you uttered back, your voice quiet as you lifted your eyes to the ceiling to will away the building tears. You avoided her gaze, the soft eyes, the wanting eyes that she couldn’t help but train on each feature of your sullen face.

You were broken and she wanted to put you back together again. Or perhaps she aches to break you all the more, just to see how dependant on her she could make you; how lovely you would be to need her.

“This guilt you’ve expressed - about this resentment you hold towards your family - I’d like for us to throw it away,” Wanda returned. “I hope that, together, we can bring you back - lift you to where you should be without the weight of your mother on your shoulders.”

At the tremble of your bottom lip, she lifted herself from where she sat, instead taking a seat beside you despite that line of professionalism. She took in the scent of your perfume and the up-close sight of the side of your face. She adored the shy way you glanced towards her, quickly diverting your glistening eyes when the tears began to roll along your cheeks.

She couldn’t keep her touch away at the sound of a sniffle, a sigh of breath from your parted lips. A comforting hand took place on your thigh and you couldn't deny the warmth it ignited. Whether it was the comfort or the forbidden closeness you weren't quite sure.

You leaned into the arm that encircled your waist, accepting the guiding of her hand that brought the side of your head to rest against her shoulder.

“Oh, sweet girl,” she whispered with her lips ghosting the top of your head. You’d never experienced such fondness, a soft embrace when you felt as though the world had left you crumbled.

Never before had someone shown you this kind of affection and any path of sense grew blurry. Should she be holding you this way with her hand on your leg? Should the scent of her vanilla body lotion make you dizzy? You don't know. All you know is that you don't want her to let go.

You'd recognised her beauty, of course, and this close it was that much more astounding. When her finger and thumb took hold of your chin for you to look into her eyes you could see each fleck of colour, each bit darkened when her sights were set upon you and your pink-hued whites, your wet eyelashes and cheeks striped with tear marks.

“You look so pretty when you cry,” she whispered, taking in your appearance lustfully. She wiped her thumb through the droplets that ran down your cheek and the touch was enough to calm the hiccuped breaths that caught in your throat, serving as a reminder of the present. Of the beautiful, older woman in front of you who was showing you that someone cared.

Despite the hungry way she peered down at you, watching your pain slide down to your chin, her touch remained gentle. The way she watched you intently barely made you shrink, her musing eyes drank up the pathetic sight happily. Crying before her you looked so helpless, so pretty, so broken in need of a motherly hand to guide you. She’d bring you to tears over and over as long as she’d be the one to pick you back up.

When you lifted your face to greet her lips with yours you were barely thinking, though when you did it was only to find her reciprocating with fervour; her hands took your face between them and yours found a place on her back with the silk material of her shirt in your grasp. It was a line you feared would have consequences. It was a line Wanda had only thought of crossing in the confines of her bedroom - one that was dangerous and thrilling and so tempting. But even a strictly professional woman such as herself has desires, she couldn’t pass up such an opportunity.

You could feel the slick of her lip gloss against you, and you sighed at the intrusion of her tongue licking into your mouth. Her attention made your head spin. The idea that you were her sole focus, so desperate to have you she’d risk it all, the closeness of her body when she pulled you onto her lap felt safe. When wandering hands crept beneath your shirt you leaned into their touch, feeling the shivering of your spine when her nails scraped along the skin whilst her lips made their way to your neck.

The way her body felt beneath your touch was sublime, the softness of her waist and the pillowy flesh of her breasts when you palmed at them through her bra.

Wanda’s breath was hot against your throat, her tongue licked across the bite mark she left behind whilst she pulled you impossibly closer in her eagerness to have you near. She pulled your hips into hers, smirking against your collarbone at the whimper you failed to hide. When she pushed her thigh upwards into your clothed cunt you couldn’t hold back the grunt at the back of your throat, feeling the pressure in your aching clit. She knew you’d be soaked, that her attention would reward her with the feel of your hips aimlessly rutting against her.

“Let mommy help you,” she murmured, pulling away from you with swollen lips, her hands taking claim of your hips to aid your movements. “I just wanna make you feel good. That okay?”

Her voice was soft and so were her eyes and it all made your brain so hopelessly empty, succumbing to the hold she has on you. All you knew was that she cared for you, the feelings she was igniting were setting you alight and, although you shouldn’t, you wanted it. Each and every thing this woman would offer you, you’d take and swallow down.

When you nodded she smiled and cupped your cheek.

“Good girl.”

She inched a hand between your bodies whilst her lips pushed to yours again, unfastening your jeans to creep past the hem of your underwear. Her fingers found how soaked you were with a swipe through your folds, your hands dug into her shoulders at the feeling of them brushing over your clit.

“So worked up aren’t you, hm?” she murmured against the pulse point of your neck, burying her fingers into your pussy with a curl that made you moan out into the crook of her neck, your teeth daring to ghost the soft skin. You wanted to know her taste. To consume her entirely, to show her just how grateful you are.

She adored the way you clung to her, keeping her as close as possible with your lips pressing kisses to her jaw while her fingers fucked into you; the heel of her palm pushed against your swollen bud, bringing you towards your release.

“C’mon,” she cooed, pulling your face away from her with a gentle hand in your hair. “Look at mommy when she makes you feel good.”

You did as she said, letting her keep her eyes focused on your pleading ones. The ones that held the remnants of your tears, that were replaced with a sensual hue, glossed over and wanting. You looked at her as though she was the only thing that mattered and it made her ravenous.

The sight of you cumming onto her digits had quickly become one of her favourite views and the sounds she pulled from you would echo in her mind. Feeling your mouth against hers made her smile, the way you thanked her for the pleasure. Her pliable little doll.

You’d do anything for her and she knows it.

She was pleased with your obedience when you accepted the fingers she nudged past your lips, slackening your jaw to suck them clean of the mess you’d made. She tasted your sweetness in the kiss she reunited you with, knowing right away she’d have to taste you properly as soon as she could.

Not much longer she was helping you stand up, fixing your appearance for you to take your leave, a tension lingering in the air of what was to happen next.

“Thank you, Wanda,” you sheepishly began. “for everything - for today. I mean-“

She cut you off with a laugh that eased your awkwardness and a touch to your arm that you leaned into.

“Same time next week?” she questioned to which you nodded right away. “And you’ve got my number. Give me a call if you need anything in the meantime,” she added with her lips quirking into a smirk as she reciprocated your small wave goodbye.

#wanda maximoff x reader smut #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you

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okaysonny · 7 days ago

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okkkayy, what if jake got his gf pregnant before marriage what would his mom’s reaction be + other big deal members 😶😶?? (love your fics btww!!!)

ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY 😧 ╏ jake kim

a/n: unserious. and thanks anon!

you always use protection. plus, the pill is 99% effective at preventing this. and yet...

"...i'm pregnant"

★ jake stands there with a stupid look on his face because he's stupid.

★ to be honest, he doesn't want to bring a child into the world when he's leading big deal. jake wants to retire before even thinking about it. he loves you, but this isn't something he planned for.

★ has a serious discussion about the risks, making sure you understand the weight of the situation. still, he knows it's your choice in the end. once it's clear you want to keep the baby, jake respects your decision. he's the type to step up no matter what.

★ watches parenting videos at night while rubbing his temples.

★ tells minseon first 😬 this is the part that scares him the most.

★ his mom: pissed as hell 🤣

★ the second jake tells her, she puts out her cigarette with tight lips. he's already sweating.

"jake kim" "...yes, mother?" "are you telling me you got a girl pregnant before putting a ring on her finger?" "t-the thing is..." "like father, like son"

★ she’d ask all the hard questions: how are you going to raise a baby in this life? do you think this is fair to the child? are you ready for this kind of responsibility?

★ anddd i have a feeling that if you're from a 'normal' family, she'd have more reservations. not that minseon is classist, but y'know...

★ jake explains that you always did it safely, so the pregnancy wasn't from recklessness. he's aware of the risks, but it's your decision to keep the baby. he wants to step up and support you.

★ ...that does get her eyes to soften.

"well...in any case, i know you'll do a better job than your own father"

★ i think in canon right now, jake and his mother have a strained relationship. as far as we know, he only visits minseon when he needs something! 😅 + she resents that he supposedly hates his father...yet became a gangster like him and left her on her own...just like gapryong.

★ but minseon also knows that jake didn't inherit his womanizing side. she knows that he'll be a great father, even if he doesn't think so.

★ she may be tough, but deep down, she’s happy about a grandchild...even subtly offers to mind the baby if jake is too busy and you need a break.

★ she ends up cooking for you. the baby needs to be healthy.

now...he needs to tell big deal...

★ sinu would be so happy for jake. he cares about him like a younger brother, so once the initial shock settles, he’d smile and congratulate him properly.

but then it would hit him.

jake, who never seemed to care about relationships in the first place, is having a kid before him.

"god...yeonhui is gonna have a field day with this. you better start saving man. kids are expensive"

★ would yeonhui scare him as a joke? absolutely.

"sinu, what if i accidentally got pregnant? would you step up like jake?" "h-hold on..."

★ you already know jerry would do the absolute most 😭

★ immediately places a loyalty hand on jake's shoulder.

"boss…you’re going to be a father?" his voice is trembling, like jake just told him he's DYING. "i will lay down my life for this child. it is my duty as number 2" "jerry...i didn't even ask you to- are you crying?"

★ jerry starts researching baby vitamins + recommending parenting books. already thinking about making the child wear a tiny big deal jacket.

★ jason and brad feel like the same characters to me. i'm sorry. i guess jason is portrayed as more blunt and serious?

"jake...don't take this the wrong way, but i don't think you know anything about babies" "you don't think i know that, jason?"

★ the girls knit a baby blanket together :') and make one of those "we're so excited to meet you" videos.

★ jake would not half ass being a dad. he’d try his hardest to balance big deal and fatherhood, even though it won’t be easy. but the baby will be loved. from the parents, the girls and big deal.

bonus!

lineman leans back in his chair, surveying the small pile of cash on the table. "alright, i’m locking in my bet — it’s a boy"

lua scoffs. "nah, you’re wrong. it’s definitely a girl. and she’s gonna have him wrapped around her finger before she can talk"

lineman shakes his head. "a girl? we’d have to protect her from all the freaks in this city. a boy would be easier"

"a boy would be just as much trouble!" she rolls her eyes. "but imagine boss jake with a daughter. he’d be like, the ultimate girl dad"

"tch, we’ll see about that. alright, bets are at 50/50. let's see if anyone else wants to-"

"...guys" an all too familiar voice booms behind them.

lineman and lua turn to look at jerry like children caught with the cookie jar.

"you’re betting on boss jake’s child? his future offspring?" he shakes his head in disappointment. "this is incredibly inappropriate"

lineman and lua exchange a guilty glance.

lua has the courage to speak. "i mean…yeah, but—"

"shame on you two" jerry crosses his arms. "both of them deserve respect, not this gambling on their unborn child’s gender"

lineman suddenly has an idea. "so jerry...you must think it's a girl, right?"

jerry nods. "obviously. can't you see it? imagine her holding jake's pinkie with her tiny little hands"

lua smirks, catching lineman's drift as he discreetly slides a notepad to her. "so hypothetically...you'd place a bet on girl?"

he closes his eyes, lost in thought. "exactly. she’d teach him patience, unconditional love—"

lua nods, cutting him off as she jots notes down. "mhm. yeah. and how much are you putting down?"

jerry strokes his chin. "i'd say...30,000 won, easy-"

he blinks. "wait..."

jerry's jaw drops, the betrayal evident on his face. "you tricked me"

lineman grins, holding his hands up. "of course not. you just wanna see boss jake become a girl dad. that’s passion"

jerry opens his mouth to argue — then closes it. he shamefully places cash on the table.

"this stays between us" he whispers, glancing from side to side.

lua nods in satisfaction. "of course"

jason walks by, looking at the money on the table. "you guys are still on this? fine, put me down for a boy. 75,000 won"

˚⊱🪷⊰˚

jake blinks in disbelief when the truth gets exposed. "...you guys are betting? on my child?"

lineman, lua, and jason whistle, staring at the wall in fascination.

jake looks at jerry, expecting some shame.

jerry looks down, fiddling with his fingers. "...i was tricked"

divider: @thecutestgrotto

#lookism #lookism manhwa #lookism webtoon #lookism comic #lookism fanfiction #lookism x reader #lookism x you #lookism fanfic #lookism fic #jake kim #jake kim lookism #lookism jake kim #kim gimyung #jake kim x reader #kim gimyung x reader #lookism headcanons #lookism hc

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edenesth · 9 months ago

Text

TWTHH Spinoff: Love to Hate You [1]

Pairing: royal secretary!San x female scholar!reader

AU: historical au (Joseon era)

Word Count: 5k

Summary: San prided himself on his knack for building easy connections with women, viewing himself as a trusted ally for the opposite gender. Thanks to his deep bonds with his mother and sister, he possessed keen insights into the female mindset. Never did he imagine facing the ire of a woman, until he encountered a resolute female scholar with a strong dislike towards men.

A/N: As stated in the title, this is a spinoff. If you have yet to check out the main story, it's probably better to read that before starting this.

Main Story | Spinoff Masterlist | Part 2

"Moon Siwoo, you get over here this instant!" you commanded, hands planted firmly on your hips as you glared at your twelve-year-old brother, who grumbled and rubbed his eyes sleepily while trudging reluctantly toward you.

"But noona, it's too early!" he protested, his pout aimed at evoking your sympathy, but you merely shook your head in disapproval.

Your mother sighed beside you. "Please go easy on him," she implored, but you met her plea with a stern gaze. "And who went easy on me, mother? If you keep coddling him like this, he'll grow up to be just another one of those entitled brats who call themselves a man. Is that what you want?"

Defeated, she fell silent and retreated to prepare lunchboxes for you and your brother. The silence spoke volumes, conveying the weight of the elderly woman's guilt as she grappled with your palpable disdain for men. Ever since little Siwoo came into the world, you had made it your mission to ensure he wouldn't become one of those disappointing individuals who claim to be men.

Of course, your dislike wasn't unfounded.

Your late father, already lacking as a parent, succumbed to his drinking problem not long after your brother's birth, leaving you, the eldest, to shoulder the family's responsibilities. But that wasn't the worst of it; his demise was overshadowed by the circumstances of his death—a result of excessive drinking in a brothel, of all places. It was a fact that brought you little sorrow.

Throughout your childhood, he imposed expectations meant for a son onto you, driven by his own unfulfilled aspirations of becoming a respected scholar in Joseon society. However, his misguided attempts at moulding you into his image of success involved subjecting you to gruelling and excessive lessons from a young age. At that time, your mother held little sway and dared not challenge him. Consequently, there was no one to shield you from his demands.

The irony lay in his expectations for you to excel, despite setting a horrible example. He often cited stress as justification for indulging in alcohol, initially venturing out for brief outings with "friends" before progressively extending his absences. Eventually, his nights away grew longer until he would vanish entirely, only returning the following morning reeking of different women's perfumes each time.

Therefore, you would be lying if you said you didn't harbour resentment toward your father. Discovering his passing brought a sense of relief, even if it meant assuming a heavier burden on your young shoulders. Life had never been easy for you in the first place, and you gladly accepted the added responsibility of supporting your mother and younger brother without the presence of a tyrant dictating your actions at home.

Yet, just when you thought the worst was over, you bore witness to the struggles faced by women around you as you juggled odd jobs while pursuing your studies independently, preparing for the state examination—the initial step toward achieving the status of a scholar-official. During this period, you witnessed firsthand how women were often relegated to the roles of mere child-bearers and servants to men who offered little in return. It was almost funny how they depended on women for everything while simultaneously treating the female gender as inferior.

This realisation fueled your determination to become the first female scholar, not to uphold your useless father's legacy, but to advocate for the marginalised women who lacked influential advocates to champion their cause and facilitate change.

Over a decade has passed since those tumultuous times. Now that Siwoo had reached an appropriate age, you resolved to enrol him in school after years of personally tutoring him to impart basic knowledge and skills, aiming to cut costs. You had taught him enough to grasp reading and writing. With him now eligible to enter the foundational levels of education mandated for embarking on the path to becoming a scholar-official, you were resolute in instilling him with your aspirations.

"Too early, you say? Would you rather rise with the sun for school or face punishments then?" you challenged, lifting an eyebrow.

Amusement danced in your eyes as the child's gaze widened in fear, vigorously shaking his head. "No, please! I'll behave and go to school! Spare me from standing in the corner for hours again, noona!"

"Now, that's my good boy," you gentled your tone, tousling his hair affectionately and straightening his slightly dishevelled hanbok. "How many times have I reminded you to tie the ribbons neatly like this? The teachers will scold you if they're not done properly, and you wouldn't want to make a poor impression on your first day. You'll make mother and me proud, won't you?"

He grinned brightly, "Yes, noona!"

Watching from the sidelines, your mother's heart swelled with warmth. Despite your stern demeanour at times, she was aware you loved him more than anything, knowing you could never be overly harsh. You had a knack for striking the right balance, teaching valuable lessons while showing him care and affection. Even as her daughter, she sometimes felt there was much she could learn from you.

"Alright, here are your lunchboxes, kids. Make sure to finish them, okay?" she instructed, passing the bags to you, receiving a smile in return.

"Got it! Don't worry, mother!" he chirped, saluting playfully.

"Thank you, mother. You should rest well while this little monkey heads off to school. How's your back feeling? I can swing by the apothecary for more herbs if you need any," you offered.

She shook her head, gently patting your cheek. "I'm fine, dear. Don't spend money unnecessarily. Some rest will do. Now hurry along before you both end up late."

With an arm around Siwoo, you guided him alongside you after bidding farewell to your mother. Your next stop was dropping him off at the nearest school before heading to the palace yourself to borrow some books not readily available in the public library. Having already passed the first two preliminary examinations with flying colours, only the final one stood between you and the coveted title of scholar-official. You were determined to complete it all swiftly, eager to finally begin making tangible contributions for the women of Joseon.

As you reached the entrance of your alma mater, you handed your brother his bag. "Alright, the teachers are expecting you. Please remember to behave and keep in mind what I've taught you—always be respectful and avoid causing trouble for anyone. Stay attentive and don't hesitate to ask questions if you're unsure. You won't learn anything by staying silent," you reminded, smoothing down his hair.

He nodded earnestly. "I won't forget, noona."

You grinned, pinching his cheek gently. "Good, I'll be here to pick you up after school. Wait right here if I haven't arrived yet. And don't wander off with anyone, understood?"

He swatted your hand away, rubbing his cheek. "Yeah, yeah. How could I forget? You've been drilling that into me for a week now. Bye, noona."

"Goodbye, Siwoo," you murmured, watching him enter the school gates and noticing the familiar figure of one of your teachers, Master Lee, waiting to greet him. Meeting the kind elderly man's gaze, you bowed deeply in gratitude. He was one of the few genuinely good men you had encountered in your life. Back then, understanding the difficulties you faced with your father's strictness, he had always strived to ease your burdens at school. Being the lone girl in a predominantly male institution also made you susceptible to bullying, but in this teacher's presence, you found solace.

He had also played a crucial role in securing your brother's enrollment. While your own admission might have been facilitated by your father's connections, the same couldn't be said for Siwoo, lacking influential or affluent backing. It was your close relationship with Master Lee that ensured his placement in the school.

As the man gave you a reassuring nod before guiding your brother into the school, you lingered for a moment, watching them until they disappeared from sight. You couldn't shake off the constant worry for the kid. The fear of him being bullied once his classmates discovered he didn't have a father plagued your thoughts. Yet, deep down, you understood this was necessary for his growth. After all, you faced similar challenges alone during your own schooling years.

You pushed aside those concerns, reminding yourself that Master Lee would be there to look out for him. With a heavy heart, you reluctantly turned away, knowing that as his elder sister, there was only so much you could do. The rest was up to him.

He'll survive; stop worrying.

Walking away from the school, you reminded yourself of your own priorities for now. Your focus needed to be on studying and acing the final examination. With that thought in mind, you set off towards the palace, your mind already forming a mental list of all the books you would need from the royal library.

Each step brought a sense of determination, the weight of responsibility settling firmly on your shoulders. You couldn't afford to let yourself be consumed by worry for Siwoo, not when your own future depended on your success in the upcoming examination.

"Yes, Your Majesty. I will deliver the latest batch of minutes and reports to General Park to ensure he is kept informed by today," San stated in his customary professional manner before bowing deeply.

The King nodded, gesturing with his hand to dismiss the secretary. "Very well. Proceed. And do not detain him unnecessarily; I am sure he is eager to spend every moment with his wife," he remarked, chuckling softly into his fists, pleased by the transformation of his once stoic general into a loving and affectionate husband.

"Understood, Your Majesty," the younger man replied, stepping back to excuse himself from the throne room.

As he made his way to his office to retrieve the documents before heading to the general's estate, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. With a furrowed brow, his steps faltered and he scanned the surroundings, searching for the source. Finally, his gaze settled on what appeared to be the fourth prince, observing him intently from a nearby pavilion. Despite the surprise, San maintained a neutral expression, not wanting to appear impolite.

Meeting Prince Yeosang's eyes, he offered a deep bow in greeting. His Highness reciprocated the gesture with a nod but continued to watch as the royal secretary attempted to move away.

Does he... want something from me?

San let out a deep sigh, internally debating whether to approach the prince. He knew Yeosang wasn't particularly sociable and might find it difficult to initiate conversations, despite any desire he had to do so. Finally, he made up his mind and veered towards the pavilion where the fourth prince was seated.

With a respectful bow, the royal secretary pretended not to notice the small breath of relief that escaped Yeosang upon his arrival. "Good day, Your Highness. It's unusual to see you out. How have you been faring?" he asked politely, mindful of the prince's ongoing punishment, which restricted his access to most areas even within the palace.

Yeosang gestured towards the seat across from him. "As well as one can be, considering my limited movements. Please, Secretary Choi, take a seat, and let us have a chat."

Giving in to the prince's invitation, San settled down and accepted the offered cup of tea. "Thank you, Your Highness. What would you like to discuss?" he asked patiently, allowing Yeosang time to collect his thoughts. As the prince struggled to articulate himself, the royal secretary calmly finished his tea, maintaining an expectant gaze upon His Highness.

After what felt like an eternity, Yeosang cleared his throat before speaking, "H-how is she...?" San immediately understood whom he was referring to but chose to feign ignorance. "I don't think it would be right for me to make any assumptions. Whom do you mean by 'she,' my prince?" he inquired.

Flustered, the prince sighed, avoiding San's gaze as he replied, "Lady Park, the general's wife... I noticed General Park hasn't been attending assemblies for a while now, and I was just... you know, wondering if everything is alright with her or... them."

The royal secretary's demeanour softened at Yeosang's inquiry. Offering a warm smile, he reassured, "Your Highness, please do not worry. Things are more than fine over at the general's estate. I didn't think it'd be right for you to hear this from me, but it seems there's no avoiding it, especially given your current restriction from leaving the palace."

Yeosang's curiosity sparked further. "What news do you speak of? Please, tell me."

San hesitated briefly before disclosing the truth. "Lady Park is, um... well, she's expecting, my prince. That's why the general has taken time off from work to care for her."

The prince fell silent for a moment, processing the news, while the royal secretary observed the myriad of emotions crossing His Highness' face. Finally, Yeosang croaked out, "I suppose that means he's treating her well then, yes?"

San nodded reassuringly. "Yes, he is. Perhaps when His Majesty pardons your punishment, you could pay them a visit. I'm sure Lady Park would appreciate seeing you."

The prince nodded slowly. "That's good... and yes, I think I will."

After a brief pause, the secretary spoke again. "Well, if that's all, I should probably return to work, Your Highness."

Yeosang nodded in understanding. "O-oh yes, of course. Don't let me keep you any longer. Thank you, Secretary Choi."

With a polite nod, San took his leave, continuing on his way to his office. His mind couldn't help but wander, pondering whether the prince still held any feelings for the general's wife. Even if he did, the secretary reasoned, at least His Highness was gracious enough to accept and acknowledge that he didn't stand a chance.

As he walked, his steps faltered, and he did a double take when he noticed a figure he had long wanted to meet—the first of your kind. He had heard much about your impressive performance in the preliminary exams. You must be here to prepare for your final examination. Eager to make your acquaintance, he rushed over, only to be met with the last thing he had expected.

"I'm just trying to help, Scholar Moon," the royal secretary insisted, his arms emptying as the stack of books he was previously carrying was abruptly snatched away by the newly acquainted female scholar.

You scoffed in response, "I don't remember asking for your help, sir. I understand it must be quite intriguing to meet a female scholar for the first time. However, there's a reason I'm the first. I'm not your typical damsel in distress. I don't need saving. While you may be used to women swooning at your feet, rest assured, I won't be one of them."

San stood in stunned silence as he watched you storming off in a fit of anger, completely taken aback by your hostile response to his well-intentioned gesture.

He had stumbled upon you as you exited the royal library burdened with a stack of borrowed books, his innate helpfulness and gentlemanly nature immediately prompted him to offer assistance without hesitation. But rather than the customary grateful smile and expression of thanks he anticipated, he couldn't believe he was met with such an unexpected and vehement reaction.

Did I... do something wrong?

A court lady standing nearby widened her eyes in disbelief. "Did you seriously just say that? Do you even know who he is?"

You rolled your eyes dismissively. "Probably just a eunuch, why?" you retorted, waving off her concern. "I doubt any high-ranking officials would pay me any mind."

"Well, you're correct about that. He's not a high-ranking official, but he is someone close to the King. He's the royal secretary," she disclosed, causing your heart to nearly stop as you gaped at her.

He's the what?!

After taking a moment to compose yourself, you blinked rapidly before turning around, only to find him already gone. With a sigh, you faced the court lady again, wearing an expression as if you had done nothing wrong. "Okay, well, as you said, he isn't a high-ranking official. Just a mere secretary. What's he going to do about it? Run to the king like a spoiled little brat? It will be fine," you said, though it sounded more like you were convincing yourself than her.

Suppressing a chuckle behind her hand, she nodded in agreement. "Well, you're not wrong about being fine. Royal Secretary Choi is known to be one of the nicest people. I'm sure he will let it slide," she reassured you with a gentle smile.

Your brows furrowed sceptically. "One of the nicest people, huh? I know men like that; wolves in sheep's clothing. They'll treat you well, make you feel indebted, and then exploit you eventually."

She sighed in resignation, shaking her head in disbelief. "I know nothing I say now will change your mind, but with time, you'll see he isn't anything like that at all."

You replied with a wry smile, "With time? No, I hope I never run into him again. I have no interest in his character. Nevertheless, thank you for the insight. I'll remember to steer clear if I ever see him again. Good day, madam." With a polite bow, you bid her farewell and continued with your day.

As you made your way back to your educational institution to resume your studies, you couldn't help but scoff as you reflected on the encounter with that man and the favourable reputation he tried to cultivate in the palace. Being no stranger to such types, you recognised his type: those who exploited their charm and false kindness to manipulate others. They always seemed to get what they wanted, with people readily bending to their will. It was a trait you detested. This royal secretary appeared to be cut from the same cloth.

But if he thought you would succumb to his charm like the other court ladies and comply with his wishes, he was sorely mistaken. You hoped you wouldn't have to see him again.

Despite feeling a twinge of embarrassment for being less than polite to someone of his stature, you didn't regret your words. They were spoken with genuine conviction.

"Thank you, San. If that's all..." Seonghwa's voice trailed off as he caught sight of the troubled expression on the royal secretary's face. "Oh god, what is it?"

Shaking his head, the younger man replied, "It's nothing serious. I just had a really odd encounter earlier today, and I'm wondering if I did something wrong..."

"Really? You? Doing something wrong? That doesn't sound like Choi San to me. You can do no wrong," the general teased, finally managing to coax a smile out of the royal secretary.

San chuckled. "Well, you know how easily I usually connect with girls and women."

Seonghwa raised an amused brow. "Ah, girl problems? It must be the season of love. Yunho's confiding in my wife about his own love troubles as we speak."

The secretary's eyes widened, and he waved his hands to dismiss the suggestion. "What? L-love? It has nothing to do with that."

"Yeah, that's what they all say..." the general grinned knowingly.

"No, seriously. Have you heard of the famous Scholar Moon?" San asked, to which the older man nodded. "If you're referring to the first female scholar in Joseon, then yes. So, she's the protagonist of your love story, huh?"

Secretary Choi rolled his eyes. "I swear, sometimes I miss when you're all cold and brooding. Anyway, I met her for the first time earlier, just before coming here. I saw her emerging from the royal library, arms filled with books, and out of kindness, I offered to help. But instead of thanking me, she... snatched the books back and launched into a whole monologue about not being a damsel in distress and not needing my help. She seemed... quite angry with me."

The general pondered for a moment, "Hmm, interesting..." San anxiously waited to hear Seonghwa's thoughts on the situation, nervously biting his lip.

Finally, the older man spoke up, "Well, she is the first female scholar after all. Perhaps she's different from most women you know. And besides, if she didn't request your help and you intervened, it might come off as presumptuous. Or maybe she's just having a bad day, and you happened to be there. Or... well, I'm probably the last person you should be consulting on this. You're the expert when it comes to women, so if you can't understand her, how can I...?"

Observing the continued concern on the secretary's face, the general added, "You care too much, San. Remember, no matter how well you think you understand women, not everyone is the same. Don't be surprised if you can't get along with every woman on earth. If, as you said, it's not about love, then let it go. Why should one Scholar Moon upset the great Royal Secretary Choi?"

San took a moment to absorb General Park's words before nodding slowly. "You're right. Maybe I just have to accept it," he conceded. "I guess I'm so affected because this has never happened before."

Pushing himself up from his seat across from Seonghwa, the secretary bowed respectfully. "I've taken more of your time than I planned. I should probably get going." The older man nodded, rising to see his friend off.

As San reached the exit of the general's study, he paused. "Oh, wait, one last thing... I spoke with the fourth prince earlier," he mentioned, sensing a slight shift in Seonghwa's demeanour. "He mentioned not seeing you around the palace and was concerned about Lady Park. I... told him about her pregnancy. I hope you don't mind. He seemed relieved to hear she's doing well."

Seonghwa's expression softened. "Thank you, San. That's good to know. I appreciate it. He's... her friend, I'm sure she'd want His Highness to know." Giving San a pat on the shoulder, he said, "Off you go then. Have a safe trip back. I'll see you next week."

As the secretary made his way back to his family estate, he opted to forgo the carriage ride for the day, choosing instead to take a leisurely walk. He figured it would help clear his mind of the unnecessary thoughts that had been bothering him. Perhaps it was the people pleaser in him, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that the earlier incident had affected him more than he cared to admit. Even though he knew he hadn't done anything wrong, he couldn't help but replay the encounter in his mind, wondering what he could have done differently to elicit a more favourable reaction from you.

However, he reminded himself of General Park's words – not everyone was meant to get along, and that was okay. With that in mind, he tried to focus on the scenery around him, letting the gentle breeze and chirping birds distract him from his thoughts.

Just as he was about to walk past a school, he heard the unmistakable sound of a child crying. Curious, he turned toward the source of the sound and saw a young boy sobbing alone by the entrance of the school.

San looked around to see if anyone was responsible for the boy's distress or if the source of his tears could be identified, but there was no one nearby. Passersby continued on with their day, seemingly oblivious to the child's plight. Unable to ignore the situation, San slowly approached him before kneeling down beside him.

"Hi there, kid. Are you okay? What happened?" he asked gently.

The child sniffled, wiping his tears. "My sister told me not to talk to strangers. If you think I'll follow you, then forget it. I'm not like those other dumb kids," he replied with a pout.

Taken aback by the boy's response, the royal secretary blinked rapidly before reassuring him, "I... no, I'm not a bad person."

The boy snorted sceptically. "Yeah, that's what they all say. If you try anything, I'll scream for my teacher."

Huh, that attitude feels oddly familiar.

Raising his hands in a gesture of surrender, San shook his head. "I promise, I just wanted to check up on you and find out why you're crying. If you don't want me to bother you, I'll leave right now."

Just as he was about to walk away, the boy sighed and tugged on his sleeve. "W-wait... fine, just listen to me then," he relented.

San chuckled softly. "Go on, tell me what or who made you cry. Even if I might not be able to help you, you'll feel better after talking about it."

The child nodded, fiddling with his fingers nervously. "It's my first day of school and... it's stupid. My sister already warned me that it might happen, but still..." Fat tears rolled down his little cheeks as San wiped them away gently. "It's okay, you can tell me," he encouraged.

The boy continued, his voice trembling with emotion. "They bullied me because I don't have a father. He died not long after I was born, so it's just me, my mother, and my sister. But I don't get it! Why should I get bullied for something I can't control?"

Just as San lifted his hand to comfort the child, he was startled by the unexpected appearance of the last person he anticipated seeing so soon. "Hey! Don't you dare lay a hand on him!" you shouted, hurrying over.

Your protective instincts kicked in as you arrived to collect Siwoo from school, only to find him in tears with this unfamiliar man poised to touch him. At the sound of your voice, the royal secretary swiftly turned his head, and your eyes widened in shock at the sight before you. Just when you hoped never to encounter him again, fate had other plans. The world had never been kind to you, so perhaps you shouldn't have been surprised.

Are you freaking kidding me?

"S-scholar Moon! I swear, I was just trying to help..." San's words stumbled out, but you took a deep breath to steady yourself before responding, "It's fine, we're fine. I'm not even going to ask what you're doing here. I just... I apologise for my earlier behaviour in the palace if I offended you in any way. Thank you, Royal Secretary Choi, for your kindness, but we really don't need your help."

Your brother protested, "But, noona—"

You shot him a stern look. "We'll discuss this at home, Moon Siwoo."

As San stood there, his mind racing, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. Not only were you the first female scholar, to achieve such a feat without the backing of a powerful father, but you also carried the burden of supporting your family on your shoulders. Could it be that your disdain for help stemmed from a distaste for pity? He couldn't fathom how difficult things must have been for a young lady like yourself.

It occurred to him that your independence might have forged a toughness within you, causing you to recoil at the mere thought of accepting assistance. But these were mere speculations. He knew his mind would not find peace until he uncovered the truth.

As you turned to leave with your brother, the royal secretary's voice halted your steps. "Wait, Scholar Moon! I swear, I came across your brother by chance; I didn't realise he was related to you. And I... I, too, apologise if I've offended you in any way. There must be a reason for your reaction, and if there's anything I could have handled better, please let me know. I understand that being a female scholar must not be easy."

You briefly closed your eyes, acknowledging his smooth words. Had it been someone else, they might have melted. But maintaining your resolve, you turned back to face him. "I appreciate the apology, Royal Secretary Choi. But please, don't overthink it. My reaction wasn't aimed solely at you; it would have been the same with any man. Now, if you'll excuse us, we must be on our way."

Wait, what does that mean?

« Preview of Part 2 »

"Sometimes I wonder what His Majesty sees in you. You can be so dense, it's astonishing," Haneul remarked, shaking her head in playful disbelief as she nudged San's head.

He whined, swatting her hand away. "What are you even doing here, noona? Is your husband okay with you always running away from home like this, huh?"

She smacked him lightly. "Is that any way to talk to your older sister? Besides, this is my home too. What's wrong with visiting once in a while? And let's not change the subject! She's already dealing with a tough life, and now she has to contend with self-absorbed men like you. It's clear she doesn't trust men. She grew up without a father, and even when he was around, who knows what he was like? And being a female scholar, imagine the prejudice she faces. Do you honestly think she's had positive experiences with men?"

"What? I'm not self-absorbed!" he protested, shooting her a glare.

Haneul nodded sarcastically. "Oh yeah, not at all. All you've been busy thinking about is what you did, what you could have done because everything revolves around you and your magical ability to charm all the women on this land. Finally, you meet someone immune to it, and of course, it couldn't possibly be because you're just a man, but rather, it has to be about you."

"W-well, if you put it that way..."

She rolled her eyes. "Just admit that I'm right and move on, you fool. Now that you know it's not about your actions; it's just her general distrust in men, you can sleep in peace tonight knowing you did nothing wrong. It's not you, it's her."

But the royal secretary found himself unable to sleep well that night. Understanding that it was men you hated only ignited a newfound determination in him.

I'll show her that not all men are the same.

Y'all, I'm sorry this took so long! I'm afraid updates will be slow after this because guess who is starting her full-time job tomorrow :) back to that Mon-Fri 8-5 corporate life, so I won't be able to write as frequently anymore💔 but I'll do my best to write whenever I can!

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

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#edenesth #the way to this heart #love to hate you #twthh spinoff #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #choi san #ateez san #historical au #joseon era #choi san x reader #choi san x you #ateez fic

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vivwritesfics · 1 year ago

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"He Does Know"

The requested part two to "He Can't Know" It can be read as a follow on or as a stand alone.

I'm, maybe, 10000% sure that my ankle is broken so I've been sat in my bed all day trying to write this (no, my ankle definitely isn't broken. I twisted it when rather drunk last night, but it's an already bad ankle so I am in so much pain :')

Part One

When Y/N Wolff told her father about her relationship, she fully expected him to go to the Ferrari garage, bat in hand. But he didn't. Y/N was actually frightened about how calm he was.

The next race was Monaco, Charles' home race. The only people who knew about their relationship was them, and Y/N's dad. It was all a question of what to do next.

Whatever that next step was, Monaco was the perfect place to do it.

The Wednesday before the race was when Y/N arrived in Monaco. Her father hadn't booked her a room in a hotel this time. This time around, she was to stay with her boyfriend.

It was weird. When Y/N first arrived in Monaco and Charles had somebody pick her up, it was awkward. When she made her way to his apartment, it was awkward. When Charles let her in, it was awkward.

"I can't believe this is your first time in my apartment," he said as Y/N sat at the kitchen island.

When he handed her a glass of wine, Y/N gratefully accepted it. "It's really nice," she answered him, looking around. "I'm really happy to be here."

She really was, she was just having a hard time expressing it. It was weird, having their relationship so out in the open. It was weird, not hiding away in the empty corridors. It was weird, being with him and not have to hide away.

It took Y/N an hour or two to properly settle in. Charles helped speed that process along. The sat together on the couch, watching a movie that didn't much need their attention. By the end of it Y/N had a tongue down her throat and couldn't tell you what the movie was about.

"Where do we go from here?" She asked when he finally pulled away.

"What do you mean, mon ange?"

"I mean, now that my dad knows, do we announce it to the world? Do we post it on our social media? Do we just tell the grid?" She sat back beside him, laying her head on his shoulder.

Charles went red. "Well, Max already knows," he confessed.

That settled it then, they were going to tell the grid.

***

Y/N and Charles couldn't yet walk around the paddock hand in hand. They weren't yet ready to be seen by the press together. So, Y/N and Charles resorted to telling the grid individually.

As Charles went around to Red Bull and McLaren, he got congratulated and clapped on the pack. As Y/N told Mercedes and Williams, her father watched over her shoulder, glaring as people congratulated her. They couldn't hug her like they did Charles, not if they wanted to survive the wrath of her dad.

When the entire grid knew, it was like a weight had been taken off Y/N's shoulders. Not a huge weight, but it definitely helped. Now, they just had to get up the courage to tell the rest of the world.

It was funny, wasn't it? How life works out sometimes? If Y/N hadn't resented her father so much, she never would have tried to reconcile with him and she never should have met Charles.

It was all she was thinking about during the race. That, and him. It was her first time at the Monaco Grand Prix, the first time in his home country.

Watching the race was quite an experience. Y/N spent the race with her nails between her teeth, biting them out of anxiety. Monaco was maybe the most anxiety-inducing race on the calendar. As Y/N watched Charles moving around the tight corners, she was sweating.

No podium in Monaco for Charles, but that was expected. His curse, if you will. But still, Y/N celebrated. And, as she celebrated his win hidden away in the dark corner of the Mercedes garage, she realised she was ready.

She was ready to go public. She was ready to tell the world about her love for Charles Leclerc. If it only meant she got to celebrate his races with him.

Still, this was something Y/N wanted to go to her father about. Maybe even ring Susie and ask for her advice. And definitely talk to Charles about it.

Later that evening, tucked away in his home in Monaco, Y/N and Charles talked. They were wrapped in a duvet, the windows opened as they laid together, bare skin on bare skin. "You were amazing today," she said as she ran her fingers through his hair, scratching at his scalp with her nails. "I love watching you race."

"I love knowing that you're there watching me. I love that everybody on the track with me knows I have the most stunning girl out there," he replied and kissed the top of her head.

Y/N sat up and Charles sat up with her. "I just wish we could celebrate together."

He looked at her with wide eyes. "You mean, tell the world?"

She nodded.

That evening, Y/N posted to her Instagram story. It was a soft launch, one of the softest launches most F1 fans had ever seen. It was just a picture of his bed, the Ferrari hat on the end of it being a dead giveaway.

Y/N watched as the fans went feral. It was incredible to watch. The tweets and twitter mentions were non stop, the comments on her latest Instagram post (which had nothing to do with Charles) were going crazy.

Charles was next. He pulled up his Instagram on his phone, which was already going crazy, and moved to post a picture. It was cute, one they’d taken in the hotel room during the Australian Grand Prix. Charles holding Y/N on the couch mid cuddle.

The internet went insane.

They got congratulations from their friends in comments and private messages. Even Susie left a comment on Charles’ picture. And then she sent Y/N a message, asking why she was the last to hear about. Of course Y/N had to send back an apology to her step mother, accompanied by a candid of her and Charles

Now, the world knew. It was freeing. Y/N could express her love without fear. There was no telling what her father would do when she swapped her Mercedes hat for a Ferrari one.

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula one #formula one imagine #formula one x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #charles leclerc smut

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novaursa · 4 months ago

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Fire and Gold (no soul to hear)

- Summary: Rhaegar chooses you over her. And Ceresi never forgives you for it.

- Pairing: sister!reader/Rhaegar Targaryen

- Note: This is the final chapter.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Previous part: coat of gold and three heads

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @naviaberries

The banners of the Great Houses fluttered in the wind over Harrenhal, the sigils of lions, stags, and dragons rippling in the evening breeze as the crowd gathered for the feast following the grand tourney. The air was still alive with the energy of the jousting, and although the excitement had begun to wane, there was a certain anticipation in the hall. All eyes were on Rhaegar as he made his way through the throng, his violet eyes bright with the joy of victory. He had won, of course. He always won, but this time it was different. This time, he had crowned you as Queen of Love and Beauty.

Your heart had raced when he placed the crown of blue roses upon your head, the sweet fragrance mingling with the heady scent of victory. The world had held its breath as Rhaegar declared you, his sister-wife, the fairest in the realm. You could still feel the weight of the roses on your brow, the petals soft against your skin, though their meaning was sharper, darker, than anyone else knew.

The feast was in full swing now, the hall alive with laughter, the clink of goblets, and the melodies of minstrels. Yet amid the merriment, your eyes flickered over to where Cersei sat, brooding in silence beside Robert Baratheon, her golden-haired children at her side. The sight of her soured the sweetness of your triumph, her jealousy almost tangible. She had wanted this life, wanted Rhaegar, wanted everything you had. But she had been given to Robert instead, and though the two of them had "produced" golden-haired heirs, the bitterness in her eyes was undeniable.

Cersei’s fingers curled tightly around her goblet, and she forced a smile as one of her children, a boy with bright, golden locks, tugged at her sleeve. You saw the flicker of resentment there, the edge of anger she could not hide. Robert was drunk, as usual, leaning back in his chair and boasting loudly to those around him. He paid no attention to Cersei or the children, too absorbed in his own revelry. Tywin Lannister sat nearby, his eyes scanning the room, calculating, always calculating. He was trying, as he had for years now, to regain the favor of King Aerys, but with little success. Aerys barely looked at him, his disinterest in Tywin as obvious as the growing anomasity between them. The king’s gaze flitted to his daughter—you—and then to Rhaegar, approval gleaming faintly in his eyes, as if Aerys himself was pleased by the choice of queen for this evening.

You smiled to yourself as you let your eyes drift over the crowd, searching for a figure you had been keeping watch for. And there he was, standing by the shadows near the far end of the hall—Wisdom Rossart. His pale face gleamed in the torchlight, and his thin lips curled into a grin as he caught your eye. The firelight danced in his eyes, and he inclined his head, awaiting your signal.

You gave it with the faintest tilt of your head, and Rossart bowed slightly before slipping silently from the hall, disappearing into the shadows like a ghost. He knew his task. The plans were already in motion.

Beside you, Rhaegar’s hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm, grounding. He had been smiling all evening, more at ease than you had seen him in months. Perhaps it was the joy of the tourney, of winning the crown and crowning you, his beloved, in front of all the realm. Or perhaps it was something deeper, the belief that after all the grief and anger that had filled your lives, you were finally finding peace again. You could see it in his eyes—the relief that, after the loss of your son, you were calm. Too calm.

He watched you now, his gaze soft but searching, as if he were trying to understand the change in you. Since the murder of your child, a fire had been lit inside you, one that had burned so brightly it had frightened him at times. But now, he believed, that fire had dulled. You were content, or so it seemed.

“Y/N,” Rhaegar murmured, leaning closer to you, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’ve been calm these past months, my love. Are you... happy?”

You turned your head to meet his gaze, your smile serene. “I am,” you whispered back. “I have made my peace with what has happened.”

Rhaegar studied your face for a moment longer, searching for something, anything, that might betray the depth of what truly lay within you. But there was nothing. Your calmness was a mask you had worn so well that even he, your dearest Rhaegar, could not see past it. At last, he smiled, his own shoulders relaxing, the tension melting away from him. “Then I am happy, too,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

Your eyes flickered to your children, Aelor and Visenya, sitting just a few feet away, laughing with their attendants and watching the minstrels with wide, curious eyes. Aelor, now one and three years old, was the image of his father, regal and composed even at his young age, while Visenya, still so small, clung to her brother’s side, her laughter bright and full of innocence.

You leaned over to their attendants, your voice gentle but firm. “It is time for the children to be taken to their chambers. Escort them to bed.”

The servants nodded, quickly gathering the children and ushering them from the hall. You watched them go, your heart tightening just slightly, but the calmness never left you. They were safe. Tonight, at least, they were safe.

Rhaegar’s arm slipped around your waist as he pulled you closer, his attention returning to the revelry before them. “It is good to see you content, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft with affection. “For so long, I feared I had lost you to grief.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling as you brought the goblet of wine to your lips, but as you drank, the taste was empty, as if it were nothing but air passing over your tongue. You couldn’t taste the wine anymore—hadn’t been able to for months now. It didn’t matter.

As the feast continued, you felt Rhaegar relax further, confident that the woman he loved, his sister-wife, was finally at peace. He didn’t see the storm that still brewed beneath your calm exterior, didn’t see the fire that burned quietly, waiting for its moment. You had found your peace, yes—but it was the peace that came before the blaze. You glanced once more at the empty space where Rossart had stood, the faintest smile tugging at your lips.

Let them enjoy the night, you thought. For soon, fire and blood will come for those who deserve it.

And when that time came, you would watch them burn, just as the dragon within you had always longed for.

The grand doors of the hall groaned as Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Lewyn Martell pushed them closed, sealing the gathered lords, ladies, and knights inside the vast chamber. The sound of music halted abruptly, the melodies fading into an eerie silence that settled over the hall like a shroud. The air felt heavy, almost oppressive, as if the very walls of Harrenhal had begun to press inward.

King Aerys stood from his seat at the high table, his thin frame silhouetted by the flickering torchlight, his mad eyes gleaming with a strange intensity. His lips curled into a twisted smile as he raised his goblet, the movement drawing every gaze in the room. His voice rang out, sharp and high, cutting through the stillness.

“A toast!” Aerys cried, his voice laced with both malice and glee. “A toast to family, to blood, to fire!”

The gathered courtiers lifted their goblets with hesitant smiles, though an undercurrent of unease rippled through the crowd. Aerys’s words, his tone, carried a weight that none could ignore, and for a moment, the feeling of dread set in, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen.

But before Aerys could continue, you stood, your movement slow and deliberate. All eyes shifted to you, and a murmur passed through the hall as they watched, waiting. Rhaegar, seated beside you, glanced up in surprise, his brow furrowing as he watched you rise.

You raised your goblet with a serene smile, your voice carrying through the hall with a calmness that belied the storm within you. “To family,” you began, your tone measured, almost hypnotic. “To the bonds that tie us, the blood that runs through our veins, and the fires we tend... and those we ignite.”

The hall fell deathly quiet. The courtiers exchanged uncertain glances, and you could feel their unease spreading like a ripple through the room. Rhaegar’s hand brushed against your arm, a silent question, but you didn’t acknowledge him. Your gaze drifted across the faces in the hall—Cersei’s sharp eyes, Tywin’s calculating expression, Robert’s oblivious drunken grin. All of them, guilty in your eyes. All of them about to pay.

Cersei, seated beside her golden-haired children, felt a prickle of dread. Something was wrong. The lighting in the hall had been off the entire evening, the flicker of the torches casting strange shadows across the room. She had noticed it earlier, the way the flames had seemed to shift unnaturally, but now... now it felt as if the very air had darkened. She glanced toward the walls, her breath catching in her throat.

And then she saw it. Hidden behind the stone pillars, tucked away in the alcoves—wildfire. Casks of it, stacked and waiting, glinting faintly in the low light. The green shimmer of death.

Her eyes widened in horror, and she opened her mouth to scream a warning, but it was too late.

The arrow came first—a single flaming arrow that cut through the air with a hiss, loosed by one of Wisdom Rossart’s men from the far end of the hall. It struck the nearest cask of wildfire, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze.

Then the world exploded.

The wildfire erupted in a brilliant blaze of green flame, the cask detonating with a force that sent a wave of heat and fire cascading across the hall. The explosion set off a chain reaction, and one by one, the other caches hidden throughout the room ignited. The once-grand hall was transformed into a living inferno, the flames licking up the walls and across the tables, consuming everything in their path.

Screams filled the air as nobles and knights scrambled to flee, their silks and finery catching fire as the green flames spread with terrifying speed. Tables overturned, goblets shattered, and chaos reigned as the court dissolved into panic. The smell of burning flesh and smoke filled the air, thick and suffocating.

Aerys stood at the high table, his wild laughter echoing through the hall as he watched the devastation unfold. “Burn them all!” he cried, his voice rising above the cacophony of screams and flames. “Burn them all!”

You remained seated, a strange calm settling over you as the chaos swirled around you. The heat of the wildfire licked at your skin, but you did not flinch. You lifted your goblet of wine to your lips once more, but the liquid was still tasteless as ever.

Rhaegar, his face pale with horror, grabbed your arm, trying to pull you from your seat. “Y/N, we need to go!” he shouted over the roar of the flames, his eyes wide with panic. “The hall is burning—everyone is burning!”

But you refused to move, your gaze fixed on the flames as they consumed the hall, as they devoured the faces of the guilty and the innocent alike. “No,” you whispered, your voice eerily calm. “I want to watch.”

Rhaegar’s grip tightened, his voice frantic. “You have to move! This is madness!”

You turned to him, your eyes filled with a cold, unyielding determination. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Rhaegar. Don’t you see? It was never about who was guilty or innocent. They’re all guilty now. They all deserve this.”

Rhaegar stared at you, his heart breaking as he realized how far you had fallen into the depths of your grief and rage. “This isn’t justice,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “This is destruction.”

You smiled, a soft, bitter smile. “Sometimes, destruction is the only answer.”

Rhaegar’s hand fell away from your arm, and he took a step back, his expression stricken. The flames continued to rise around you, consuming the hall, but you remained seated, watching as the traitors, the schemers, the guilty all burned before you. It no longer mattered who had killed your son or who had sought to kill you.

They were all guilty now. And they would all burn for it.

Cersei’s world had become a nightmare. The roar of the flames filled her ears, deafening and relentless, as green wildfire consumed everything around her. Her once-beautiful gown now hung in tatters, singed and blackened from the heat. Smoke stung her eyes, her lungs burned with every breath, and all she could hear were the screams—the screams of those dying around her, the wails of terror as they tried in vain to escape the inferno.

She staggered through the hall, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched for her children, her golden-haired babes, but the flames had already devoured everything. Her son had been next to her, pulling at her sleeve only moments ago, but now... now he was gone. Panic gripped her, cold and fierce, as she called out their names, her voice hoarse and ragged. “Joffrey! Myrcella! Tommen!”

There was no answer. Only fire. Only death.

The flames leaped higher, hungry and unstoppable, swallowing the tables and tapestries, the banners of the great houses, as though the gods themselves had unleashed their fury upon the court. In the center of it all, at the high table, King Aerys stood with his arms raised, laughing maniacally, his voice rising above the chaos. “Burn them all! Burn them all!” His eyes gleamed with madness, the light of the wildfire reflected in their violet depths, and he reveled in the carnage, his joy as twisted as the flames themselves.

Cersei’s gaze swept to the high table, and there, amidst the wreckage and ruin, she saw her. The Targaryen princess, seated calmly as though nothing was amiss, a goblet of wine in her hand, her expression serene. She looked untouched by the flames, as if the destruction around her was nothing more than an afterthought. The faintest of smiles played on her lips as she watched the hall burn, the madness in her eyes mirroring her father’s.

But it was Rhaegar’s face that sent a chill through Cersei’s blood. He stood beside his sister-wife, his expression one of sheer horror, his eyes wide and disbelieving. He did not move, did not try to flee, even though the flames raged all around him. His hand hovered near her, as though he was still tethered to her, bound by a devotion that transcended even the madness unfolding before them. He had always been devoted to her, to his dragon. Even now, as everything they had built turned to ash, he could not leave her side.

Cersei’s heart twisted in fury, in despair. Everything she had wanted—everything she had dreamed of—had been stolen from her. Rhaegar, the crown, the power. And now, the children she had borne for Robert—Jamie—those golden-haired innocents who had nothing to do with this madness, were gone too, swallowed by the flames this woman had unleashed.

Her hatred surged, white-hot and blinding, as she staggered forward, her voice cracking with rage. “You!” she screamed, her eyes wild, her hands trembling as she pointed toward the Targaryen princess. “This is your doing! You... you bitch!”

Cersei’s curses echoed through the hall, but Y/N did not flinch. She merely turned her head slightly, her gaze locking with Cersei’s, as if the flames and the screams meant nothing to her. That faint, bitter smile remained on her lips, and she took another slow sip of her wine, unbothered.

“Burn in hell!” Cersei shrieked, her voice raw with grief and fury. “Burn with the rest of them! You—”

Her words were cut off by a deafening roar as another explosion ripped through the hall, the ground beneath her feet trembling with the force of it. The fire surged forward, a wall of green flame that tore through the remaining survivors, devouring everything in its path. Cersei’s world became a blur of heat and smoke, the taste of ash thick on her tongue.

She barely had time to scream before the wildfire found her. The flames engulfed her in an instant, searing her skin, melting the world around her into an endless sea of agony. Her last thought, before the darkness swallowed her, was of Rhaegar’s face—his horror, his devotion—and the serene, untouchable calm of the woman who had destroyed them all.

And then Cersei was gone, swallowed whole by the fire she had cursed.

Jaime raced through the courtyard, his breath ragged, heart pounding in his chest. The smoke billowed into the night sky, a plume of green flame flickering at its heart, the glow so unnatural it seemed to come from the very depths of hell. Screams echoed from within the great hall, carried on the wind like the wails of the damned. He could hear them, high-pitched, desperate, the sound of agony that could not be silenced by stone walls or iron gates.

Ser Gerold Hightower stood like a sentinel before the grand doors, his face set in a grim mask. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held his ground, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the other outstretched as if to bar Jaime’s path. Jaime skidded to a halt before him, panic flashing in his eyes.

"Let me in," Jaime gasped, trying to shove past him, his eyes wide with fear. "Ser Gerold, let me through! My sister—"

Gerold shook his head, his voice low and steady, but there was no comfort in it. "No one can enter, Ser Jaime. It’s too late."

Jaime’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white. "You can’t keep me out! The king—my sister—she’s in there!"

Ser Gerold’s expression remained impassive, but the deep lines etched into his face seemed to deepen. "The king gave his orders. No one is to enter until the screams stop."

The screams. Jaime’s blood ran cold at the words. He glanced toward the doors, his heart hammering against his ribs. The screams were everywhere, filling the air, filling his ears, echoing through his skull. And then, just as Gerold had said, they began to fade. One by one, they were snuffed out, like the last gasps of life. And then, finally—silence.

The only sound that remained was the faint crackle of flames and a soft, chilling laughter drifting on the wind. King Aerys’s laughter.

Gerold stepped aside, and without another word, Jaime pushed past him, his hand trembling as it gripped the hilt of his sword. He shoved open the doors, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges, and stepped into a nightmare.

The hall was a blackened ruin. The once-grand tapestries were ash, the banners of noble houses curled into smoldering remnants, their sigils erased from existence. The long tables were overturned, charred and broken, and the bodies—gods, the bodies—were scattered like kindling, some burned beyond recognition, others twisted and frozen in grotesque shapes, caught in their last moments of agony.

The smell of burning flesh hit Jaime like a physical blow, turning his stomach. He forced himself to keep walking, stepping over the charred remains of courtiers and knights alike. He couldn’t find her—couldn’t see Cersei. His heart seized with terror, his eyes scanning the destruction for any sign of golden hair, but all he saw was ruin. The fire had devoured everything, leaving nothing but blackened bones and scorched memories.

At the center of it all, seated as though she were holding court, was the Targaryen princess. She sat still, her face serene, a goblet of wine in her hand, though it had long since emptied. The crown of blue roses Rhaegar had placed on her head earlier that evening still sat delicately upon her brow, untouched by the carnage around her. She didn’t look at the destruction, didn’t flinch from the horrors she had unleashed. Her expression was calm, almost peaceful.

Beside her stood Rhaegar, his face ashen, every line etched with shock and sorrow. His wide, disbelieving eyes flickered between the ruin and the woman at his side, as though he could not fathom how she, the woman he loved, could remain so untouched by the destruction that engulfed them just moments ago. And yet, he did not move away; his hand still hovered near her, torn between reaching out and retreating, his devotion unwavering even in the face of this incomprehensible madness.

And there, sitting on his twisted throne, was King Aerys, his laughter now reduced to a soft, satisfied chuckle, his mad eyes gleaming with the joy of destruction. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his chair, as if he were composing some cruel melody to accompany the charred remains of his court.

Jaime stood frozen, unable to move, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the devastation. He couldn’t see Cersei. He couldn’t see her, but he knew—deep down, he knew—she was gone. She, and everyone else who had been in this hall, were now nothing more than ashes. Burned whole or reduced to the point of no recognition. The golden-haired children, the proud lords, the scheming ladies—all were gone, consumed by the fire that had claimed the night.

The hall was silent now, save for the faint hiss of dying flames. So different from the water that devoured the House Reyne in its time of reckoning by his House. Jaime’s mind flashed back to the stories he had heard of Castamere, how the rains had washed away the blood and bone, how nothing had remained but silence and ruin. Now, here at Harrenhal, it was the same. But this time the fire had taken everything.

And in the center of it, the Targaryens sat, untouched, unscathed by the inferno they had unleashed.

Jaime took a step forward, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. “Cersei… Father…”

No one answered. Only the flicker of flames greeted him.

His gaze flicked to Y/N, still seated in her chair, her eyes distant, as if she had found peace amidst the destruction. Rhaegar turned his head, his eyes meeting Jaime’s, but the prince said nothing. There was nothing to say. Jaime’s hand clenched into a fist, the weight of his failure crashing down on him. He hadn’t been able to save his sister. He hadn’t even been able to reach her.

The silence pressed down on him, heavy and suffocating. The reign of the lions had ended, just as the rains had ended the Reynes. And now, the dragons had written their own song, with fire and blood.

#asoif/got #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #asoiaf x reader #asoiaf x you #game of thrones #got x reader #got x you #got x y/n #rhaegar x you #rhaegar x reader #rhaegar targaryen #rhaegar x y/n #house of the dragon #fire and blood #fire and gold

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vivacissimx · 1 year ago

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The puzzle piece about Rhaegar that is really interesting but unfortunately often overlooked is that he was relieved when he realized he was not TPTWP. Yes, relieved. Conflicted too which I will get into. And I believe it is obvious that when Rhaegar first read about Aegon's prophecy, he was not enthused— It seems I must be a warrior is trotted out to talk about Rhaegar's gender expression, his disconnect with capital m Masculinity that is purposely contrasted to Robert Baratheon reveling in it (indeed only making sense within the context of violence, battle, war) but there is more to the compulsion involved in the words It seems and I must than just It seems I must become an archetype. Socially becoming a fighter was already expected of him but he was not, presumably, in compliance with this expectation. The prophecy motivated him in a different way than you will be socially rewarded for acting as a man does.

Which brings me to another point i.e. how Rhaegar perceived himself prior to reading what he read; his connection to the tragedy of his birth and the grief, the resentment, the awkward dynamics between members of his family. "Oh he was a child" yes but we're told that Rhaegar did not act like, think like, or even particularly get along with others his age. So it's safe to say he was aware of Summerhall and felt it's shadow surrounding him from a young age. And Aegon's prophecy, combined with the Ghost of High Heart's prophecy, the events of Summerhall, put this weight on his shoulders completely into context. It was not that Rhaegar desired to be TPTWP because he took to it with determination but no particular joy. Every indicator just seemed to demand he give himself over to fulfilling this role. TPTWP was coming from Aerys and Rhaella's line? Well, he was their only child. Consult Maester Aemon on the matter? Yeah kid it's you. Ancient scrolls? Dusty, but they agree. Dead ancestors? Oh wait, they died so YOU could live. Woah.

This understanding basically necessitates us looking to ASOS Daenerys who also has some knowledge of TPTWP prophecy, and thanks to the Rhaegar-Daenerys pipeline, we can imagine that Rhaegar had similar thoughts to Daenerys, such as when she asks herself: The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters. Who are Rhaegar's fellow two heads? Daenerys wonders at this, telling Jorah that her brothers are dead. Well Rhaegar's brothers die too, right in front of him. Rhaella suffers miscarriage after stillbirth after crib death. She is punished for this by Aerys via isolation and presumably Rhaegar is also kept separate from her— textually we know that Rhaegar was expected to take a sister to bride, i.e. further targcest was going to be enforced by Aerys, and to Rhaegar the loss would have also been of the other two people who would have fulfilled the requirements of the prophecy. Yes that's true. However, it was also the loss of his mother.

Rhaella was 13 when she had Rhaegar so it would be ridiculous to even think that she, a child, a Queen from when Rhaegar was 3, was this grand maternal figure to him. Of course she wasn't. There was too much on her shoulders. Too much on Aerys's shoulders as well, to be any sort of father except the kind who trotted Rhaegar out as an impressive little heir from time to time. Rhaegar was Aerys's success (it's the duty of the patriarch to sire sons who will continue the line) but as Rhaegar's siblings failed to survive, that success became a dicey thing. So when Viserys was born & survived, there is a thought that Rhaegar would latch onto such a sibling. This isn't the case— in fact, Viserys is Rhaella's. She coddles him. Keeps him close. Safe from Aerys (who already has Rhaegar). Viserys tells Dany stories about Rhaegar but this is done in the sense that he does not truly know Rhaegar. Why wouldn't Rhaegar have spent more time with Viserys, if he was motivated by fulfillment of the prophecy?

Because Viserys was Rhaella's, perhaps. Rhaegar never truly got to be his mother's son. To leech Viserys away from her... there's something in that. When Rhaella warmly welcomed Rhaegar's daughter, too. Rhaella's was Aerys's wife and property, which Rhaegar knew because he was also Aerys's property. Rhaella was mother to his brother. Rhaella was a grandmother to his daughter. She was everything but the woman who raised him.

"Rhaegar was a lonely man anyway due to his depression" yes that's true. There is an asceticism to Rhaegar Targaryen. The places he enjoys are bare and stripped, places he can keep his own company: Summerhall, the place of his birth, haunted, full of magic. Dragonstone where he retreats after his marriage, a place where the last embers of Valyria's magic died. Later the Tower of Joy is in a barren desert. But he finds a beauty in these places. He writes music that pushes him back into the shared world, songs he shares with people, about people, about lovers and those who sacrificed and who he is deeply moved by— almost like he's motivating himself. People are drawn to him.

Despite his lack of connection to Rhaella and Viserys he does bond with people. Arthur Dayne, who for all we can try and complicate, apply horseshoe theory to, is meant as the juxtaposition to characters such as the Smiling Knight. Brave as brass Myles Mooton whose memory his people still call upon. Richard Lonmouth and Jon Connington, both technically vassals to Robert Baratheon, funny little irony there. Princess Elia his wife who he is fond of along with the Dornishmen she comes to court with, "particularly" Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard, who is in Rhaegar's confidence (per AWOIAF). These bonds seem strong because not a whiff of possible disloyalty on Rhaegar's part ever reaches Aerys despite it definitely existing and Aerys actively looking for it (again per AWOIAF). Do these confidantes know about Aegon's prophecy? IDK. At least in JonCon's case the answer seems to be no. However we also know JonCon wasn't actually the closest to Rhaegar. Nonetheless, I think we can assume that outside of Arthur Myles and Richard most of these were political relationships which Rhaegar pursued and all were concerned about Aerys's instability— there is also Tywin who Rhaegar performs certain overtures towards (such as knighting Gregor, Tywin's man, at a time when the Aerys-Tywin relationship had just grown particularly sour) indicating he'd like him as an ally. This is all straying away from TPTWP but I think it's important, it shows that even imbued with purpose, Rhaegar was in a position that did not lend itself towards him being able to take much action...

Then winter breaks. Spring comes. Nobody knows it's false yet. Rhaegar's whole deal is this coming Long Night. Everyone takes, quite literally, a breath of fresh air, and the tourney of Harrenhal commences, with Rhaegar as a shadow sponsor, thinking to call an informal Great Council which will begin to deal with Aerys (step 1)(step 1 failed).

This is where matters of prophecy come back into focus. I've covered Rhaegar's various relationships, the shallowness of them, the stagnancy in Developments due to Aerys's paranoia, etc. Harrenhal is not a solitary place but it is flush with magic in a way similar to Summerhall and Dragonstone— all places where dragons have died Harrenhal is thematically the cannibal dragon let's not get into that. And this is important to Rhaegar's characterization because of how things unfold with Lyanna Stark in several ways: 1) Lyanna cries to his song. Before they formally meet Lyanna is touched by the magic and purpose and sacrifice and yes, love, of which Rhaegar sings. It speaks to her. Of course, many others likely cried too. Common occurrence, see: A song of love and doom, Jon Connington recalled, and every woman in the hall was weeping when he put down the harp. Not the men, of course. Rhaegar gender moment but I digress. 2) Rhaegar's discovery of her as the KOTLT despite Robert & Richard Lonmouth both vowing to do so, those raucous manly men, both of whom failed; Rhaegar's subsequent hiding of her identity to unknown consequence for himself if any. All he produces is her shield which is painted with a tree on it, a purposeful callback to Duncan the Tall's shield, both Lyanna and Dunk being 'false knights' yet, in their actions, true ones. Sorry I love Lyanna so much I can't resist plugging her greatest hits 3) Rhaegar winning the tourney, the only tourney he's ever won... and immediately tainting his victory by awarding it to Lyanna instead.

I bring this all up and frame it because here we see that Rhaegar is not really invested in his own victory or legacy or even really his honor. His wife Princess Elia is there and she is pregnant with his son, something he could commemorate in the same vein that Aerys "honored" Rhaegar by showcasing him at various tourneys, an ode to a future warrior king, but Rhaegar doesn't do that. It's not his victory as a Man. It's never been about his victory as a Man. It doesn't even need to be his victory.

Neither does Aegon's prophecy. Rhaegar rapidly realizes that on two fronts: second, the false spring ends. It wasn't real! Rhaegar's spring isn't the lasting one. First, though, is that Rhaegar and Elia's son Aegon is born, a difficult birth in which Elia is rendered infertile. Who does this remind you of? Oh right, Aerys with Rhaella— only Rhaegar does not go about trying to impregnate Elia again. Rhaegar becomes convinced Aegon is TPTWP— something he was already thinking, prior. Rhaegar was never so invested in himself being TPTWP that he could not be convinced otherwise. Maester Aemon: Rhaegar, I thought... the smoke was from the fire that devoured Summerhall on the day of his birth, the salt from the tears shed for those who died. He shared my belief when he was young, but later he became persuaded that it was his own son who fulfilled the prophecy, for a comet had been seen above King's Landing on the night Aegon was conceived, and Rhaegar was certain the bleeding star had to be a comet. Rhaegar agreeing "when he was young" and being "certain the bleeding star had to be a comet" all indicate that he had been looking into the possibility that TPTWP was Not Him for a while. The visits to Summerhall— maybe they were a search for proof by encasing himself in the lingering magic of the place? He still messed up the prince/princess translation presumably because baby Rhaenys never seemed to be in the conversation. (The bleeding star was in fact a comet, funnily enough, a little consolation prize for the pretty boy.) Here's what we know: in Daenerys's vision, Elia asks if Rhaegar will write Aegon a son, we can assume because he wrote their firstborn Rhaenys a song, but Rhaegar says no, he already has one. The song of ice and fire. Aegon doesn't get a song. Why? Rhaegar believes he must be a warrior.

Yet, he sings for him anyway.

Rhaegar's "it seems" and "I must" and distance from Viserys and inner conflict about Aerys and doubt about his own place in the grand scheme of things all come to fruition with Aegon's birth. Rhaegar isn't TPTWP— and it spurs him into action. A weight is off his shoulders so now he can act. As in the case of crowning Lyanna, when the purpose of a task is not to honor or elevate him, we see Rhaegar able to perform in ways he could not before.

Namely there are two veins: acting against Aerys and seeking out information of the prophecy, but Rhaegar's general direction (through the Riverlands past Harrenhal) seems to indicate that he was headed towards the Ghost of High Heart. Not Summerhall, a place of mysticism meant to soothe Rhaegar. Rather a place of pain. The Ghost of High Heart who gorged on grief at Summerhall, who only ever demands Jenny's song (which Rhaegar seems to have wrote), who sees in Arya who looks like Lyanna, who looks like Jon, death. But instead of ever making it there... Rhaegar meets Lyanna.

And then they disappear. There are the Rhaegarwars to consider so I'm just going to say that, at the least, Lyanna did not want to marry Robert though society dictated that she must, and in removing her, she was removed from this. From there she came to be in Dorne in a place that was desolate desert, but similar to Summerhall, which was also abandoned, held something of magic in that it was near where Those Who Sing The Song of the Earth had split the Arm of Dorne. We can say a lot more about this but that's not the point of the post. I have explained Rhaegar as a person disconnected from his mother, later a person who in several manners refuses to act as Aerys did towards Rhaella, indicating that disconnect troubled him — Rhaegar's limited amount of close relationships with people he admired and the deep loyalty shown to him, presumably for a reason — Rhaegar's willingness to interrogate himself & his assumptions about the world.

So when I say Rhaegar was relieved what I mean is that upon suspecting and, to his mind, confirming that he was not the fulfillment of Aegon's prophecy, Rhaegar became proactive in ways he had yearned for but not been able to before. The Rhaegar that died with Lyanna's name as his last word was not a Rhaegar who died thinking the world was doomed without him. I think the Rhaegar that died on the Trident was a Rhaegar who had escaped the shadow of fate only to meet it, face to face.

#rhaegar targaryen #asoiaf #valyrian scrolls #text #lyanna stark #gender in asoiaf #daenerys targaryen #rhaella targaryen #aerys targaryen #once again the tags are for my ownnn organization #rhaegarposting

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prickly-paprikash · 11 months ago

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Since the discourse has reared its ugly head once more, the simple answer is no.

Aang was not a deadbeat, unsupportive, absentee father.

He loved all three of his children and was supportive of them. When Kya came out in the comics, she mentioned straight up that Aang was nothing but supportive of her and who she was. Aang made mistakes in parenting, but he was also stuck in one of the worst situations possible for him.

For one thing, it's been stated that Airbending culture has different views when it comes to family dynamics. Never once does Aang mention his parents, and it's clear that Air Nomads did not put emphasis on the standard nuclear family organization that other nations did. From context clues alone, and many have inferred in the past that Air Nomads were communal, so it stands to reason that their parenting was communal. Monks, Nuns, Masters—all of them were most likely parents to every single child. The responsibility of raising and educating a child was shared amongst the nomads, and that there was no real difference between biological and adoptive parents. Airbenders shared nearly everything, and that meant family as well.

Imagine you're Aang, spending twelve years of life being raised by every adult in the temple. Sure, he was exposed to nuclear family dynamics when visiting other nations and befriending Bumi and Kuzon, but his exposure to their culture was most likely limited. Now, not only is he a father to three beautiful children, but he must raise them in a way foreign to him. There are no other Monks to raise his children—it's just him and Katara. I've no doubt that Sokka and Toph chipped in whenever they could to ease the burden of parenthood, but they were leaders and figures of great importance as well. Not to mention that Toph had her own daughters to take care of.

Aang is also the Avatar, the central spiritual figure amongst the four nations. His presence would always be demanded in other nations. Peace Summits. Negotiations. Ceremony. Dealing with splintered Fire Nation cells and loyalists. Aang had to lead the people of all four nations back into balance, and he was in the unique and unenviable position to heal the scars of a 100 year war due to the absence of the Avatar.

Finally, the dude is also the Very Last Airbender. Of course he'd show favoritism to Tenzin. Bumi was a non-bender and Kya was a waterbender already taking after her mother. Aang was a war hero, a political figure, a man out of time and history, the Avatar, and the Only Living Airbender. The weight of his culture and people all rested on his shoulders, and so he passed on that responsibility and hope to the only other living Airbender at the time. Aang needed to spend time with Tenzin because only through Tenzin could the practices of the Air Nomads survive.

Aang was basically having to transition from a communal family mindset to a nuclear family's; he had to balance romance, fatherhood, and being the Avatar in a Wartorn World; and he had an obligation to every Airbender in history—millions of souls and their memories, passed on from one very flawed father to his newborn son. Every part of Aang's life as a father was met with trials and tribulations, and his family still came out loving him, albeit with some resentment underneath.

No parent is perfect, and Aang could have done so much better when it came to communicating with his children.

But none of his mistakes ever meant he was an abusive, cold, distant father.

He was overworked, acclimating to a style of family not his own, and desperately reviving a century-long dead culture all by himself. The fact that every single one of his kids still loved him and cherished him only solidified the fact that Aang was a father who did his very best.

Being the child of the Avatar would always mean living in his shadow. That resentment, of Aang being needed by the world while his children sought him out, would always be there. Doubly so for Tenzin, who grew up with the Avatar as his father and continued his life-long work of breathing life back into the Air Nomads. Say what you will, but at least Bumi and Kya had the freedom to choose who they wanted to be. Tenzin, no matter what, would always grow up to be the Airbending Master because no one else could.

Aang loved his children. Aang loved his wife. And they in turn loved him. But just like every family, complications rose up and planted the seeds of bitterness and resentment. The only thing that stopped these from blossoming into actual dislike of their family was that Aang's love and respect for his children was always genuine, and that Katara stood firm in making sure their children knew they were beloved.

Aang and Katara's family would never have been ideal in the first place, but they did their best.

And their best was certainly enough.

#avatar the last airbender #aang #katara #bumi ii #kya ii #bumi #kya #tenzin #avatar meta #paprikash ramblings #sokka #toph beifong

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baelabong · 5 months ago

Text

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴠᴏᴡꜱ

ʙᴜꜱɪɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴡᴏᴍᴀɴ! ᴡᴏɴʏᴏᴜɴɢ x ʜᴇɪʀᴇꜱꜱ! ꜰᴇᴍ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

plot: forced into an artanged marriage by your family, you resent both them and your future wife. Except you can’t seem to actually hate her

notes: angst,fluff, 5k words

You stand at the entrance of the grand hall, your heart pounding in your chest. The gown you’re wearing is a masterpiece of silk and lace, flowing elegantly around you, but it feels like a cage. Each intricate detail, each delicate stitch, is a reminder of the expectations weighing on your shoulders. You feel trapped, your breath shallow as you take in the scene before you—the lavish flowers, the towering chandeliers, and the sea of guests, all here to witness a union built on anything but love.

Wonyoung is already at the altar, waiting for you. She stands tall, poised in a perfectly tailored suit, her expression calm and composed. She’s every bit the perfect bride, the picture of grace and elegance. But as your eyes meet hers from across the room, you can see something flickering beneath the surface—a flicker of emotion that she quickly hides behind a soft smile.

The aisle feels impossibly long as you begin your walk, every step measured and deliberate. The murmurs of the crowd fade into the background, drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat. You can feel the weight of their stares, the silent judgment of those who have come to witness this marriage of convenience.

When you finally reach the altar, Wonyoung’s gaze is steady, unwavering. There’s a depth in her eyes that catches you off guard, something that makes you falter for just a moment. But you steel yourself, refusing to let your emotions show.

The officiant begins the ceremony, their voice a distant echo in your ears. You force yourself to focus on the words, even as Wonyoung’s presence seems to consume all your attention. She’s close—too close—and the scent of her perfume, something soft and floral, fills your senses. It’s distracting, disorienting, and you hate that it’s affecting you so much.

“Y/N,” Wonyoung’s voice is gentle when she speaks her vows, her tone warm and sincere. “I vow to stand by you, to honor and respect you, and to support you in all that we do together.”

There’s a weight to her words that you can’t ignore, a promise that feels too genuine, too intimate. You swallow hard, your own vows sticking in your throat as you struggle to find the right words.

“I vow to honor this union,” you begin, your voice low and strained. “To fulfill my duties as your partner, and to stand by you as we face the future together.”

It’s all you can manage, the words bitter on your tongue. But Wonyoung doesn’t falter, her expression softening as she listens. The ceremony continues, the officiant guiding you through the motions, and you go along with it, your mind racing with everything unsaid.

Finally, the moment you’ve been dreading arrives—the kiss. The officiant pronounces you married, and the room seems to hold its breath, waiting for the final act that will seal this unwanted union.

Wonyoung steps closer, her hand gently resting on your arm. “Y/N,” she murmurs, her voice so soft that only you can hear, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”

Her words are a lifeline, a kindness you didn’t expect. But the eyes of the crowd are on you, and you know what’s expected. There’s no escape, no way to avoid this moment. So you nod, just enough to let her know you’ll go through with it.

Wonyoung leans in, her movements slow and careful, as if she’s giving you time to pull away. But you don’t. Her lips meet yours in the faintest, gentlest kiss, a whisper of contact that sends a jolt through you. It’s over almost as soon as it begins, but the warmth of it lingers, confusing and unsettling.

As you pull away, the applause of the crowd rings in your ears, but it feels distant, like it’s happening in another world. All you can focus on is Wonyoung—the way she’s looking at you, the way her hand lingers on your arm, as if she’s afraid to let go. And maybe, just maybe, you feel the same.

But you push that thought down, burying it deep inside. You can’t afford to let your guard down now. Not when this is just the beginning of something neither of you fully understands.

———-

The suite is a dream—a secluded, oceanfront villa with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of the moonlit sea. The sound of the waves crashing gently against the shore fills the air, but the peaceful ambiance does nothing to soothe the tension between you and Wonyoung.

You stand near the bed, staring out at the horizon, trying to gather your thoughts. The beauty of the place feels almost mocking, as if it’s taunting you with the idea of a perfect honeymoon that you know will never be. The gown you’re still wearing from the wedding clings to you uncomfortably, but changing is the last thing on your mind.

Behind you, Wonyoung is quiet, her presence a constant reminder that this is no ordinary vacation. She’s been quiet since you arrived, the journey here marked by a strained silence that neither of you dared to break. Now, as the reality of your first night as a married couple settles in, the weight of it all feels suffocating.

You turn away from the window, your eyes landing on the massive bed at the center of the room. It’s beautifully made, the softest linens draped across it, but you can’t bring yourself to even think about sleeping there. The very idea of sharing that space with Wonyoung, no matter how innocent, makes your chest tighten with a mix of dread and anger.

Without a word, you walk over to the bed, grabbing one of the pillows and tossing it onto the plush sofa across the room. “I’ll sleep here,” you declare, your voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil brewing inside you.

Wonyoung, who had been watching you quietly from the doorway, finally steps into the room. She’s already changed out of her wedding attire, now dressed in something soft and casual, but the tiredness in her eyes is impossible to miss. “Y/N…” she begins, her voice trailing off as if she’s not sure what to say.

You don’t wait for her to finish. “It’s fine,” you say curtly, busying yourself with arranging the sofa. “There’s no need to pretend this is something it’s not.”

There’s a brief silence, and for a moment, you wonder if she’s going to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, Wonyoung lets out a quiet sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Alright,” she agrees softly, the word hanging in the air between you.

You settle onto the sofa, avoiding her gaze. The sound of the waves outside is the only noise in the room, and it’s almost unbearable in the awkwardness that follows. You can hear Wonyoung moving around, the rustle of fabric as she fidgets with the edge of the blanket on the bed.

“This doesn’t have to be a war, you know,” Wonyoung’s voice is gentle, almost tentative. The words are laced with a softness that catches you off guard, making you freeze in place.

Your back stiffens at her words, your defenses rising instinctively. “It already is,” you respond coldly, your voice like ice. You don’t turn to face her, but you can feel her watching you, can almost sense the sadness that your words have left in their wake.

You curl up on the sofa, pulling the pillow close to you as if it could somehow shield you from the confusing mix of emotions swirling inside you. You hear Wonyoung slip into bed, the sheets rustling as she settles in, but the tension between you is palpable, thickening the air with every passing second.

Neither of you speaks again. The silence stretches out, broken only by the rhythmic crashing of the waves outside. You try to close your eyes, willing yourself to sleep, but your thoughts are a tangled mess, replaying every moment of the day, every look, every word exchanged between you and Wonyoung.

Across the room, Wonyoung shifts in the bed, and you can tell she’s just as restless as you are. The bed is large enough for two, but it might as well be a chasm, the distance between you insurmountable.

And yet, as you lie there, staring up at the dark ceiling, you can’t shake the feeling of Wonyoung’s presence, the warmth of her so close and yet so far. The night drags on, the minutes feeling like hours, both of you lost in your own thoughts, both too proud—or too afraid—to reach out.

Morning can’t come soon enough, but you know deep down that the rising sun won’t dispel the tension between you. It’s only the first night, and already, it feels like an eternity.

————

The kitchen is dimly lit, the only sound the rhythmic chop of your knife against the cutting board as you prepare a late-night snack. It’s become something of a routine for you—a small act of independence, a way to claim a piece of normalcy in this life you didn’t choose.

You’re focused on the vegetables in front of you, each slice precise, almost methodical. The repetition is calming, allowing you to forget, just for a moment, about the reality of your situation. But the peace is short-lived. The sound of soft footsteps pulls you from your thoughts, and you stiffen as Wonyoung enters the kitchen.

She’s dressed casually, her hair slightly tousled as if she’s just woken up. She pauses in the doorway when she sees you, her expression a mix of surprise and concern. “Y/N,” she says softly, “I didn’t expect you to be up this late.”

You don’t respond immediately, your focus remaining on the task at hand. The tension between you is palpable, thickening the air as Wonyoung steps closer.

“Let me help,” she offers, moving toward the counter.

“I don’t need help,” you snap, sharper than you intended. You don’t look at her, but you can feel the way she tenses at your words, the frustration in her silence.

“Why do you have to be so difficult?” Wonyoung finally retorts, her voice rising slightly. “I’m trying here!”

The knife in your hand stills, and you set it down with more force than necessary, your hands gripping the edge of the counter as you try to keep your emotions in check. “Trying to do what, exactly?” you shoot back, turning to face her. “Control everything? Handle my life like it’s another one of your business ventures?”

Wonyoung’s eyes flash with hurt, but she stands her ground. “I’m not trying to control you, Y/N. I’m just trying to make things easier. You don’t have to worry about the company anymore. You don’t have to work yourself to the bone. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No, it’s not,” you say, your voice trembling with anger. “I want to work. I want to manage my family’s company. It’s the one thing that’s still mine, the one thing I have control over, and you just took it away like it was nothing!”

Wonyoung hesitates, her expression softening as she searches your face. “I didn’t take it away. I’m handling it so you don’t have to. I didn’t want you to be stressed, especially with everything going on.”

“Stressed?” you laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “This—this life you’ve built for me, this cage you’ve put me in—is more stressful than anything else could ever be. I never asked for this, Wonyoung. I never asked for you to take over my life!”

Wonyoung’s frustration flares, and she takes a step closer, her voice tight with emotion. “And you think I did? You think I wanted any of this? I’m just trying to make the best of a bad situation. We both are!”

The words hang in the air, sharp and painful, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, glaring at each other, neither willing to back down. The tension is suffocating, the anger between you building until it feels like it might explode.

But then, Wonyoung’s expression shifts, her shoulders sagging as the fight drains out of her. “I didn’t ask for this either, Y/N,” she says softly, her voice breaking the silence like a whisper. “But it’s what we have now. And I’m just… I’m trying.”

Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, the raw honesty in her voice catching you off guard. You can see the weariness in her eyes, the toll that this marriage has taken on her, too. But your own anger is still too fresh, too raw, to let you fully absorb it.

You turn away, your hands trembling as you try to steady your breathing. “I can’t do this right now,” you mutter, grabbing your phone and leaving the half-prepared snack on the counter. You don’t wait for Wonyoung’s response as you storm out of the kitchen, your heart pounding in your chest.

As you retreat to the bedroom, the echo of Wonyoung’s last words follows you, sinking into your thoughts despite your best efforts to push them away. You didn’t ask for this either. The truth of it lingers, the realization that you’re not the only one struggling to navigate this unwanted life.

But tonight, the distance between you feels too great to bridge, and you can’t bring yourself to face her again. Not yet.

———

The evening is heavy with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid during dinner. Your family’s polite, yet pointed, questions had left you feeling cornered, suffocated by the expectations placed on you now that you’re Wonyoung’s spouse. The lavish dinner, the forced smiles, the subtle digs—it all became too much, and you found yourself needing to escape.

You barely remember how you ended up here, on a bench in the middle of a park, the rain pouring down relentlessly. The cold droplets soak through your clothes, but you don’t care. The chill is a welcome distraction from the storm raging inside you, a storm that’s been building for months.

You’re drenched, but it doesn’t matter. The rain blurs everything, making the world around you feel distant, almost surreal. Your thoughts are tangled, a mess of anger, frustration, and an overwhelming sense of being trapped. You’ve been fighting this battle alone for so long—fighting against Wonyoung, against your situation, against the life you never wanted.

But tonight, after that dinner, the fight seems pointless. The exhaustion is catching up to you, and for the first time, your resolve begins to crack.

You don’t hear her approach at first. The rain drowns out the sound of footsteps, but then there’s a shadow, a presence beside you. You look up and see Wonyoung standing there, holding an umbrella over your head. Her clothes are soaked from the rain she must have walked through to find you, but she doesn’t seem to care.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The rain continues to fall, creating a curtain around the two of you, isolating you from the rest of the world. Wonyoung’s expression is hard to read, a mix of concern and something else, something softer.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady. The vulnerability in your own words surprises you, the way they seem to slip out before you can stop them.

Wonyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she carefully sets the umbrella down so it covers both of you, shielding you from the worst of the rain. Then, slowly, she sits down beside you on the bench. She’s close, but she doesn’t touch you, respecting the distance you’ve always kept between you.

“Because I care,” she says quietly, her voice almost lost in the sound of the rain. “Even if you don’t want me to.”

Her words hang in the air, and for a moment, you can’t breathe. The sincerity in her voice, the way she says it without any expectation or demand, catches you off guard. It’s not what you expected, not what you wanted to hear. And yet, there’s a part of you—a small, almost forgotten part—that’s deeply moved by it.

You look away, staring at the rain-soaked ground as you try to push down the emotions bubbling up inside you. This isn’t what you signed up for. You were supposed to hate her, to resist everything she represents. But now, sitting here beside her in the rain, you feel something shift.

It’s small, almost imperceptible, but it’s there—a crack in the armor you’ve built around yourself, a tiny sliver of something other than resentment.

You clench your fists, willing yourself to stay strong, to keep up the walls that have kept you safe. But it’s hard, so much harder than it’s ever been before. And when you finally look at Wonyoung, really look at her, the fight inside you wavers.

She’s watching you with those soft eyes, full of a care you’ve refused to acknowledge for months. The rain has made her hair cling to her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her focus is entirely on you, her concern genuine and unwavering.

“I don’t need your pity,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the rain. But even as you say it, you know it’s not true. What you don’t need is to feel this way, to feel your heart soften toward her when you’ve worked so hard to keep it hardened.

Wonyoung shakes her head slightly, her gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not pity,” she replies, her tone firm yet gentle. “I just… I don’t want you to be alone in this.”

Her words are like a lifeline, and for a fleeting moment, you want to reach out, to grab hold of what she’s offering. But you pull back, afraid of what it might mean, of what it could lead to. You’ve fought so hard to keep your distance, to stay independent, and letting her in feels like surrender.

So you swallow the lump in your throat, pushing down the emotions threatening to spill over. “I just needed some air,” you say, your voice more steady now, more controlled. “I’ll be fine.”

Wonyoung doesn’t argue. She simply nods, accepting your words even though you both know they’re only half-true. She stays beside you, though, silent and supportive, her presence a quiet comfort you didn’t know you needed.

The rain begins to let up, the storm passing as quickly as it came. But the tension between you remains, unresolved and lingering in the damp air. Eventually, Wonyoung stands, offering you a hand to help you up. You hesitate for only a moment before taking it, her touch warm despite the cold.

As the two of you walk back together, the umbrella shielding you both from the last of the rain, you can’t help but feel that something has changed between you. It’s subtle, a shift in the way you see her, in the way you feel when she’s close. But it’s there, undeniable, and you’re not sure if that scares you more than the storm that just passed.

Because for the first time, you don’t just see Wonyoung as your unwanted wife. You see her as someone who cares—someone who, despite everything, might just be worth letting in. And that thought, more than anything, is what you find hardest to push down as the two of you walk home in the fading rain.

————-

The ballroom is grand and opulent, filled with the elite of the business world. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, golden glow over the room, illuminating the expensive suits and designer gowns of the guests. Soft music plays in the background, the gentle hum of conversation filling the air.

You stand near the edge of the room, a glass of champagne in hand, trying to blend in but feeling completely out of place. The event is Wonyoung’s domain—a world of powerful connections and strategic conversations. She’s in her element here, and you can’t help but feel like an outsider.

Your eyes find Wonyoung across the room, and you can’t look away. She’s surrounded by a small group of influential figures, her smile charming, her posture confident. Every gesture, every word she says, exudes a natural grace and authority. It’s like watching a master at work, and for the first time, you feel a pang of admiration—something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel before.

As you watch her, something inside you shifts. There’s an unfamiliar emotion stirring in your chest, something more than just admiration. You’ve always known Wonyoung was competent, but seeing her like this, so poised and in control, it’s… impressive. And strangely, it makes you feel something you can’t quite name.

But you push those feelings aside, focusing instead on the coldness of the champagne glass in your hand. You’ve spent so long keeping your distance, building walls around yourself. Now isn’t the time to let them crumble.

Just as you’re about to slip out to the terrace for some air, a voice interrupts your thoughts. “So, you’re the spouse, huh?” The tone is condescending, laced with a smugness that grates on your nerves.

You turn to see an older man, a high-ranking executive from one of the companies Wonyoung frequently deals with. He looks you up and down, his expression dismissive. “Must be nice,” he continues, “being married to someone like her. You don’t have to do anything but look pretty, I guess.”

Your face heats up, but before you can respond, Wonyoung appears beside you. Her eyes flash with a fierce, protective anger. “Is that really how you speak about my spouse?” Her voice is sharp, cutting through the air with palpable intensity.

The man’s smile falters, surprise flickering across his face. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just making an observation.”

Wonyoung doesn’t let up, her tone harsh and uncompromising. “An observation based on ignorance. You don’t get to belittle her because you think it’s funny. You don’t know the sacrifices she’s made, the work she’s done.”

The man starts to stammer, but Wonyoung doesn’t give him a chance to recover. “You think you’re entitled to judge someone based on their relationship with me? You have no idea what she’s been through, what she’s accomplished. So why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself?”

The crowd around you begins to murmur, their eyes shifting between you and Wonyoung. The man clears his throat awkwardly, trying to regain his composure. “Okay, okay. I didn’t realize… I apologize.”

Wonyoung stands her ground, her expression unyielding. “I suggest you learn to be more respectful, not just to my spouse, but to everyone around you. We’re equals, and she deserves to be treated as such.”

As the man walks away, Wonyoung turns to you, her anger slowly melting into concern. “Are you okay?”

You nod, though you’re still processing the intensity of the defense. “I—thank you. I didn’t expect you to—”

Wonyoung cuts you off, her voice still firm but softer now. “You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of disrespect. And for what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. Don’t let people like him make you doubt your worth.”

Her words, so different from the usual tension between you, catch you off guard. The way she stood up for you, her fierce protection, makes you reconsider everything you’ve thought about her. She’s not just the wife who took over your life; she’s someone who genuinely cares, someone who might just understand you in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

That night, as you lie in bed, the events of the evening replay in your mind. Wonyoung’s fierce defense, her protective nature, and the way she stood up for you make you see her in a new light. She’s not just someone you’re stuck with; she’s someone who fights for you, even when you don’t expect it.

You turn to face her in the dim light of the room, finding her already looking at you with a mix of concern and something softer. “I didn’t realize you felt that way,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wonyoung’s expression is calm, but there’s a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “I care about you, Y/N. More than you might believe.”

You lie back, staring at the ceiling, your thoughts a whirlwind. Wonyoung’s actions have shifted your perception, showing you a side of her that’s unexpectedly compassionate and fiercely protective. It’s a turning point, a moment where you start to see her not just as your spouse but as someone who might just be worth letting in.

You turn back to her, finding her lying close by. The distance between you feels smaller now, the walls you’ve built around yourself beginning to crumble. You reach out tentatively, and Wonyoung shifts closer, her warmth a comforting presence.

As you drift into sleep, you find yourself tangled in the sheets with her, the space between you shrinking. It’s the first time you share the bed without reservation, a small but significant step towards understanding each other better.

———-

The living room is softly illuminated by the warm light of the lamps, creating an inviting atmosphere. Outside, the city’s noise is a distant murmur, leaving the room in a peaceful hush. You and Wonyoung are snuggled together on the couch, a cozy blanket draped over both of you. It’s become a routine to spend these evenings together, sharing meals and conversations that you never thought you’d have.

Tonight, you’re sitting with a bowl of homemade pasta and a glass of wine, a comfortable silence hanging between you as you both enjoy the meal. After weeks of growing closer, this has become a favorite part of your day. The tension that once defined your relationship has eased, replaced by moments of genuine connection.

Wonyoung sets her fork down, looking at you with a thoughtful expression. “You know, I’ve been thinking…” she begins, her voice softer than usual. “Since you don’t need to manage your family’s company anymore, why don’t you take it back? I know it was important to you.”

You look up from your plate, surprised. “What do you mean? I thought you were handling it.”

Wonyoung nods. “I am. But I know it was your dream to run the company. I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”

You shake your head, feeling a mixture of gratitude and concern. “I appreciate that, Wonyoung, but I don’t want you to get in trouble with my dad. You’re doing a great job, and I don’t want to cause any issues.”

Wonyoung’s expression turns serious. “Your dad is already aware of the situation. He respects that I’ve been handling things, but he also knows how much the company means to you. I don’t want to overstep, but I’m offering this because I believe it’s what you want.”

You sigh, feeling conflicted. “I don’t want you to be stuck with the burden if you’re not comfortable. And I don’t want to be the reason you end up in trouble.”

Wonyoung reaches out, placing a comforting hand on yours. “It’s not about burden or trouble. It’s about supporting each other. If you want to take it back, I’ll make sure everything is smooth. But if you don’t, that’s okay too. I just want you to be happy.”

You look at her, the sincerity in her eyes making it hard to keep your guard up. “Thank you. That means a lot.”

The conversation shifts to lighter topics, and you both laugh over shared stories and memories. The comfort and ease between you are palpable, a stark contrast to the awkwardness that used to define your interactions. As the evening progresses, you find yourself feeling more at ease, more willing to open up.

Wonyoung stands to clear the dishes, and you follow her into the kitchen, where you continue chatting about trivial matters. The soft clinking of plates and the hum of the dishwasher create a soothing backdrop to your conversation.

As you’re drying the last dish, you turn to Wonyoung, your heart racing slightly. “Wonyoung, there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

She looks at you with curiosity. “What is it?”

Just as you open your mouth to speak, the phone rings loudly from the living room. The sound is jarring, and you both look at each other in frustration.

Wonyoung gives you an apologetic look. “Sorry, I should get that.”

You nod, trying to hide your disappointment. “Sure.”

Wonyoung answers the phone, her voice becoming distant as she steps into the other room. The warmth and intimacy of the moment are broken, replaced by the distant sound of her conversation.

You stand in the kitchen, feeling a pang of frustration. The confession you were about to make now seems like a distant dream, overshadowed by the interruption. You feel like you’ve let your guard down too soon, and the moment of connection is lost.

Wonyoung returns after a few minutes, her expression apologetic. “It was just a call from the office. Sorry about that.”

You force a smile, though your heart feels heavy. “It’s okay.”

You both return to the living room, the conversation picking up where it left off, but the closeness you felt earlier seems elusive now. As you sit there, you can’t help but feel a sense of missed opportunity, the words you were about to share still lingering unspoken.

Wonyoung sits beside you, her presence still comforting but the moment’s warmth has dissipated. You lie back on the couch, the blanket pulled around you, trying to push aside the frustration of the interruption.

Wonyoung glances at you, her eyes searching yours. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seemed like you were about to say something important.”

You nod, though you’re still feeling the weight of the unspoken words. “Yeah, just… another time.”

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pookalicious-hq · 2 months ago

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gold rush... isagi yoichi x reader

synopsis: yoichi can't help but see the girl at his bus stop as a good omen tags/tws: meet-cute , swearing, realistic isagi (this guy doesn't pull any girls tbh) , mc eye colour is mentioned but it's part of the plot guys word count: 3.9k

There was no logical reason for Yoichi’s heartbeat to be three times faster this lovely autumn morning. The crisp air nipped at his cheeks, carrying the earthy scent of fallen leaves and damp grass. His breath misted in front of him as he exhaled, the coolness wrapping around him like an invisible weight. However, he often replayed every action in his mind, reminiscing about the good, the bad, and the very ugly. Yesterday's scrimmage was no different—every pass, every shot, and every glance exchanged with her flashed behind his eyes on a loop.

He sighed, feeling the slight crunch of brittle leaves beneath his feet. The memory of her passionate determination lingered longer than the rest. It wasn’t just how she played, but how every moment with her felt like it was more than a game.

And now? Now he was walking to the bus stop where she'd be waiting.

His footsteps felt heavier the closer he got, the gravel under his shoes shifting as if slowing him down on purpose. A gust of wind swept past him, tugging at his jacket, but his nerves already had him too on edge to appreciate the chill. This is stupid. It’s just a bus ride. But his heart refused to slow down, drumming in his chest as if it knew something he didn’t.

The fading golds and oranges of the trees blurred in his peripheral vision, his focus narrowing as he neared the bus stop. Sure, they’d exchanged a few words before, but yesterday... Yesterday changed everything. He still remembered the fire in her eyes, the way he had to hold her back from taking the game away from him.

What do I even say to her?

His fingers curled slightly, brushing against the fabric of his track pants, as if searching for something to ground him. He tried to be calm on the field, always able to read the game, but now? His mind was too cluttered to make sense of anything.

Would she still look at him with that same glint? Would she resent him for holding her back? Would they—

He stopped short, his heart skipping a beat.

She was already there. Sitting on the bench, her eyes shut softly, the early sunlight casting a soft glow across her features. The faint smell of wet pavement rose from the ground beneath their feet.

Shit.

Yoichi swallowed hard, pulse quickening. There she was. What now?

The sound of his shoe soles dragging against the pavement wove into the morning silence, each step louder than the last. A soft breeze rustled the leaves overhead, but everything else seemed to still as he neared the bench. (Y/n) tilted her head slightly, the subtle movement pulling his attention like gravity.

A sharp flash of gold met his gaze.

Oh. He thought she would’ve had her headphones on, lost in her own world as she usually was. But this time? She was fully present, her attention locked onto him with an intensity that made his throat tighten.

The weight of her gaze was deafening. It pressed against his chest, tightening around his lungs, making each breath feel heavier. Yoichi could feel her searching, her eyes scanning the edges of his mind, probing beneath the surface. But for what? He wasn’t sure.

The silence between them stretched out, thick with unspoken words. His mouth felt dry. Say something, anything.

Just as he was about to break under her gaze, she saved him.

"Good game yesterday.”

With the arrival of those three words, the tension that resided in his shoulders disappeared like mist in the morning sun. Now a foot away, he took in all her features properly. Her eyes were relaxed, the remnants of sleep still evident in her gaze, giving her an endearing softness that contrasted sharply with the fire he’d seen during the game.

The light morning air was cool, brushing against his skin, but he felt warmth radiating from her presence. The delicate scent of autumn leaves and something faintly floral drifted around them, grounding him in this moment. Her hair, tousled and catching the soft morning light, framed her face in a way that made his breath hitch.

There was a comfortable familiarity between them now, as if yesterday had woven a thread of connection that pulled tighter with each shared glance. The crisp autumn air seemed to hum with unspoken words, wrapping around them like a warm blanket. Yoichi found himself smiling, the weight of their unspoken words lifting like a weight from his chest.

"You too. You’re actually insane," he said, chuckling lightly.

(Y/n) gave a small puff of laughter in response, hugging her knees up to her chest, her breath creating tiny clouds in the chilly morning air. Her eyes flashed up to his, eyebrows raised. “Thanks, Mister First Place. I’m glad you thought so.”

Now, it was his turn to laugh, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement at the nickname as he took a seat beside her. But then the gravity of yesterday returned to him, and he shifted slightly, feeling the tension wrap around him again. “Hey,” he began, his voice softer, “I’m really sorry about yesterday with Yoshida. That was incredibly disrespectful and out of line.”

(Y/n)’s expression hardened for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if bracing against the vulnerability of the moment. But after a heartbeat, her gaze softened, searching his as if to gauge his sincerity. Yoichi could see the remnants of yesterday’s fire still flickering in her eyes, mingled with a hint of gratitude.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, her tone earnest. “But you’re not the person who needs to apologize.” She paused, the silence stretching between them like an unwelcome fog, igniting worry in the pit of Yoichi’s stomach. He had to try to fill the silence somehow, his mind racing to find the right words.

“Also, I’m sorry for holding your arm without asking,” he said, the weight of the apology hanging heavily in the air. “I know that situation was already complicated as it was.”

She shrugged slightly, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. “No, that was completely fine. I would’ve probably regretted it after they kicked me out of the team.”

“They’d be dumb to waste your talent,” he countered, the words spilling out before he could second-guess them.

“... Thanks,” she replied, her cheeks flushing just a bit, and he felt the warmth of her gratitude envelop him like the autumn sun breaking through the trees.

Yoichi found himself stuck in time. Though this stillness wasn’t frigid and tense—it felt more like he was slowly seeping into her glow. The edges around the heat from her aggression yesterday were dimmed to a calm flicker of warmth.

“So, you’re also a midfielder?” (Y/n) asked, tilting her head slightly, curiosity dancing in her eyes.

“Hopefully only temporarily…” Yoichi replied, a hint of hesitation threading through his voice. The weight of ambition tugged at his heart; he was aiming for something greater, something that felt just out of reach.

Her eyebrows shot up, a playful glint sparking in her expression. “What do you have against midfielders?”

He chuckled, the tension easing further between them. “It’s not that I have anything against midfielders. I just—want to be Japan’s best striker,” he admitted, his voice steadying with resolve. The crisp autumn air wrapped around them, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and the promise of change. “I mean, that’s where I really want to end up. But... it’s a bit complicated. With Rin and Shidou taking those spots, it’s going to take some work to get there. I’ve got to stand out, you know?”

He could feel the warmth of the morning sun on his skin, contrasting with the cool breeze that rustled the leaves above them, creating a soft whispering sound. “I’m definitely willing to try though; just got a couple of things to work on.”

As he spoke, his words flowed more freely, igniting a nervous energy in his chest. “This coach seems to like me as a midfielder though, so we’ll see…” His eyes flickered back to (Y/n), searching her expression. He could see her interest; the way she leaned in slightly, her hair catching the light like strands of fire, made his heart race even faster.

Silence followed the end of his unintentional rant, and the weight of his thoughts hung heavy in the air. “Shit—sorry. Didn’t mean to spill my literal hopes and dreams onto you.” He ran a hand through his hair, the embarrassment creeping up his neck.

A flush of heat rushed to his cheeks as he met her gaze, bracing himself for a look of scrutiny, maybe even an uncomfortable side-eye. Instead, he was greeted by a breathtaking array of sunlight illuminating her face.

His breath caught in his throat. What would he give for her to look at him like that every single second of every day? Her eyes crinkled into two crescent moons, the warm gold from the rising sun dancing behind her eyelids, casting a soft glow over her features. The slightest of smiles graced her lips, the sight sending jolts to his heart. God, hopefully, she didn’t know what she was doing to him.

“All good,” she said, tilting her head slightly to the side, a playful glint in her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll get there sooner than you think.”

Yoichi felt a rush of warmth flood through him, the sound of her voice like a gentle caress, soothing his earlier nerves. “Thanks, but it’s just—being a midfielder feels like a step back. I don’t want to be stuck there, you know? I want to score goals, make those game-winning plays! I want to feel that rush when the crowd goes wild after a perfect shot. It’s just...”

He took a breath, the weight of his words hanging between them. “When I see someone like Rin, who just naturally fits the role of a striker, it drives me crazy. I know I can do it too, but it’s like there’s this invisible wall. I just need to break through it. And every time I’m on the field, I’m thinking, ‘What can I do differently?’”

(Y/n) was nodding, her eyes wide with interest. Yoichi could see her absorbing every word, the way she leaned in slightly, her expression shifting from playful to sincere as he spoke. “I don’t want to just be another player. I want to be the one they remember.”

“Yeah, that’s all I ever want to be.” She laughed, the sound dancing through the crisp morning air and greeting Yoichi’s ears like a melody. “I also get what you mean about Rin… I just accepted that I wouldn’t be a striker better than him.”

Her words caught him off guard, confusion flickering across his features. “You know Rin?”

“Wish I didn’t,” she groaned, rolling her eyes dramatically. The warmth of the morning sun highlighted the playful frustration etched on her face. “His cousin is my cousin’s sister-in-law or something? To be honest, I really don’t know. Just that his talent used to be something I was after. Now I’m happy with my place.”

The way she spoke held a mix of resignation and determination, her fingers idly toying with the hem of her jacket. The honesty in her voice made Yoichi’s heart race; he admired her ability to pivot her ambitions. “You should be, lots of people would die to have your talent.”

(Y/n) shrugged, a hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. “I guess so. We’re way different than I thought. I’m glad I’m not just the girl version of him or whatever.” Her gaze drifted to the ground, where the fallen leaves crunched beneath her feet, their crispness echoing the transition of seasons. The morning sunlight cast a golden hue on her features, highlighting the determination in her expression.

“I want to make my mark in my own way, you know? Not everyone has to be a striker.” The sincerity in her voice resonated with him, a refreshing breeze that stirred something deep within Yoichi.

“No, yeah. I’m sure Rin wouldn’t even be able to keep up with you right now,” he added, a playful smile crossing his face.

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth lifted in amusement. “You might want to watch what you say—he could be lurking nearby,” she teased, glancing around as if expecting Rin to pop out from behind a tree.

Just then, the rumble of the bus engine broke their playful banter. The large vehicle approached, its bright colours gleaming in the morning sun, and the sound of its tires crunching over the gravel contrasted with the gentle rustling of fallen leaves in the autumn breeze.

As the bus came to a halt, the doors swung open with a whoosh, releasing a warm gust of air that carried the faint scent of diesel and the promise of adventure. (Y/n) stepped inside first, and Yoichi followed closely behind, taking a seat beside her.

The interior was a mix of soft morning light filtering through the windows and the low hum of conversation from a few other early commuters. She settled into her seat, and he couldn’t help but steal glances at her. Her eyes fluttered, the remnants of sleep still evident, as she leaned against the window, her head slowly tilting to the side.

As the bus pulled away from the stop, the world outside blurred into a kaleidoscope of colours—crimson and gold leaves swirling in the breeze. Yoichi felt a warmth spreading in his chest, watching as (Y/n)’s eyelids grew heavy.

Before long, her breathing deepened, and she surrendered to sleep, her head resting gently against the glass. He watched her, captivated by how serene she looked, a slight smile gracing her lips even in her slumber. The bus swayed gently, the rhythm lulling him into a comfortable silence as he settled in beside her.

He couldn’t help but reimagine the expression on her face as she listened to his hopes for the future. He was probably imagining it, but he could feel her attentiveness on him in that moment.

The ride was peaceful, each bump in the road a reminder of the world beyond their bubble. The smell of the bus’s vinyl seats mingled with the crisp autumn air that seeped in through the open windows. Yoichi found himself lost in thought, replaying their conversation, the laughter they shared, and the flicker of determination in her eyes.

As the bus neared her stop, he felt a rush of warmth at the thought of waking her up. He gently nudged her shoulder, his voice soft as he said, “Hey, we’re almost at your stop.”

She stirred slightly, a sleepy smile breaking across her face as she blinked her eyes open. “Oh… s’fine. I’ll get off at the other stop,” she mumbled, pulling her hood further over her eyes, her voice thick with sleep. The sound was soft and melodic, sending a flutter through his chest. “We’re supposed to meet at the gym on the other side anyways…”

The warmth in his chest deepened at her words. It was sweet, the way she was willing to extend their time together, though the more logical voice told him it was because she wanted to sleep for longer. “You sure? I just go the long way to walk by the duck pond.”

“Ducks? I’d rather see them with you than deal with the real world just yet,” she replied, her voice still dreamy as she leaned back against the seat, her expression softening in the light filtering through the window.

The bus rattled over a set of tracks, and Yoichi felt the familiar buzz of anticipation. He watched her, captivated by the way her features relaxed, the morning sun casting a gentle glow around her. Her breath came slow and steady, and for a moment, he simply enjoyed the sight of her, caught between wakefulness and dreams.

“I’ll wake you in a few minutes then,” he said, a grin tugging at his lips.

“‘kay,” she replied with a lazy smile, her eyes fluttering closed once more.

He felt a mix of amusement and admiration for her laid-back attitude. The bus rolled onward, the world outside a blur of colours—vibrant yellows and reds painted the trees, a stark contrast to the gray pavement. He let the warmth of her presence wash over him, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rhythm of the bus as they both settled into a comfortable silence.

Yoichi wasn’t aware, but a smile had spread across his face for the remainder of their time on the bus. His delight simmered in the back of his mind as he stared out the window, watching the world whisk by in a tapestry of autumn hues. Sunlight streamed through the glass, illuminating his features and casting a soft glow over (Y/n)'s sleeping form. The way her hair caught the light made her look ethereal, almost as if she belonged in a dream.

Every little bump in the road jostled him gently, reminding him of how ordinary this moment was—yet it felt anything but. The bus’s engine hummed steadily, a soothing backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts swirling in his head. He couldn’t help but replay their conversation, the laughter and shared dreams lingering like echoes in his heart. It was astonishing how quickly they had connected, how easy it felt to talk to her about his aspirations.

His gaze drifted back to (Y/n), noting the peacefulness on her face. The corners of her lips were slightly turned up, and he wondered what dreams danced behind those closed eyes. Did she have ambitions as grand as his? He imagined her stepping onto the field, determination etched on her face, leaving a mark that was entirely her own.

Just then, the bus hit a pothole, causing her to stir. She shifted in her seat, her head leaning slightly against his shoulder. The warmth of her skin against his sent a thrill down his spine. He fought the urge to freeze, unsure if he should move or let this moment linger. This is just a bus ride, he reminded himself, but it felt like something more. Something special.

As they approached her stop, a rush of regret flooded through him. “Hey, we’re almost there,” he whispered, nudging her gently.

Her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he lost himself in the depths of her gaze. “Ugh, really?” she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep. “I was hoping for at least an hour longer.”

“Keep dreaming,” he teased, unable to help the playful smile that crossed his lips.

She chuckled softly, stretching her arms above her head, and he admired the way the early morning light danced around her, casting a warm halo that made her look ethereal. “Wish I could be,” she said, her voice laced with sincerity, her expression shifting from groggy to genuine.

“Funny,” he replied, warmth blooming in his chest. The bus slowed and came to a stop, the squeak of the brakes a stark reminder of reality. Reluctantly, he prepared to step off, wishing they could stay cocooned in this moment a little longer. Soon, they would be intertwined in the atmosphere of competitiveness and never-ending pressure at the gym, each trying to outdo the other.

But as he looked at her, he felt a quiet resolve. He planned to cherish these moments by the duck pond once more, though this time he wouldn’t be alone. There was something about their connection that promised more than just rivalry; it was a shared understanding, an unspoken bond that would only grow stronger in the days to come.

“I named her Melissa because she almost bit my foot off, so sassy for no reason.”

(Y/n)’s voice bubbled with laughter as she swiped through the photos of the duck on her phone. Melissa’s pesky expression shone brightly on the screen, her fluffy feathers illuminated by the overhead lights of the changing room.

“She looks like a Melissa,” Yua chimed in, leaning closer to catch a glimpse, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“So… why did you go to the duck pond today?” Aiko asked, curiosity dancing in her eyes as the warm scent of sweat and detergent filled the air.

“Cuz I fell asleep on the bus and missed my normal spot,” (Y/n) shrugged, trying to sound casual. The answer was only half true, and she felt a slight flutter of nerves at the thought of Isagi, AKA Mister Number One. The last thing she needed was her friends digging into the details of their unexpectedly sweet morning.

“You really need to sleep earlier,” Hinata teased, nudging her playfully. “Always so tired.”

“Shut up, carrot top,” (Y/n) shot back, rising on her toes to whack her friend lightly on the head. Hinata laughed, swatting her hand away as they continued their playful bickering, the sound of their laughter echoing in the room.

Meanwhile, Yua and Akio huddled closer, still scrolling through her phone. “Wait, who took this picture of you and Melissa?” Yua asked, her brow furrowing as she pointed to a 0.5 of (Y/n) kneeling next to the duck, a wide grin plastered on her face.

Her laughter faded slightly as she glanced at the photo. “Huh? What do you mean?” (Y/n) replied, trying to keep her tone casual.

Akio raised an eyebrow, smirking. “You said you were alone. Unless Melissa’s husband grew a pair of arms, then it was someone else.”

“... what if—” she began, attempting to keep a straight face.

“Oh my god, shut up,” Yua laughed, crossing her arms with a grin. “You think I’m as dumb as Koko?”

From a few feet away, Koko, their goalie, let out a short huff, clearly hearing her name, but neither of the girls paid her any mind.

“I can’t believe you said that about Koko!” (Y/n) exclaimed, a grin breaking through. “So rude, Yua-chan.”

Hinata snorted. “Stop trying to change the subject; you’re not being smooth.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes but couldn’t help but chuckle. “Fine, whatever. It was just Isagi,” she finally admitted, waving her hands dismissively. “He takes the same bus as me. Long story short, we passed by the duck pond. Big deal! Now, who wants to see Melissa’s kids?”

The room fell silent for a moment before Hinata’s eyes widened. “Wait, hold up. You talked to Isagi Yoichi?”

“Yeah, and? It was literally nothing,” (Y/n) shrugged, trying to downplay it even as her heart raced. “I just missed my stop, so we went his way.”

“Mister Number One?” Akio teased, a smirk dancing on his lips. “What happened to him being ‘just another dick’?”

“Obviously, I wouldn’t go to him with a duck pond of all places if he was a dick,” (Y/n) admitted, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress her smile. “He’s very respectful to the ducks!”

Yua nudged her, her eyes twinkling. “Aww, look at you! Duck date with Isagi! This is so cute!”

“Shut up!” (Y/n) laughed, tossing a nearby water bottle at Yua as the group continued to tease her. “It was definitely not a date. The closest we are to each other is acquaintances.”

Her claim was met with very unconvinced responses, though she didn’t mind, she was ultimately telling the truth about everything… Definitely.

a/n: omg im so sorry,,, its been so long! pls dont hate me tysm for being so patient life has been so crazy recently i love each and everyone of you guys mwah <333

taglist: @manjirosanoswifey , @sarahforever , @selmablck

#isagi yoichi x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock x reader #itoshi rin x reader #nagi seishiro x reader #blue lock #isagi x reader #bllk season 2

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 24 days ago

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Portal Children AU Pt 2 - Supercorp

At the age of 12, Lena earns an expulsion from her fifth boarding school. By that point, her parents are at the end of their wits with her, and when they learn of the Home for Wayward Children, they're relieved to dump Lena there and leave as swiftly as their car can manage.

Who can blame them, when their darling little girl returns from an afternoon walk in the grove bitter and bereft and uninterested in the world around her? How can they hope to salvage a relationship with a daughter who glares at them with far too much resentment than an eight, then ten, then twelve year old should contain?

They leave her, and Lena doesn't give their trail of dust a backwards glance. She has work to do, and the Home for Wayward Children-- in truth a refuge for children just like her-- may just be the place to get it done.

Any time she's not in class Lena is outdoors and in motion. She runs across the acres of land the school is situated upon, from fence to fence in every direction. She climbs trees, hopping between them across bending branches, on nimble feet. She boxes with shadows, throwing jabs and elbows with sharp, precise blows.

She harvests a thick fallen branch, and carves it down to a smooth staff, swinging it around her body and over her head in a violent single person dance. The headmistress of the school tries to scold Lena when the paring knife reported missing by the school cook ends up on Lena's belt. But no matter how many times it's confiscated, it always ends up back on Lena's person, until one day the headmistress (once a wayward child herself) gifts her a proper dagger with a chide to stop stealing from the cook.

When Lena's not moving, she's strategizing, studying, plotting. She's spent 20 years as a general, leading her fellow freedom fighters in sabotage runs, blitz attacks and full frontal assaults all. She has negotiated with royals and peasants and everyone in between, with the fate of an entire world solidly on her shoulders.

Even five years after her return to her childhood body, that responsibility has yet to release her. Her thoughts tumble with catastrophizing what ifs, wavering between wondering what happened to her friends after Lex banished her and knowing that he's already executed them all.

Her entire existence now focuses on finding a way back to her world, and being ready to resume the fight as soon as she does.

The students at the school are used to oddness amongst their peers. But even among children all individually shaped by their specific circumstances and worlds, Lena is considered odder than most. She shows no interest in making friends, and even if she did the other children find her intensity unsettling.

Except for her roommate, Kara.

Kara fares better than most. Coming back with the knowledge that the journey back would be a long one helps, even if it can't totally dull the pain of missing her chosen home. Her return had been voluntary, and she knows that however long it may take, she *will* make it back, and that her friends will still be there waiting for her when she does.

So she doesn't understand what drives Lena's unhappiness, at first. Lena doesn't share in group therapy, so no one really knows what her world or her role in that world truly was. But where they see a girl removed from the world, Kara sees only a friend she hasn't met yet.

Kara also likes to be active. Or rather, she likes to be strong. Where Lena moves and moves and moves, Kara is perfectly content lifting weights in her little fitness corner. She exercises for strength where Lena exercises for survival. Even so, Kara sees the value in Lena's movment, the lightning quick economy of motion. And Kara adores it.

One day, Kara leaves a gift on Lena's bed, then crawls into the tree outside their window to wait for her roommate to return. When she does, Kara sees Lena freeze in place, her eyes jumping swiftly from the oddly wrapped package on the coverlet to scan her surroundings, searching for any sign of a threat.

Realizing her error, Kara makes a point of rustling the leaves around her before poking her head through the foliage.

"It's okay!" she chirps brightly. "I left it for you."

Lena's gaze narrows on Kara, mouth twisting to something just shy of a frown.

"Will you open it?" Kara continues, then adding, "please?"

Slowly, Lena eases her book bag from her shoulder, and finally sits on the edge of her bed, lifting the awkward bulk of the gift into her lap. When the wrapping paper falls away, Kara hears Lena gasp.

An unstrung bow glimmers in the afternoon light, it's surface smooth with untouched polish. Kara knows from wrapping it that the wood is dense, strong but flexible in a recurve shape, perhaps a little large for Lena's frame. But the way Lena stares at it, Kara has no idea if she'd made a huge mistake or not.

"I saw you trying to find a suitable branch in the woods the other week," she says quickly. "I think I got the size right, based on what you seemed to prefer, but if it's not I can let my parents know. They helped me get this, and--"

Lena stands sharply, gripping the bow shaft in one hand while the other scoops up the loosely coiled string. In a single fluid motion she strings the bow and draws it back to the corner of her jaw.

Kara stops and stares, amazed and dazzled by the efficiency of her roommate's movements, and the laser focus of a hunter, a warrior, on Lena's features. Then, as quickly as she drew it, Lena relaxes the bowstring, spinning to face Kara where she's perched outside the window.

"It's perfect," Lena breathes.

Then she smiles, a bright dazzling beam of delight that no one in this world has ever seen. In that moment, Kara knows she'll spend the rest of her life collecting as many of those smiles as she can.

#supercorp #portal children au #more thoughts!#and now theyre instant friends #more to come

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bring-forth-his-sac · 2 months ago

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The Christmas Party - Finale!

summary: the Christmas Party is finally here! … and you and Negan are not on good terms

tags: Modern AU, Teacher AU, Gossip, Swearing, Pet Names, Slow Burn, Misunderstandings, Flirting, Kissing

word count: 7.1k

A/N: this is the final chapter! thank you to everyone who's read this and left comments!! For some reason, I always hesitated doing multi-chapter fics because I didn't think my writing was good enough to keep people captivated for more than one chapter but this has given me a serious confidence boost! and that's thank to all of you!

Merry Christmas and I hope you enjoy!!!

Negan doesn’t know if you can be pussy whipped when you’re not getting any pussy, but damn that’s exactly how he feels with you.

He’s always been a fan of temporary pleasures, quick fixes for the emptiness that gnawed at him. He wasn’t interested in long term or relationship—at least, not in the way most people understood it. Love was something people with hope clung to.

And Negan? He had lost hope a long time ago.

He’s had women, plenty of them, but none of them have ever meant more to him than a night of fleeting connection. Negan never made a fool of himself ice skating for some pussy, nor has he ever wined and dined them.

And he would say he still hasn’t, mainly because that would mean referring to you as just another piece of pussy. And no matter how hypocritical it may be, he doesn’t like that.

He doesn’t know how you do it, how you can penetrate the walls he’s spent years putting up. You’ve never been impressed by his bravado or his flirting.

No, instead you’re the sweet type. You like the little moments, the playfulness, the cheeky texts neither of you should be sending during work hours.

Negan’s known it for a while now. He doesn’t want you like the others. He doesn’t want a night away or a quick fix. He wants the ice skating, the banter throughout the work day, the hot chocolates and dinner dates.

Fuck, all you’ve given him is a kiss and Negan’s smitten.

Waking up the morning after your sweet kiss, you’re the first thing that pops into Negan’s head. More specifically, it’s you in his truck, his leather jacket over your shoulders and eyes crinkling at the corners as you laugh at some dumbass joke he made.

He woke up alone, having gone home the night before and spent an hour on the phone to Mark Smith.

Negan couldn’t believe he actually sat on his couch and willingly listened to his colleague talk about some upcoming market by where he’s staying in Jamaica. Negan even asked Mark how his wife and kids were doing– voluntarily!!

He didn’t recognize himself anymore. The pain, while still there, isn’t as strong. Negan can’t find the strength to harness that resentment he had at the world and himself.

Because how could he hate himself when he’s had your sweet lips on his not even 24 hours earlier?

But his Thursday goes downhill from the get go. Negan has a pep in his step as he leaves his house, quickly locking the door behind him before heading for his truck. A part of him hopes the smell of your perfume will still be lingering in there.

Aaaand that’s the start of a very bad day. Negan never gets to his truck, instead stopping a few feet away when he sees someone else parked behind him.

His lips twist downward in a slight sneer. It’s the kind of look that says, “I don’t like you, and I’m not hiding it” without needing to say it aloud.

Sherry has her car parked directly behind Negan, purposefully blocking him in. She stands outside, her arms crossed as she tries to keep warm.

“Hi…” she says plainly, trying to ease into this.

When he speaks, it’s deliberate. His voice is dry, almost bored, but the weight of his words hangs heavy. "This is private property, ya can’t park there" Negan’s tone is laced with the kind of casual authority he’s so used to.

It’s not a request. It’s not even a command. It’s a fact, something he’s not even sure needs to be said, but he does anyway because she’s standing there like this is some kind of game.

Starting for his truck again, he only stops when she says his name.

Sherry huffs, rolling her eyes. Of course he won’t make this easy. “Negan,” her tone is firmer now “I want to cash in that I-owe-you. Now”.

His hand rests on the truck door but he doesn’t make a move to open it yet. Instead, he turns his body slightly, pivoting so he’s facing her fully now. Negan’s posture tightens, shoulders squared.

“And you think that means you show up to my home at…” he makes a point of bringing his wrist up to read his watch “seven forty five in the damn morning?”.

“I said whenever and wherever,” she shrugs “and I remembered where you lived, so…”.

Now it’s Negan who rolls his eyes. Because, yes, out of everything, he needs a reminder that he brought her home once upon a time ago.

Seeing his little cooperation is shrinking, Sherry cuts to the chase “You have a motorbike, right?”.

“Used to” he corrects her vaguely. Medical bills are a hell of a hit to the balls… and bank account.

“Ok, good,” opening the passenger door to her car, Sherry begins to walk back over to the driver's side “well, get in”.

Negan doesn’t move. “This is kidnapping” he states.

Sherry tries not to lose her patience, nibbling on her bottom lip so she doesn’t let out a string of curses. “No, it’s the favor you owe me,” she corrects “and it’s for Christmas, so c’mon”.

Despite every fiber in his being telling him not to, Negan takes a step closer. “Unless you’re gonna drop me off at the school, we’re gonna be late” be points out.

With the wave of her hand, Sherry dismisses him and gets in. “It’ll be fast” is all she says to assure him.

Glancing back to his truck one last time, Negan sighs before reluctantly getting into Sherry’s car.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

By the time Negan gets to work, he’s pissed off, late and hungry. You’d think as the head cook of the cafeteria, Sherry would’ve had some snacks hidden away in her car but nope, Negan had to starve.

Negan tries to stay positive. He reminds himself that once he knocked out a few more classes, he would have time to do something he’d been looking forward to—setting up the Christmas tree with you.

But as the day drags on and the hours tick by, his phone remains suspiciously quiet. He sent you a few texts, nothing crazy, just simple check-ins asking when you’d be free to hang out later.

A casual message, nothing too pushy. But now, after getting through some classes, it has been hours and there still isn’t a reply.

At first, he figures you’d just busy, maybe caught up in teaching or managing your unruly students. He knows you have a lot on your plate and he didn’t want to be that guy who expecta instant responses.

It’s fine. He’s patient. You’d get back to him when you have the chance.

But as lunch rolls around and there’s still nothing, he can’t shake the nagging feeling that something isn’t right. It’s subtle at first, just a flicker of unease, but it grows with every passing minute.

He finds himself glancing at his phone more often, tapping his fingers against the desk, trying to focus on his work but getting distracted.

Something is off.

Negan gives the little pumpkin statue on his desk a quick rub, as if the small gesture might bring him some kind of luck.

He doesn’t know why he’s so worked up. It’s not like he’s a clingy guy. But the silence between you two today? It’s not like you and it’s starting to eat at him.

First stop is the teacher’s lounge. Empty. He checks your classroom next— locked. No sign of you. Then, he heads to the sports hall, hoping you might be there, finishing something up. No luck.

Hell, he even hangs around the women’s toilets for a minute. It’s stupid, he knows, but he figures if you’re dealing with that time of the month, you might need a minute.

He leans against the wall, trying not to look too out of place, but when Sasha passes by with a raised brow, he realizes how ridiculous he looks.

“Shit,” he mutters, pushing away from the wall.

He’s not the clingy type. He knows that. But by the time lunch comes to an end, he’s sent you a decent amount of texts.

Negan: you ready for the tree?

Negan: it’s in the hall

Negan: u ok?

Negan: is this hide and seek? Where are you?

Negan: hellllllllooooooooooo? My messages are going through so I know you don’t have me blocked

More classes pass and Negan’s patience wears thinner with every passing minute. He yells at a group of rowdy students, his voice echoing through the sports hall as he orders them to watch out for the cheerfully decorated tables as they do their jumping jacks.

He checks his watch, the second hand ticking a little too loudly for his liking. It’s almost the end of the school day and Negan can feel the weight of his frustration pressing down on him.

He hasn’t heard a damn thing from you, not a single text, not even a “Hey, I’m busy.” Nothing.

And the silence? It’s driving him nuts.

By the time he’s checking the teacher’s lounge again, he’s about ready to give up… but then it happens. Just as he’s walking by Ms. Peletier’s classroom, the door clicks open.

You step out.

It’s like a moment of clarity hits him and for a second, all his frustration melts away. There you are— looking like you’re trying to escape something.

You’re not your usual self. There’s something different about you today, something… timid. You’re not holding eye contact, your shoulders are a little hunched like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

“Holy fucking shit,” Negan says, his voice full of relief “I was about to send out a search party, where the fuck have you been, doll?”

He expects a smile, some kind of warmth in your eyes. But instead, you tense. For a heartbeat, your body locks up, like you didn’t expect to see him.

He watches, confused, as you quickly gather yourself. For a second, he thinks you might be walking toward him, like you’re about to talk, to explain yourself.

But then, just before he can take a step forward, you say it.

“Fuck off”.

Negan’s a man that likes to curse. He likes to throw in a few fucks, pricks, shit balls, whatever he feels in the moment.

But this is different.

The curse slices through the air, harsh and bitter. The venom in each syllable sticks in his chest like a jagged piece of glass.

Negan’s stomach drops. He watches you walk past him, not even sparing him a glance and strut down the corridor without breaking stride.

For a moment, he’s frozen. The anger, the confusion— it all hits him at once. He isn’t the kind of man who gets easily thrown off, but right now? Damn right he feels uneasy.

“Woah, sweetheart, what’s that for?” Negan calls after you, confusion and hurt twisting his words.

He takes a step forward, instinctively wanting to follow you but before he can move another inch, a voice calls his name.

“Negan.”

He turns, annoyed, ready to snap at whoever’s interrupting him but when he sees Carol standing in the doorway of her classroom, he stops dead.

“Let her go,” she says, her tone calm, but firm.

His brow furrows. What the hell is this?

“What?” He takes a few strides toward her, his voice rising.

Carol raises a hand, palm out, silencing him before he can continue. “Let her go,” she repeats, her expression unreadable “She’s not interested”.

Negan’s chest tightens. Her words hit him like a punch to the gut but it’s the way she says them so matter-of-fact that makes him freeze in place. He opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.

He looks at her, searching her face for some hint, some sign that this is a misunderstanding. But Carol doesn’t flinch. Instead, she just watches him, her eyes steady.

“She’s not interested,” she repeats, softer this time, but still unyielding.

The truth stings. It settles over him like a weight, heavy and suffocating. The realization that everything he thought he knew about what was happening between you two—what he thought was real—might have only been a quick flash in the pan.

Negan stands there for a moment. The hallway around him feels too quiet, too empty. His chest tightens again and he can’t tell if it’s from anger or hurt or pure disbelief.

He looks back down the hall, where you disappeared, then back at Carol. With a sharp exhale, Negan turns away, heading in the opposite direction without saying another word.

What else is there to say?

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

Friday feels like damnation, and not just because of the party. You purposely come in earlier than usual, not wanting to run into Negan as you set up the last remaining decorations for the gym. Even Joey isn’t in yet.

You can still feel the rush of anger, the way it surged through you when you saw them together, Negan and Sherry. You wouldn’t say you’re a jealous person but to see them arriving together, after everything?!

After Sherry warned you away from him, the dates that weren’t dates you went on with Negan… the kiss. You wonder if you didn’t move fast enough for him and if he went straight to Sherry’s after dropping you home that night.

You’re pissed—so fucking pissed—but more than that, you’re hurt. The way he acted around you was like you were something special. It was as if maybe, there was something more between you two, more than banter and attraction.

But now? Now it feels like a fucking joke. He’s out there, probably flirting with whoever is next on his hit list while you’re here, stewing in your own mess of feelings and sticking wreaths on to tables.

You want to punch something just to feel like you’re doing something to get rid of this ache in your chest.

Your mind races—did they sleep together? Was it just another one-night thing for him? Did it mean nothing?

The thought of it gnaws at you, each question digging deeper. The betrayal, the feeling of being tossed aside, his voice when he called after you yesterday, the knowing look on Carol’s face when you told her what you had seen… It's too much.

You wish you could cry but you’re too damn mad. So you keep working, head down, fighting the sting of tears that are just waiting to break through.

The good news is the sports hall is finally done, besides the Christmas tree that was never put up.

The high, vaulted ceilings are draped with thick strands of sparkling tinsel in gold and silver, catching the light from the overhead fluorescent bulbs and making the whole room shimmer.

Long rows of tables are now covered in bright red and green cloths, each one bordered with tinsel and a wreath hanging off the front. Paper snowflakes some of the students made dangle from the walls, swirling like an indoor blizzard.

Around the room, there are signs that read things like “Merry Christmas!” and “Season’s Greetings!” in big, bold letters and decorated with holly.

Even the basketball hoops are dressed up, with thick, red ribbons tied in bows around the rims, and a few oversized ornaments dangling from the netting.

Everywhere you look, there’s something to bring a smile to your face— and yet that’s the one thing you can’t do.

“Well, hello there,” you don’t tense when you hear the masculine voice.

It doesn’t have that deep drawl Negan’s does. Nor does it make you want to shiver and purr at the same time.

“Hi, Joey” You don’t even glance at him as you say it, your eyes fixed on the twinkling lights that are tangled up in tinsel, casting a soft glow across the sports hall.

“The place looks great!” he says, his voice a little too bright as he walks deeper into the room, clearly trying to make conversation.

“Uh-huh,” you reply, your voice flat and distracted “It’s basically done now. Just have to run home after school to grab the drinks, and it’ll be ready”.

You don’t want to engage much more than that. The last thing you need right now is small talk or having to deal with anyone else.

“And the food?” Joey presses, his tone a little too chipper.

You force a tight-lipped smile, your jaw set as you turn toward him briefly. “Can you let Negan know that’s his shit to sort?” you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral, though it comes out cold.

“Uh—sure! Yeah!” Joey nods quickly, probably sensing the shift in your mood but not wanting to push it.

Without waiting for another word, you head toward the door, not bothering to look back. The last thing you want is to stick around the hall in case Negan shows up unexpectedly.

You can feel the tension already creeping up your spine at the mere thought of seeing him, of dealing with whatever’s going on between you two.

So, you leave, eager to put some distance between yourself and the mess you’re caught up in.

The school day drags, yet somehow, it feels like it’s slipping away too fast. The hours blur together— teaching feels more like a flurry of words and half-attention from your students as they count down the minutes to the end of the day.

You try to keep them engaged but it’s obvious they’re all just as eager for the holidays as you are.

The morning feels slow, like every minute stretches just a little too long. You try to get through your classes but every time the clock ticks, your mind drifts back to the party— back to everything that’s been weighing on you.

By the time you hit the afternoon, you’re caught in this weird mix of excitement and dread. Each class passes, each bell that rings to signal the end of a period feels like a countdown to something you’d rather not face.

The students, for their part, are bouncing off the walls. They’re eager to get out, to be free from school and homework and whatever else hangs over them.

You watch them, their chatter almost deafening and you can’t help but feel a sense of urgency in the air. It’s almost like the whole school is vibrating with the countdown and the seconds feel like they’re slipping through your fingers.

The lessons go by in a haze—you’re teaching, but you’re not fully there. You’re running through the motions, reciting your notes and trying to keep your class on track but you know that the closer you get to the end of the day, the closer you get to the party, to seeing Negan again, to dealing with whatever awkwardness looms between you two.

Finally, the last bell rings, the sound cutting through your thoughts like a knife. You breathe out a little too heavily, a mix of relief and frustration swirling inside you.

It’s over.

The school day’s done.

The holiday break is here and the party is just around the corner. You grab your things quickly, eager to get out of the classroom but the thought of facing the party, of facing him, slows your steps.

You want a moment of quiet before everything kicks off but you can only have such a luxury when you get home to quickly dress into something a little nicer and bring all the alcohol back here to the sports hall.

The noise in the hallways is deafening, students filing out, chatting excitedly about the break. Your thoughts, though, are already on the evening ahead.

You rush home, the quiet of your place a welcome relief after the chaos of the day. You head straight to your room, pulling off your teaching clothes and slipping into something nicer for the party—nothing too fancy, but enough to feel put-together.

A soft sweater and dark jeans, something comfortable but still festive. You grab the bottles you’ve set aside for the party, having to make multiple trips to your car before they're all loaded.

A quick glance in the mirror tells you that you’re ready but the knot in your stomach tells you the opposite. You grab your keys and head out the door, locking it behind you before making your way back to the school.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

It’s almost half six when the first few people trickle in and you’re glad to see their faces.

For the past forty minutes, it’s just been you, Joey and Negan in the hall, stealing plates and cups from the home ec room and putting all the drink on display. And in that forty… long… minutes, you and Negan exchanged a total of seven words.

“Where’s the tequila?” he basically huffed at you.

“Still in my car” you retorted, giving him the same energy.

You got a grunt in response and he yelled at Joey to go out and grab it as Negan left to get more plates.

But now the sports hall is buzzing with that awkward in-between energy—everyone’s showing up but the party hasn’t fully kicked off yet. There’s a nice hum of conversation, teachers hesitantly reaching for liquor and some commenting on the decorations.

Every time you cross paths with Negan, you veer the other way. It’s like there’s an invisible wall between you two, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the air.

You’re doing your best to keep yourself busy— lining up glasses, making sure the food table’s stocked thanks to the newest light in Negan’s life, Sherry (you swear you’re not jealous)—but it’s hard to ignore the tension, the way Negan moves around you, not quite looking at you but not completely avoiding you either.

In one corner of the hall, you see Aaron head towards the large speaker that sits silently waiting.

After a few seconds of fumbling with the speaker, the opening chords of ‘Last Christmas’ filled the room, too loud at first, making everyone glance at each other nervously, unsure if they were meant to sing along, dance, or just pretend it wasn’t happening.

Some teachers head over to the food. Thankfully, you haven’t run into Sherry yet, nor is that something you wish to do. But to give credit where credit is due, the food smells delicious and it’s not as plain as the food usually served at the cafeteria.

Fingers quickly grab skewers of chicken satay or tiny puff pastries as the music loops on, providing a kind of strange comfort.

"I swear," Morgan says as he fills his plate, laughing awkwardly as he nudges a colleague "I only came for the pigs in blankets".

Everyone chuckles the first real laugh of the evening and suddenly the awkwardness seems to melt away, if only a little. Yet it’s enough to kick off the night.

As the evening stretches on, the awkwardness begins to fade into something more familiar, a sort of communal ease that only happens when you’ve spent enough time around people you mostly like, but don’t quite know how to relax with.

You stand back and watch, nursing your drink.

A few teachers have found their rhythm, wandering between the buffet table and the cozy clusters of conversation, laughing a little too loudly and talking shop just enough to remind themselves they’re not too far from the classroom.

Jesus walks up to you and a few others, gesturing towards one of the empty corners. “Where’s the tree I gave you guys?” he asks curiously, no annoyance in his tone.

Taking a deep breath, you struggle for an answer “We uh, ran out of time to put it up”.

Jesus gives a quick laugh and a nod, taking your answer for what it is. “And you still have the extra baubles I donated too?” he clarifies, taking a sip of his drink.

You nod and hesitantly explain “Yeah, the tree and baubles are uh… they’re under the bleachers. We didn’t have the space in the storage room”.

Looking around at the other teachers listening, Jesus smiles “Well then, who’s game for putting up a tree?”.

Before you have time to process that, there’s a burst of energy.

Jesus and Morgan help bring out the tree. Tara takes the box of baubles, standing with her hands on her hips as she looks down at the box.

Aaron, ever the optimist, picked up a string of lights and began untangling them with the patience of a saint.

You stand there with a surprised look plastered on your face. Even the people who aren’t helping, stand by and watch. Michonne snaps a few pictures before typing on her phone, no doubt sending it to her husband or Carl.

Jesus, who has already taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, grabs the tree stand.

“The tree’s the easy part,” he tells the crowd “the real challenge is making it look intentional when you know it’s probably just going to be… well, a mess”.

Eugene, who has been quietly inspecting the box of ornaments with Tara, looks up at the group.

“I must admit, I find the idea of a decorated tree somewhat... quaint. But I’ll go along with the sentiment if it makes the rest of you happy,” Eugene says, picking up a candy cane ornament “Plus, I believe we can all agree—Christmas lights are critical”.

Aaron chuckles “Of course you’d have a whole theory about the importance of lights”.

With Eugene’s help, the tree is quickly set up and anchored in its stand, though it wobbles slightly, as if unsure of its purpose.

“No, no, no, it’s leaning to the left!” Gregory tries to direct them. As you all listen to Gregory and Sasha bicker whether the tilt gives the tree character, you notice a figure lurk closer to you.

Out the corner of your eye, you see Negan. His every movement seems charged, as if he’s on the edge of saying something but never does. And you? You’re not sure what to say either.

So instead, you both continue this dance, each of you pretending that the other isn’t right there, just a few feet away, caught in the kind of silence that screams everything without a single word being spoken.

“And where’s the tinsel?” Rosita rummages through the box of ornaments.

“I think there’s some old tinsel in the storage room,” you call out, wanting an excuse to get away from him “I’ll go get it!”.

Negan lowers his head, watching through his lashes as you hurry off to the storage room. He suppresses a sigh, wondering if it’s really that hard for you to be around him.

Do you seriously prefer the cramped, shitty old storage room compared to him?

This should have been fun. You two should be celebrating! Fuckin’ finally! You’ve made it and now the others are having the time of their life by willingly doing a team building exercise!

Right now, you should both be teaming up to haggle Michonne for a raise, not barely looking at one another.

And yet Negan can’t do it. He can’t find the words to say this to you. And so he stays in his spot and listens to the others make the task of decorating a Christmas tree seem impossible.

Ten minutes pass.

Still nothing. No you. No shitty tinsel. Just a whole lot of avoiding.

Negan can’t believe this. You’d rather hang out in the storage room? Or quietly slip out early? All that hurt and tip toeing around each other starts to bubble in Negan, slowly reaching it’s boiling point.

With a sharp turn, he makes his way through the crowd and towards the storage room. He figures he’ll check in there first and then check the parking lot to see if your car is still here.

His hand comes straight out as he opens the door with enough vigor to make it fly open. Not that he’s thinking about the door when he sees you, just standing there.

“Are you really gonna hide on me?” He starts, boots slamming against the messy floor as he leaves the doorway and walks deeper into the room, closer to you.

For a split second, you freeze. But as you see your opportunity for escape closing, you rush forward.

You don’t pay any attention to his question, trying to get past him as you blurt “Wait! Stop! Don’t let the door—”.

But before either of you can reach it, the door slams shut with a resounding thud, cementing back into its frame. Negan’s anger falters when he realizes what just happened.

He doesn’t know how many times he warned you about the old storage room door being hard to open from the inside, yet here you are— and now him, victim to the heavy door.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me…” His voice drops to a low, venomous growl as he steps back to the door. He tries to yank it open once, twice, thrice! And yet it stays in place.

With the click of his tongue, Negan looks to you “You seriously got yourself locked in here?”.

You don’t appreciate the mocking tone and so you bite back “Yeah and now you have too!”.

With a sigh, Negan leans up against some of the boxes. His anger is gone and now he’s just unsure what to say to you

You step up and try the door again. You yank the handle again, twisting it violently but the door stays still.

“Dammit!” You mutter under your breath, before you get a new idea and begin banging on the door.

“Hey! Hello? We’re in here! Help!” you shout, your voice rising with each strike.

Unfortunately it’s still not enough compared to the loud thumping of bass and jingle bells from the Christmas music blaring in the adjoining room.

Negan watches you with a mixture of bemusement and annoyance. He chuckles lowly, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well, that’s one hell of a performance,” he comments with a grin, the sarcasm dripping off his words. Stopping for a moment, you throw him a glare before continuing again.

“You’re bangin’ on beat with that Christmas nonsense. Hell, they won’t hear you over the jingle bells and whatever crap is playing” he points out, taking no notice of your glare.

You stop, staring at him with an annoyed look “I don’t need your commentary right now, Negan”.

He shrugs, uncaring “Just callin’ it like I see it. Looks like you’re stuck with me. Again”.

Ignoring his comments, you listen to the party outside. Laughter. Chatter too loud that it drowns out your shouts for help. The occasional cheering as they continue to decorate the tree.

“Sounds like they’re having fun” you grumble.

Negan waits a moment before replying, his tone losing his sarcasm “So should we”.

There’s a tightness when he says that— but not the good kind. You’ve always been one to blurt things out, Negan should know that better than anyone.

Although hearing you quietly mutter “Yeah, I’m sure you and Sherry should be having the time of your lives”, throws Negan’s head in a tailspin.

“What? Sherry?” The edge is back in his voice as he asks, making you go quiet again.

You shrug in response.

He narrows his eyes as you stay silent. When you don’t say a word, Negan shakes his head “Fuck, I thought we were gettin’ somewhere, and now? Now this shit?”.

Negan takes a breath before deciding to start small. “Why’re you bringing up Sherry?” he lets the question hang in the air.

Eyes flickering to the ground, your voice feels tight as you reply “I… I saw you with Sherry, arriving to work with her, and—”. You stop yourself, biting back the words.

It doesn’t matter that you stopped anyways as Negan interjects with a slightly sarcastic laugh “You thought I’d what? Sleep with her?”.

He steps closer, trying to get you to look at him.

“Doll, she just wanted to cash in that I-owe-you,” he says before deciding you’ll need more of an explanation “she wanted to buy her boyfriend a motorbike for Christmas but she knows fuck all about bikes… I, however, have had my fair share so I went with her to get give her my expert opinion. Nothing more. I just spent the morning looking at shitty second hand bikes”.

You nod, eyes still down as you process his answer. But now it’s Negan’s turn to get some answers.

“You really think I’d kiss you, then go and sleep with someone else right after?” his voice is firm but tinged with hurt “Is that how little you think of me?”.

That makes you look up, eyes wide before they soften with regret “No! I don’t— It’s just, you didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to think. You didn’t tell me anything about her or what you were doing”.

You hesitate, realizing how much you’ve misinterpreted “I should’ve talked to you first. I’m sorry, I just… I didn’t want to make a fool of myself”.

A few hollers can be heard in the sports hall as Negan pauses, letting out a slow exhale.

“You don’t have to apologize for giving a damn. I get it, though, how that would’ve looked,” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself “I mean, Sherry and I, that was a one time thing that neither of us want a round two of”.

You nibble on your bottom lip, unsure whether you’ll like the answer to your next question but needing to ask nonetheless. “So… what did happen? Back then, between you and Sherry?”.

His posture shifts slight as if he’s physically as well as mentally letting down his guard.

“Sherry and her man were on a break, she wanted a distraction…” he trails off, letting you fill in the details “and then when they got back together, she had to really prove to the guy that she wasn’t interested in me anymore so she went from thinking I was good enough to fuck, to straight out hating me”.

“Huh… I kinda presumed you just cut contact with a lot of them after the deed is done” you reply, not expecting to hear that Sherry hated Negan anyways, whether or not he ghosted her.

“Oh I do sometimes, other times it just fizzles or it’s decided beforehand that it’s just a one night kinda thing” he explains “We both get something out of it”.

“A two way system” You call it.

Negan tilts his head as he thinks, “‘I wouldn’t exactly call it that. It’s just… mutual benefits.

A faint smirk ghosts his face “A two way system is you arguing with me, me arguing with you, you taking me on a date, me taking you on a date, me flirting with you, you flirting with me”.

You can’t help the smile at that, rolling your eyes teasingly, any annoyance you had for Negan melting away.

He continues, poking his tongue out of his mouth “Me kissing you.. you shoving your tongue down my throat”.

“I did not do it like that!!” You exclaim with a laugh.

He chuckles, his own annoyance gone now too. “You’re right, you’re right,” he concedes before thinking up a better way of saying it “you… oh so subtly slipping that dainty tongue of yours into my mouth all sexy like”.

“I didn’t use tongue!” You declare, throwing your hands up before the playfulness fades into a somber silence.

“I am sorry,” you reiterate ”I guess I should’ve trusted you more. I should’ve asked, instead of assuming.”

He gives you a look you can only describe as tender.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly the talking-about-feelings kinda guy and I kinda thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore,” he tells you, his voice a gentle hum “But if you’re asking— I want this. I want you. No more games, no more misunderstandings. Just… us. Alright?”.

A small, relieved smile tugs at the corners of your lips, tension easing. “I think that would be nice” you agree, trying to drown out the loud Christmas music during your intimate moment.

There’s a quiet between you both, no more words needing to be exchanged. Negan begins to move again but instead of heading towards the door, he briefly disappears to the back of the storage room.

“Negan?” You call out.

He strolls over to one of the old boxes and starts to look through it. The musty smell of forgotten storage fills the air as he pulls out a dusty, crinkled piece of tinsel, its once-silver strands now dulled and faded with time.

“If we’re all good now…” he says as he stops and reaches down into the box “y’know what we gotta seal it with, right?”.

His mouth twitches with a hint of amusement and as he steps back toward you, dangling that goddamn piece of old mistletoe in front of you.

His expression is half-mocking, half-playful, as if he’s trying to make light of getting stuck in here.

You look at the mistletoe and then back up at him. “Well, it is tradition…” you tilt your head up, expecting to see that cocky expression of his but instead it gives way to something more sincere.

Before you can say anything, he’s lifting the mistletoe above your heads, positioning it just right.

Not being one to waste time, Negan presses his lips to yours, the kiss soft at first, just a light brush but as if giving into the moment, you deepen it.

His lips are warm and steady against yours. The taste of him lingers as it becomes more heated. Negan drops the mistletoe, both of you each other instinctively pulling closer.

His lips press more urgently against yours, like he's unable to hold back anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you into him with a force that makes you gasp into his mouth.

That gasp seems to push him further, the heat between you intensifying. His tongue sweeps against yours in a coaxing manner. Backing away, you pull him with you until your back is flush against another stack of boxes.

There's nothing tentative about this anymore; it's a powerful, consuming kiss, raw with hunger and desire.

Negan’s hands slide under your festive sweater, skin on skin. The contact sends a shiver down your spine, heightening every sensation. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, needing more of him, more of this.

His body presses against you, hips aligning with yours, and the pressure builds as you feel the weight of him against you. His breathing becomes heavier, his chest rising and falling in sync with the erratic make out session.

The words around you fall on deaf ears, neither you or Negan paying attention to the Christmas music or the mumbling of Gregory outside saying “It’s in here, you say? Oh Christ!”.

Suddenly the music is clearer and another light source shines across your face. “Mm?” You question, although it’s hard to get the words out with Negan’s lips still on yours.

Pulling away, you see a look of shock and disgust on Gregory’s face.

He clears his throat, trying and failing to regain some semblance of control. “This… this is—uh—what is happening here?” his words came out in a disjointed jumble, bringing the other’s attention to the storage room.

“They’re together?!” you hear Rosita’s voice.

“You didn’t know about them?” the voice of Michonne reaches your ears “Carl told me they were a couple ages ago!”.

Suddenly you realize you’re like a deer in headlights, just frozen and watching. That is until Negan takes you hand in his and yanks you out of the storage room while the door is still open.

You follow his lead, letting him bring you out to the middle of the sports hall until he turns to face you again. His hands find their home on your back and he begins to sway to the slow Christmas song.

“Are we… dancing right now?” You question, clasping your hands around the back of his neck.

The others stare for a few moments before carrying on with whatever it is they were doing beforehand. Some drink, some stuff their faces and chat, while others grab a partner and dance too.

Negan doesn’t answer with words, instead giving you a little spin before finding you back in his arms.

“So… you still spending Christmas alone?” Negan says it casually, though there’s a subtle trace of concern in his tone.

You inhale before replying, shifting slightly in his arms “Yeah”.

“You sure about that?” He leans in a little closer, his face now just inches from yours, as though trying to read between the lines.

There’s a small, almost imperceptible shake of your head, showing you’ve already made peace with the decision as you sigh “I think it’s for the best I don’t change plans now and go spend it with my family”.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I was kinda trying to crash your plans, not suggest you skedaddle out of town” Negan’s grin widens, and he gives you a playful nudge

“What?”.

His smile deepens as he watches your reaction, fully aware of how bold he’s being. “Well, you’re spending Christmas alone, I’m spending Christmas alone,” he explains “we get on like a house on fire, you’re hot, I’m hot”.

“Negan!” you exclaim, a mix of embarrassment and amusement flooding your chest.

“I’ll bring the mistletoe” the offer hangs in the air, and you can feel the moment shifting, building toward something neither of you is fully ready to name, but both are undeniably feeling.

“… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if you were there too” you slowly admit “but you have to bring me a present!”.

Negan chuckles, keeping his hands on the small of your back as he looks up and pretends to think. “Hm… I might be able to do that” he says.

He tries to act as though he’s debating the condition, as if he hasn’t already bought you things.

A cinnamon candle.

A pumpkin statue to match his own.

A winter coat that will actually keep you warm (that may have some leather accents so you’ll match his own jacket).

Some snacks he’s been picking up whenever he’s out.

And a list he’s made himself of the corniness Christmas movies he could find on the many streaming services that are around.

“Maybe I could do with that mistletoe now,” you tease, showing off your actual flirting skills.

Negan smirks down at you, one of his hands trailing up your back as you both sway to the music.

“Darlin’ I think we are way past mistletoe now,” he quips back before he leans down.

Despite being in the sports hall that made you and Negan go at each other’s throats. Despite being surrounded by your colleagues …

You kiss him.

#negan fanfiction #negan smith fanfiction #negan x reader #negan x you #negan #negan smith #negan twd #twd negan #jeffrey dean morgan x reader #jdm x reader #twd fic #negan smith x you #negan smith x female reader #negan the walking dead #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead negan #the walking dead x reader

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oosa3x · 5 months ago

Text

secret moments (rd3)

prologue

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆.˚✮˚.⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

pairing: ruben dias x f!celebrity!reader

warning(s): language, mentions of stalkers, anxiety + emotional stress, feelings of isolation word count: 3,038

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As the sleek, black SUV glided to a smooth stop, Y/N ran her fingers on the edge of her dress, the fabric soft to the touch. She glances quickly at her phone, right on time.

It’s always like this—the split second of calm that comes before the storm. The instant her head of security, Mark, opens the door, the world erupts into chaos. Cameras flash in rapid succession, each one capturing every single frame of her movements, from a hundred different angles. She steps out, a practiced smile tugging on her lips, not quite reaching her eyes.

She takes in a breath, letting the cool, Manchester night air fill her lungs as she straightens up, the clicking of her heels against the pavement blending in with the click, click, click of the cameras. The noise around her is deafening, a garbled mix of questions, calls of her name, and orders from her security asking everyone to take a step back. It’s overwhelming, yet achingly familiar—this is the life she once dreamed of, no, begged for. From the moment she pleaded with her parents to enroll her in that theater camp all those years ago, she knew she was destined for fame, craving the adoration of fans and the recognition that comes with being a household name. How could she not be famous? Every music teacher had told her she sang like an angel. 'With a voice like that,' they’d say, 'how could you not have a slew of adoring fans?’

And here it was, that fame, blinding her with camera flashes—the often harsh reality of never finding a moment of solitude or peace.

Yet even with its occasional dark underbelly, she loved the life fame had given her far more than she resented it. She loved the art, the work, the human connection. She cherished the way she made people feel—seen, understood, and less alone. How could she not love this job when she’d just been cast in her dream role?

The stalkers, the threats on your life, a voice whispered in her mind, the one she tried to silence every single day in her quest for some semblance of normalcy amidst her stratospheric amount of fame.

She had everything she ever wanted—fame, fortune, admiration—but at what cost? The weight of the spotlight was suffocating, the constant scrutiny exhausting. The thrill of performing on stage, of becoming someone else on screen, was often overshadowed by the gnawing fear that her carefully constructed world could crumble with a single misstep. One slip, one unguarded moment, and the sense of security she clung to, could crack, leaving her vulnerable to the dangers that always seemed to lurk at the edge of her fame.

But she couldn't think about that now. Not tonight. Not when she’d just arrived to this new city, her new home for the next year. Not when she’d worked so hard to get to this point. She’d blistered her feet in character shoes, lost count of the times she’d cut her fingers changing guitar strings, and had done so many vocal warm-ups that they had become a language of their own in her vocabulary. She was thrust into the spotlight at 15, an age when most are just beginning to understand who they are and their place in the world. But while her childhood friends were navigating school and first loves, she was sacrificing sleep and missing important family milestones, trading school dances for long hours on set, in studios, and in board rooms with adults making decisions about her career. The normalcy and innocence of adolescence slipped away as she fiercely devoted herself to the relentless pursuit of perfection. She’d given up friendships that couldn’t withstand the demands of her career, missed countless holidays with loved ones, and shouldered the emotional burden of a life lived under constant scrutiny.

So, she took the negatives of fame on the chin. She fell into her routine: “head held high, shoulders back, walk with purpose.” The dress she’s wearing—a custom piece, naturally—hugs her figure perfectly. The dress is the furthest thing from her mind, though, as she focused on putting one stilettoed foot in front of the other without losing her bearings due to the blinding glare of the camera flashes.

A few more steps and she’d be inside the up-scale restaurant having dinner with a powerful studio executive, his company footing a large part of the film’s budget.

As the door closed behind them, sealing off the flashing lights and the relentless noise, she took in the setting of the restaurant. The quiet chatter, the dim lighting, the rich scent of polished wood and expensive food—it was almost enough to make her forget the chaos outside. Almost.

Mark stepped back, giving her space but staying within reach. He was a constant presence in her life, one of the few people she trusted wholeheartedly. "Do you need a minute alone? I could clear out that hallway over there, if you need me to." he asked, his voice low, just for her.

She shook her head. "No. I’m fine, but thank you. I kind of just want to get started." Her voice was steady, but she knew he could see through the mask. He always could. He’s been working for her pretty much from the moment she was thrust into the spotlight. Her rise to fame was as swift as it was overwhelming, making the need for security an immediate necessity. He nodded, respecting her need to push forward, but his eyes lingered on her a moment longer, silently conveying his concern. She straightened up again, squaring her shoulders as if she could physically push the weight of the world off them.

Together, they walked further into the restaurant. As they moved through the main floor, the soft murmur of conversation began to die down, replaced by the subtle rustling of patrons shifting in their seats. Eyes followed her every step, awe flickering in their gazes. Some tried to be subtle, but she caught the movements from the corner of her eye—an instinct she’d honed over the last twelve years of being in the spotlight. Phones slowly lifted, camera apps discreetly launched, as they seized the opportunity to capture the moment.

Mark walked ahead, his broad frame cutting a path through the dimly lit space, while Eric, a second bodyguard, stayed a step behind her, his watchful eyes scanning the room, making sure no one got too close. The atmosphere buzzed with whispers, fragments of her name slipping through the hushed conversations.

The hostess—who looked about one breath away from hyperventilating, tears brimming her eyes—led them to a private dining room at the back. As the door closed behind them, sealing off the public’s eager eyes, the tension in her shoulders eased just slightly, but the weight of their expectations lingered in the air. Her publicist and manager were already seated at the table, deep in conversation with the studio executive. The moment she entered, all eyes turned to her.

Her publicist, Raquel, a woman with an impeccable sense of style, stood first. "There she is," she said with a warm smile, moving to greet her. "You look absolutely amazing, as always, my dear.”

Her manager, Claudia, a calm, steady presence who had guided her through everything, also stood up to give her a quick hug. "Right on time," she said, her tone as measured as ever. "Everything go smoothly outside?”

She returned the smiles, though hers was softer, more controlled. "As smoothly as it ever does." She accepted the brief hug from both her publicist and her manager before turning to the studio executive.

The executive stood as she approached, extending a hand with a smile that was all business. "Miss L/N, it’s a pleasure to see you again," he said smoothly. "Thank you for making the time."

"Of course," she replied, taking his hand and then sliding into the chair opposite him. "I’m looking forward to hearing more about the project."

The executive waved a hand, and the hostess quickly poured wine into the glasses before retreating, leaving them alone. He raised his glass in a small toast. "To what I’m sure will be an amazing collaboration."

She mirrored his action, the cool glass against her fingers grounding her slightly. "To new beginnings."

Her publicist and manager joined in the toast, their faces reflecting the mix of optimism and caution that came with every new project. The executive took a sip, then set his glass down, his demeanor shifting slightly as he leaned forward.

"We’re thrilled to have you on board. This role... it’s going to be a game-changer for you. The script is incredible, the director’s a genius, and we’re pulling out all the stops to promote this film."

She nodded, her face calm, but inside, her mind was already running through the list of demands this project would make of her. The hours on set, the press tours, the interviews—each one a small battle in the war to stay on top, to remain the ‘it girl’. "I’m excited to dive in. I’ve been waiting for a role like this."

Her manager, ever the practical one, leaned forward slightly. "We’ve reviewed the schedule, and it’s tight, but it’s manageable. We’ll need to coordinate closely, especially with the promotional commitments. Don’t worry, you’ll also get moments of peace in between."

Her publicist added, "There’s a lot of buzz already. We need to be strategic about your appearances, make sure we’re maximizing the exposure without burning you out."

The executive smiled, clearly pleased with their input. "We’re all on the same page here. This film is going to be huge."

She took another sip of wine, savoring the brief moment of silence. The praise was flattering, but it was also a reminder of the constant pressure to deliver, to be perfect.

The executive continued, his tone more serious now. "I won’t lie, though you’ll still have a few breaks in filming, this is going to be demanding. The director is known for pushing his actors to their limits, and we’ll need you fully committed. But if anyone can handle it, it’s you."

She met his gaze, the smile never leaving her face. "I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge. I’m ready to give it everything I’ve got."

Her publicist glanced at her, then at the executive. "We’ll make sure she’s prepared. And of course, we’ll coordinate with your team to ensure everything goes smoothly."

Her manager nodded. "You all made the right choice choosing Y/N. She is more than ready for this."

The executive nodded, seemingly satisfied. "That’s exactly what I wanted to hear." He leaned back in his chair, a more relaxed smile crossing his face. "Let’s talk specifics, then. I want to make sure you have everything you need to succeed."

As they delved into the details of the project—locations, timelines, marketing strategies—she listened carefully, her mind a careful balance of focus and detachment. She knew this was important, that this film could be a turning point in her career, but she couldn’t help the small voice in the back of her mind that whispered of exhaustion, of the toll this life took on her.

But she silenced it, as she always did. She had worked too hard to let doubt creep in now. This was her dream, and she had worked incredibly hard to make it her reality.

Her publicist leaned in, breaking the flow of technical discussions with a smile. "You know, there’s something special about this project. I can feel it."

Her manager nodded, a rare sparkle of enthusiasm in his usually measured demeanor. "It’s the perfect blend—challenging but rewarding. I think you’re going to surprise even yourself with what you achieve here."

She let their words wash over her, allowing herself to believe them for a moment. Maybe they were right. Maybe this was the role that would not only challenge her but would elevate her to new heights. The thought sent a flicker of excitement through her, a reminder of why she had fought so hard to get here in the first place.

As the meeting wrapped up and they all stood to leave, she looked around at the faces of the people she trusted most. "We’re going to make this something unforgettable," she said, and this time, her smile wasn’t just for show.

But as they prepared to exit the private dining room, her eyes drifted across the restaurant. At a nearby table, she noticed a young couple sitting close, their hands intertwined, looking at each other like the other had hung the stars. The woman laughed softly, her partner brushing a lock of hair behind her ear with a tenderness that made her chest tighten.

She turned away quickly, focusing on the path ahead instead. The couple’s easy affection stirred something in her, a longing she rarely allowed herself to acknowledge. Despite all the success, all the admiration, there was a gnawing emptiness that no amount of fame or money could fill. The men she met were captivated by the image, the glamor, the persona she projected. But none of them really took the chance to know her—the real her, beyond the red carpets and the rehearsed smiles.

For so long, she had been nothing more than arm candy, a trophy on the arm of powerful men who loved the idea of her but not the reality. They were enamored by her beauty, but quickly intimidated by her fame. Most of them were quick to back away when the cameras weren’t rolling, when they realized that the woman behind the flashing lights was more than just a pretty face. They were drawn to the allure of dating a superstar but recoiled when the reality of her life became too overwhelming.

And those who didn’t run? They were the ones who tried to diminish her, to make her feel small so they could feel bigger. The musicians who thought themselves superior because they didn’t make “pop music.” They treated her like a guilty pleasure, something to enjoy in private but never proudly claim. Their words, cloaked in playful jabs and condescension, had a way of cutting deep, making her feel inferior for the very thing that had brought her so much success in the first place.

She could still hear the echoes of their backhanded compliments, the subtle digs at her craft, and the way they’d say “pop star” sneeringly. They’d smile and tell her she was talented, but there was always that lingering undertone—that she wasn’t quite serious enough, not quite respectable enough to be considered their equal, despite her countless prestigious awards and record-breaking achievements. It left her questioning herself, wondering if the world saw her the same way they did.

The fame, the fortune—it was a double-edged sword. It brought her everything she thought she wanted but took away the one thing she needed most: genuine connection. She had grown tired of the men who saw her as a status symbol, who were either emasculated by her success or secretly resented it. None of them had ever seen her for who she really was, the woman beneath the glitz and the glamor, the one who craved love as deeply and earnestly as anyone else.

The woman who adored dad jokes and bad puns. The one who could watch Clue and The First Wives Club more times than she’d ever admit. They didn’t know about her love for the smell of rain on asphalt or the way she insisted on playing “Neon Moon” as her first song every time she took the stage at karaoke nights. They didn’t see how much joy she found in making children laugh or how deeply she cherished the “-ber” months. The woman whose parents nurtured her boundless curiosity, encouraging her to become a walking encyclopedia.

They couldn’t grasp how deeply her heart yearned for genuine connection, how she longed for someone to hold her—not for the image she projected to the world, but for the woman she was in those quiet moments alone at night. Beneath the polished exterior, she was kind, funny, and deeply compassionate, with a fierce love for her family and an unwavering determination to keep moving forward, despite the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was more than just a star—she was a person, craving something real.

And as she watched that couple, so lost in each other, a pang of longing struck her. She yearned for that kind of love—the kind that wasn’t tainted by envy or insecurity, the kind that didn’t wilt under the glare of her fame. A love that was simple and true, where she could just be herself, not the persona the world expected her to be.

She straightened her posture, pushing the thought away as they reached the door. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it, not tonight. But as she stepped back into the night, the brief glimpse of that couple lingered in her mind, a reminder that there were still parts of her life that even her relentless drive and success couldn’t fully satisfy.

Meanwhile, just a few blocks away from the city center, a Portuguese defender was winding down for the evening. After a light meal and some stretching exercises, he stood by the window of his apartment, looking out over the quiet city below. Tomorrow was match day, and his routine was precise—early to bed, clear-minded, focused. The game was his world, and it required everything from him.

As he set his alarm and turned off the lights, his thoughts were already on the pitch, on the plays he would execute, the goals he would defend. In the solitude of his room, there was no need for the public persona he wore so effortlessly. Here, he was just a man preparing to do what he did best.

Unbeknownst to both of them, their worlds, so different yet on a slow and steady path to intersection, would soon collide in ways neither could have predicted.

As the cameras flashed once more, she couldn’t help but wonder—would there ever be someone who could see past the spotlight to the person she really was?

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author's note: i am so excited for y'all to read "secret moments"

i've been wanting to write something like this since 2022.

also, i feel it’s worth mentioning that i am american. i only say this bc i might subconsciously use american sayings without realizing i am because that’s what i grew up saying lol. i also want to point out that because i am from california, i'm on a different timezone than most people that post on ruben's tag so i might answer things in my asks kinda late but i will always try my best to answer in a timely manner!

anyway, enough rambling! i really hope y'all like this ◡̈

-mars

#ruben dias #ruben dias x you #ruben dias x y/n #ruben dias x reader #rúben dias

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