#Political Practices in Exile

[a-multi-religion-election-system]

https://Frystorkning.multireligionvalsystem.eu.org

[multireligionvalsystem]

[askshivanulegacy]

Actually think he's got ALL the great points. I am LIVING for Sith-centric POVs. The Jedi aren't right and good simply by virtue of being Jedi. I wanna hear what the other side has to say about it.

It's about time we had a sympathetic glance at the Sith. What's gonna happen next? When and what's the shoe that's about to drop?? Will the Sith be JUSTIFIED or will things revert back to ye olde Jedi=Right?

This is what story time is supposed to be about !!

*eats popcorn.*

He do be making some good points though.

[levanterhaze]

── GAMEBOY, BANGCHAN

♡  ― 󠀬󠀬 fratboy!bangchan x f!reader praise kink, protected sex, rough sex, fluff & angst.

♡ synopsis ― Bangchan is the campus playboy—charming, cocky, and infuriatingly irresistible. One reckless, drunken night leads to a secret you swore you'd never have. Now, hating him is harder than keeping him your dirty little secret.

[12.3k words ]♡― here we are, at the last chapter of gameboy. writing this series has been so much fun and having the opportunity to tell the stories i love to write is a privilege. i hope i don't disappoint you with this ending, that you understand each choice made for the characters. i also hope you continue to support me, this has been so special and welcoming to me, i can't thank you enough for everything. thank you for embracing gameboy, for continuing to read and for all your support. from the bottom of my heart. PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTERS!!!! that said, have a good read.

♡― THE PLAYLIST.

♡ [part one] ♡[part two]♡ [part three] ♡[part four] ♡[part five] ♡[part six] ♡[part seven]

'Cause I'm right here waiting for us 때로는 두려웠어 다신 오지 않을 것 같아서 두 손 꼭 잡은 채 그 어떤 순간이 덮쳐 와도 널 놓지 않을게

After all the chaos, the only thing that made sense was leaving.

So you did.

You shot Hyunjin a text, practically begging him to take you to the bus stop. He didn’t ask questions—he was too pissed off about the whole thing, ranting the entire drive about how it was bullshit that you had to be the one to go. In his mind, Eunji and Mingyu should’ve been the ones packing their bags.

And maybe he was right. But you were exhausted. Your body ached from the tension, your head was a tangled mess of emotions, and honestly? You just didn’t have it in you to fight anymore.

By the time you got back to campus, you had a plan—or at least, a temporary bandage disguised as one. You marched straight to the admin office and spun some tragic, half-true sob story about needing to “regain focus” on your studies. A few forced tears later — maybe slightly real ones— they handed you the keys to a new dorm on the other side of campus.

No hesitation. No second-guessing. You packed what little you had and moved in before anyone even realized you were gone.

And then you disappeared.

One day after another, like clockwork. No calls, no texts, no explanations. Just silence.

Your life has shrunk down to a routine: rehearsals, studying, sleep, repeat.

Hyunjin and Seungmin still tried to pull you out of your self-imposed exile, inviting you to lunch, cracking jokes at rehearsals to get a reaction out of you—but you always politely refused. You weren’t rude, just... distant. Like a ghost of yourself.

Bangchan had tried. Over and over. Messages sent and then deleted, calls he never made, moments of hesitation that stretched into frustration. He wanted to give you space, wanted to respect whatever it was you needed, but that didn’t make it any easier. Every time he saw you, it felt like his chest was caving in.

He’d even asked Hyunjin about you, but the guy was like a vault. Hyunjin wasn’t about to betray you—not even for him. “She’s busy,” was all he ever got. “Leave her alone, man.”

But how could he, when you were right there? When you were always the last to show up at rehearsals and the first to leave, slipping away before he even had a chance to try? It was torture. Watching you go about your life like he wasn’t part of it anymore. Like he never had been.

And it was worse because he could still feel you.

In his bed, between the sheets. In his hands, aching for your touch. In his mind, where your laugh and your voice were stuck on a loop, growing more distant with every passing day—like a dream he was trapped in, running but never getting anywhere.

And you wouldn’t even look at him.

If your eyes ever landed on him in the theater, they flicked away like it physically hurt you to see him. If you spotted him on campus, walking with the boys, you immediately turned your head.

So you buried yourself in anything that wasn’t him. Anything that wasn’t Eunji. Because thinking about either of them was the only thing more unbearable than being alone.

And Eunji—who didn’t even look at you, let alone speak to you. Every time your paths crossed, she barely acknowledged your existence, like you were something rotten in her periphery. A stranger. No, worse—something beneath her.

And that hurt. Maybe even more than Bangchan.

Because you’d believed in her. In you two. In the kind of unspoken loyalty that came with late-night talks, inside jokes, and secrets exchanged under dim dorm room lights. You thought there was sisterhood in that. Something unshakable.

But in the end, it was nothing. A mirage. A mist that vanished the second you tried to hold on.

A few weeks had passed and you were enjoying your own company in the library, an iced coffee and your headphones. You were studying your lines for the next class, until someone took the seat in front of you and your eyes looked up in surprise to see Sohee sitting with her arms crossed.

“Sohee.” you murmured, almost not believing she was there.

Sohee arched her brow, unimpressed. “Oh, so you do remember me.”

You blinked, scrambling for words. “I—of course, I do. I just—”

“Disappeared?” she finished for you, leaning back in her chair. “Yeah, I noticed.”

Guilt twisted in your stomach, but you kept your expression neutral. “I’ve been busy.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Right. Busy. Too busy to text? Too busy to tell me why you packed up and moved to the other side of campus?” Her eyes narrowed. “Eunji won’t tell me what happened. Neither will Hyunjin. Which means something happened, and I need you to stop bullshitting me.”

Your mouth went dry, fingers tightening around your coffee cup. The truth sat heavy on your tongue, bitter and unspeakable. 

What if she looked at you the way Eunji did? 

Sohee exhaled, her sharpness softening just a fraction. “Look, I don’t know what went down, but I missed you, okay?”

Your heart clenched. She wasn’t angry. She was hurt. And that somehow made it worse.

You put your headphones aside and took a deep breath, gathering the courage to begin.

So you started from the very beginning. Bangchan, the secrets, then Mingyu, Eunji finding out, all your emotions, the fight between Bangchan and Mingyu, and how completely broken you’d been ever since.

Sohee listened, her expression shifting from shock to disbelief. “That’s... insane. I can’t believe Eunji would do something like that.”

“I know.” You gave a small, bitter smile. “That’s why it hurts.”

“And rightfully so. She had no right to interfere in your life or come at you like that.” Sohee leaned on the table, eyes searching yours. “But please, don’t let this kill your spark. Everyone misses you.”

And you missed them too. All of them. Without exception.

“If you must know,” Sohee drawled, cocking her head with a little smirk, “I’d already kind of guessed there was something going on with you and Bangchan.” 

You shot her a look, but she kept going, unbothered. 

“I just figured you’d spill when you were ready. No pressure. Not my circus.” She shrugged, then narrowed her eyes playfully. “But seriously… you do like him, right?”

Your chest tightened. Because the answer was obvious.

Sohee gave you a pointed look, like she could see right through you. “Oh, come on. Don’t give me that I guess it doesn’t matter bullshit.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “It doesn’t.”

“It does.” She leaned in, voice low but firm. “You’re miserable. He’s miserable. And all of this is because of what? Miscommunication and some high school level drama?”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, it kinda is.” She shrugged. “You like him. He clearly likes you. But instead of dealing with it, you ran.”

“That’s not fair—”

Sohee held up a hand. “I’m not saying you didn’t have your reasons. I’m saying that if you keep avoiding it, you’re just gonna hurt yourself more. Let things cool down, sure. But don’t wait until it’s too late.”

You stared at her, words caught in your throat. Because the truth was, you were terrified. Terrified that if you faced him, he’d look at you differently. That the damage was already done.

But another, quieter part of you—the part that still remembered the warmth of his touch, the way he looked at you like you were it for him—wondered if maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t too late at all.

You were alone in the theater, the crumpled sheets of your solo scattered around you like forgotten love letters. You were dead set on nailing that high note — the heartbreak one, the kind that’s supposed to rip your chest open and bleed on stage. Humming through the first verse, you air-strummed like your life depended on it, lost in the rhythm.

“Am I crashing a rockstar's private concert?” Changbin’s voice broke through your focus, making your head snap up so fast it almost hurt. He was in his basketball jacket, the team logo front and center, and that usual mischievous grin was pulling at his mouth. He stepped closer, then plopped down next to you on the edge of the stage like he belonged there. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You’re fine.” You flashed him a crooked little smile as you scooped up the sheets from the floor. “I’ll just pretend you weren’t suspiciously wandering the theater.”

“Busted.” He lifted both hands in mock surrender. “What can I say? If you hadn’t pulled a full-on undercover mission and vanished from campus, I wouldn’t have to play detective just to track you down.”

You shot him a look. “Busted.”

His smile softened a bit, but it didn’t reach his usual brand of easy humor. Changbin had always been the steady one — loyal to Bangchan, to the whole group really. But right now, there was something quieter in him, like he’d pocketed the jokes for later.

And even though you kept your expression cool, you felt it too — the weight of whatever he wasn’t saying yet. “The guys miss you, you know that, right?”

His voice was casual, but it landed heavier than he probably meant it to. You dragged in a breath, sharp like it might actually clear out the guilt clogging your chest. 

Spoiler: it didn’t. You’d gone ghost on them, the second life got messy, and there was no pretending otherwise.

Before you could open your mouth, probably to spit out some lame excuse, Changbin raised a hand like he could see it coming from a mile away. “And no, before you even ask, he didn’t send me,” he said, shooting you a knowing look. “Didn’t even bring you up. But it wasn’t rocket science, you know? Mingyu stormed off, then Chan showed up looking like he lost a bar or something.”

You winced. “Bin… I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He shook his head, like that wasn’t what he came here for. “This isn’t a guilt trip, alright? Whatever Mingyu pulled, he had it coming. Trust me, no one’s crying over him.”

A pause. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

You straightened up, catching the shift in his tone. Less playful, more real. The kind of real that you couldn’t dodge even if you wanted to.

“I’m just—look, I’m just trying to knock some sense into both of you,” Changbin went on, like he’d been carrying this around too long. “I don’t know all the details, and honestly? I don’t need to. But I do know my best friend’s been walking around like the lights are on, but nobody’s home.”

Your chest tightened, the words slipping past your guard way too easily.

“And I’m not saying this to dump it on you, okay? I swear,” he added, catching your expression before you could speak. “It’s just... he’s a mess. And it’s not just the basketball thing, or the usual stress — it’s you. He misses you. Bad.”

The way he said it — simple, no drama, no exaggeration — hit you harder than any speech could’ve.

And you hated it. You hated that part of you wanted to hear it. You hated that it hurt more than you expected. Because deep down, you already knew.

“I’m only doing this because he’s my guy,” Changbin started, running a hand through his hair like this whole conversation weighed more than he let on. “Chan’s always been the one to clean up after the rest of us, you know? First to show up with advice or some half-baked plan to save the day.”

You tilted your head, a small smile sneaking onto your lips despite yourself. Classic Chan.

Changbin caught it, and his own grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, softer this time. “Yeah, exactly. And when he met you? Man, it was like someone turned the lights on in his head. Swear to God, I’ve never seen him like that. He was just... lighter.”

The way he said it twisted something in your chest, but you held his gaze, letting him finish.

“What I’m saying is,” he went on, “even if you two don’t go back to being, like, whatever you were before—” he waved a vague hand between you, “—at least talk to him. He’s stuck in that ‘she hates me, so I better give her space’ spiral, and you know how Chan is. He’ll bury it to do what’s best for you.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how much that stung. “Wait... so he doesn’t hate me?”

Changbin actually laughed at that, a real, rough-around-the-edges laugh. “Hate you? Please. I don’t think that man has it in him, even if he tried.”

Your fingers tangled together, fidgeting without you meaning to. The truth slipped out before you could stop it. “I care about him. I really do.”

“Yeah,” Changbin said simply, no teasing this time, just plain fact. “I know you do. And I know you’ll figure this out.”

After a beat of quiet, Changbin pushed himself up, casually brushing nonexistent dust off his jersey like he’d just wrapped up something way more dramatic than a heart-to-heart.

“Thanks, Binnie,” you said, flashing him a crooked smile as he gave you an overly formal little bow.

He started toward the door but paused right at the exit, glancing back over his shoulder with that familiar spark in his eye. “You know I love you, right? But if you mess with my best friend’s heart, I will write the nastiest diss track you’ve ever heard. Full production. No skips.”

That earned a laugh out of you, real and warm. “Gonna throw in choreography too?”

He smirked like you’d just dared him to. “Obviously. Backup dancers and everything."

And with that, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the hall, his voice echoing back as he called out, “You’re not getting off that easy!”

And just like that, you were alone again—surrounded by a whole storm of thoughts you weren’t quite ready to untangle.

You’d swallowed that whole conversation with Changbin like it was a bad shot of cheap tequila — still burning in your chest, still impossible to forget. And yet, life rolled on, dragging you with it while you kept trying to figure out when the hell would be the right time to talk to Bangchan.

Problem was, the whole thing still felt like an open wound — not bleeding anymore, but definitely not ready for anyone to poke at it either.

Sohee was in your new room, fussing with the straps of her dress in front of the mirror. The place wasn’t as roomy as the one you used to share with her and Eunji, but it did the job.

“I talked to Eunji," Sohee said, swiping mascara on with laser focus. "Well — argued is probably the more accurate term. She wouldn’t even let me finish when I tried to tell her she was being a bitch."

You were sprawled across your bed, cozy in your oldest, softest pajamas, like this whole conversation wasn’t tying your stomach in knots.

"I didn’t want you two fighting because of me," you muttered, playing with the hem of your sleeve.

Sohee whipped around, one eye still missing eyeliner but her energy fully charged. “Please. I’m morally allergic to bullshit. What she did was a straight-up foul. And until she figures out how to act like a halfway decent human being, maybe it’s time we put that friendship on ice.”

You sighed, a tangled mess of guilt and low-key relief knotting in your chest. "Yeah, well... it still kinda sucks."

“Everyone’s gotta make their own choices…” Sohee went back to her makeup like it was no big deal, but then spun around again, narrowing her eyes at you. “Speaking of choices… you’re really not going to the game? It’s the final. Literally, everyone’s gonna be there.”

You let out an exaggerated sigh and flopped onto the pillows like your life depended on it.

“Yeah, hard pass. Not in the mood to humiliate myself in public, thanks.”

“Girl, come on,” Sohee groaned. “This is your perfect excuse to finally talk to Bangchan and fix things. I know he’d love to see you there, especially at his last game this semester.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “I don’t know… Feels like showing up would just make it worse.”

Sohee snapped the mascara shut like it personally offended her. “Stubborn as hell, I swear. Fine. Just—promise me you won’t do something you’re gonna regret later, alright?”

“I know, I know,” you waved her off, a little smile tugging at your lips. “I’ll figure it out when the time’s right. Go have fun, kiss your boyfriend, and drink an unreasonable amount of beer in my honor.”

She grabbed her bag off the bed, but before heading out, she paused at the door and shot you a final look over her shoulder. “Last chance. Are you sure you’re staying?”

“Yeah. Have fun at the game,” you said, forcing a half-smile.

Sohee shrugged like she’d expected that answer. “Alright… I tried. Don’t say I didn’t.” She shot you a quick grin over her shoulder as she headed out. “Catch you later!”

As the minutes dragged on, boredom hit you like a brick. Your brain was way too wired to even think about running lines for the play. You tried putting on a movie, but you zoned out every five minutes and had to keep rewinding just to figure out what the hell was going on.

That’s when you decided: screw it. Time to hit the campus caf�� and drown your existential crisis in hot chocolate and maybe the most sugar-loaded cupcake you could get your hands on. Comfort food therapy, top tier.

You threw on some cute but cozy clothes, something to shake off the emotional slump clinging to you like a bad ex. Skirt, sweater, your trusty boots — the holy trinity.

The second you stepped outside, it felt like the whole weather system had joined your pity party. What started as a light breeze had upgraded to full-blown dramatic gusts, and the sky was throwing major moody vibes with all those gloomy gray clouds.

The cafeteria was basically a ghost town. No surprise there — most people were off hyping up the basketball final, the very game everyone had been pushing you to go to. But showing up last-minute just to cause a scene was so not your style. If you were going to fix things, you’d do it on your own terms, not crash the party like some soap opera twist.

Inside, the café was warm but dead quiet. The staff looked just as miserable as you felt, probably counting down the seconds till they could ditch work and catch the game too. You kind of felt bad for bothering them. Kind of. But hey, desperate times. Your soul needed sugar before life threw another plot twist your way.

You went for the hot chocolate — obvious choice — and threw in a slice of strawberry sponge cake for good measure. Not exactly a gourmet pairing, but at this point, flavor combos were the least of your problems.

You slid into the table by the window, pulling out your phone like it could somehow save you from your own restless brain. 

Sohee had just posted a story: her, Minho, and Felix, all grins and mid-cheers. Typical. You kept scrolling, letting the endless stream of everyone else’s highlight reel wash over you. Felix, Jisung, and Hyunjin had apparently hit up a barbecue place recently, and yeah — that one stung. Hard. Like a punch right in the ribs, just above where you’d been keeping all your unresolved guilt.

Brilliant. Love that for me.

“Hey.”

The voice snapped you out of your spiral so fast you damn near fumbled your phone like it was evidence in a crime. Guiltily, you locked the screen and glanced up.

Mingyu stood there, iced coffee in hand, wearing that soft, easy smile.

“Hi…” you answered, a little awkward. He hadn’t exactly been on your recent contact list either.

"Can I sit?" He gestured at the chair across from you. "I won’t take up too much of your time, scout’s honor."

You nodded, curiosity getting the better of you. Might as well — it’s not like you were killing it at the whole “alone with your thoughts” thing anyway.

“You kinda vanished,” Mingyu said as he set his coffee down and folded his arms casually over the table. “Haven’t seen you around at all.”

You let out a humorless little laugh, more of a scoff really. “Didn’t exactly feel like I had a choice.”

“I see,” Mingyu exhaled, slow and steady, like he was gearing up to unload something heavy. “Look, I’m really sorry about everything. Honestly. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking, coming out swinging at Bangchan like that.” He shook his head, as if still baffled by his own actions. “That’s not me. At all. And I’m sorry for dragging you into the mess.”

Well. That was... unexpectedly nice of him.

You weren’t sure what you’d expected — maybe some half-baked excuse or him brushing it off — but an actual, straight-up apology? Kind of refreshing.

“I should’ve seen it, you know?” He gave a small, hollow laugh. “The way he looked at you... yeah, it was pretty obvious. Can’t really blame the guy.”

There was a flicker of something in his smile, something resigned and maybe a little bit sad.

 “I’m sorry for hurting you,” you added, softer this time.

He shrugged, a wry twist to his lips. “No need. Things happen the way they’re supposed to, right? We had a good run. And well... I guess that’s it.”

“No hard feelings?” he asked, reaching his hand across the table like he was closing a deal.

You didn’t even hesitate — you took it, gave it a firm squeeze. “No hard feelings.”

“Right.” He nodded, like it was the final period of a sentence. Then he got up, grabbed his coffee, and shot you a parting smile. “I—I just hope you’re happy.”

And just like that, Mingyu walked out through the glass doors, disappearing across campus like he was just another passerby in your life. It wasn’t until the door swung shut behind him that his words really hit you, settling deep in your stomach like a lead weight.

I hope you’re happy.

And you weren’t happy. Not even close.

The brutal truth? You had no one to blame but yourself. Every twist, every wrong turn, it all traced back to your own fear, your own hesitation. If you’d been just a little braver — if you’d let people in instead of keeping them at arm’s length — maybe things would’ve been different. Maybe you’d be happy.

The cruel part? It took hearing it from Mingyu to finally see it for what it was. It was always you.

Your half-eaten cake sat abandoned on the table, the hot chocolate cooling into something sad and forgotten. Without thinking twice, you pushed back your chair and stormed out of the café, straight into the chaos waiting outside.

The wind hit you like a wall, and then, as if the universe was feeling especially theatrical today, fat, icy drops of rain began to fall — fast and merciless.

Karma? Maybe. Challenge accepted.

You didn’t slow down. You ran.

Your biker boots pounded against the slick grass, water splashing up your legs as the rain came down harder, so heavy it blurred the world into a messy watercolor. But you didn’t care. You weren’t stopping now — not when your heart was finally awake after pretending to sleep for so long.

The gym was all the way across campus, of course it was. Far enough that you were completely drenched by the time the courtyard came into view. Your chest heaved with every breath, burning like you’d sprinted through fire instead of rain. Your clothes clung to your skin, soaked to the bone, and your hair stuck to your forehead, your cheeks, your neck — like the rain wanted to wear you down.

But you kept going. You had to get there. No matter how soaked, no matter how late.

You had to.

You squared your shoulders, puffed out your chest like you had a whole army at your back, and stomped straight toward the gym doors. No hesitation. Okay — a little hesitation. Your heart was doing somersaults in your chest, adrenaline crashing into nerves like they were fighting for control.

But you pushed the doors open anyway.

Only to be greeted by... absolutely no one.

Just the janitor, casually mopping the far end of the court like this was any other boring Saturday.

Your pulse stumbled, like it tripped over itself. No way.

You yanked out your soaked phone, fingers slipping against the drenched screen, and checked the time. Way too late. The game had ended — you’d missed it. They were probably already at some bar downing cheap drinks and yelling over greasy plates of fries, and here you were, a walking raincloud with nothing to show for it.

Your thumb hovered over Sohee’s number, ready to call, beg, something — but before you could hit the dial, a voice cut through the empty court.

“Your plan is to flood the gym or what?”

Your heart flat-out stopped.

Slowly, you turned, every inch of you shivering from the rain and a healthy dose of panic.

Bangchan.

He was right there, leaning against the entrance like he hadn’t just flipped your entire internal system upside down. His hair was a mess of wet strands, some falling over his forehead in a way that should’ve been illegal.

Your mouth went dry, brain buffering like a bad connection.

"I'm... um... a little soaked," you managed, glancing down at yourself and the puddle spreading beneath your feet. A tremor ran through you, part chill, part nerves, leaving your words thin and shaky.

Bangchan gave a quiet, amused breath — almost a laugh, but softer — before he started walking toward you.

It was only then, as he drew closer, that you really saw him. His hair had grown longer, the damp curls now brushing the nape of his neck, framing his face in a way that felt painfully unfair. Draped over his shoulders was a black jacket, the kind that made him look like he’d stepped right off a movie scene.

"What are you doing here?" Bangchan’s voice cut through the hollow echo of the gym, roughened by surprise but threaded with something deeper.

With one simple movement, he removed the jacket from his shoulders and placed it over yours. You gulped, the words knotting in your throat. "I—I'm leaving," you managed, barely above a whisper.

"You're leaving?" His brows pulled together, like the thought alone caused him genuine pain.

Instinctively, you took a step back, clutching his jacket tighter around your soaked frame. Coward. Even now, even with him standing right in front of you, you were slipping into old habits, retreating when you should be reaching out.

Bangchan tilted his head, eyes flicking over your rain-soaked figure. "You really think I’m gonna buy that? After you ran through a damn storm to get here?" His voice was low, rough around the edges, but his gaze was soft.

Your throat felt like it was closing in on itself, your breath turning shallow and uneven. "I thought the game was still on," you confessed, your voice small, almost childlike.

"It ended early," he said, his tone softening. "Thunderstorm warning." He gestured toward the windows, where the rain continued to batter the glass in relentless sheets. "Most people cleared out fast. But I stayed behind."

Why? you wanted to ask. But maybe you didn’t need to — his eyes already told you everything you needed to know.

"You stayed," you echoed, almost in disbelief, as if saying it aloud would make it real.

He stepped closer, his gaze dipping to your hands, which clung to his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you afloat. When his eyes met yours again, something flickered in them — something deep and quiet, something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Bangchan’s gaze didn’t waver. "You came here for a reason," he said, his voice rough at the edges. "So stop pretending you didn’t."

Your heart twisted painfully, tangled in the unsaid. The truth clawed at your chest, desperate to surface. I wanted to see you. I wanted to stop running.

"I..." But your voice trembled, fragile as glass stretched too thin.

Bangchan’s expression softened, like he could see straight through the façade, like he saw every crack you were trying to hide. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached up and brushed a damp strand of hair from your cheek. His fingers were warm against your chilled skin, and despite yourself, you leaned into his touch.

"You’re freezing," he murmured.

"I'm fine," you lied, even as your body betrayed you with a violent shiver.

A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Liar."

"I need to ask you something," you said, your voice tighter than you wanted. "That night on the beach… were you serious? About everything you said?"

His expression twisted, disbelief written all over him. “Really? Really? Don’t waste my time pretending you don’t know.”

You let out a breath, sharp through your nose. Fair enough. But you had to say it, get it off your chest before it ate you alive.

"I messed it all up," you admitted, the words tumbling out. "I kept telling myself I didn’t care what people thought, like I was above all that crap. But it turns out I care. Way more than I should. And that fear? It had me choking on my own feelings."

You risked a glance at him. He was watching you like you were the only thing left in the world worth looking at. No interruptions, no sarcastic quips — just quiet focus.

"I mean, you were— God, you were so good to me," you kept going, voice thick with regret. "And I think I freaked out because I’d already fallen for you way before I let myself admit it. Like, properly fallen. And that scared the hell out of me because I never thought I’d actually… like you. Not like this."

Your throat tightened, a painful lump that wouldn’t go away. "I liked everything. Being around you. Talking to you. Even the way you annoyed me." you smiled softly.

Your eyes stung, tears slipping free, but you kept going like you couldn’t stop. "I hate what I did to you. I hate that I messed this up beyond fixing it. And I know it’s too late... yeah. I get it. I understand."

You swallowed against the lump in your throat, words tumbling out too fast. "I just needed you to know, before I go — I’m sorry. For everything. You didn’t deserve any of it."

Your breath hitched, but you met his eyes anyway — full on, no flinching. "I’m so sorry."

Tears blurred your vision as you crossed the court toward the exit, not even bothering to shield yourself from the rain. What was the point? You were already soaked, inside and out.

You let out a choked sob, hating yourself for being such a coward — for always running when it mattered most.

“Wait—” Bangchan’s voice cut through the downpour, rough and almost swallowed by the storm.

You froze, eyes narrowing against the sheets of rain, blinking fast to see through the water streaming down your face.

“Wait," he called out again, sharper now, like the rain itself had finally lit a fuse. "What gives you the right to drop that on me and just walk away?” His anger was written all over him, carved deep into the lines of his face.

"What?" you shot back, breath catching, but the storm swallowed your voice, forcing you to yell just to be heard.

Bangchan raked a hand through his soaked hair, slicking it back as he stepped closer, chest rising fast, like he couldn’t breathe right with you this far away. "You’re running," he said, rough and tight. "Running from me. From us. Again."

And hell, he wasn’t wrong.

"Everything I’ve done," he said, the words rough-edged and raw, "since the second I met you — it’s been about you. Always you." He caught his breath, like saying it out loud made it real. "Because I wanted you. More than anything."

The confession hit like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing.

"Since Hyunjin introduced us and you barely noticed I existed," he kept going, like he couldn’t stop now. "Since you breezed right past me without a second thought. Since you crashed into my life and wrecked every single thing I thought I had figured out."

Your heart was beating out of rhythm, too fast for your own body to keep up, like it was trying to outrun the storm — or maybe run straight to him.

"You don’t get to stand there and tell me it’s too late," Bangchan shouted over the rain, his voice tearing through the downpour like it had something to prove. His eyes burned so bright, it almost hurt to look at him. "Not when I’ve been standing here this whole time, heart wide open, just waiting for you to see me."

His chest heaved, rain sliding off him like he didn’t even notice, like all he could see was you. "I’ve been waiting for you," he said, softer this time, but it was the kind of softness that carried weight. Heavy. Unshakable. "So if you want me — really want me — you’ve got to say it. I need to hear you say it."

The storm raged around you, but it felt like the eye of it had landed right here, right between the two of you. Your pulse throbbed in your ears, every muscle strung so tight you could barely breathe.

This was terrifying. This was exhilarating. This was everything you had been too scared to want.

Your lips parted, but for a heartbeat, all you could do was try to swallow the lump in your throat. Then, steadying your breath, you let a small, shaky smile tug at the corner of your mouth. A flicker of defiance, maybe even a little hope.

"Bangchan," you said, your voice rough but sure, "there’s never been anyone else. It’s only ever been you."

There wasn’t a second of hesitation when your lips found his — only the wild, breathless certainty of two people who had run out of ways to pretend they didn’t need this.

The desperation between you felt electric, almost feverish, like your skin couldn’t decide if it was burning or freezing in the rain. You’d never felt anything like it — like the whole world had finally spun off its axis and was crashing headfirst into this moment. Into him.

When his hands, just as cold and trembling as yours, cupped your face like he was terrified you might slip away, you gasped, a sharp breath of shock and longing tangled together. Bangchan made you feel reckless. Young. Like you were caught in the middle of one of those ridiculous romance high-school movies you always scoffed at, the kind where the girl lifts her leg during the kiss — and for once, you understood why.

This kiss, soaked to the bone and laced with every scrap of resentment and longing, felt like proof. Proof that what you had wasn’t just real, but unstoppable.

You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, fingers fisting in his drenched shirt as the rain poured over you both, careless and wild. And still, beneath the chaos, something pure unfurled in your chest — something terrifyingly beautiful, raw and undeniable.

Bangchan kissed you like he was starving, like he had been starving for you. He deepened the kiss, tasting every inch of you like it had haunted him in dreams and in every quiet, aching moment you’d spent apart.

It wasn’t new, this hunger — you’d felt it before. But tonight, in this storm, in his arms, it felt entirely different. Like you’d finally let yourself give in to the fire you’d been dancing around for far too long.

How you ended up sprinting down the hallway with soaked shoes that squeaked like a bad joke didn’t even matter at this point. Thunder growled overhead like it was personally offended by your existence, and Bangchan was fumbling with the dorm keys like his life depended on it.

“Could you not kill the key while you’re at it?” you shot at him, half breathless, half laughing despite the anxiety twisting in your stomach.

“I'm trying, damn it,” he muttered, jamming the key into the lock with a speed that was both impressive and completely ridiculous.

The door finally gave in, and the two of you stumbled inside, drenched to the bone. The room was dim, only lit by the bruised grey daylight leaking through the window, and for a second, the world just... stopped spinning so fast.

You didn’t even think about it. Your hand found his face like it belonged there — like you were tracing something ancient and sacred, a statue carved by the gods, Apollo himself if Apollo wore wet hair and a breathless grin. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, and you caught yourself smiling, then sinking your teeth into your lip to hold it back.

Bangchan swore under his breath, like your touch was enough to short-circuit his whole system. He closed his eyes for half a heartbeat, then caught your hand in his, holding it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“I missed you…” you admitted, your voice low and honest, like the words had been burning a hole in your lungs.

Bangchan’s breath hitched. He caught your hand gently, his fingers wrapping around yours like he was scared you might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. His eyes — god, his eyes — they searched your face like you were something holy, like every answer he’d ever wanted was written in the curve of your smile.

He kissed your knuckles, slow and passionate, and that tiny gesture nearly undid you. The way he was looking at you sent a shiver down your spine. Tears pricked behind your eyes, not from sadness, but from the insane, overwhelming relief of finally feeling. Like your chest had cracked open and light was pouring in, fierce and free.

And damn, it felt so, so good to finally breathe again.

The best part, freedom didn’t need an invitation — it just showed up, slipped right between you two like it belonged there all along.

And then, his lips found yours. No hesitation, no second-guessing, just there — warm and certain and carrying every shred of doubt far, far away. If those questions still existed, you sure as hell weren’t looking for them.

Bangchan kissed you like he knew. Like he knew exactly how long you’d been waiting for this, and he wasn’t about to ruin it with panic or rush. He was careful, but not shy — calculated without making it feel forced, a perfect balance of hunger and restraint that made your heart stutter in your chest.

This wasn’t reckless. No, this was something else entirely. This felt like he was handling something precious, like you were made of glass and he wasn’t sure if you’d shatter or melt in his hands. Maybe a bit of both.

Your arms looped around his neck, a familiar move, but now it felt charged. You’d always been secretly obsessed with how he towered over you, how his presence alone seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. Like gravity had picked favorites and he was yours.

Without even breaking the kiss, you found the hem of his drenched T-shirt, fingers brushing over cool skin as you tugged it upward. He caught the hint, helping you pull it over his head in one smooth motion before tossing it somewhere behind him like it didn’t matter — because it didn’t.

The jacket he’d draped over your shoulders slipped to the floor with a quiet thud. Your lips were still tangled in his, tasting rain and fire and something dangerously close to forever. Every brush of your mouth against his felt like a spark in a storm, friction building and building until you were certain you’d catch flame.

You didn’t know how long you’d been kissing him, and honestly? You didn’t care. All you knew was this moment — soaked skin, racing pulse, and the wild, breathless certainty that whatever this was between you, it was finally, finally real.

Before he even thought about sitting down, Bangchan stripped off every soaked, useless layer like it personally offended him. His shirt hit the floor with a wet splat, followed by the rest, and then he dropped onto the edge of the bed like he owned the damn place — which, technically, he did, but still.

You stood between his knees, and for a second, it felt like the air got thinner.

Slowly — painfully slowly, because he had to know exactly what he was doing to you — he tugged your skirt lower, knuckles grazing your skin like it was an accident. His fingers made quick work of your boots, then your sweater, all without breaking eye contact. His gaze had this impossible mix: soft but hungry, steady but burning with something you couldn’t quite name. Like you were some kind of inevitable he’d been waiting for without even realizing it.

Without a word, he curled his hand around the back of your thigh and coaxed you onto his lap, like you were gravity and he didn’t stand a chance. You went willingly — of course you did — knees bracketing his hips, your palms finding his shoulders, solid and warm beneath your hands.

He hovered at your mouth, maddeningly close but not quite there. A ghost of a smile played at the corners of his lips, easily teasing you.

His breath skimmed yours, electric and careful, until finally his lips brushed over yours, so light you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. His hands tightened at your waist, fingers sinking into your skin like he needed you closer. Like breathing wasn’t enough anymore.

The room fell into this heady, perfect silence, just the sound of your breathing, uneven and shallow, and the rain tapping against the window like it was keeping rhythm.

Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it carried all the weight in the world. “Can we just freeze this?” you asked, your eyes tracing every line of his face like you were afraid it might vanish. “Right here, right now. Forever.”

You felt him shiver beneath your fingertips — or maybe it was you. Hard to tell anymore. His answer was the way he kissed you like yes. Like hell yes.

Bangchan let out a low, rough sound, like you’d just stolen the last ounce of self-control he had left. His mouth trailed along your jawline, barely-there kisses that felt like they were searing into your skin.

Normally, he was the one filling the space with words — teasing, coaxing, making you dizzy with how easily he could wreck you. But tonight, you wanted him to feel it. To really feel it. Not just in his head, but in his bones.

You cupped his face between your palms, your thumbs brushing the damp heat of his cheeks. God, he looked at you like you were the whole damn galaxy — like he’d waited light-years for this exact moment. And you traced your fingertip along his parted lips. He didn’t even hesitate; he kissed your fingerprint like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’m yours,” you breathed, your voice barely louder than the rain tapping at the window — but it hit him like thunder all the same.

He froze, like your words had short-circuited every nerve in his body. His chest rose on a sharp inhale, his eyes drinking you in like you were the only thing keeping him alive. “I’ll always be,” you whispered, like a vow only he was meant to hear. 

His eyes softened, something raw flickering in them, right before you kissed him — full of every unspoken promise, fearless and certain, like you were stitching your heart straight into his mouth.

His hands found your waist, grounding you, as he shifted you effortlessly to the center of the bed. His lips brushed your neck, making you shiver all over again.

“My heart is yours,” he said softly, his lips brushing your skin like he was confessing a secret. “I’m all yours.” His words melted into kisses — first at your lips, then your cheek, and finally at that place beneath your ear that made your breath hitch.

You couldn’t help it. You laughed, breathless and a little reckless. He grinned against your throat, like he liked you like this — alive, teasing him back.

For a heartbeat, you just looked at him. At this man who somehow made the world quiet and loud all at once. Like maybe, just maybe, life could actually be this simple.

“God, you’re so beautiful…” he said, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingers cradling your chin. His gaze dipped to your lips, dark with hunger. “Wanna touch you everywhere…”

His hand slid to the curve of your neck, making your eyes flick up in challenge.

“Make you feel so good,” he added, voice rough with intent.

You bit your lip, settled deeper into his lap, and gave him your signature smirk. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He didn’t need an invitation twice.

The kiss deepened, turned heady and hungry, but never rushed. Bangchan’s fingers toyed with the side of your panties, lazy and teasing, like he had all the time in the world to drive you insane. He hooked his finger under the edge, barely grazing your skin — just enough to send a sharp, electric pulse through your entire body.

There was heat, sure. A wildfire between you, no doubt. But underneath it, something steadier, something that felt terrifyingly like eternity. He wasn’t rushing it. He wasn’t just touching you to have you — he was memorizing you. Worshipping, almost.

“I want you,” you breathed in his mouth, voice rough around the edges, like it had been sanded down to the truth.

He didn’t waste a second. Quick, practiced, a little frantic but still smiling that lazy half-smile of his as he reached for protection, slipping it on in record time, like every second apart was unbearable.

You shifted your knees, adjusting for him — for both of you — and his eyes darkened like you’d just flipped a switch. He tugged the last stubborn scrap of fabric away, his hands lingering like he couldn’t quite let it go.

Without thinking, without hesitating, you sank down onto him, the movement natural, inevitable, like your bodies already knew this rhythm by heart. A gasp escaped you both, caught somewhere between surprise and relief.

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, not for balance, but because you needed to hold on to something real — and he was the only thing that felt like solid ground.

Bangchan buried his face in the crook of your neck, lips warm and wet against your skin, like he couldn’t get close enough. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you, commit you to memory, down to the last shiver.

You moved against him slowly at first, like you wanted to feel every single second of it — to let it burn through your nerves until it became too much to hold back. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer, anchoring you to him as if he couldn’t stand even a breath of distance.

Every shift of your hips dragged a sound from him, rough and raw, like he was barely holding on. His head fell back for a moment, jaw clenched tight, but then his gaze was back on you — dark, devouring, full of need that felt like it could swallow you whole.

You tried to swallow the sounds tearing out of you, sinking your teeth into your lip, into his shoulder, into whatever you could reach — but it was useless. Every slow thrust made you unravel a little more, made you feel like you were coming apart right around him. He filled you so deep, so perfectly, it felt obscene, like your body was made just to take him.

And he knew it too — the way he moved inside you was relentless, unhurried but devastating, like he wanted to make sure you felt every inch of him, every inch of what he was doing to you.

And he wasn’t any steadier.

He fought to hold himself together, but the moans kept breaking free, rough and desperate. He was lost in the delirium of being buried deep inside you, of feeling you stretch and clench around him like you were made to take him. The way you took him, so eager and tight, had his control fraying fast.

He was pulsing with need, every second of restraint twisting into something almost unbearable — too good, too much, almost painful in its pleasure.

His hand slid up to your hair, fingers threading through before he tugged it aside to expose your neck. His mouth found your skin without hesitation — warm, open kisses trailing along your pulse, his tongue tasting the sweat-slick heat of you. 

He worked his way down your neck, lips brushing teasingly over every inch of your sensitive skin. At your chest, he paused, let his tongue explore the soft skin there, coaxing a sharp gasp from you as your body reacted without thinking. He wanted to ruin you with his mouth, to taste every inch until you were dripping for him, until the only thing you could think about was how good he felt owning you like this.

You found your rhythm together, perfectly in sync, like you’d been built for this. Built for him. Each roll of your hips sent a fresh wave of need spiraling through your veins, building, tightening, pulling you both closer to the edge. His hands held you like he couldn’t bear to let go, his touch rough but reverent, worshipping every inch of you.

The room felt molten, the air thick with heat and desire. Moans tangled between you, breathless and desperate, until all you could hear was the storm outside and the sound of your bodies moving together.

"Can’t get enough of you—fuck—" Bangchan’s voice tore out of him, rough and wrecked, words slipping into broken sounds as his hips snapped into yours, chasing the high with a desperation that felt like it might kill him.

Sweat and rainwater dripped down his skin, slick between your bodies, his hair clinging damp to his forehead. He looked like sin, like every fantasy you’d ever had but filthier, messier, better.

You crashed your mouth to his, swallowing the ragged moan that escaped him, tasting the heat of it on his tongue.

“Please,” you begged, breath trembling as your lips brushed his. “God, please, just—”

"You feel—fuck," he choked, breath catching hard as you rolled your hips, grinding right where he needed you. His eyes fluttered shut, helpless to the way you squeezed around him.

"Say it," you demanded, your voice all heat and sin, lips brushing his ear like a spark to gasoline.

He groaned, wrecked. "So good, so fucking good, baby, you drive me insane."

Your lips parted on a shaky exhale, your entire body tightening around him. The knot low in your belly twisted, pulling you closer to that breaking point with every relentless thrust. The storm outside thrashed against the windows, but it was nothing compared to the storm inside you.

Your forehead pressed against his, breaths tangling, sweat-slicked skin sliding together as you moved in sync. His gaze burned into you, wild and wrecked, like he couldn’t get enough.

"That's it," he rasped, rough and hungry. His thumb worked your clit in tight, relentless circles, dragging you closer to the edge. "Cum for me, baby. Be my good girl and soak my cock. Let me feel you lose it all over me."

“Fuck, you were made for me,” he rasped, voice thick and raw, every word dripping hunger. His hips snapped into you, fast and relentless, hitting so deep it made your mind spin, had you gasping his name over and over like it was the only thing you knew how to say.

You felt impossibly full, stretched around him to the point of unbearable pleasure, and you craved it — you wanted more, wanted him to take you apart until you were nothing but his.

Bangchan’s hand slid up to your throat, not choking, just holding you there, steady and close, like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you. His other hand gripped your waist tight, dragging you harder onto his cock, like he was chasing something dangerous and beautiful all at once — like he needed to claim every part of you.

“Take every inch of me,” he growled against your skin, his lips hot at your neck as his teeth sank in, just sharp enough to make you shiver. “Fuck—yes, just like that, my perfect fucking girl.”

Your body clamped down on him, another violent wave of pleasure wracking through you as you moved together, desperate and wild. His breath stuttered, sharp and wrecked, his hips jolting hard when you clenched around him again, milking him, pulling a raw, broken moan from deep in his throat.

“Fuck, angel,—” His voice cracked, strangled on a gasp, and then he lost it completely. His hips slammed up into you, rough and frantic, burying himself deep as he spilled inside you with a helpless, guttural sound, like he was unraveling from the inside out.

The second you felt him pulse, you shattered, pleasure crashing through you in devastating waves. Your whole body jerked, trembling in his hold, your mouth falling open on a cry of his name that sounded like both worship and ruin. He groaned through his release, grinding up into you as he emptied himself fully, like he couldn’t stop, like he never wanted to stop.

Even when the aftershocks tore through you both, he kept you tight against him, breathing hard, lips brushing your skin in shaky, reverent kisses. He kissed you like he was trying to swallow your moans, like he was desperate to keep every last sound of you for himself.

Your breath was wrecked, your chest heaving against his as you clung to him, still pulsing around him like you never wanted to let him go.

“Such a perfect little thing for me,” he rasped, dark and tender all at once, “my pretty girl.”

And in his eyes, you swore you saw it — the words he didn’t say yet, thick and heavy and dangerous on the tip of his tongue.

After basically spending the entire weekend barricaded in Bangchan’s apartment — more specifically, in his bed — where you’d thoroughly explored every possible way to kill the mutual longing, you figured it was time to rejoin society. Preferably not looking like you’d just crawled out of a two-day sex coma, but well, damage done.

The perfect excuse arrived in the form of Changbin and the rest of the soccer guys throwing a victory party after their game. They won, obviously — and Bangchan had not let you forget it for even a second. He’d been strutting around the dorm like some smug MVP, dropping lines like, “You’re literally sleeping with the best basketball player, babe. Iconic behavior.”

You were so gone for him it was almost embarrassing. Almost.

It was Sunday night, and looming over you like an anxious little storm cloud was the fact that this was your last week. Final week. Curtain call was Friday, and you were already spiraling.

The panic over your performance felt like it had its own pulse — quick, sharp, and completely unnecessary, considering Hyunjin and Seungmin had basically held your hand and all but screamed, “You’re going to kill it. Stop overthinking.”

Still. Easier said than done.

Although, to be fair, the crippling anxiety had taken a temporary vacation over the last 48 hours — because Bangchan, bless him, had thoroughly, repeatedly, and almost heroically, fucked it right out of you.

Like a true gentleman.

He kept your hand in his the entire walk, fingers tangled like it was the most natural thing in the world. And you couldn't help but smile at the way he casually included you in every plan for the mid-year break. Like he couldn’t imagine doing any of it without you. You didn't even realize how much you needed that feeling until you had it.

When you got to the frat house, the party was already in full swing—music thumping, laughter spilling out into the yard. The moment you two stepped through the door, a few of the basketball guys waved, greeting Bangchan with their usual teasing banter. And, surprisingly, they were actually kind of polite to you. No eye rolls, no snickers. Just the usual ‘Hey, Bangchan’s girl’ vibes. But that was enough.

You’d chosen a dress that was a little daring—tight, short, and definitely not the kind of thing you’d wear to a casual party. But you didn’t mind it. Especially when Bangchan’s leather jacket was draped over your shoulders. It was a nice change, wearing something of his, and you kind of liked how it made you feel like you had a little piece of him with you.

And, of course, he didn’t complain about it. In fact, he was practically glowing, the way he looked at you, like he couldn’t wait to show you off. You could tell he was enjoying the attention, and somehow, that made you want to pull him in closer, just to remind him that yeah, you were his too.

The party was already in full swing when you and Bangchan walked in, fingers laced. When he squeezed your hand like a silent promise, you didn’t think twice about holding tighter.

The music was loud, people were already half-drunk on cheap beer and good vibes, but it was the way your friends froze mid-conversation that really caught your attention.

Changbin’s eyes went wide first, like he’d just seen his parents kissing. “Hold on. Hold on,” he said, pointing between you and Bangchan like he was trying to solve a crime scene. “My two pretty best friends are... doing this now?” He made a vague swirling motion with his finger that you hoped was meant to represent holding hands and not something filthier.

Hyunjin didn’t miss a beat. He scoffed and threw his arm over your shoulder, grinning like the devil himself. “Back off,” he shot back. “She’s my best friend.”

You raised a brow, looking between the two of them. “Okay, can we not make this weird?” you deadpanned, shrugging Hyunjin’s arm off with a smirk. 

Your friends were loving every second. You could see it on their faces — the shared glances, the knowing smirks, like they’d been waiting for this moment longer than you had.

"Honestly," Jisung chimed in from the couch, raising his drink dramatically, "about damn time."

Seungmin just gave you a slow, nodding approval, the corners of his lips barely twitching into a smile. “We had a pool going,” he said, as if that explained everything.

You shot him a playful, but suspicious look. "A pool? Seriously?"

"You're a very predictable couple," Seungmin replied with zero shame.

Bangchan chuckled under his breath, his smile tugging at the corners of his mouth in that way that made your knees go a little traitorous. "Told you they’d figure it out."

You nudged him with your shoulder, smiling but with a touch of sass. “I was kind of hoping for more mystery. You know, make them work for it.”

"Yeah, well," he said, leaning closer so only you could hear, his voice low and warm in your ear, "I’m not that good at pretending I don’t want you."

And just like that, you were the one who had to fight back the stupid, giddy grin threatening to take over your face.

The night rolled on with teasing jokes and too many toasts in the team’s honor, but somewhere between the crowded kitchen and the messy dance floor, you caught Bangchan watching you — like you were the only person in the room worth looking at.

And you looked at him the same way.

You were still breathless from Bangchan’s kiss, your smile stretching so wide it almost hurt. You two were dancing and kissing almost the whole night. When you felt someone step into your line of sight.

You turned, and there she was — Eunji.

Her gaze flicked between you and Bangchan, catching the way he still had his arm slung lazily around your waist like he belonged there (because he did). For a split second, something unreadable passed over her face, but then she forced a smile.

“Hey.” Eunji’s voice was quieter than usual, almost hesitant, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Congrats on the game. You played really well.”

Bangchan blinked, caught off guard by how soft her tone was. “Uh… thanks,” he said, a little wary.

She shifted her weight, eyes flicking to you for a beat before landing back on him. “Do you think we could talk for a second?” she asked, nodding toward the hallway. “Just us?” Her gaze lingered on you, like she was asking permission. Or daring you to say no.

You shot Bangchan a quick glance. He met your eyes with quiet understanding and gave you a little nod, squeezing your hand before letting go.

Curiosity pulled you to follow her.

In the quieter corner of the frat, Eunji took a breath like she was gearing up for something heavy. 

“Look, I probably don’t have the right to even ask you to listen,” she began, voice tight. “But I need to say this.”

You didn’t move. Arms crossed, not hostile — just careful. “Okay. Say it.”

She nodded, like that tiny bit of permission gave her permission to fall apart.

"I was jealous," she admitted, the words tumbling out too fast, like they’d been bottled up for too long. "It’s stupid, I know. But it felt like you had everything — both of the hot guys," she gave a bitter, awkward laugh, "while I had no one. And it got in my head. Made me ugly inside. I hated how small I felt next to you."

Her honesty was disarming. You hadn’t expected her to just lay it out like that.

"I guess I thought," she went on, voice wobbling, "if I could tear you down, maybe I’d feel less... invisible. But it didn’t work. It only made me feel worse. And I am sorry. I’m sorry for how I treated you."

You searched her expression, looking for cracks, for any sign of performance — but what you saw was genuine. Flawed, but real.

You studied her face. No defenses. Just raw regret and maybe a little shame. For the first time, she looked like someone trying to unlearn the worst parts of herself.

You tilted your head. “Is this because of Sohee?”

Her head jerked up. “No,” she said quickly, eyes wide. “This isn’t damage control. This is me... finally being honest.”

Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Finally, you let out a breath.

"I can’t speak for everyone," you said honestly, thinking of your friends who had long since cut ties with her. "But for me... I need more time. You hurt me, Eunji. Really hurt me. And that’s not something I can forget overnight."

Eunji’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t argue. She nodded slowly, lips pressed together like she was holding back a hundred other apologies. “That’s fair,” she whispered. “And... I’m happy for you. And Bangchan. You look really happy.”

You didn’t say thank you. But you didn’t walk away, either.

And maybe that was enough — for now.

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing back into the noise of the party. You stayed there for a beat, letting the moment settle in your chest, then spun on your heel and made a beeline for Bangchan.

He caught sight of you immediately, his whole face lighting up like you were the only thing that mattered in the room. "Hey," he said, pulling you back into his arms like you were gravity itself. "Everything okay?"

You slipped your arms around his neck, your heart finally settling. "Yeah."

His grin went lazy and warm, and he kissed you again, slow and certain, like you were home.

You were pretty sure your organs were about to revolt — heart somewhere in your throat, stomach twisted in knots, lungs forgetting how to breathe. Your hands trembled as you peeked through the velvet curtain, catching a glimpse of the packed house. First row, all family. Behind them, a blur of students, teachers, and more faces than you wanted to count.

Seungmin was adding the final touches to his makeup with clinical calm, while Hyunjin stretched dramatically in the corner like he was about to run a marathon instead of hitting the stage.

You were ready — or as ready as someone could be when standing on the edge of a dream. The makeup they had given you was soft, radiant. Perfect for Seulgi — the wild, bright, untamable girl you’d spent months breathing life into. A character made of longing and light, all wild heart and messy hope. You’d love her instantly.

And tonight, you were going to give her everything.

Then, right on cue, you felt him — warm arms sliding around your waist, steady and grounding, a kiss pressed to the top of your head like a silent anchor in the storm.

You leaned into him without thinking, soaking in the calm he carried like it was oxygen.

“Holy shit,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you, his grin wide and full of awe. “My girl’s a star.”

And for a moment, everything stilled — nerves, noise, the chaos behind the curtain — like the whole world was holding its breath just for you.

You felt your face flush, your cheeks burning in that dizzying, weightless way that only came when someone made you feel so properly, soul-deep loved that it scrambled your entire system.

“I’m so nervous, I think I might faint,” you whispered, pressing a trembling hand to your stomach. The silky fabric of your dress did nothing to calm the storm underneath.

You peeked through the curtain again, heart stuttering at the packed audience. It looked endless. A sea of eyes. A million possible failures.

Bangchan gently cupped your chin, coaxing your gaze away from the chaos and back to him — steady, warm, certain.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and fierce in that quiet way of his. “You’re gonna walk out there and blow their minds. There’s not a single universe where this doesn’t go amazing — because it’s you. And you’re the best.”

It was stupid, how quickly your throat tightened. How fast your chest got all shaky, like his words had knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall and mess up the makeup Nahee had so carefully painted on you.

“Stop,” you whispered, biting back a wobbly smile. “You’re gonna make me cry and then everyone’s gonna think my character dies in act one.”

He laughed, quiet and warm, and you took a shaky breath. Because suddenly, you wanted to say something that had been burning at the edges of your mind for days.

You wanted to leap, to risk it all.

“Bangchan, I—”

“Guys! It’s time!” Miss Baek’s voice cut through the moment like a bell, bright and urgent as she clapped her hands, motioning everyone to gather backstage.

You stepped back, breath caught, the confession stuck in your throat. But you weren’t ready to let go of him just yet, so instead of finishing your sentence, you reached for his hand and pulled him into the small circle forming around the cast and crew.

Miss Baek stood in the center, her eyes gleaming with pride. “All right, everyone,” she said, voice a little breathless with excitement. “This is it. You’ve worked hard for this show. Now go out there and own it. I trust you — every single one of you. So... break a leg.”

You felt Bangchan’s thumb brush over your knuckles again, grounding you.

And even with your nerves still coiled tight in your chest, a flicker of something brighter pushed through — like maybe you could do this. Maybe you were ready.

Especially with him right there, holding your hand like he never planned to let go.

The curtain rose slowly and steady, gliding open with a faint hum that made your pulse spike. Lights warmed the stage with a golden hue, soft and rich, like the first rays of sun spilling through a window on a quiet morning. The theater was silent — not the heavy, awkward kind of quiet, but the kind that buzzed with anticipation. Like everyone was holding their breath at the same time.

And then Seungmin stepped into the light.

Dressed in his costume — something timeless and simple — he looked completely at ease, the softest confidence in his posture as he took his place center stage. No theatrics. No build-up. Just him. And then he opened his mouth to sing.

It was like the world paused.

His voice slipped into the room like silk — clear, effortless, pure in that heart-wrenching kind of way that doesn’t just touch you, but clutches at something deep inside your chest. Notes floated from his mouth like a secret he trusted the whole room to keep. 

Someone in the third row audibly gasped. Someone else sniffled. And no one even cared about hiding it.

You could feel it ripple across the room — the moment where everyone realized this wasn’t just a student play. This was something real. Something alive.

And a huge part of that was Bangchan. He made a real effort to help.

You could see him in the sound booth, lit only by the glow of his equipment. His headset was on, hands gliding over the controls like he was conducting his own invisible symphony. Every rise and fall in Seungmin’s voice was perfectly balanced, wrapped in a sound that felt warm and cinematic.

The reverb was subtle, giving Seungmin's voice the echo of a cathedral without drowning him in it. The background instrumental, faded in at just the right moment, swelled like a heartbeat — quiet and steady — then soared.

The lighting shifted with the rhythm, delicate hues melting from gold to soft blue, and you knew that was Bangchan too. Timing everything. Perfecting everything. Making the show feel bigger than the stage it stood on.

The audience didn’t move. No one dared. It was like they were afraid that even a single breath might break the spell.

And when Seungmin hit the last note — long and gentle, the kind of note that settled into your bones — the silence lingered for one suspended second before the applause burst like a wave, loud and relentless, crashing against the walls of the theater.

You clapped with everyone else, heart pounding, chest full, eyes shining.

And somewhere backstage, you caught Bangchan glancing up from his booth just long enough to shoot you a grin.

As if to say, Yeah. We did that.

It was Act Three.

Your act.

The final, sweeping moment you’d been rehearsing in front of mirrors, empty classes, and late-night voice notes. And now, standing just behind the curtain with the theater buzzing like a live wire around you, it hits you all at once — the weight of it. The lights dimmed, the overture swelled, and your pulse was racing so hard it felt like it might echo through your mic.

You smoothed your dress with slightly trembling hands, eyes darting through the curtain gap to catch a glimpse of the full house. Your chest rose with a shaky inhale. 

“Hey—hey, wait,” a voice said, breathless.

You turned, confused — and there he was.

Wild-eyed, flushed, a little out of breath like he’d just run across the building — and completely not where he was supposed to be. “What are you—? You need to go,” you whispered, eyes wide. “You’re supposed to be in the booth! I’m literally about to go on—”

He didn’t answer. He just grabbed your face and kissed you.

No warning. No hesitation. Just lips on yours like it was the most natural, necessary thing in the world. And everything else — the voices, the music, the sheer panic clawing at your ribcage — melted into static. It was just him. Warm and real and grounding you in a moment that didn’t feel like it could possibly exist in real life.

When he pulled away, he didn’t go far — his forehead pressed to yours, and his hands lingered like he didn’t want to let go just yet.

“Break a leg,” he whispered. Voice low. Serious.

You were about to respond, maybe something witty to cover how stunned you were “Thank—” but then he said it.

“I love you.” He mumbled.

Just like that. No build-up, no performance. Just soft and real and tossed at your feet like a match he was willing to watch burn.

Your breath caught.

You looked up at him, eyes gleaming, lips parted — something in your chest cracked wide open, but the words stayed stuck behind your teeth. Not because you didn’t feel the same. God, you did love him back. But the moment had too much weight, too much emotion, and not enough time.

Someone offstage hissed a frantic “Places!” but neither of you moved.

Instead, you smiled. A little too wide. A little breathless. Tears covering your eyes.

And he got it. He didn’t ask for anything else. 

His entwined fingers slid unhurriedly, inch by inch, until the last touch. Then he backed away like it hurt to leave and vanished into the shadows like he’d never been there at all. 

You wanted to cry — not from sadness, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. Being loved like this, so completely, felt like being wrapped in sunlight after a lifetime of gray. It was terrifying and beautiful and everything in between.

You never expected to fall for Bangchan. Not like this. Not so fully.

But somewhere between the late-night conversations, the lingering looks, and the quiet ways he held space for you, your heart cracked open — and he simply walked in.

And that was it. You were his. And he was already yours.

And then the curtain rose. The light hit your face. And you stepped into it like you were made for it.

And as the first line left your lips, steady and clear, you weren't just playing a part anymore.

You were living it — heart full, eyes bright, and finally, finally, not acting at all.

♡ taglist ― @kenia4 @chrizrizz @meerabmalik @gnabnahcsworld @gncbnahc @jinniejjam @skzworldx @itsacatastrophe-xo @soonie1010 @4ng3l-ch1ld @justwonder113 @tsunderelino @eastjonowhere @lyracarvahall @akindaflora @victoriaaf @ebnabi @wickedbutlovely @bitchysunflower11 @ravengxbss @letrascafeymar @letrascafeymar @twentytwofour @pacha02 @skzaddictsincedebut @strayk1ds143 @micr0c0soms @vixy-vix

[enhaflixer]

pjs - Signed, Sealed & Undone. - Part 1

A TIME TRAVEL CONTRACT MARRIAGE FIC -PART 2 OUT NOW

Synopsis: Fake marriage proposals are a tired billionaire trope.

But when Jay Park—former golden boy of Park Industries, now chaebol exile—comes back from disgrace (and back in time), he’s got one goal: rewrite the past before it destroys him.

When you, an unassuming journalist with nothing to lose, get an offer of a lifetime, you’re sure it’s a mistake.

A contract, a relocation to Seoul, and one fake wedding later, you’re still trying to convince yourself none of this is real. The only problem? Neither of you seem to remember where the performance ends and something devastatingly real begins.

Release Date: 8th March, Part 2 - Monday 10th March

WC: 13K CW (18+ MDNI) : fake marriage, slow-burn romance, power dynamics, corporate intrigue, arranged marriage trope, emotional angst, unresolved sexual tension, longing glances across boardrooms, contract loopholes, financial manipulation, morally gray billionaire!Jay, forced proximity, family expectations, betrayal, public displays of affection (for the cameras, obviously), enemies-to-allies-to-lovers, suppressed feelings, business politics, one bed trope (but make it corporate), dramatic confessions, late-night whiskey-fueled arguments, high society drama, backhanded compliments as flirting, dramatic departures followed by even more dramatic returns, lingering touches that mean too much, feelings clause not included in the contract, deep intimacy, power dynamics in a romantic context, possessive tendencies (but soft), light dominance/submission themes, clothing being undone at a painfully slow pace, tension so thick it could shatter glass, breathless dialogue, interrupted kisses that lead to frustration, and the inevitable realization that this was never fake at all.

-

The Original Timeline

Five Years Ago

The first and only time you met Jay Park was at the gallery opening of your college roommate's photography exhibit in New York. You wouldn't have been there at all if Priya hadn't practically begged you to help her make up the numbers.

"Just mingle for an hour," she'd pleaded over coffee that morning, eyes wide with artistic desperation. "Drink free champagne, eat expensive hors d'oeuvres, and pretend to understand modern art. I need this exhibit to succeed. My parents are still convinced I should have become a doctor."

So you'd ventured out into the crisp October evening to a renovated warehouse in Chelsea that now housed the Klein Gallery.

The moment you walked in, you regretted your decision.

The gallery was crowded with Manhattan's elite—people whose casual conversations name-dropped summer homes in the Hamptons and winter getaways in Aspen. You recognized a few faces from glossy magazines—a popular actress, a tech entrepreneur, a fashion designer.

You spotted Priya across the room, surrounded by attentive listeners, looking nothing like the frazzled artist who had practically lived in sweatpants throughout college. Tonight she was transformed—elegant in a silk jumpsuit, her long black hair swept into an artful updo.

Not wanting to interrupt her moment, you moved toward the bar, securing a glass of champagne that definitely wasn't the top-shelf variety promised. Glass in hand, you began the obligatory circuit of the room.

Priya's work had always struck you as technically skilled but emotionally distant. Tonight's collection—titled "Urban Dissolution"—featured black and white images of city landscapes in various states of decay. To your untrained eye, several looked like artistic shots of garbage.

You were examining one such photograph when someone spoke beside you.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?"

The voice was pleasant—a warm baritone with just the slightest hint of an accent.

You turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit studying the same photograph with thinly veiled amusement. He was handsome in that polished, untouchable way of the extremely wealthy—perfect hair, perfect posture, everything about him screaming old money.

Under normal circumstances, you might have nodded politely and moved on. Men who looked like him rarely engaged in genuine conversation at events like these.

But something in his expression—a hint of genuine mischief beneath the polished exterior—made you respond honestly.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied diplomatically. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we can still recognize it when we experience it." He gestured toward the photograph with his champagne flute. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you, drawing disapproving glances from a nearby couple examining the same piece with exaggerated intensity.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said, lowering your voice.

"Ah." He didn't look remotely embarrassed. If anything, his smile widened, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. "Then I assume you're here out of obligation rather than appreciation."

You studied him more carefully. There was no malice in his expression, only genuine amusement and refreshing honesty.

"Isn't everyone at these things?" You glanced around the gallery. "Half the people here couldn't distinguish between a masterpiece and a child's finger painting, but they'll all have very strong opinions."

"Touché." His smile reached his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely compelling. "I'm Jay."

"Just Jay?" You raised an eyebrow. "No family name? No title or position that should impress me?"

"Tonight, just Jay." He seemed to appreciate that you didn't immediately offer your name in return. "And you are?"

"Just someone who defends her friends' artistic endeavors, no matter how questionable."

"Loyalty," he nodded, as if noting something important. "An underrated quality in rooms like this, where allegiances change with the season's trends."

There was something wistful in his observation, a flash of genuineness beneath the practiced charm. Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew your attention.

A group had arrived, their entrance causing a ripple effect through the crowd—backs straightening, conversations pausing, attention shifting.

"Duty calls," Jay murmured, his expression cooling. The playful stranger who had joked with you was vanishing, replaced by someone more controlled. "It was refreshing to meet you, Just Someone."

And then he was gone, moving toward the new arrivals. You watched as he transformed with each step—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, smile shifting from genuine to practiced.

He bowed respectfully to an older couple at the center of the group, clearly his family. The woman—elegant, with silver-streaked black hair—examined the gallery with the cool assessment of someone accustomed to making judgments that mattered.

It was only when Priya rushed over that you realized who you'd been talking to.

"Do you know who that was?" she hissed, gripping your arm. "The Jay Park. Park Industries! The Korean conglomerate that's expanding into American markets. Did you get his number?"

"We just talked about your photographs," you said, suddenly feeling out of place in your carefully selected but obviously off-the-rack dress. "He called them visual food poisoning."

Priya's expression didn't even flicker. "Jay Park insulted my work? That's practically a career highlight!" She snapped a discreet photo. "Wait until I tell my parents—they'll finally believe this wasn't a waste of my education."

You watched as Jay circulated through the room with practiced ease, his charisma deployed with strategic precision. The man who had stood beside you making irreverent comments might as well have been a different person entirely.

As you left the gallery hours later, you glanced back once to find Jay watching you from across the room. For just a moment, his public mask slipped, and he gave you a small, conspiratorial smile.

You never saw him again. Not in person, anyway.

Three Years Ago

"PARK HEIR ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED: JAY PARK TO WED ITALIAN HEIRESS"

The headline splashed across your phone screen during your morning subway commute. Normally, you'd have skipped past such celebrity gossip, but the name caught your attention—that brief memory of champagne and honesty in a New York gallery.

Curious, you tapped the article.

"Jay Park, 29, heir to the Park Industries empire, announced his engagement yesterday to Seraphina Visconti, 26, daughter of Italian shipping magnate Giorgio Visconti. The match unites two of the most influential business families across continents after a whirlwind romance of six months.

"'Seraphina represents everything the Parks value—business acumen, family loyalty, and global vision,' said Chairwoman Soo-min Park in a statement.

"The couple met during Park Industries' expansion into European markets. Sources suggest the marriage will cement a strategic partnership potentially worth billions."

Below the text was a photograph of Jay with his arm around a stunning woman with olive skin and a camera-ready smile. He looked exactly as you remembered—handsome, composed, untouchable. But something about his eyes seemed different. Harder, perhaps. The smile that had crinkled their corners in the gallery was nowhere to be seen.

You stared at the image longer than was reasonable for someone who had spoken to the man exactly once. There was something almost theatrical about the pose, the smiles, the carefully framed opulence.

"Good for him," you muttered, closing the article as the subway reached your stop. "Hope they're very happy together."

You found yourself wondering if he'd made that woman laugh genuinely, or if their relationship was built on the kind of performance you'd witnessed when his family arrived at the gallery.

You didn't think about Jay Park again for a long time.

Last Year

"PARK INDUSTRIES HEIR DISGRACED: JAY PARK REMOVED FROM FAMILY COMPANY AMID SCANDAL"

This headline caught your eye during lunch break. The photograph showed Jay leaving a building, face partially obscured, expression hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even in disgrace, he wore an impeccably tailored suit, though his tie was loosened and his normally perfect hair disheveled.

Something tightened in your chest at the image. You tapped on the article, pushing your salad aside.

"Jay Park has been removed from his position following allegations of corporate espionage and fraud. The Seoul Economic Prosecutor's Office confirmed yesterday that Park is under investigation for his role in the controversial merger between Park Industries and Hanjin Global.

"'Evidence suggests Mr. Park orchestrated the theft of proprietary information to facilitate the merger on terms exceptionally favorable to Park Industries,' stated Chief Prosecutor Kim. 'This represents a serious breach of corporate ethics and possibly criminal misconduct.'

"Sources revealed that Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, personally signed the termination papers. 'It was like watching an execution,' said one executive. 'The family cut him off completely. No defense, no second chances.'

"Adding personal tragedy to professional disgrace, Park's engagement to Italian heiress Seraphina Visconti was terminated shortly before the scandal broke."

You frowned at your screen. Something about the story felt wrong—the swiftness of his family's abandonment, the convenient timing of the broken engagement, the way everyone seemed to distance themselves simultaneously, as if following a coordinated script.

But what did you know? You'd met the man once, years ago. That brief interaction hardly qualified you to judge the situation or the complex dynamics of global corporate politics.

Still, you couldn't shake the memory of his genuine smile, so different from the corporate mask he'd worn for his family. The way he'd spoken about loyalty as an underrated quality.

"Rough fall from grace," your coworker commented, noticing the article on your screen. "Guess even the mighty Parks can't escape karma."

"I guess not," you agreed absently. But privately you wondered what karma had to do with it. From what little you knew of chaebol families, they created their own destinies—and occasionally, their own destruction.

Over the following months, you occasionally saw follow-up articles. The investigation seemed to drag on without clear resolution. Some outlets questioned aspects of the evidence. Others suggested political motivations behind the prosecution.

But as the story faded from headlines, you found yourself wondering sometimes what had happened to the man who had once made you laugh in an art gallery—the man who, for a brief moment, had seemed genuinely human beneath the wealth and privilege.

Four Months Ago - Jay's Perspective

Jay Park stood at the window of his empty apartment, watching Seoul's lights glitter below. The city looked exactly the same as it had before his life imploded—indifferent to his disgrace. Photographers still camped outside his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen heir.

The penthouse that had once been featured in architectural magazines now echoed with emptiness. Most of the art and furnishings were gone—some seized in the investigation, others reclaimed by his family when they'd cut him off.

His phone—a new one, with a number known to fewer than five people—vibrated on the counter. He ignored it. The nearly empty bottle of scotch beside it held more appeal. He poured another measure into a glass that didn't match the crystal tumblers he'd once collected.

Jay took a long sip, noting with detached interest that his hand no longer shook. Progress, of a sort. The first few months after his downfall, he could barely hold a glass steady.

The evidence against him had been impeccable. Each document, each testimony, each transaction record forming a perfect constellation of guilt. So perfect that, had he not known with absolute certainty he was innocent, he might have believed it himself.

That was the elegant brutality of it—the case was built not on crude forgeries, but on actual actions he had taken, actual meetings he had attended, all recontextualized to tell a story of corruption rather than innovation.

By the time he understood what was happening, the narrative had solidified. His former fiancée had disappeared back to Italy. His family had closed ranks against him. His so-called friends had vanished overnight.

"You always were too trusting, Jongseong."

His mother's words, delivered as she personally collected his company credentials. Not in private—she had ensured there were witnesses. The perfect chairwoman, putting corporate ethics above family loyalty.

He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself worthy of the Park name, only to be discarded the moment it became expedient.

His phone vibrated again. A text from his attorney: "Prosecutor offering deal. Meet tomorrow."

Jay didn't bother responding. There would be no deal. Not because he was noble, but because accepting a deal meant accepting guilt. And while the world might believe him guilty, he refused to validate the lie.

He returned to the window, scotch in hand. Somewhere in that landscape were the people who had orchestrated his downfall. Were they celebrating still? Or had they already moved on to their next target, his destruction just another successful transaction?

One photograph lay face-down on the counter—Seraphina smiling beside him at their engagement party, her eyes fixed on the camera with practiced warmth. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The perfect lie.

"I never saw it coming," he murmured. "Not from you."

That was the truly unforgivable part—not the betrayal itself, but his blind failure to anticipate it. All the signs had been there: her sudden interest when the Hanjin merger was first discussed, her questions about his meetings, her friendship with his cousin.

But he'd been too enthralled with the idea of her—the perfect partner who fit the plan he'd constructed for his life.

Jay drained his glass. He should sleep. Tomorrow would bring more meetings, more denials, more evidence of his spectacular fall.

He was turning from the window when it happened—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, so intense he dropped his glass. It shattered as he clutched his head, the pain expanding outward like a supernova.

The room tilted sideways. His hand passed through the wall as though it were mist. The familiar contours of his apartment seemed to dissolve, replaced by swirling darkness.

His last conscious thought was strangely clear, cutting through the pain:

I would do it all differently.

Jay opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.

No—not unfamiliar. His old curtains, from his suite in the family compound. The heavy navy drapes his mother had replaced three years ago.

He sat up with a jolt, banging his head against the headboard with an undignified thud.

"What the—" he muttered, rubbing his forehead while blinking at his surroundings.

This room had been redecorated after he moved out. The traditional furniture, the blue walls, the precise arrangement of his diplomas—all of it had been erased when his mother decided the space needed to "reflect the modern sensibilities of Park Industries' future."

Jay scrambled out of bed, tangling himself in sheets he hadn't slept in for years—1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton in navy blue, not the minimalist white linens of his apartment.

He stumbled to the bathroom. The face that stared back from the mirror made him grip the countertop until his knuckles went white.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The face was his, but not the one he'd seen yesterday. No dark circles. No stress lines. No gray hairs at his temples. This was him from... before.

"I've lost my mind," he announced to the empty bathroom. "This is what a psychotic break feels like."

He splashed cold water on his face, half expecting the hallucination to dissolve.

Back in the bedroom, his phone chimed. Not the anonymous device he'd been using since his disgrace, but his old phone—the one with the Park Industries logo, the one seized by prosecutors.

He approached it like it might explode, picking it up between two fingers.

The calendar notification made him drop the phone directly onto his foot.

"Son of a—" he yelped, hopping awkwardly.

He snatched up the phone again and stared at the date.

Five years in the past.

Another notification: "Meeting with Chairman Kang's team at 11. Merger exploration talks. Confidential."

Kang. The first domino in what would become his downfall. The meeting that would eventually lead him to Seraphina Visconti.

"This can't be happening," he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood in a manner his perfectly-coiffed future self would find horrifying.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open. Jay yelped and grabbed a decorative pillow to cover his chest.

His mother's executive assistant, Mrs. Joseph, stood in the doorway, her expression somehow even more judgmental as she took in his disheveled state.

"Mr. Park," she said with glacial formality, "your mother wishes to remind you that the board meeting begins in forty-five minutes."

"Mrs. Joseph," Jay managed, clutching the tasseled pillow, "what day is it today?"

One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a millimeter.

"It is Tuesday, Mr. Park. The 17th of October, 2018."

Five years in the past. Confirmed by the human calendar that was Mrs. Joseph, who had never been wrong about a date in twenty years.

"Thank you. Please tell my mother I'll be there."

Mrs. Joseph nodded and closed the door.

Jay stood frozen before bursting into motion, pacing and gesturing wildly.

"Time travel isn't real," he informed his empty room. "This is a complete psychological break."

He stopped in front of the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at his reflection.

"You are having a nervous breakdown."

His phone chimed again. A text from his cousin Danny: "You look like hell on the security feed. Board meeting in 44 minutes. Pull yourself together."

Jay glanced at the discreet camera in the corner, then back at his phone.

Other people could see him. Other people were interacting with him. This wasn't just in his head.

"I've gone back in time," he whispered, testing the words. "I've gone back in time!"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had a second chance. A chance to avoid Seraphina. A chance to prevent the merger catastrophe. A chance to protect himself from betrayal before it began.

Then he froze, composing himself. If this was real, he needed to be strategic.

"Park Jongseong," he told his reflection sternly, "pull yourself together. You have a board meeting in forty-three minutes. And then you have a life to completely rebuild."

As he headed for the bathroom, he caught himself whistling. Park Jongseong didn't whistle. Park Jongseong was dignified, serious, and focused at all times.

But then again, Park Jongseong also didn't time travel. So perhaps some new rules were in order.

Forty-two minutes later, Jay found himself seated in the most uncomfortable chair in Seoul—not because of its design, but because of who surrounded it.

The Park Industries boardroom was exactly as he remembered it from before its renovation. Twenty-four seats around a massive mahogany table, each position equipped with a recessed screen and an elegant portfolio. The room smelled of sandalwood and concentrated power.

And around him sat the very people who would one day abandon him without hesitation.

His mother, Chairwoman Soomin Park, presided at the head, her silver-streaked hair in a severe chignon. His father sat opposite, expression fixed in the distant contemplation that had always characterized their relationship. Next to him was Uncle Jiho, whose vote would be first to condemn Jay when the time came. Beside his mother sat Aunt Mina, who would publicly declare his actions "disappointing but not surprising."

They were all watching him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Hard to tell which was more reasonable when you'd time-traveled into your younger body.

"The Q3 projections for the semiconductor division," droned CFO Yun. "As you can see, we're exceeding targets by 4.3% despite supply chain challenges..."

Jay nodded mechanically, trying to appear engaged while his mind raced. He kept catching himself staring at people who shouldn't be noteworthy—like Director Kang, who would later introduce him to Seraphina Visconti.

"Jongseong."

He jerked upright, realizing his mother had addressed him directly.

"I—" he began, having no idea what had been asked. "Could you repeat the question?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his mother's face. "I said, do you have the projections for the European market expansion? The ones you insisted were ready for board review?"

Right. The European expansion. The document that would eventually lead to the Visconti partnership. The first step in his downfall.

"I've been reconsidering those projections," he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears. "I believe we should focus on domestic consolidation before extending into Europe."

A heavy silence fell over the room. In the original timeline, he'd aggressively championed European expansion for months.

"You've been... reconsidering," his mother repeated, each syllable precisely weighted. "Since last night's strategy meeting, where you presented a seventy-page report detailing exactly why European expansion cannot wait?"

Jay cleared his throat, tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "I've had some... insights."

"Insights," she echoed flatly.

"Yes. About... market volatility." Jay caught sight of his reflection in the darkened screen—he looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb while wearing oven mitts. "And geopolitical considerations. Brexit currency fluctuations. You know. Business... things."

Director Kang frowned. "But your analysis specifically addressed Brexit concerns, concluding they presented opportunity rather than obstacle."

"Well, people can change their minds," Jay said, a bit too forcefully.

His mother set down her pen—never a good sign. "Are you feeling well, Jongseong?"

"Perfectly well. Never better."

"You look flushed. And you're sweating."

Jay reached up, mortified to find his forehead damp. Park Jongseong did not sweat in board meetings.

"It's rather warm in here."

"It's sixty-eight degrees, as always," his mother replied. "Your grandfather had similar symptoms before his stroke. The disorientation. The contradictory statements."

"I'm not having a stroke," Jay said, horrified that this conversation was happening in front of the entire board.

"He said the same thing," contributed his aunt helpfully. "Right before he tried to sign a merger agreement with a potted plant."

"I know what day it is," Jay offered as proof of his mental faculties. "It's Tuesday, October 17, 2018."

This did not have the intended effect. If anything, his mother's concern deepened.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Most people with calendars know the date. More relevant is your explanation for this sudden policy reversal."

Jay scrambled for a plausible explanation that wouldn't sound like 'I've seen the future and it ends with all of you betraying me.'

"I received some... intelligence," he said finally. "About certain European partners. It requires verification before we proceed."

This, at least, was the language of business his mother understood. Her expression shifted from concern to calculation.

"What intelligence, and from whom?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that privately," he said, finding his footing. "After I've confirmed some details."

His mother studied him, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. We'll revisit the European strategy next week."

As the presentation resumed, Jay exhaled slowly, only to catch his father watching him with an evaluative expression he couldn't quite interpret.

His phone vibrated. Grateful for the distraction, he discreetly checked the message.

From Jake: Dude, what was THAT? Your mom thinks you're having a stroke, and Danny says you were talking to yourself this morning. Also, Priya's exhibition is Friday, don't forget you promised to come. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai and she's freaking out.

Jay blinked, momentarily confused. Priya? Jake's girlfriend. The photographer. The exhibition.

A distant memory stirred—something about an art gallery in New York, some terrible photographs, and...

He frowned, trying to recall. There had been someone there, hadn't there? Someone he'd spoken to briefly. He couldn't remember a face or name, just a vague impression of a genuine laugh and an honest conversation.

He typed back: Not having a stroke. Just reconsidering some strategies. What time Friday?

Jake's reply came instantly: 8PM, Klein Gallery in Chelsea. Wear something that makes you look less corporate robot, more human person.

Jay tucked his phone away, the half-formed memory already fading as more pressing concerns demanded his attention.

"Jongseong, do you have anything to add to Director Park's assessment?"

Jay looked up to find the entire board staring at him again. He hadn't heard a word of what Director Park had said.

"I think Director Park's assessment is... comprehensive," he managed, having no idea what he was endorsing.

"He asked for your input on canceling the Daewon acquisition."

"Right." Jay straightened. The Daewon acquisition—a company they had purchased and later sold at a significant profit in his original timeline. "I believe we should proceed with the acquisition. Their patent portfolio alone justifies the investment."

Director Park nodded approvingly. "Exactly my point."

Jay relaxed marginally, only to tense again when his mother spoke.

"That's interesting, considering Director Park just recommended we cancel the acquisition due to their overvalued patents."

The room fell silent. Jay felt heat creeping up his neck.

"I was... testing to see if anyone was paying attention?"

His mother's sigh could have withered steel. "We'll take a ten minute recess. Jongseong, my office. Now."

As the board members filed out, his father paused briefly beside him.

"Whatever's going on with you, fix it before your mother decides you need medical intervention. Or worse, reassignment."

With that less-than-comforting advice, Jay followed his mother to what would undoubtedly be the most awkward conversation of his newly-regained past life.

"Close the door," his mother instructed as they entered her office, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and steel.

Jay obeyed, steeling himself for the dissection that was about to occur.

"Sit," she commanded, taking her place behind a desk large enough to land a small aircraft.

He complied, automatically adjusting his posture to the rigid formality expected. Twenty-nine years of conditioning didn't disappear even with temporal displacement.

"What is happening with you?"

"Nothing serious, I assure you. Just a temporary—"

"That was not a board performance worthy of a Park," she interrupted. "You contradicted yourself, failed to pay attention, and gave the impression of someone who is either incompetent or unwell. Neither is acceptable."

"I apologize, Mom. It won't happen again."

The moment the word left his mouth, Jay was surprised at his own casualness. Mom. Not "Mother" or "Chairwoman" as he'd taken to calling her in professional settings.

His mother's expression softened almost imperceptibly—visible only to someone who had spent a lifetime learning to read her minute facial cues.

"It's been a while since you've called me that in this office," she noted, neither disapproving nor sentimental. The Parks might be ruthless in business, but family was family. "Though it doesn't exempt you from explaining your behavior this morning."

"I'm simply... reconsidering certain aspects of my approach."

"Your approach," she echoed skeptically.

"Yes. I've been thinking that perhaps I've been too rigid. Too focused on following a preset path without questioning whether it's the optimal route."

Her expression shifted subtly. "And this revelation came to you when, exactly?"

"Recently," he hedged.

"I see." She tapped one nail against her desk. "And does this 'reconsideration' include your personal life as well?"

Jay tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've spent five years claiming to be too focused on your career for serious relationships, despite my repeated reminders that a suitable marriage is an essential component of your position. If you're reconsidering 'preset paths,' perhaps this is an area you might prioritize."

And there it was. In the original timeline, this conversation had led to his first introduction to the Visconti family.

"I don't believe my focus should be on marriage at this time," he said carefully.

"And yet you're now suggesting we delay European expansion, which leaves you with considerably more bandwidth." She opened a drawer and removed a slim folder. "I've taken the liberty of updating your candidate dossiers."

Of course she had. In his mother's world, suitable marriage partners were assessed with the same due diligence as potential acquisitions.

"I appreciate your thoroughness, but I'll handle this aspect of my life myself."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've been 'handling it yourself' since graduation, with no results. The Kang family has been quite direct about their interest in an alliance through their daughter."

Jay suppressed a grimace. Se-yeon Kang. The woman who had introduced him to Seraphina at her father's request.

"The Kangs are not a suitable match," he said sharply.

"On what basis?"

On the basis that they were integral to his destruction, he thought bitterly.

"I have concerns about their long-term business ethics," he said instead.

"Interesting." She made a note on her tablet. "I wasn't aware you had investigated the Kang operations."

"I make it my business to be thorough."

"Perhaps you're not as distracted as you appeared in the boardroom, then."

Jay recognized the familiar pattern—his mother testing him, probing for weaknesses. In his first life, he'd been so desperate for her approval that he'd missed the manipulation.

"I should prepare for the Kang meeting," he said, rising. "I'll need to review the materials given my reconsideration of our European strategy."

She nodded, dismissing him with a wave. "Don't embarrass yourself again. The board already thinks you're following in your grandfather's neurological footsteps."

At the door, he paused. In his previous life, he'd walked out of this office and directly into the trap being laid for him.

"One more thing," he said. "Who originally suggested the Visconti Group as a potential European partner?"

If the question surprised her, she didn't show it. "I believe Chairman Kang mentioned them at the economic forum in Davos. Why?"

"Just mapping connections. It helps me visualize the relationship web."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—the look she gave when recalculating her assessment. "Your grandfather used to say something similar. Before the stroke, of course."

With that parting barb, she dismissed him.

As Jay left, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Jake:

Almost forgot—Priya says to bring that friend of yours from the investment firm if he's still in town. She needs all the connections she can get.

Jay frowned. What friend from what investment firm? He didn't recall...

And then it clicked. The half-remembered interaction from the gallery. There had been someone else there that night—not just the person he'd spoken to, but someone he'd been introduced to later.

If he attended this exhibition, he might run into that person again—the one whose laugh he vaguely remembered. Not that it mattered particularly. Just a curious coincidence in his reshuffled timeline.

He pocketed his phone, mind already turning to more immediate concerns. The Kang meeting. The European strategy. The trap he needed to dismantle piece by piece.

A random stranger he'd once met at a gallery was hardly worth dwelling on when he had an entire future to reconstruct.

Autumn in New York welcomed Jay with crisp air and streets still gleaming from an afternoon shower. He stood outside the Klein Gallery in Chelsea, straightening cuffs that needed no adjustment.

The city felt different now—full of possibility rather than the shame and failure it would represent in his original timeline. Here, five years before his downfall, no photographers lurked hoping to catch the disgraced Park heir. He was just another wealthy visitor, anonymous in a city that specialized in ignoring the important.

The past three days had been a calculated offensive against his future ruin. Altered procurement strategies. Reassigned personnel. Extensive documentation that couldn't be manipulated later. He'd even faced down Kang himself, politely declining the European expansion that would eventually lead to his destruction.

All while maintaining the perfect Park Jongseong façade.

This trip to New York offered both strategic cover and unexpected relief. For a few precious hours, he could breathe without the weight of his name.

He checked his watch. He was early, deliberately so. Jake and Priya would arrive in twenty minutes, giving him time to assess the gallery and determine if his half-remembered encounter would repeat itself.

But the vagueness didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity to alter one small variable in the equation of his life.

Since his mother had mentioned marriage in her office, a strategy had been forming in his mind. In the original timeline, the months following this trip had seen increasing pressure about his relationship status. His mother had begun introducing him to eligible candidates—all with their own agendas, all connected to the world that would eventually close ranks against him.

And then came Seraphina. Perfect, beautiful, accomplished Seraphina. The woman who would eventually help orchestrate his destruction.

But what if he removed that variable entirely? What if he preempted the whole process? Elementary business strategy: block your opponent's best move before they make it.

Inside, the gallery was minimalist—white walls, polished concrete floors, strategic lighting. Jay moved through the space with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing server.

Priya's work was exactly as he remembered—technically proficient but emotionally distant. Black and white urban landscapes hinting at decay and renewal. He paused before one he remembered discussing in the original timeline—the one he'd compared to food poisoning.

"Considering an acquisition?" a voice asked. Not yours. The gallery owner—Klein himself.

"Just appreciating the composition," Jay replied smoothly.

He scanned the room peripherally. The space was filling with the expected crowd—moneyed New Yorkers performing interest in emerging artists, critics with studied expressions of judgment.

But no sign of you.

A flicker of concern crossed his mind. Had his earlier manipulations altered the timeline so significantly that you wouldn't attend?

"Mr. Park!" Priya approached with nervous energy

"The exhibition looks excellent," Jay said, offering Priya a polite air-kiss. "Your work has evolved considerably."

A kind lie. Her work was exactly as he remembered it.

"That means so much coming from you," Priya gushed. "Jake said you've been impossibly busy with the European expansion plans."

Jay shot Jake a warning look, but his friend merely shrugged.

"Sorry, forgot it was all very hush-hush and corporate espionage-y." Jake clapped Jay's shoulder. "You look terrible, by the way. In an expensive, tailored way, but still terrible. Are you sleeping these days?"

In his first life, Jay would have bristled at such criticism. Now, after everything, he felt unexpected gratitude for Jake's honesty. He'd forgotten this about their friendship—how Jake treated him as a person, not the Park heir.

"Sleep is for those without quarterly projections," Jay replied dryly.

"You're not fine, you're just good at faking fine. The Park family specialty." Jake surveyed the crowd. "Speaking of fake, look at all these people pretending to understand Priya's art when half couldn't tell profound commentary from pictures of garbage."

Priya elbowed him. "My parents will be here any minute. Please pretend to be cultured."

"Fine. I'll practice my 'this speaks to me spiritually' face." Jake grinned and headed for the bar.

"He's impossible," Priya sighed affectionately. "But he's been amazing with my parents. Even learned Hindi phrases for my father."

Jay nodded, remembering with a pang how Jake and Priya's engagement had been "postponed" after his disgrace. No one wanted ties to a pariah, not even his oldest friend.

"Jay?" Priya studied him. "Are you okay? You seem... different somehow."

Before he could answer, the gallery's atmosphere shifted—the crowd parting for Priya's parents. She excused herself, leaving Jay alone.

His mind returned to his strategy. He needed someone who could occupy the space Seraphina would fill, disrupting the timeline ending in his ruin. Someone far removed from his world.

You—if you showed up—would be perfect. Not for any particular quality, but for what you weren't. You weren't connected to his family's web of alliances. You had no ties to competing conglomerates. You carried no hidden agenda.

Your ignorance of his world wasn't a liability—it was your greatest asset. You couldn't be manipulated by the forces that orchestrated his destruction because you existed outside their sphere.

It wasn't personal. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a shield. The fact that he remembered your laugh was merely incidental. A convenient connection point for his strategy.

The gallery door opened, admitting a gust of cool air and a latecomer—you.

Recognition hit immediately. How had he forgotten so many details? Your self-conscious movements. Your genuine curiosity instead of affected boredom.

Jay moved toward you before consciously deciding to, drawn by the chance to rewrite this small piece of his past. He intercepted you at the photograph he knew you'd examine—the one you'd defended despite its quality.

He reminded himself: this was strategy, not sentiment. Business, not emotion. This was about survival.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?" Jay said, repeating his original words.

You turned, and he was struck by your direct gaze—no calculation, just human curiosity.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied, amusement tugging at your mouth. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we recognize it when we experience it." He gestured with his champagne. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you—genuine, unguarded. The sound hit Jay with unexpected force. For a moment, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by a genuine impulse to connect.

He pushed the feeling aside. Focus on the objective.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said quietly.

"Ah. Then you're here from obligation rather than appreciation?"

"Isn't everyone?" You glanced around. "Half these people couldn't distinguish masterpieces from finger paintings, but they'll have strong opinions borrowed from the last opening."

The conversation unfolded exactly as before—eerie yet comforting.

"I'm Jay," he said, memorizing your face.

"Just Jay? No impressive title?"

"Park. Jay Park. But I'd prefer to be just Jay tonight."

You assessed him with refreshing directness. "And what does Just Jay do when not critiquing photography?"

Another deviation from the original timeline. A small ripple that could grow into a wave.

"Corporate strategy," he replied vaguely. "Nothing as interesting as defending questionable art. And you are...?"

The gallery door opened, and Jay felt a cold jolt as his family entered, causing the usual ripple through the crowd. His mother, father, relatives—all unaware they would eventually abandon him when convenient.

This was the moment. Originally, he'd left without your name, swept back into the path leading to Seraphina and his destruction.

Not this time.

"I should warn you," he said conspiratorially, "I'm about to transform into someone less honest and more boring. Corporate obligation." He nodded toward his family. "But before I do—your name? In case our paths cross again."

Behind this casual request lay his entire strategy. Your name would be the first stone in his new foundation.

As he waited, his gaze intensified slightly. To you, it might seem like normal interest. To him, it was the focus of someone placing extraordinary significance on an ordinary exchange.

This wasn't just about a name—it was about architecture. The careful redesign of his future. And you, unknowingly, were about to become a cornerstone.

"Y/N"

-

The syllables hung in the air between them for a moment. Jay's smile shifted—genuine now, not the practiced expression he deployed at corporate functions.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He reached for your hand, a brief, professional clasp. "Unfortunately, duty calls."

He slipped you his card—not the formal Park Industries one, but a sleeker personal version with just his name and private number. A deliberate choice. The first move in his new game.

"Perhaps we'll cross paths again," he said. His tone casual, but his gaze wasn't. It held yours a moment longer than social convention dictated.

Then he was gone, transforming with each step toward his family. Shoulders squaring. Expression cooling. The brief glimpse of honest humanity tucked away beneath the polished exterior of Park Jongseong, corporate heir.

You watched him bow to his mother, exchange handshakes with other family members, fluidly inserting himself into their formal orbit. The man who had made irreverent comments about art seemed to evaporate entirely.

"The exhibition demonstrates impressive technical skill," Jay's mother observed an hour later, champagne flute held at a precise angle. "Though the subject matter is rather... conventional."

This assessment came after a methodical circuit of the gallery, during which the Park family had drawn considerable attention without seeming to notice it.

"Priya has potential," Jay replied diplomatically. "Her composition exhibits strong understanding of negative space."

Art criticism wasn't the point of this conversation, and they both knew it. His mother was watching him carefully, calculating something behind her perfect smile.

"I spotted you speaking with someone earlier," she mentioned with practiced casualness. "Before we arrived."

And there it was. Nothing escaped her notice.

"A friend of the artist," Jay said, matching her casual tone. "We were discussing the merits of contemporary photography."

"I see." His mother's gaze swept the room, locating you within seconds where you stood chatting with Priya near the bar. "Not the usual social circle you frequent."

"Perhaps that's refreshing." Jay sipped his champagne, strategic in his mild defiance. "One tires of the same conversations."

His mother's eyebrow arched slightly—the equivalent of open surprise from anyone else.

"Interesting," she said, recalculating variables in her mental dossier. "Does this relate to your sudden disinterest in the European expansion?"

"Not directly," Jay replied. "Though both reflect a broader reassessment of paths worth pursuing."

She studied him with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You've changed, Jongseong. Since when, I'm not certain. But something is different."

"Growth isn't change, Mother. It's evolution." He'd never spoken to her this way in his first timeline—confident but not confrontational. "The core remains the same."

His father approached, ending their private exchange. "The Visconti Group's representative just arrived," he informed his wife. "The one you wanted to meet."

Jay's pulse quickened. In the original timeline, this casual introduction had been the first seed planted. The beginning of his eventual destruction.

"Another time, perhaps," Jay interjected smoothly before his mother could respond. "I promised Jake I'd speak with some potential collectors. His girlfriend would be devastated if the night wasn't successful."

His father's expression registered mild surprise at this unusual prioritization of friendship over business.

"Of course," his mother said, analyzing this new data point. "Family supports family's associates. That's the Park way."

The subtle reminder of obligation came with her practiced smile. Not a reprimand, but a note being filed away for future reference.

Jay inclined his head respectfully and moved away, circulating through the crowd with practiced ease. He exchanged pleasantries with critics, complimented the gallery owner, and strategically positioned himself near a group of potential collectors, laying groundwork for a purchase that would help Priya's career.

All while remaining acutely aware of your location in the room.

-

Two hours later, Jay found himself in a strategic position near the coat check as you prepared to leave. The gallery had begun to empty, the initial excitement of the opening fading into the routine pattern of a Thursday night in Chelsea.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, timing his approach to appear coincidental.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. "Just Jay. I thought you'd be trapped in corporate obligation all night."

"A temporary reprieve." He smiled. "The family business discussions have moved to dinner at Le Bernardin."

"Very fancy," you commented. "I'm headed for much humbler fare—the subway and takeout."

Jay glanced at his watch. "Actually, I find myself with an unexpected hour before I need to join them. Perhaps you'd allow me to buy you a proper dinner? There's an excellent place just around the corner." He kept his tone casual, the invitation seemingly spontaneous.

You hesitated, studying him with that direct gaze he found so refreshing. "Why would you want to have dinner with a complete stranger when you clearly have more important places to be?"

The directness of the question caught him slightly off-guard. In his world, people rarely questioned Park Jongseong's motivations to his face.

"Because you're the only interesting conversation I've had all evening," he replied, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to color his words. "Everyone else is either trying to sell me something, impress me, or secure an introduction to my mother."

You considered this, head tilted slightly. "And what makes you think I'm not doing the same?"

Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his polished social chuckle. "The fact that you just asked that question, for starters."

Something in your expression softened. "One hour. And it had better be good food."

"I never compromise on quality," Jay assured you, suppressing the satisfaction of a well-executed strategic move. "The restaurant is just three blocks from here."

As you walked together into the crisp autumn evening, Jay maintained the perfect balance of professional distance and personal interest. He asked about your work (freelance journalism), your history with Priya (college roommates), your thoughts on New York's cultural scene (overpriced but occasionally transcendent).

Each piece of information carefully filed away. Each response analyzed for potential complications or advantages to his developing strategy.

The restaurant—an upscale Italian place with discreet lighting and well-spaced tables—provided the ideal setting for his purposes. Impressive without being intimidating. Exclusive enough to require his name for a last-minute table, but not so ostentatious that it would make you uncomfortable.

"So," you said once you were seated and had ordered, "are you going to tell me what Park Industries actually does? Or am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're practically royalty in South Korea?"

Again, that directness. Jay found himself genuinely smiling.

"Technically, we do everything from semiconductors to shipping," he replied. "But that's hardly dinner conversation. I'd rather hear more about your work. Journalism must give you a unique perspective."

"Nice deflection," you noted, but allowed the conversation to shift.

For fifty-three minutes, Jay executed a perfect performance of genuine connection. He asked thoughtful questions. Shared carefully selected personal anecdotes. Displayed just enough vulnerability to seem authentic without revealing anything truly significant.

He studied your reactions, adjusting his approach subtly based on what resonated. When you responded to his dry humor, he offered more. When certain topics sparked genuine interest in your eyes, he explored them further.

A strategic seduction—but not a romantic one. He was securing an ally. Establishing a connection outside the corrupted network that had eventually destroyed him.

When his phone vibrated with a text from his mother, he allowed himself a calculated show of reluctance.

"Duty calls," he said, echoing his words from earlier in the gallery. "I've enjoyed this conversation more than you know."

"It was surprisingly pleasant," you agreed with a hint of amusement. "Despite the suspicious circumstances."

He signaled for the check. "Suspicious?"

"Wealthy heir suddenly interested in random gallery-goer? That's either the beginning of a romance novel or a cautionary tale." You smiled to soften the words. "I'm still deciding which."

Jay laughed again, caught between strategic calculation and genuine appreciation of your perception.

"Perhaps neither," he suggested. "Perhaps just two people enjoying conversation without agenda."

"Everyone has an agenda," you replied, gathering your things. "Even if they don't recognize it themselves."

How right you were. If only you knew the elaborate mental chess game he was playing, with you as a central piece.

Outside the restaurant, he made his final move of the evening—perfectly calibrated for maximum effect without seeming too eager.

"I'll be in New York for another two days," he said casually. "If you're free tomorrow evening, perhaps you could show me a part of the city tourists don't usually see. Something authentic."

The invitation was designed to appeal to your evident independence and local knowledge. To position you as the expert rather than the pursued. A subtle flattery that didn't register as manipulation.

"I might be available," you said, considering. "Depends on my deadline."

"Of course." He nodded respectfully. "You have my number. No pressure either way."

As he hailed a taxi for you, he allowed his hand to brush yours briefly—a manufactured moment of connection carefully designed to seem accidental.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said as you stepped into the cab. "I hope to hear from you tomorrow."

You smiled through the window, giving a small wave as the taxi pulled away.

Jay watched until the taillights disappeared into Manhattan traffic, then straightened his tie and hailed his own car. His expression shifted seamlessly from warm interest to cool calculation.

Phase one: complete. You had been introduced into the equation. A new variable with the potential to disrupt the entire sequence leading to his downfall.

As his driver navigated toward Le Bernardin, Jay mentally mapped the next steps. He would need to provide his mother with enough information to satisfy her curiosity without triggering her strategic instincts. Plant seeds with his father about potential advantages of connections outside their usual network. Begin building documentation that would position you as a completely independent connection, not part of any competing corporate interest.

His phone buzzed with a message from his cousin Danny: Mom says you're acting strange. She wants intel on whoever you were talking to at the gallery.

Jay smiled tightly. The family machine was already turning its attention to this unexpected development. Exactly as he'd anticipated.

He typed back: Just making connections. Nothing significant.

Let them underestimate this move. Let them dismiss you as a casual interest, a temporary distraction.

By the time they recognized the strategic importance of what he was building, it would be too late. The timeline would be irreversibly altered.

And Jay Park would never again find himself standing alone in an empty apartment, betrayed by everyone he had trusted.

Another message appeared on his screen—this one from an unknown number.

Tomorrow, 7pm. Wear comfortable shoes and nothing that screams "I'm worth kidnapping for ransom." – Y/N

Jay allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The pieces were moving exactly as he'd calculated.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

-

The next evening proved Jay's instincts correct. You were indeed the perfect variable to introduce into his equation.

You arrived at the designated meeting spot in Washington Square Park wearing jeans, a well-worn leather jacket, and boots that suggested you actually walked places rather than being chauffeured. Jay had followed your instructions, trading his usual bespoke suit for dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, and shoes that would survive more than a board meeting.

"You clean up nicely," you said, appraising his attempt at casual attire. "Almost pass for a normal person."

"My greatest performance yet," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Where to first?"

"That depends. What's your tolerance for authenticity? Real New York isn't exactly five-star accommodations."

Jay's smile widened. "Test me."

And you did. For the next three hours, you led him through a New York he'd never seen despite countless business trips. Hidden speakeasies accessed through fake phone booths. A Ukrainian diner where the servers scowled and the food defied description but somehow tasted like memory. A rooftop garden secretly maintained by an elderly couple who'd been cultivating it since the 1970s.

Throughout the evening, Jay maintained his careful balance—genuinely enjoying himself while strategically gathering information. Your job prospects (promising but unstable). Your family situation (supportive but financially modest). Your relationship status (refreshingly unattached).

Each piece of data confirmed what he'd hoped: you were the perfect candidate. Independent enough to make your own decisions, stable enough to be reliable, ambitious enough to appreciate opportunity, and disconnected enough from his world to be safe from manipulation.

"Admit it," you said as you sat on rusty chairs atop the secret garden, city lights spread before you. "This is better than whatever fancy restaurant your family's at tonight."

"Infinitely," Jay agreed, and meant it. The evening had been unexpectedly liberating. Here, he wasn't Park Jongseong, heir and corporate prince. He was just Jay, a guy experiencing New York's hidden corners with an interesting woman. "Though my mother would need smelling salts if she saw these chairs."

You laughed, the sound still as honest as he remembered. "Why do I get the feeling you're not often allowed to just... exist? Without expectations or performance metrics?"

The observation was so accurate it momentarily disrupted his careful strategy. For a second, he considered telling you everything—the time travel, his disgrace, his desperate plan to rewrite his future.

But of course, that was impossible. Who would believe such madness?

"The privileges of my position come with corresponding obligations," he said instead, allowing a rare glimpse of genuine feeling. "My path was charted before I was born."

You studied him in the dim rooftop lighting. "And you've never considered drawing your own map?"

Jay looked out over the city, contemplating how to answer. The strategic response would be something vague but intriguing. But something about this night—about you—made him unexpectedly honest.

"I'm attempting to redraw certain sections now," he said quietly. "It's... complicated."

"Family complications or business complications? Or are they the same thing for you?"

"Inextricably intertwined," Jay confirmed. "The Parks don't separate business from family or family from business. It's all one ecosystem."

"Sounds suffocating."

"It can be," he admitted, surprising himself again with his candor. "But it's also... secure. Structured. There's comfort in knowing your role."

"Until the role becomes a cage," you observed.

The conversation was veering dangerously close to truth. Jay redirected gently.

"What about you? No family business directing your path?"

You shook your head. "Just student loans and rent directing my career choices. Not exactly the same scale of problems."

"Different cages," Jay said. "Different gilding."

A comfortable silence fell between you. Below, the city pulsed with energy—millions of lives intersecting, diverging, each on their own trajectory.

"I should probably get you back to civilization," you said eventually. "Before your security detail reports you missing."

Jay checked his watch, surprised to find it was nearly midnight. The evening had passed with unexpected swiftness.

"I've dismissed security for the night," he said, rising from the rusty chair. "But you're right, it's late. Let me walk you home."

You shook your head. "That defeats the purpose of me showing you hidden New York. I'll walk myself home like a proper New Yorker."

"At least let me get you a car."

"The subway is faster this time of night."

Jay smiled at your stubbornness. Another quality that made you ideal for his purposes. "Then I'll accompany you to the subway."

As you descended from the rooftop, Jay made his decision. The evening had confirmed everything he needed to know. You were perfect—self-sufficient, perceptive, and most importantly, unconnected to the web that would eventually try to destroy him.

It was time to set his actual plan in motion. Earlier than he'd originally calculated, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.

Outside the subway entrance, you turned to say goodbye. "This was surprisingly enjoyable, Just Jay. You're not at all what I expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." Your smile took any sting from the words. "Maybe I'll see you next time you're in New York."

It was the opening he needed. Jay took a calculated breath.

"What if it were sooner than that?" he asked, carefully casual. "What if I had a proposition for you?"

Your eyebrows rose slightly. "A proposition sounds suspiciously like business."

"Perhaps a merger of interests," Jay said, watching your reaction closely.

"I'm not qualified to consult for Park Industries, if that's where this is going."

"Nothing to do with the company. This is personal." Jay paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss that could be mutually beneficial."

Wariness crept into your expression. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not illegal or immoral," he assured you. "Just... unusual. But I think you might be the perfect person for it."

"Now I'm definitely concerned."

Jay smiled, allowing genuine warmth to show. "Trust me enough for one more dinner? If you hate the proposal, we part as friends with an interesting story about the time a Korean businessman made you a strange offer."

You studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But a public place, and I reserve the right to walk out if things get weird."

"Perfectly reasonable terms," Jay agreed. "I'll text you the details."

After you disappeared down the subway steps, Jay hailed a car back to his hotel. His mind was already composing the proposal, weighing phrases and possibilities. The timing was delicate. Too direct, and you'd be justifiably alarmed. Too vague, and you'd dismiss it as absurd.

But if presented correctly, with the right incentives and assurances...

It could work. It had to work.

-

The restaurant Jay selected for their final evening was elegant without being ostentatious. Private enough for serious conversation but public enough to meet your safety requirements. He arrived early, ensuring the perfect table—secluded but visible, with clear sightlines to exits.

You arrived precisely on time, wearing a dress that suggested you'd taken this meeting more seriously than yesterday's casual exploration. Good. It indicated you were intrigued enough to make an effort.

"I half-expected to be stood up," Jay said as you sat down.

"I considered it," you admitted. "But curiosity won out. I spent all day trying to imagine what this mysterious proposition could be."

"And your theories?"

"Either you're recruiting me for corporate espionage, or this is an elaborate setup for asking me on a real date."

Jay smiled. "Neither, though the second option is less absurd than the first."

The waiter brought menus and wine recommendations. Jay ordered for both of you—not to control, but to expedite. The sooner pleasantries were addressed, the sooner he could present his case.

Once the preliminary course was served and privacy assured, Jay leaned forward slightly.

"Before I explain, I want to establish context," he began. "My family situation is... complicated. As the heir to Park Industries, certain expectations exist regarding my personal life."

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Among these is the expectation that I'll marry strategically. Someone who enhances the company's position, preferably from a compatible business family."

"Arranged marriage in the 21st century?" You raised an eyebrow. "That seems archaic."

"It's framed as 'guided choice,'" Jay explained. "But the outcome is essentially predetermined. The candidates all fit a specific profile, vetted extensively by my mother."

"And you don't want that," you guessed.

"I've seen where that path leads," Jay said carefully. "It's not favorable."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

Here was the critical moment. Jay took a measured breath.

"I'm proposing an alternative arrangement. A marriage of convenience, with clearly defined parameters and mutual benefits."

Your expression froze. "Excuse me?"

"I know how this sounds," Jay said quickly. "But please hear me out before deciding."

You sat back, arms crossed. "I'm listening, but this better be good."

"What I need is someone outside my world. Someone my mother can't manipulate or compromise. Someone with no hidden corporate agenda or family ambitions." Jay held your gaze steadily. "Someone like you."

"And what exactly would I get from this arrangement, besides the obvious headache?"

"Financial security," Jay said simply. "Complete financial independence. A generous settlement that would eliminate your student loans, housing concerns, and career pressures. You'd be free to pursue your writing without worrying about making rent."

He could see the calculation happening behind your eyes. The journalist weighing an unbelievable story.

"This would be a temporary arrangement," he continued. "Two years maximum. After which we would part amicably, with your financial future secured and my family obligations satisfied."

"You're serious," you said, realization dawning.

"Completely."

"But why me? You could find countless women willing to make this deal."

"Because you don't want anything from me except what we explicitly agree to," Jay explained. "You don't care about the Park name or legacy. You have no connection to our business rivals. You're honest, independent, and most importantly, you see me as a person, not a position."

You were silent for a long moment, processing.

"What would this arrangement involve... practically speaking?"

"A legal marriage. A public relationship that appears genuine. Attendance at certain family and business functions. Cohabitation in Seoul, though with separate living spaces." Jay outlined each point precisely. "No romantic or physical obligations whatsoever."

"And after two years?"

"A quiet divorce with a generous settlement. You return to your life with complete financial freedom. I gain time to secure my position without my mother's interference."

You studied him intently. "What aren't you telling me? This seems too... calculated."

Jay hesitated. How much could he safely reveal without sounding deranged?

"My mother is pushing me toward a specific alliance that would be disastrous," he said finally. "I need to block that move decisively. Your presence provides that blockade."

"Corporate chess using marriage pieces," you murmured.

"An apt metaphor."

The waiter arrived with the main course, forcing a pause in the conversation. Jay waited patiently as you considered his proposal.

"I'd have to move to Korea," you said finally. "Learn a new language, navigate a completely foreign business world, pretend to be in love with someone I barely know."

"All significant challenges," Jay acknowledged. "Hence the substantial compensation."

"How substantial?"

He named a figure that made your eyes widen slightly.

"Plus all living expenses, travel, and a housing allowance upon our separation," he added. "Financial security for the foreseeable future."

You took a sip of wine, buying time to think. Jay remained silent, giving you space to process.

"Why should I trust you?" you asked finally. "No offense, but this sounds like the beginning of a thriller where the protagonist never returns from Seoul."

"A valid concern." Jay reached into his jacket and removed a USB drive. "This contains a draft contract outlining everything we've discussed, plus insurance clauses to protect you. Have your own lawyer review it. Make any reasonable amendments."

He placed the drive on the table between you.

"I don't expect an answer tonight," he continued. "Take time to consider. Research me, the company, the arrangement. I'll be in New York three more days."

You didn't touch the drive. "Are you always this prepared?"

"I don't propose convenient marriages on a whim," Jay said with a hint of humor. "This is a strategic decision for both of us."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we enjoy this excellent meal, I thank you for considering it, and we part as friends with an unusual story."

You finally reached for the drive, turning it in your fingers thoughtfully.

"Two years of my life," you mused. "Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Or two years experiencing a world few ever see from the inside," Jay countered. "With material for the book you mentioned wanting to write. And afterwards, complete freedom to pursue whatever you wish."

He could see the writer in you considering the possibilities. The practical side weighing the financial security. The cautious part still suspicious of his motives.

"I'll think about it," you said finally, slipping the drive into your purse. "That's all I can promise right now."

"That's all I ask." Jay raised his glass slightly. "To unusual propositions and careful consideration."

You hesitantly clinked your glass against his. "To whatever the hell this is."

The rest of dinner passed in lighter conversation, Jay deliberately steering away from the proposal to give you mental space. As they finished dessert, he sensed you had more questions brewing.

"Just ask," he said gently. "Whatever you're thinking."

"Why marriage?" you asked bluntly. "Why not just date someone your mother doesn't approve of until this mysterious alliance threat passes?"

A perceptive question. Jay had prepared for it.

"Because dating is easily dismissed as temporary infatuation. Marriage is definitive. It removes me completely from the candidate pool and blocks the specific alliance my mother is orchestrating."

You nodded slowly. "And there's really no romantic component to this? No hidden agenda where you're hoping for more?"

"None whatsoever," Jay assured you. "This is a business arrangement with clearly defined boundaries. Any personal friendship that develops would be separate from our agreement."

Outside the restaurant, you paused before parting ways.

"This is insane," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Completely insane."

"From a conventional perspective, yes," Jay agreed. "But sometimes unconventional solutions are necessary for unusual problems."

"I'll call you," you said. "After I've thought about it. And possibly had my head examined."

Jay smiled. "I look forward to hearing from you, whatever your decision."

As you walked away, Jay allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism. You hadn't immediately rejected the idea. You'd taken the contract. You were considering it.

Phase two: initiated.

The path to avoiding his destruction was unconventional, certainly. But with each step, each calculated move, he was redrawing the map of his future.

And for the first time since waking up five years in his past, Jay felt something akin to hope.

-

"He asked you to what?"

Priya's voice carried across the café, drawing glances from nearby tables. You winced, motioning for her to lower her volume. Two days had passed since Jay's proposal, and you'd finally broken down and called Priya. Some things were too bizarre to process alone.

"Keep it down," you hissed. "I haven't decided anything."

"Sorry," Priya whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. "But you can't drop 'Korean billionaire wants me as his contract wife' and expect normal volume control."

You stirred your coffee absently. The USB drive sat heavy in your bag, untouched since the dinner. Every time you considered plugging it in, reality reasserted itself. People didn't just get propositioned for fake marriages by corporate heirs. Not in real life.

"Maybe I imagined it," you said. "Stress-induced hallucination."

"Honey, you don't hallucinate trust fund provisions and prenuptial terms." Priya tapped the table emphatically. "And Park Industries is the real deal. My cousin works in finance and says they're basically royalty in Korea."

You sighed, glancing at your phone. Three missed calls from your editor about a deadline. Two emails from your landlord about the rent increase. A notification about your student loan payment.

Normal life, insistently demanding attention while some alternate universe beckoned from a USB drive.

"What would you do?" you asked.

Priya considered this, stirring her chai thoughtfully. "I'd wonder why me. Of all the women in New York—hell, in the world—why pick someone he met at my mediocre exhibition?"

"He said I don't want anything from him. That I see him as a person, not a position." You shrugged. "And apparently I'm not connected to any rival companies."

"That's... oddly specific." Priya frowned. "Like he's running from something."

A memory flashed—Jay on the rooftop garden, talking about redrawing sections of his path. The wistfulness in his voice when he mentioned roles becoming cages.

"Maybe he is," you murmured.

"Look, Y/N, this is either the strangest fantasy or the most interesting opportunity of your life." Priya grabbed your hand. "But either way, you should at least read the contract. Writer curiosity, if nothing else."

You nodded slowly. She was right. Whatever this was—elaborate joke, midlife crisis, legitimate offer—you couldn't make a decision without information.

"What about Seoul?" you asked, voicing one of the hundred practical concerns cycling through your mind. "My life is here."

"Your life is a studio apartment with questionable plumbing and editor who underpays you," Priya said bluntly. "Seoul has universal healthcare and a subway system that actually works."

"And a language I don't speak."

"And a completely fresh start, financial security, and material for that book you've been talking about writing since college." Priya squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying do it. I'm saying don't dismiss it without considering the insane possibility that this fever dream might actually be real."

Your phone pinged—a text from Jay:

No pressure on your decision. But if you'd like to discuss further, I'll be at the same restaurant tonight at 8. Whether you come or not, I enjoyed our time together.

Priya peered at the message. "Polite. Not pushy. Gives you space." She raised an eyebrow. "For a corporate shark offering a fake marriage, he's surprisingly... decent?"

"That's what makes this so confusing," you admitted. "He seems genuine, even when discussing something completely manufactured."

"Maybe that's why he thinks you'd be good at this. You're both honest about the dishonesty." Priya sat back. "So, are you going tonight?"

You stared at your phone, the mundane world of deadlines and bills momentarily suspended as you considered stepping further into whatever alternate reality Jay Park occupied.

"I guess I'll start by reading the contract," you said finally.

Priya grinned. "That's my practical journalist. Verify, then trust."

"I didn't say I trust him," you protested.

"Honey, you wouldn't have called me if you weren't already halfway to saying yes."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. She wasn't entirely wrong.

Whatever this was—fever dream or opportunity—you couldn't shake the feeling that Jay Park had seen something in you that even you hadn't recognized. Something valuable enough to upend both your worlds.

And despite every rational objection, part of you wanted to find out what it was.

-

After accepting Jay's proposal, everything moved quickly, but not without moments that made you question the purely contractual nature of your arrangement.

The first time you caught yourself actually looking at Jay—not as your contractual fiancé but as a man—was during a video call about logistics. He'd just finished a workout, answering your call in a fitted t-shirt damp with sweat, hair disheveled in a way you'd never seen before.

"Sorry for my appearance," he'd said, seemingly unaware of how the thin fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing a physique usually hidden beneath perfect tailoring.

"It's fine," you'd replied, fighting to keep your eyes on his face rather than the defined muscles visible through his shirt. "We were just discussing flight details, right?"

You'd blamed your distraction on the strangeness of the situation. Just a natural reaction to an objectively attractive man. Nothing more.

-

Your Korean lessons began three weeks after you'd accepted his proposal. The language was challenging, but Jay insisted on joining occasionally, his pronunciation impeccable as he demonstrated sounds your English-trained mouth struggled to form.

"Fuck," you muttered one evening, dropping your head to the table after another failed attempt at a particularly difficult honorific. "I'm never going to get this right."

Jay looked up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. "I've never heard you swear before."

"I'm usually more professional," you admitted. "But this language is kicking my ass."

He closed his computer and moved to the chair beside you. "Try again. It's all in the tongue placement."

You made another attempt, mangling the syllables spectacularly.

"No, like this." Jay demonstrated slowly, exaggerating the mouth movement. You found yourself staring at his lips, noticing their perfect shape, the way the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top.

After your third failure, he sighed. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward your face.

You nodded, not entirely sure what he was asking permission for.

He reached out, placing his thumb gently against your lower lip. "You need to press your tongue here, behind your teeth, not against your palate."

Heat surged through you at the unexpected contact. His thumb lingered, moving slightly against your lip as he demonstrated the position. Your eyes locked, and something shifted in his expression.

"Try again," he said softly, his voice lower than before.

You attempted the word, hyperaware of his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw.

"Better," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "Almost there."

The air between you thickened. His hand should have moved away by now. It hadn't.

"Jay," you said, barely audible. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of whatever was happening.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Instead, he blinked and withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

"That's enough for today," he said briskly, returning to his original seat. "You're making progress."

But that night, alone in your room, you caught yourself touching your own lip where his thumb had been, replaying the moment when his professional demeanor had briefly cracked.

-

Three weeks in, during dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, Jay brought up the public aspects of your arrangement.

"We need to discuss how we'll appear as a couple," he said, his tone practical but not cold. "Physical boundaries. Forms of address."

"Like pet names?" you asked, taking a sip of wine.

"Exactly." He seemed relieved you understood. "In Korea, especially in my position, excessive public displays would seem inappropriate. But certain... intimacies are expected between engaged couples."

"So hand-holding, yes. Making out in boardrooms, no." Your joke earned a genuine smile from him.

"Precisely." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "And regarding names..."

"What do people usually call you? Besides Jay or Mr. Park?"

His expression shifted subtly. "My mother calls me Jongseong. Business associates use Mr. Park. No one has ever used anything... affectionate."

The admission felt strangely vulnerable coming from him.

"What would you be comfortable with?" you asked.

His eyes met yours directly. "I've always thought 'babe' or 'baby' seemed... nice. Natural." The words seemed difficult for him to say, as if admitting to a secret preference. "But only if it feels comfortable for you."

The request surprised you – this controlled, strategic man wanting something so ordinary, so human.

"I can try that," you said, watching as relief softened his features. "Might take practice to say it without feeling weird, though."

"We have time to practice," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

-

Shopping for your new wardrobe didn't happen in a fairy tale montage. Instead, it involved practical discussions of events you'd attend, climate considerations, and cultural norms.

"These social signifiers matter to my family," Jay explained as you examined a designer dress that cost more than your rent. "But your comfort matters to me."

"To our arrangement," you corrected gently.

He paused, meeting your eyes. "Yes. And to me personally."

The statement hung between you, neither acknowledged nor dismissed as you continued through the high-end boutique. The personal shopper brought Jay a selection of suits to try as well, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself watching as he emerged from the fitting room in each new outfit.

The last one—a charcoal gray suit cut to perfection—made you momentarily forget the contract entirely. The tailor knelt, making adjustments to the trousers while Jay stood in front of a three-way mirror. The jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tailored pants fitting perfectly across his ass.

You didn't realize you were staring until Jay's eyes met yours in the mirror, one eyebrow raising slightly. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught.

When you glanced back, the corner of his mouth had lifted in a small, satisfied smile.

-

Your parents were understandably shocked by the engagement announcement. The video call with them and Jay could have been disastrous, but he navigated it with surprising warmth.

"I understand this seems sudden," he told them, his formal demeanor softened. "I value your daughter's independence and perspective. Those qualities are rare in my world."

Later, alone, your mother had texted: "He's careful with his words around you. Watches how you react. Not sure if that's good or concerning."

"Still deciding," you'd replied honestly.

Six weeks after your agreement, you found yourself helping Jay pack for Seoul in his hotel suite, the reality of what you'd committed to finally sinking in.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, noticing your silence.

"Seventh or eighth, at least," you admitted.

You expected a strategic reassurance. Instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching but close.

"I have them too," he said quietly. "This arrangement... it's unusual for both of us."

"You seem so certain about everything."

"I'm certain about what I'm avoiding," he clarified. "Less certain about what we're building."

The honesty was refreshing. Not romance, but genuine transparency.

"Let's try something," you suggested. "Just to see how it feels."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You cleared your throat, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Could you pass me that folder... babe?"

The pet name hung awkwardly between you. Jay blinked, then a small, genuine smile formed.

"Here you go," he replied, handing you the folder, then hesitating before adding a tentative, "...babe."

You both laughed at the strangeness of it, the tension breaking.

"That was terrible," you admitted.

"Catastrophic," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "But it will get easier."

It was the first time you'd seen him truly laugh. Something shifted subtly between you – not love or even attraction necessarily, but the foundation of something human and real beneath the contractual arrangement.

Eight weeks after the proposal, you boarded his family's private jet bound for Seoul.

As the plane leveled off, Jay handed you a thin folder. "Key family members and dynamics. Not a test, just preparation."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding that you wanted to succeed at this, whatever "this" was becoming.

"Thank you," you said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "...baby."

It still felt strange, but less forced. Jay's expression softened in response.

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been during those first calculated conversations weeks ago.

Neither of you were in love. That wasn't part of the contract. But as the plane carried you toward Seoul, there was a growing sense that whatever performance awaited might be built on something more substantial than just legal terms.

Not romance, not yet. But a partnership forming its own unique shape – part strategy, part genuine connection, and all uncharted territory.

-

Arriving in Seoul felt like stepping into another dimension. A fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows. Security personnel with earpieces. Photographers kept at a careful distance by a team of efficient PR staff.

"Ready?" Jay asked quietly, his hand finding yours as the plane door opened.

You nodded, though "ready" seemed an absurd concept for what awaited.

The moment you stepped onto Korean soil, Jay transformed—his posture impeccable, his smile exactly the right blend of pride and discretion. His arm slid around your waist, protective but not possessive.

"Perfect," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Just like that."

The performance had begun.

to be continued.

-

Taglist: : @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @annybah @zzhengyu @naurwayyyyy @ddolleri @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @lovelycassy @highway143 @koizekomi @dearestdreamies @heeheeyeoiizz01 @heewhoresimp @floweryjessy @jaeyunsbimbo @cutehoons02 @deluluscenarios @bubbletaeq @lamin143

[papoochu]

With the introduction of Nathalie's father in the latest episode, I decided it was time to finally put my interpretation of him on paper so I can catalog how my perception of him changes. Below are some design notes, backstory, and character study comments. (Warning: it's a lot) Of course, spoiler alert for my fic!

Background:

Victor = reference to Frankenstein

Serdtseva = derived from the word "heart" in Russian

Gave Nathalie “Sancoeur” as a way to distance himself + as a cruel joke

Born circa 1930 in Leningrad to a lower-middle-class family.

Family had connections to the Russian Orthodox Church.

Early Life & Imprisonment:

His early experiences during the Holodomor sparked outrage at the government

Arrested in the late 1940s during the Leningrad Affair while a university student for:

Openly practicing religion in an anti-Orthodox Soviet state.

Expressing interest in banned Western philosophy and literature.

Possible possession of prohibited texts or being reported by a peer.

Sentenced to several years in the Gulag system.

Endures brutal conditions.

Experience deeply affects and distorts his worldview.

Post-Stalin Release & Academic Career:

Released after Stalin’s death in 1953 during the Khrushchev Thaw.

Quietly reinstated into academic life as a professor.

Outwardly reformed; secretly continues dissident activities.

Smuggles and distributes censored literature (e.g., Solzhenitsyn, Western political theory, Orthodox theology).

Involvement in Samizdat & Tamizdat:

Participates in Samizdat (underground self-publishing of banned texts):

Used typewriters with carbon paper to make multiple copies.

Circulated materials within academic circles—dorms, staff offices, cultural clubs.

Involved in Tamizdat (smuggling works abroad to be published).

Rise and Fall in Soviet Society:

Gains influence through connections with:

Other Gulag survivors.

Ideologically flexible bureaucrats.

Rehabilitated intellectuals.

Later accused of sexual misconduct involving minors.

Truth unclear; rumors spread in both academic and dissident communities.

Under increased scrutiny, he resigns and vanishes from Soviet public life.

Exile and Life in France:

Possibly uses false claims of Jewish ancestry or religious affiliation to escape.

Refugee channels assisted by HIAS, Amnesty International, or the Catholic Church.

Smuggled out via Austria or Italy; resettled in France.

Reappears in Lille:

Poses as a Soviet defector and intellectual.

Possibly tolerated by French authorities during Cold War for intelligence value.

Lives in exile—brilliant but embittered, haunted by past, with a sense of superiority.

Family & Decline:

Marries a fellow Soviet émigré, also carrying trauma.

Despite poverty and alienation, they have an unplanned child—Nathalie.

Becomes more religious in exile:

Uses faith to rationalize and justify his actions.

Becomes a controlling and abusive husband and father:

Traumatized, egotistical, and morally fractured.

Legacy marked by ideological extremism and deep personal damage.

Can't find proper work at first due to anti-USSR sentiments - first 2 decades in Lille marked by poverty

He works as a tutor

Slowly finds connections again as people recognize his prestige and skill

Works up in status again

His skills land him a spot on the council

Design Notes/Character Study:

Foil to Nathalie, the Duke, and Gabriel

Color scheme inverted from Gabriel’s

Nathalie dresses similarly to him

She looks more like her mother, but she undoubtedly is her father’s pet daughter

He dresses similarly to the Duke (in a darker color scheme)

Yellow tinge to his shirt - reminds viewer of decay and the past

Outfit based on Shostakovich

He likes to be put together:

Wears gloves

Doesn’t like to touch people directly

Touches Nathalie without gloves (views her as subhuman)

However, his past always cracks through

Clothes slightly oversized

Not afraid to get dirty

Clinical and precise

Juxtaposes Gabriel often getting emotional

Using Courier font rather than the usual Wild Words

Military training background in the USSR

Movements are precise and conservative

Gaunt

Muscle atrophy in the gulags

Doesn’t resort to brute force - is clinical and methodical in his violence

Uses leverage and environment to break bones

Learned to be observant

Scar on throat

His refusal to be silenced (contrasting Nathalie)

Dislikes humanity

Wants a better world

Likes cynical literature like Dostoevsky

Irony: completely misses the point of Crime and Punishment (book he is holding)

Blames the world around him

Believes Raskolnikov’s confession was weakness

Similar to Gabriel in that way

In the picture, he is beating up a predator

Irony: he too is a predator

Not out of concern or justice - out of possessiveness

Likes to inflict torture

First, break the legs (break strongest weapons; prevent escape)

Then, then the arms (not able to grab anything)

Final blow between C1-C7 vertebrae (if not dead, you’re quadriplegic for life)

Contrast to Nathalie, who prefers to tie up loose end quickly and cleanly + Gabriel who hasn’t crossed the line of killing

Eyes like "Lucifer" by Franz von Stuck

[branwinged]

Will you accept a mad dany arc if grrm does it in a different, more sensical way or would that always narratively suck for you?

it has nothing do with my personal feelings regarding the character. i dislike speculation of dany having a downfall arc because it reveals a misreading of the text and the narrative role she plays within it. i don't believe it can be done in a satisfying way because she was always intended to be a heroic character. the 'mad dany' reading relies on certain initial assumptions about her character that are being problematised within the story—which is difficult to discuss because grrm's intent regarding dany is at odds with the orientalist framework he employs in the construction of essos, but i'll try to be comprehensive about it. so dany is an exile, homeless and perpetually seeking a home. she was told by viserys that westeros is "our land" but she's not culturally westerosi the same way the rest of our cast is because she's also never known westeros. all she has are second hand, romanticised accounts from viserys (These places he talked of [...] they were just words to her). dany has lived her entire life in essos and absorbed their cultural norms and slavery is normalised in most of essos (There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves), it's especially apparent in her first chapter which pointedly draws attention to the various slaves serving at illyrio's manse, something dany doesn't express any moral objection to, because nobody has taught her this is wrong. and that understanding only comes after viserys sells her to drogo and she personally experiences a similar loss of autonomy.

Do you know what it is like to be sold, squire? I do. My brother sold me to Khal Drogo for the promise of a golden crown. Well, Drogo crowned him in gold, though not as he had wished, and I . . . my sun-and-stars made a queen of me, but if he had been a different man, it might have been much otherwise. Do you think I have forgotten how it felt to be afraid? DAENERYS II, A Storm of Swords

and when mirri reveals to dany that her act of 'saving' her was no saving at all. rescuing her through the offer of a place in drogo's khalasar is a meaningless gesture since it does nothing to address the systems that have enabled mirri's enslavement in the first place. yeah, she's fourteen and possesses no power in her own right and is not complicit in drogo's crimes but mirri's presence in the story is meant to teach her that lesson. dany does not arrive already possessed with a political consciousness that opposes slavery, she learns and reorients her worldview just as jon did once he became familiar with the free folk. this is an important detail because without it her crusade in slaver's bay is no longer a story about a former enslaved and sexually abused girl being provided the means to begin a revolutionary counter-struggle against a culture of dehumanisation, but about a civilising mission where a culturally westerosi (westeros, where slavery is outlawed. westeros which is clearly imagined as the occident to essos's orient) character with superior ideals travels to foreign lands to educate the barbarians—which would've made her a straightforward white saviour figure. this IS undermined by the way her storyline is rife with orientalist tropes and i'm getting to that, but my main point is that dany's character is very deliberately written to be someone who is stateless and doesn't belong anywhere. she is an other. which is compounded by her targaryen heritage—the targaryens are narratively imagined as white enough to co-exist with the rest of westeros but they're also being othered because they're a family originating from the east with 'depraved' inbreeding and blood magic practices (practices that are reviled throughout the whole continent), which simultaneously makes them too other to ever fully assimilate despite the family being culturally westerosi in all the ways that matter. this especially comes through in the coin quote, every house has had occasional despots for rulers but people only bother to pathologise the targaryens and that's because they're foreigners. "the gods flip a coin" is presenting this dichotomy of targaryens as either mad - violent barbarians from the east, or great, in which case they're exoticised as otherworldly, above the laws of gods and men. and the final thing that serves to other her is her association with the dothraki. the dothraki are initially introduced as violent savages, but that view has been challenged since then as dany adopts dothraki customs and comes to love their people as her own and even sees herself as more of a khaleesi than a queen. and i must emphasise that this is no way done well because a) the dothraki are constructed out of offensive stereotypes about steppe cultures b) five books later grrm hasn't bothered to give any of them interiority because he clearly doesn't care about the dothraki, they're an afterthought in his narrative about dany and c) i think the subversion of their introduction as the inferior racial other basically amounts to "they're noble savages".

so you see all this at work when in-universe those who revile her speak of alleged violent tendencies, that she's coming to burn the continent down, that she hatched her dragons through foul blood magic and that she tricked her khal husband into murdering her brother and has acquired an army of savages, that her court is made up of foreigners and 'honourless' westerosi men (jorah, barristan, and soon tyrion), while others talk of her supposed otherworldly beauty ("The last of her line. They say she is the fairest woman in the world.")—the mad dany reading of her is taking all this at face value, it's falling for that in-universe narrative her enemies have come up with, which associates her and her allies' foreignness with moral depravity. (this is also what the show did, which i said "achieved her s8 ending by fully leaning into the horror of the savage oriental horde come to oppress the civilised westerosi landowning class" and that hysterical randyll tarly speech "at least cersei wasn't a FOREIGNER"). a very early example of this is in the first book. robert wanted a teenager dead because she was a targaryen: aerys's daughter, rhaegar's sister, because she married a khal and adopted dothraki customs as her own. and it was ned who put up a fight against this. ned is flawed in my ways but do you suppose the narrative will diminish ned's legacy in this, in his stance against dehumanisation. and asoiaf is primarily about that, every major character has had experience with being othered (cripples, bastards, and broken things is about this) and within this narrative dany is meant to be The Other who is working to end institutions of otherisation. her upcoming invasion of westeros is not playing into the the threat of the foreign invader but raising questions of whether westeros is also in need of some reform (at one point tyrion directly compares a serf to a slave, something that might be narratively painting westeros as not culturally superior at all for having outlawed slavery). the problem, of course, being that the way grrm subverts the image of essos as the inferior racial other is by first populating it with orientalist stereotypes. he parallels some of the violence found in ghiscari culture and the dothraki raid of the lhazareen village with ramsay and amory lorch and gregor clegane et al operating in the riverlands in acok but the ghiscari are also portrayed almost as a monolith, as uniformly morally suspect individuals because our only introduction to them is through the slavers. it's the way dany is the only active abolitionist with a narrative voice in essos (there's the shavepate. but he's also a scheming violent extremist so), i said her story is not a civilising mission but when you fail to give any of the ghiscari oppressed a voice it doesn't result in great optics. and it is undeniable that the story is About Westeros, dany's great narrative destiny lies over there, when the long night arrives—an apocalyptic threat meant to affect the entire world—the battle for the dawn will also take place over there, i doubt the essosi will play a role in that.

[cbeargyu]

I loved the taehyun step siblings fic and I would love to read the soobin one you mentioned😭 can you pls post it🥺

sinners

summary: you were an orphan, quiet and careful, when soobin’s family took you in. they gave you shelter, a new name, and a place at their table—but what bloomed between you and soobin was never meant to grow. you didn’t see him as a brother. he was the boy who looked at you like the sky was something he could touch if you asked him to. your love began in secret—beneath candlelight, beside old barns, and behind locked doors—and it survived the storm of shame, rejection, and exile. years later, your daughter gyuri starts asking the questions you never answered, uncovering the shadows of your past. 

pairing: step brother!soobin x adopted sister!reader

genre: historical fiction, slow burn, forbidden romance, family drama, generational angst, emotional intimacy, bittersweet nostalgia.

warnings: forbidden romance (pseudo-incest, adopted siblings), themes of religious guilt, emotional tension, grief (mention of death of a spouse), strained parent-child relationships, implied sexual content (non-explicit), mention of underage intimacy in historical context, family rejection, generational trauma, secret-keeping, emotional vulnerability.

wc: 12,1k

notes: you guys know how much i love that late 80s/90s vibe… i don’t even remember how this idea came to me honestly, but i really hope you enjoy it. truth is, i rewrote this like three times—i tried adding a bunch of explicit smut but it just didn’t sit right in the end. felt like i wasn’t digging deep enough into the story and ughhh this was supposed to be the final version, i swear. i don’t wanna touch it again or i’ll end up redoing the whole thing from scratch lol. anyway, hope you enjoy it 🫶🏻

year 1999

it was your 39th birthday.

you sat at the head of the low dining table in your traditional house, a small cake resting in front of you with a single sky-blue candle flickering gently under the warm glow of the paper lanterns above. your family sang happily, voices echoing softly across the wooden beams of your home, and you smiled—genuinely, though modestly—at their thoughtful gesture.

to your left was your eldest daughter, choi gyuri, already bearing the subtle weight of adolescence in her slouched shoulders and disinterested gaze. to your right sat your youngest, choi beomgyu, bright-eyed and clapping enthusiastically, barely able to contain himself—because in your modest home, sweets were a rare and treasured delight.

and directly across from you sat the man who had known you longer than anyone alive.

your childhood friend. your confidant. your lover.

your husband.

choi soobin.

he wore a plaid shirt rolled up to the elbows, tucked meticulously into black dress pants cinched with a worn brown belt. he looked every bit the part of the respectable village schoolteacher, the kind who children admired and parents trusted without question. but beneath that calm, clean-cut image—beneath the way he smiled at your children, beneath the way he handed you a bouquet of dahlias with quiet reverence—there was something else. something deeper. older. sharper.

you accepted the flowers with a bashful smile, lowering your head as you inhaled their sweet scent. then you stood, smoothing your apron, and moved toward the kitchen to place them in fresh water, before retrieving a knife to cut the cake. beomgyu, ever eager, practically jumped into his seat, clapping again as if it were his birthday. gyuri hesitated, dragging her feet to the table, arms crossed. her father reached out to ruffle her hair—a gentle attempt at warmth—but she merely sighed under her breath and looked away.

you returned, slicing the cake into careful portions, serving each plate with delicate precision. you began with your husband, placing the dish before him with a slight nod, avoiding his gaze. he smiled softly and murmured a polite thank you, to which you only replied with a small nod, your hands folding in front of you, retreating.

gyuri watched this with a twitch in her brow. her mother—always so composed, so obedient—seemed like a woman from another century. a servant to her husband, not his equal. a ghost of a woman with a gentle voice and tired hands who never looked soobin in the eyes when she spoke to him. who called him not by his name, not with affection, but with the formal, distant title of “dear husband.”

to gyuri, something was off.

she had never seen them kiss. never seen them touch in any way that seemed truly intimate. and while she knew her parents were devout catholics and perhaps conservative in their ways, it didn’t explain the total absence of warmth. it didn’t explain why the most tender phrase her mother ever used for her father sounded like it belonged in a prayer, not a marriage.

it made her wonder.

what were they like when no one was watching?

because beneath the silence… something buzzed. a current of secrecy wrapped around her parents like smoke. sometimes she caught them exchanging glances across the room—brief, loaded, and unreadable. sometimes she noticed the way her mother’s hand would linger on the hem of soobin’s sleeve as she passed him tea. or the way soobin’s jaw would tense when someone brought up their respective families.

which was rare.

no one ever talked about the grandparents. not on your side, not on soobin’s. gyuri only knew that you had been orphaned at eleven, and that soobin—once heir to a large estate—had cut off all ties with his family over some unresolved, unspoken rift. there were no photos. no names. no stories. just silence.

and that silence had grown like a weed in gyuri’s heart.

there were nights she would lie awake, thinking of all the strange pieces: her mother’s unwavering devotion, her father’s cold poise, their refusal to speak of the past. she wondered if her mother had been forced into marriage, if her father had taken advantage of her, if something awful bound them together. but the truth—buried deep in the folds of your shared history—was stranger, more haunting.

you had been taken in by soobin’s mother after your parents died, because your mothers had once been dear friends. what had begun as a noble act of charity turned into something the village—and the family—would one day label as sinful. for as you grew in that house, under the watchful eye of soobin’s mother, you and the boy meant to treat you like a sister grew closer… in ways that defied blood and duty and the cold rules of religion.

at sixteen, you were no longer a child. and Soobin—eighteen and earnest—could no longer pretend that his feelings were brotherly. when his mother discovered the truth, she saw it as betrayal. a violation. her fury scorched everything. she condemned you both as ungrateful, as impure. she accused you of seducing her son, of shaming her house. and soobin… he stood by you. for the first time in his life, he defied his family, abandoned his name, and disappeared with you into the countryside, leaving everything behind.

together, you built a life out of the ashes of disgrace.

in a village far from seoul, among hills and rice paddies, you made a home in a modest hanok, raising your children with quiet pride and guarded love. you went to church every sunday, your rosaries worn from constant use, your souls constantly seeking forgiveness for a past neither of you would ever renounce.

and yet—despite the piety, despite the sacrifices, despite the masks you wore for your children and the neighbors—there was nothing holy in the way you touched each other when the doors were closed.

there was nothing brotherly about the nights when soobin pressed you into the wooden floor of your room, his hands in your hair, your rosary beads tangled between the sheets. you were still sinners. still burning.

but that part of you—of your marriage—remained hidden, sacred and profane, between the creaks of the old wood and the shadows of candlelight.

and gyuri… she was starting to hear those creaks.

you were eleven when you arrived at the choi household, a thin little thing swallowed up in a dress two sizes too big, the hem dragging slightly in the dirt behind your scuffed shoes. your hair had been braided that morning with trembling fingers, not with care, but with the quiet desperation of needing something—anything—to hold onto. clutched tight in your hands was a bouquet of dalias, their petals already wilting, curling inwards with the kind of sadness flowers seem to carry when they’ve been pulled from the earth too soon. they had sat on your mother’s grave just that morning, and you had taken them before leaving, dirt still clinging to their stems. not out of disrespect, but because you needed something of her, a piece of her scent, her favorite flower, her last offering to the world. they were all you had.

mrs. choi was kind, in the way women are when they’ve been raised to smile through expectations. she met you at the gate with a soft expression and hands that moved quickly—brushing your shoulders, smoothing your braid, plucking a leaf from your sleeve like she was trying to erase any evidence of your sorrow. she ushered you in with the firmness of someone who had done this before—inviting, but brisk. you remember the smell of the house before anything else: something like soy sauce and wood polish, and a faint floral scent that didn’t belong to your mother. it was strange to step into a home that was already warm, already full of someone else’s laughter and footsteps and silence.

she introduced you to her daughters first—two girls, both older than you, both wearing matching pinafores and the exact same look of quiet suspicion. they didn’t say much, only offered stiff little nods and a glance that lingered just long enough to let you know you didn’t belong. and then, she gestured toward him. “this is soobin,” she said, like she was handing you a pair of mittens or naming the weather.

he was thirteen. awkwardly tall for his age, all elbows and sharp angles, his hair falling slightly into his eyes. he had dirt under his nails, a smudge of something on his cheek that looked like oil, and a mouth that seemed permanently on the edge of some secret thought. his gaze met yours for only a second, and then dropped—like looking at you too long might expose something he didn’t want anyone to see. he said nothing. neither did you.

you stood there with your wilted flowers and your aching chest and your fingers trembling from holding on too tight, and in that silence, something shifted.

he couldn’t think of you as a sister. not even for a moment.

he tried. for the sake of his mother, of the idea of family. he kept his distance, polite but distant. he wouldn’t sit next to you at dinner. he never offered to share his candy. he didn’t look at you when you crossed the hallway in your oversized nightgown, dragging a pillow behind you like a ghost. but he watched you. when you weren’t looking, when you were curled up on the porch with your head on your knees, crying so quietly it barely made a sound. when you whispered to your flowers, begging them not to die yet. when you stared at your plate and blinked too much because the soup reminded you of her.

you didn’t speak to him much in the beginning. you didn’t speak to anyone, really. everything felt foreign—the food, the air, the way the girls whispered behind doors, the way mrs. choi hummed songs that weren’t lullabies you knew. but soobin... he was different. he was quiet too, in a way that made space for your grief. he didn’t ask questions. didn’t tell you to smile. but sometimes he left things on the edge of your desk—a mango candy, a piece of folded paper with a doodle of a cat, a small rubber eraser shaped like a strawberry. small things, nothing dramatic. but enough to say: i see you. i know you’re here.

as you both grew older, the quiet began to change. he started to fill out, his voice cracked, his limbs became less awkward. you watched him help his father at the factory, lifting sacks that looked too heavy for his back but never once did he complain. he would come home with his shirt sticking to his skin, his arms smeared with sweat and grease, and something inside you stirred that had no name yet. he started smoking, poorly, like a boy trying to understand what made a man, and you watched from the second floor window as he lit a cigarette behind the shed, cupping it with one hand like a secret.

you noticed how he argued with his mother when she scolded him, how he slammed doors when frustrated, how he bit his nails when he was nervous, but no matter what, he never skipped school. never missed a test. he would throw pebbles at your window at night when he couldn’t sleep, just so you’d peek through the curtains and roll your eyes at him. he liked making you roll your eyes. he said it made you look less sad.

and somewhere along the way, something else bloomed.

you stopped looking at him like a housemate, like the boy you were supposed to call ‘brother.’ you started looking at his hands, long and veined, stained with ink from the homework he scribbled down too fast. you watched his mouth when he chewed gum, when he muttered curses under his breath, when he grinned after winning a bet. you listened to the sound of his footsteps down the hall, the way his door clicked shut every night at 10:07.

you didn’t understand what you were feeling at first—just that it wasn’t the same warmth you had for the girls who braided each other’s hair and gossiped in the kitchen. it was something else. something heavy and warm, like the sun sitting low in your belly. and you knew, even if you couldn’t say it out loud: soobin wasn’t your brother. not to your heart. not to your body. not in the way you caught yourself staring when he wasn’t looking, or how his name felt softer on your tongue than any other word.

he had changed your world the moment he saw you standing there with your dead flowers and broken heart.

and you had changed his, too.

he just didn’t know what to do with it yet.

you were fifteen, maybe a little older, but still young enough to call it curiosity—though in truth, it was far more than that. the summer was thick with heat, and everything around the house had slowed to a drowsy lull. the trees hummed with cicadas, the air tasted like metal and dust, and the scent of boiling soy lingered in the corners of the kitchen long after dinner was cleared. you had taken to escaping out back, into the barn where the air was still and dense, where the light filtered through slats in golden beams that danced with motes of dust like fireflies.

he was already there when you arrived. you paused in the doorway, eyes adjusting to the amber gloom. he was sitting on a stack of old burlap sacks, his sleeves rolled up, shirt stuck to his back, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers even though he wasn’t smoking it. he looked older like that. worn in. dangerous in a way that made your heart twist in your chest.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he said without looking at you, his voice low, almost careful.

“neither should you,” you replied, just as quietly, closing the door behind you.

you didn’t mean to sit so close. you hadn’t planned it. but there was a pull between you, invisible but certain, that made you drift toward him like gravity itself had changed direction. the silence stretched, but it wasn’t awkward. it was thick, electric. the kind of silence that buzzed in your ears and made you hyper-aware of the space between your knees, your fingers, your breath.

he glanced at you then. not in that way he usually did, not like a passing look or something casual. this time it was deliberate. his gaze caught yours and didn’t let go. your stomach flipped. you wanted to look away. you didn’t. couldn’t.

“your braid’s messy,” he murmured.

you reached up instinctively to touch it. he reached too. fingers brushing yours. and for a second—barely even a second—you both froze.

that was it. that was the moment.

his hand didn’t move away. and neither did yours. your fingers were touching now, not quite entwined but pressed together, uncertain, trembling with the awareness that you were crossing a line that no one had drawn out loud, but that you both felt.

he shifted, just a little, just enough to close the breath of space between your shoulders. your thigh touched his. the fabric of your skirts rustled against the coarse material of his pants. you heard the softest intake of his breath and realized it matched the way your own lungs had stalled.

and when he looked at you again—really looked—there was something new behind his eyes. something tender, but also hungry. a question. a truth.

“you’re not my sister,” he whispered, like it hurt to admit it, but more than that, like he couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

and you didn’t flinch. didn’t correct him. because you weren’t. not in your heart. not in the way you had begun to trace the shape of his body in your dreams, or the way your thoughts wandered to the curve of his neck, the roughness of his hands, the softness of his voice when he was half-asleep and called out for someone—maybe you.

you nodded, just barely.

“i know,” you breathed.

and that was the first permission.

nothing else happened that day. no kiss. no confession. just that quiet, burning truth. your fingers, still touching. his hand, warm and trembling like yours. the silence stretching again, but now laced with something heady and forbidden and sacred.

a promise, unspoken. an understanding.

the beginning of the end of pretending.

the second time it happens, it feels different.

not like the first—the accidental touch of hands as you both reached for the same rusted pair of shears outside the shed, and your fingers had lingered a moment too long. that first time had left your stomach in knots, your breath caught, your chest rising and falling too quickly as he quietly pulled his hand away and murmured, “sorry.”

but this time... this time there’s no accident.

it’s late, the sun long set behind the ridge of hills, and the house is asleep, wrapped in silence except for the occasional groan of the old wood settling into the cold of night. you should be in your room. you should be under the covers, eyes closed, heart still.

but you’re not.

you’re barefoot, quiet, holding the hem of your nightgown in one hand as you creep down the hallway. you don’t even know what you’re looking for. or maybe you do—but you’re not ready to say it aloud.

not even in your mind.

you find him by the back door, half-shadowed in moonlight. he’s sitting on the bench where they usually leave baskets of vegetables from the garden. the window above him spills silver across his cheekbones, and his shirt is loose, sleeves rolled up, collar open. he’s always been handsome, even before you understood what beauty meant. but now... now there’s something dangerous about the way his eyes find yours, like he’s been waiting.

you hesitate. he doesn’t speak. neither do you.

his gaze drops, just for a second, to your bare feet. then travels up slowly, too slowly, until it meets your eyes again. and in the space between your lungs, something flutters wildly. heat creeps across your skin, shame and longing tangled like vines. you’re not a child anymore. and neither is he.

he nods toward the empty space beside him.

you sit.

for a while, there’s only silence.

the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but thick, heavy with everything unsaid. your knees almost touch. your arms almost brush. and every breath you take is a little harder to swallow.

when he finally speaks, his voice is low, a rasp in the dark.

“can’t sleep?”

you shake your head.

he leans back, hands braced behind him, elbows sharp against the wood.

“me neither.”

more silence.

but now it’s louder.

because you feel it.

the pull.

your hands are clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white, trying to anchor yourself to something safe. but your eyes betray you—they wander, tracing the curve of his throat, the way his collarbone moves when he swallows.

“you’ve changed,” he says suddenly, not looking at you.

you stiffen. “what do you mean?”

he exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh. “you don’t cry as much anymore.”

you glance down. “i still do. just not where anyone sees.”

“i see you,” he says.

the words hit you like a match to dry leaves.

you turn to look at him, really look. and he’s already looking at you. the kind of look that strips you down—not your body, not yet—but something more.

he sees all the parts you try to hide. and he doesn't look away.

his hand lifts. hesitates in the air between you.

then slowly, so slowly, it brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

his knuckles graze your cheek.

and you swear your breath leaves your body.

“you’re not my sister,” he murmurs, voice thick, hoarse, sinful.

and you whisper back—because it’s the only thing your throat can manage—“i know.”

his hand lingers. the warmth of his touch a brand on your skin.

he doesn’t kiss you.

he could have.

god, you wanted him to.

but he doesn’t.

instead, he stands.

and before he walks away, he says, “go back to bed, y/n.”

but you don’t sleep that night.

not even a little.

the barn is quiet at night.

too quiet.

you’re standing in the middle of the hay-covered floor, arms crossed over your chest, breath shallow. the wooden beams creak with the wind, and the air smells of earth, dust, and something older—memories soaked into the grain of the walls.

you came here looking for silence.

but he found you anyway.

soobin steps in through the side door, the same door he always slips out of when he’s trying to disappear for a few hours. there’s something about him in the moonlight—like a ghost from your dreams or a boy made of secrets. his hair is a little messy. his lips a little parted. and he’s looking at you like he already knows. like he feels it too.

“you followed me,” you say, not turning to face him completely.

“i always do,” he answers softly.

he walks closer. slowly. like he’s giving you the chance to run. but you don’t.

you can’t.

“you shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

“neither should you.”

you finally look at him. and something in you folds. caves in. aches. because his eyes are saying everything his lips won’t.

and maybe… maybe you’ve waited long enough.

“do you think about it?” you ask, your voice trembling, “what would happen… if we let it happen?”

he doesn’t blink.

he doesn’t flinch.

he takes another step, then another. until he’s right in front of you.

your chests almost touch.

your fingers almost brush.

“i think about it every night,” he breathes.

your heart stutters.

“soobin—”

but he’s already reaching for your face, gently, reverently, like he’s holding something sacred. his thumb strokes your cheek, slow and warm, and he leans in just enough for his forehead to touch yours. your breath mingles. your lashes brush.

“tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

you don’t.

you tilt your chin up. just enough.

and he takes it as permission.

his lips meet yours softly at first—so soft it barely feels real. a ghost of a kiss. a breath. a promise. your eyes fall shut as your hands lift to his shirt, fingers clenching the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

he kisses you again. deeper. longer.

his mouth moves against yours like he’s waited years to memorize the shape of it. and maybe he has. because everything about this feels inevitable. like gravity. like fate.

your back bumps against the wooden post behind you. he cages you in with one arm beside your head, the other curling around your waist, drawing you in like he can’t get close enough. and still, you want more. your bodies fit together like pieces of something ancient—unfinished until now.

his lips trail down to your jaw, then your neck, each kiss burning hotter than the last.

“this changes everything,” he whispers.

you nod, eyes fluttering open, chest heaving. “i know.”

“but i don’t care,” he says.

and when he kisses you again, it’s with a hunger that leaves you breathless.

this isn’t just a kiss. it’s the start of something irreversible.

something beautiful.

and forbidden.

and yours.

the back wall of the school gym was cracked and sun-bleached, half-covered with faded graffiti and vines that curled like claws. gyuri sat on the cold concrete ledge, her legs pulled up, hands wrapped around her knees. the others were older, louder, and more careless. but she didn’t mind. she liked to watch. to listen.

hyunjoo was tossing rocks at a rusted trash bin, each metallic thud sharp against the dusk. sungchan smoked lazily, leaning back against the wall with his hoodie halfway down his arms.

gyuri broke the rhythm.

“do your parents ever lie to you?” her voice barely carried.

sungchan rolled his eyes. “they lie all the time. it’s their thing.”

“what kind of lies?” gyuri pressed.

“the kind that don’t matter,” said hyunjoo. “the kind you get over when you’re not fifteen.”

miyeon exhaled sharply from her place near the fence.

“parents have shit they don’t want to explain. maybe yours just had a fight. maybe they hate each other and pretend not to for your sake. why are you digging?”

gyuri looked down at the scuffed toes of her shoes. her heart buzzed. “my mom… she never talks about her parents. she acts like they never existed. and my dad, he’s… careful. with her. in this weird, quiet way.”

jaemin, quiet until now, glanced over. “so? it’s not your business.”

but a moment later, as the others argued over a broken lighter, jaemin leaned closer and murmured, “if you really want answers… check their drawers. the back of closets. old boxes. they always keep the truth somewhere they think no one will look.”

gyuri didn’t reply. but the idea burned into her mind like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

that evening, while you were out running errands—your cloth bag slung over your arm, your steps light down the dirt path—gyuri waited exactly nine minutes before pushing open the door to your room.

it was quiet inside, filtered with afternoon light, the tatami floor warm under her socks. she moved with practiced silence toward the chest of drawers you always kept locked. but the latch was old. with a little effort and a bobby pin, it clicked open.

papers. ribbons. folded cloths scented with lavender.

and photos.

she pulled out a faded photograph: a little girl, no older than six, in a pale floral dress, straw hat tilted, hugging a small bouquet of sunflowers. you.

your smile in the picture was wide, your cheeks round and eyes bright. it didn’t look like the mother she knew.

then—another photo, hidden between envelopes.

you again, but older. a teenager, your hair windblown, your eyes narrowed like you’d been laughing or crying. and beside you, soobin. he looked younger too, with his arm slung around your shoulders, a cigarette in his other hand, lips slightly swollen. your bodies pressed close, close enough to feel the heat through the photo itself.

gyuri stared at it, something tight in her chest.

this was not the calm, practical love she saw at the breakfast table.

this was fire.

the photo haunted her. not in the way ghosts do, but in the way questions do—questions that twist themselves under your ribs and refuse to leave, even when you close your eyes.

gyuri hid the picture beneath her mattress. for now. but the next morning, when you hummed softly while making barley tea and the radio whispered old songs from the kitchen window, she watched you with sharper eyes.

you didn’t notice.

you never did.

your hands moved with the grace of someone who had made peace with their days. folding his shirt just so. placing the thermos into his old canvas satchel. checking the weather by stepping outside barefoot, always barefoot, and squinting at the clouds.

when soobin came down the stairs, you straightened his collar. he bent slightly to kiss your cheek. it was all routine. all silence and smooth edges.

but gyuri saw it now—the way your fingers lingered too long on the buttons, the way he looked at you like a man who once knew chaos but had buried it beneath the soil.

and when he left for the school, driving that wheezing car that always coughed twice before starting, you stood at the gate until the sound faded.

only then did you return inside.

gyuri waited until your steps disappeared down the hallway before slipping into the back room again. not your bedroom—this time, the storage closet at the end of the hall. the one that always smelled of cedar and old cloth.

she found a wooden box tucked behind a stack of winter blankets.

inside: a handkerchief, embroidered with a sun. a wrinkled envelope with no stamp, just your name written in all lowercase letters. and a necklace—simple, silver, with a tiny locket that clicked open like it still remembered how to breathe.

inside the locket: a dried petal. yellowed, fragile. maybe from a sunflower.

gyuri sat back on her heels, heart stammering. what was this? a keepsake from before her father? or something that belonged to him… before he was him?

she wanted to ask.

but how do you ask someone about the pieces of themselves they’ve hidden?

that night, soobin came home late.

he looked tired. not in the way the body is tired—but the soul. the kind of exhaustion that clings behind the eyes. you met him at the door, towel in hand, wiping your damp hands from washing dishes.

“dear husband, you stayed late again,” you said softly.

he nodded, kissed your forehead, then leaned against the frame. “new kid. cried the whole hour. didn’t want to let go of his mom.”

you smiled, sad and gentle. “you used to be like that.”

“i was worse.” he laughed, a soft sound.

you watched him. and he watched you watching him.

the kitchen smelled of garlic and rice, of comfort. but the quiet between you suddenly felt charged. like static before a summer storm.

“gyuri,” he said.

you tilted your head.

“what about her?”

he hesitated. eyes dropping to the floor. hand curling slightly at his side.

“she’s… asking questions.”

you stiffened, barely. “what kind?”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he crossed the room and poured himself a glass of water, fingers trembling just slightly as he set it down on the table.

“she’s too curious. like you were.”

you blinked. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

he didn’t look at you. just stared out the window, where the moon was a thin white scar in the dark sky.

“you remember that night… outside the temple?”

your breath caught.

he never talked about that night.

you stepped closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the table.

“what about it?”

soobin’s jaw clenched. his voice dropped.

“i should have left town after that. should have gone somewhere far.”

you flinched.

“you didn’t.”

“no. because you kissed me like you meant it. and suddenly leaving didn’t make sense anymore.”

you stood there, silence thick and trembling between you. the kitchen light flickered once.

“you’ve never said that before,” you whispered.

he turned to you finally. eyes soft. aching.

“i know. and i don’t know if i ever should again.”

then he touched your cheek. one finger, barely there.

“if she finds out how it really began… if she knows the weight of everything we chose to forget…”

you swallowed.

“then we deal with it. together.”

but neither of you said what you were really thinking.

what if we can’t?

dinner was quiet. too quiet.

the clinking of cutlery against ceramic plates echoed louder than usual, like a metronome ticking down to something inevitable. the stew was warm, the bread fresh—but there was a chill in the air that had nothing to do with the autumn breeze outside the hanok’s wooden walls. gyuri sat across from you, eyes sharp, lips pressed into a tight line. beomgyu, as always, was oblivious—talking about school, a funny story from his literature class, a friend who forgot his homework.

but gyuri was watching soobin. not with affection or casual curiosity, but with the precision of someone looking for cracks.

soobin chewed slowly, eyes down. he hadn’t noticed the intensity of her gaze—yet.

“appa,” she said suddenly, voice smooth, too smooth.

soobin looked up. “mm?”

“why did we never visit your family?” she said, resting her chin in one palm, elbow on the table like she knew it would annoy you.

soobin blinked. “we talked about this before. it’s… complicated.”

“complicated?” gyuri’s tone was light, but her eyes were anything but. “is that why you’ve never even tried to reconcile? not even once? not even for us?”

soobin’s jaw tensed. he put his spoon down gently, the soft clink against the bowl somehow louder than necessary. “gyuri.”

“no, really,” she continued, still smiling, but her words were daggers. “you never thought maybe beomgyu and i deserved to meet our grandparents? or your sisters? or your old friends from the village? anyone from your past?”

“gyuri, that’s enough,” you warned softly, but your voice barely reached her.

“because it almost feels like…” she tilted her head, watching soobin intently. “you’re ashamed. or hiding something. like maybe… you weren’t supposed to marry mom?”

soobin’s head shot up. his eyes locked with hers, and for a moment, you saw the flicker of something primal. something raw. he looked like a man trying to hold the world together with two bare hands.

“what did you say?” he asked, his voice low.

“i said,” gyuri leaned forward, her voice cutting, “maybe you and mom did something that would’ve made your family disown you. something… sinful.”

“gyuri!” you snapped, but she didn’t even flinch.

“and maybe,” she went on, ignoring the rising tension in the room, “that’s why we live here. why we’re so far from everyone. why there are no photos from before. no stories. nothing.”

soobin pushed his chair back. not violently, not loudly—but the screech of wood against wood was enough to make beomgyu look up from his soup, eyes wide.

“stop it,” soobin said, barely holding himself together. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

gyuri didn’t stop. her tone turned mockingly sweet. “or maybe i do.”

you moved before you could think.

the sound of your hand striking her cheek echoed across the table like thunder.

gyuri froze. so did beomgyu. even soobin looked stunned.

“that’s not how you talk to your father,” you said, breath trembling with fury. “you don’t get to sit there and act like you know what we’ve been through. like you understand.”

gyuri slowly turned her head back to you. her eyes shimmered—not from the slap, but from something deeper. fury. pain. betrayal.

“then tell me,” she said, voice breaking as it rose into a scream. “tell me what you’re hiding!”

you froze.

her words struck deeper than your slap ever could. your eyes widened. your heartbeat roared in your ears.

soobin stood behind his chair, fists clenched, knuckles white. his face was pale, mouth slightly open like he wanted to stop her—but couldn’t.

gyuri stood now too, breathing hard, staring at both of you with a fire that could burn the whole house down.

“i’m not stupid,” she whispered, trembling. “i see the way you two look at each other. like there’s something more than just love. like there’s a… weight. and i’ve always wondered why it felt like i was born from a secret.”

you opened your mouth to speak—but no sound came.

there was nothing you could say.

because the secret she was clawing toward wasn’t just a shadow. it was a truth buried deep beneath years of silence.

a truth with sunflowers and barn dust and trembling hands. a truth that still lived behind the locked door of your bedroom each night.

gyuri’s chair scraped back sharply as she stood, her breathing erratic and shallow, eyes glistening with unshed tears. the sting on her cheek had faded, but what remained was far worse—a wound that no reprimand could erase.

“i hate this,” she spat. “i hate this family. it’s all fake.”

you tried to reach for her, but she flinched away before your fingers could even graze her sleeve.

“don’t touch me,” she whispered.

and then she was gone—barefoot, running out through the wooden door of the hanok, her footsteps echoing down the porch, swallowed by the night. beomgyu started to rise, confused and unsure, but soobin shook his head gently.

“let her go.”

the house fell into a silence so thick, it hurt. only the soft crackle of the oil lamp by the wall offered a heartbeat.

you stood frozen in the middle of the room, hand still trembling from the slap you hadn’t even realized had landed with so much force. shame burned under your skin, and guilt twisted your stomach in violent knots.

you turned slowly to look at him.

soobin hadn’t moved. he stood there, staring at the space gyuri had just occupied, shoulders hunched forward as if the weight of her words had crushed something inside him. his lips parted slightly, but there was nothing left to say—at least not out loud.

you walked to him, slowly, carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. your hand reached for his, the same hand that had struck your daughter, and laced your fingers with his.

“dear husband…” your voice cracked.

he looked at you finally. god, his eyes. they were the same ones that used to look at you through haylofts and chapel candles and whispered sin. the same eyes that had begged you to run away with him when the world turned against you. now they looked tired. defeated.

“we’ve hurt her,” he said quietly. “we’ve hurt her without meaning to.”

“i know,” you whispered, stepping closer, your forehead gently resting against his chest. “but how do we explain what they were never supposed to know?”

he wrapped his arms around you. it wasn’t lustful. not tonight. it was grounding. protective. desperate.

“maybe we don’t,” he murmured against your hair. “maybe we just hold on to what we still have.”

you stayed like that for a long while, swaying slightly, the cool air creeping in from the open door where gyuri had disappeared.

you remembered a night years ago when you were the one who ran—barefoot, tears in your eyes, with soobin chasing behind you. how he held you then, in a field of stars and silence, swearing that no matter how wrong the world said your love was, he would carry it like a vow. not once, not out loud—but every day, in every look, every secret touch behind closed doors.

and now here you were. grown. older. married. parents. but the sin never washed away.

“she’s not wrong,” you whispered. “we did something we can’t undo.”

“but we never regretted it,” he said, brushing your hair behind your ear. “not once.”

“no,” you admitted, looking up at him with tear-glossed eyes. “not once.”

he leaned down slowly, so slowly, as if kissing you in that moment might shatter something irreparable. but your lips met anyway, soft and solemn, like a prayer spoken through breath.

when you pulled apart, he didn’t smile. he didn’t need to.

because you both knew gyuri’s question had cracked open the past—and whatever came next, it wouldn’t be silence anymore.

the next morning arrived heavy with a silence that pressed against the walls like fog. the table remained untouched, bowls of rice cooling, untouched plates of banchan abandoned in awkward arrangement. the hanok, usually filled with soft rustlings, tea being poured, the creak of floorboards—felt like a house holding its breath.

beomgyu sat alone on the porch, his long legs folded, head resting against one of the wooden pillars. the air was still, early sun flickering through the slats in golden lines. he had barely touched his food. eyes puffy. quiet.

soobin found him there. he approached slowly, cautiously, as if stepping into a room mid-prayer. he stood for a moment before lowering himself beside his son, knees cracking, posture weighed with unspoken things.

"she didn’t come back," beomgyu said without looking at him.

soobin nodded. "i know."

silence.

"what happened?" beomgyu finally asked, turning his face, those dark eyes searching—gentler than gyuri’s, but sharp with their own awareness. "why did she say all that? why did mom slap her?"

soobin exhaled. "it’s complicated."

"it always is. but she’s not stupid. neither am i. i’ve seen how you two look at each other when you think no one’s watching. the way you… hold her hand. the way she disappears into the room with you for hours. it’s not just marriage. it’s something else. it always has been."

soobin closed his eyes, feeling the weight of every word press deeper into his chest. he wanted to speak, to explain, to protect.

but how do you tell your son that the woman he calls mother once arrived at your doorstep with a braid, a bouquet of wilted dahlias, and the saddest eyes you had ever seen?

he opened his mouth, but before anything came out—

—he remembered.

it had been a rainy afternoon.

she had just turned fifteen. her body had begun to shed its childish awkwardness, and the girl who once cried quietly in the corners of rooms had started to smile again, though only when no one was looking.

he was seventeen then, taller, broader, already helping his father in the workshop, muscles forming from labor, hands always smelling faintly of metal and pine.

she came in from the rain that day, soaked through her hanbok, her braid unraveling, clutching something to her chest.

"they trampled the dahlias," she whispered, trembling. "the neighbor boys. i left them by the grave and—"

she couldn’t finish.

soobin reached for her instinctively. hands warm, steady. he took the crushed flowers from her palms and placed them carefully in a bowl of water on the kitchen counter.

when she looked up at him, her lips trembled.

"do you ever forget her face?" she asked. "your real grandmother. or anyone who died?"

he shook his head. "no. not really."

she blinked rapidly. then nodded.

"i think i’m forgetting my mother’s voice."

that broke him. and before he could think, before he could breathe—he cupped her face. gently. reverently. his thumbs brushed her cheeks, wet from tears and rain. and in that moment, neither one of them saw the other as siblings.

her lips parted slightly, eyes wide but unafraid. she leaned forward. and so did he.

their lips met like a question. like a secret held too long.

when they parted, they stared at each other. and neither ran.

because they both knew, deep in their chests, that whatever had just happened—it was the beginning.

a love too strong for rules.

a devotion born not of duty, but of recognition.

and they never looked back.

the rain has been falling for hours now—thick and steady, soaking the ground, turning the gravel road to sludge, beating soft rhythms against the tiled roof above your kitchen. it’s well past dark, the dinner dishes washed and dried, the lamps dimmed, and the fire still flickering low in the hearth. you had tried not to look at the clock too much, had tried not to glance at the window every few minutes or keep imagining the sound of footsteps beyond the gate. but you failed. every few moments your heart skipped in your chest, waiting—aching—for her.

and then, just as the wind howled again and you stood from your chair with a hand to your chest, you heard it. the creak of the gate. the hurried, uneven footsteps through mud and puddles. the jingle of the latch being lifted with cold, clumsy fingers.

you rush to the door before anyone else can. and there she is.

gyuri.

drenched. breathless. her long hair plastered to her face, her clothes soaked through, clinging to her like wet fabric against porcelain. her cheeks are red from the cold, her eyes swollen from crying, her hands trembling at her sides. she looks exhausted. like she’s been running for hours and has only now remembered where home is.

you don’t hesitate. not even for a second.

you step into the rain, barefoot, dress billowing behind you, and you wrap your arms around her so tightly that she gasps. you don’t care that she’s dripping wet. you don’t care that her boots smear mud across your skirt or that your own hair is beginning to cling to your temples. she’s here. she’s safe. she’s in your arms.

“beomgyu,” you call behind you, voice shaking, “bring towels. now.”

but you barely hear your own voice. everything in you is focused on the girl in your arms—the girl who came from your body, who once fit into the crook of your elbow, who now stands almost eye to eye with you but still feels like your baby. your gyuri. your stubborn, wild-hearted, sharp-tongued daughter. the one who slammed the door and said things that broke you.

and yet here she is, returning through the rain like something half-drowned and half-redeemed.

you press your hand to her cheek, feel how cold her skin is. you smooth the hair from her face even though it’s soaked. your hands tremble as they touch her, as if trying to memorize her all over again. your eyes sting. and you can't stop them.

the tears fall without permission. silently. without sound. just warm trails down your cheeks as you kiss her temple, her forehead, the corner of her eye. her wet lashes brush your lips.

“you’re home,” you whisper, voice cracked and trembling. “thank god, gyuri… you’re home.”

she doesn’t say anything. not at first. her chin lifts slightly, defiant still. proud as ever. the tears on her cheeks mix with the rain, and she refuses to meet your eyes. but her hands clutch your dress tightly, fists balled against your waist like a child afraid to let go.

and then, quietly, like the softest confession—

she sobs.

her shoulders shake. a small, broken sound escapes her throat. she doesn’t speak, doesn’t explain, doesn’t apologize. but she cries. and you hold her even tighter, swaying slightly on the porch, the rain still falling around you both like the sky is mourning too.

beomgyu appears at the door with a stack of towels and wide eyes, unsure of what to do. you don’t even look at him. you just say, “leave them by the fire,” and he does, retreating quickly, sensing something sacred unfolding.

you guide her inside. you don’t let go of her for a long time. not even as you wrap her in towels, not even as she sits beside the fire and you kneel in front of her, drying her hands gently, brushing the water from her hair like you did when she was five years old and cried because her favorite dress got muddy.

she doesn’t speak. neither do you.

but your eyes say everything.

you’re forgiven.

you’re loved.

you’re my daughter.

and i will always open the door for you.

always.

gyuri sat on the edge of her bed, the room swallowed by darkness except for the faint glow of the streetlamp outside casting soft shadows across the walls. her clothes had long since been changed, the damp fabric replaced by the warmth of dry, soft fabric, but the weight of everything lingered on her shoulders. the fight. the words she’d thrown, the anger that had surged up from places she didn’t want to acknowledge. she didn’t regret them, not exactly. but as she sat there, your face came to her mind, soft and sad in a way that made her heart ache.

you had embraced her in the rain—soaked, cold, angry—and she hadn’t said a word about it. just held her, wrapped her in warmth, never letting go, even when gyuri had tried to distance herself. gyuri could still feel the dampness of your dress against her skin, the way you held her so tightly, as if afraid to let go.

it was a strange feeling, one gyuri had never truly known before. this kind of care. it wasn’t like how other parents might act. it wasn’t just about doing what was expected. it was something deeper. something that, sometimes, made her feel guilty.

the door creaked softly, and her mother had left her there, alone, with only her thoughts for company.

as the minutes passed, the tension in gyuri’s chest slowly began to loosen. she couldn’t explain it—didn’t understand it. but something inside her shifted. the anger, the frustration—it all started to fade away. and what remained was that feeling, the warmth of your arms, the unspoken words of forgiveness that hovered in the space between them.

she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, feeling small again. the way you had always made her feel safe, even when she didn’t want to admit it.

but now, in the silence of her dark room, it was like she was seeing you in a new light. not just as a parent, but as a woman. someone who had her own history, her own battles, her own wounds. and gyuri didn’t know everything about you. didn’t know the full story. but she knew, deep down, that you had fought for her—for all of them. and maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong to shut you out. wrong to think she could handle everything on her own, without you.

there was still so much she didn’t understand about her family. so much she didn’t know. but as the night stretched on, with the soft sounds of rain tapping against the window, gyuri slowly started to piece together what she’d been too stubborn to see before.

you weren’t perfect. but you had always loved her. loved them. and that, more than anything, was something that gyuri could never push away.

the darkness of the room wasn’t so suffocating now. she could breathe again.

and for the first time that night, gyuri closed her eyes and allowed herself to let go of the tension in her shoulders, curling up in bed as a tear slipped down her cheek, swallowed by the pillow beneath her.

the chapel is small, quiet, and slightly hidden at the edge of the new town, nestled between low hills and the old almond trees that lean in like witnesses. it's not grand. the paint is chipped, the wooden pews creak when you sit, and the stained-glass windows cast warm, dusty colors on the stone floor. but it’s perfect. it feels untouched by the world’s noise—like this place was waiting, quietly, just for you and him. and that’s all you’ve ever wanted. a place to say “yes” to him without having to explain to anyone why your heart has already been his for years.

you stand at the entrance in a simple dress, soft and cream-colored, stitched lovingly by the widow down the street who still remembers when you were just a quiet girl walking alone to the bakery. your hands aren’t shaking, though your heart is loud in your chest. there’s no veil, no jewels—only your unpinned hair, your sun-kissed skin, and the bouquet of sunflowers you picked yourself from the edge of the field. the same sunflowers he once tucked behind your ear when you were seventeen and he told you he couldn’t live without you. the memory presses close to your skin as you step forward, your bare feet soundless against the floor.

soobin waits for you at the front, his hands clutched so tightly in front of him you’re sure his knuckles are white. his suit doesn’t quite fit—it’s borrowed from a cousin—and the tie is a little crooked. but nothing could make him more beautiful to you. he’s only twenty, but he already looks like a man who has chosen his path with his whole soul. he looks at you like you’re everything. and you are. to him, you’ve always been everything.

there’s no one here from his family. no tears from a mother, no handshake from a father. the last time you saw them, his mother couldn’t even meet your eyes, and his father had shouted so loud the walls shook. they had made it clear you were not worthy. not with your history. not with your name. not with the scandal of that summer still clinging to you like sin. they told him he was throwing his life away. but soobin had looked them in the eyes, said nothing, and walked out. walked toward you.

you’ve never had family to disappoint. no father to give you away. no mother to kiss your cheek and smile through tears. you’ve known the ache of empty chairs all your life, and today is no different. but it doesn’t hurt the same, not now. because every step you take toward him fills the hollow places you once feared would stay empty forever.

the priest’s voice is soft, worn by time. he says the words that have been said for centuries, but they feel new in your ears. he asks you if you choose him, and you say “i do” without hesitation. and when soobin says it back, his voice is low and steady, like a vow that’s already been living in him long before this moment. he slides the simple gold band onto your finger, hands trembling as they always do when they touch you. and then he kisses you. in front of god and sunlight and the smell of lilies—he kisses you like you’re his miracle. like you’re the salvation he never dared to hope for.

you walk out of the chapel hand in hand, the sun hanging low and golden behind the hills, and his thumb traces small circles over your knuckles the entire walk home. when your heels begin to blister, he lifts you onto his back and laughs when you call him ridiculous. you laugh too, pressing your face into his shoulder, breathing in the scent of sweat and sunlight and everything that is him. your home is small, paint peeling, the furniture mismatched. but it’s yours. it’s safe. it’s real.

and that night, under the flickering light of a single candle, he kisses you again—slower, deeper, with the weight of something holy. you undress for him like you’re unwrapping a secret you’ve kept only for him. and when his hands explore the curves of your body, they do so with reverence, with familiarity, with love that has never asked for permission. your first night as husband and wife is not hurried or wild—it is sacred. it is soft moans and slow breaths and eyes that never stop searching. it is whispered promises between each thrust, each gasp, each whispered “i love you” pressed into the skin of your throat and the shell of your ear.

and afterward, when he holds you against his chest, when your fingers find the quiet rhythm of his heartbeat and your limbs tangle beneath the thin blanket, there is only peace. only the kind of silence that means something has finally come home.

the next spring, gyuri was born. and a scowl that already reminds you of her father. you hold her to your chest and feel something shift inside you—like your heart just split open and poured itself into her tiny body. soobin cries when he holds her for the first time, rocking her gently and whispering that she is everything. everything.

your love never needed the world’s approval. you never wore it proudly in public or shouted it from rooftops. but behind the locked door of your bedroom, where the children never knock and the world can’t reach you, it still burns. it is magic, sacred, eternal. even now, when the house is quiet and your hair is no longer the same as when he first kissed you by the temple, he still undresses you like you’re the same girl who changed his life with a sunflower in her hand.

because behind that door, with the lock turned, with the moonlight brushing over your bare shoulders and his name whispered like a hymn from your lips—nothing has changed.

and everything has.

the following day, the heavy silence from the night before still lingered in the air. gyuri moved cautiously through the house, her steps softer than usual, almost hesitant, as if every sound she made could shatter the fragile peace they had reluctantly agreed to. her eyes would flicker to you and soobin when they were close, but she said nothing. there was still so much left unsaid, too many unspoken questions hanging in the space between them.

after breakfast, when the house seemed to quiet down, gyuri finally found herself alone with you in the living room. the weight of their secret hung over them, but you’d never let it show. you had mastered the art of keeping it buried, safe under layers of silence. you looked at her with a soft, almost sorrowful expression, but there was strength there too—something in her gaze that said she wasn’t about to back down. it was that same strength that had carried them through everything.

"gyuri," you began, your voice calm but with an undertone of resolve, "we’ve said this before, and we’ll say it again: there are things from the past... things that we simply can’t bring to the surface. some things are better left buried. not because we want to lie to you, but because some truths aren’t meant to be known. not now. not yet."

gyuri’s gaze flickered to her father, who was sitting on the couch, his eyes lowered in thought. he didn’t look up, but the silence between them spoke volumes. he agreed. you both did. you had made their peace with the past, even if it was a peace built on secrets.

"but..." gyuri started, her voice quieter than usual, uncertain. "don’t you think... don’t you think that if i knew the truth, i could understand? i could... i could make sense of things? you always tell me to be strong, to face the world head-on. but how can I do that when there’s so much I don’t understand about... about you?" her voice trembled slightly, but she held her ground.

your expression softened, but her tone remained firm. "there are things that, if you knew, would only hurt you. the truth you think you want could be a heavy burden to carry, gyuri. we protect you, and we protect your brother, by keeping this buried. some things should stay locked away, hidden in the past where they belong."

you look at her, and your heart aches. you want to tell her. you want to let her in, to tell her the story that’s been buried beneath so many layers of silence. but you know that revealing it would only break her. break all of you. some truths, you’ve learned, are too heavy to carry.

you can see the doubt in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. not anymore. instead, she takes a step back, her shoulders sagging with the weight of what’s unsaid. she lowers herself slowly to the floor, kneeling before you, her hands clasped in front of her in a quiet show of respect. her head bows, and you can feel the depth of her apology, even if she doesn’t say the words aloud.

"i’m sorry," she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion. "i shouldn’t have spoken to dad like that... or left the house. i didn’t understand." her hands tremble slightly as she presses them to the floor, as though hoping the act of humility will somehow atone for the anger she’d shown. the anger that came from a place of confusion and hurt, but a place you, too, had once known.

you kneel beside her, your hand gently resting on her back, comforting her in the way you always had. "it’s okay," you whisper, your voice soft but firm, the love for your daughter unwavering. "we understand. just remember that there are things we protect to keep you safe. it’s not about hiding the truth from you... it’s about protecting you from it."

gyuri remains still for a moment, her breath shaky as she tries to hold back her tears. she doesn’t look up, doesn’t try to meet your gaze. but you can feel the relief in her posture, the small weight lifting from her shoulders as she finally lets go of the anger that had built up inside her.

"thank you," she whispers, her voice barely audible now. "i won’t ask again. i just... i want to understand." she pulls herself to her feet, still not meeting your eyes, but her body language softer now, more vulnerable than before.

you pull her into a tight embrace, your arms wrapping around her, holding her close, not letting go. she doesn’t resist. you can feel the warmth of her body against yours, the beat of her heart under your palm. "i know, gyuri," you whisper into her hair. "i know you want to understand. but some things, you just can’t change."

you hold her for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch between you two. this is how it is now. this is how it will stay. you will continue to live with your secrets, your past buried deep within, and your children will carry on without ever knowing the full story. you’ll keep them safe, even if it means keeping them in the dark. it’s a sacrifice you’ll make, over and over again, for their peace.

when you finally pull away, you kiss the top of her head, feeling the weight of your decision settle around you once more. "we’re here for you," you say, your voice steady but full of the unspoken promise of your love.

gyuri nods slowly, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "i know, mom. i know."

and as she turns away, walking back to her room, you watch her go, the ache in your chest a quiet reminder of the love you’ve always had to protect—love that sometimes needs to stay hidden, even from those who deserve to know it the most.

it’s 2023, and gyuri is now 39 years old. she stands in the quiet living room of her home, staring at the old photo album she found in the attic earlier that day. the room is softly illuminated by the light of a late afternoon, with the fading sunlight casting gentle shadows on the walls. the scent of rain still lingers in the air from earlier in the day.

as she flips through the pages, memories flood back to her, each photo telling a story she once tried to forget. some are faded, some are torn, but they all hold a part of her past—a past filled with both joy and sorrow. she lingers on the picture of herself as a child, her six-year-old self dressed in a simple, but beautiful, floral dress, holding a small bouquet of dalias.

next, her fingers trace over the picture of her mother—you—as a young woman, smiling brightly, so full of life. and then, she stops. her gaze lingers on the next photo—the one of her parents on their wedding day. the two of you, so young, so in love, sharing a moment that was supposed to be your forever. soobin, her father, had passed away just a year ago, leaving her with a gap that could never be filled. he was her protector, her provider, and now he was gone.

gyuri gently places the album down on the coffee table, and for a moment, the house falls into complete silence. a deep, unsettling silence that reflects the weight of what she’s just seen. the family that once seemed so whole, now fractured. her father, the man who’d always been there for her, was gone. you, her mother, were now all she had left. after soobin’s death, you had moved in with gyuri, her husband, kang taehyun, and their son jeongin, who was now nine years old. despite the changes, the memories seemed to weigh heavier with each passing day.

as gyuri looks at the photos, she notices something in her mother’s eyes that makes her pause. there’s a heaviness in the air, something unspoken, something buried deep within you. she’s seen it before, but now, after all these years, it feels like the right time to finally ask.

gyuri turns to you, her gaze soft but searching. “mom,” she begins, her voice careful, “i’ve always wondered about these pictures. about you before… before everything changed.”

you stay silent for a long moment, the words you’ve kept hidden for years threatening to surface. you’ve kept so much from her, from everyone. the truth about your past, about who you were before meeting soobin. the pain, the love, the sacrifices—all buried beneath a veil of silence. but now, as gyuri looks at you with those eyes full of curiosity and longing, you know it’s time to tell her the truth.

you close your eyes briefly, taking a slow, steadying breath. then, with a voice barely above a whisper, you speak. “there are things you don’t know, gyuri. things i’ve never shared with you... because i wanted to protect you. but now, i think it’s time. you deserve to know.”

gyuri’s expression softens, concern growing in her eyes. “what do you mean, mom? what things?”

you don’t speak for a long time. the photo album rests open on your lap, but your gaze is no longer focused on the images—it’s turned inward, heavy with years of silence. gyuri sits beside you, quiet, respectful, but the tension in her shoulders reveals her anticipation. she knows there’s more. you feel it too. this moment has been waiting for decades.

finally, you shift, your fingers lightly brushing over the wedding photo. soobin, with his solemn eyes and gentle smile, standing beside you in the white chapel, the day the world seemed to stop for both of you. you were eighteen. he was twenty. you had never felt more certain—or more afraid.

“gyuri,” you say her name with the softness of a prayer, “what i’m about to tell you... i’ve never told anyone. not even your father spoke of it again. but you’ve always known something was different. i saw it in your eyes, even when you were young.”

she nods slowly, silent. you know she won’t interrupt.

you take a shaky breath. “we were sinners.”

your voice trembles, not with regret—but with the weight of the truth.

“people would say we were. and perhaps they were right. we weren’t related by blood... but the world wouldn’t have cared about that technicality. not in a place like ours. not in a time like that.”

gyuri blinks, confused, brows tightening.

“soobin’s mother... she adopted me.”

the words hang in the air like thunder before the rain.

“i was just a child when she took me in. i had no family, no name anyone remembered. i was a stray soul. she raised me as her own. gave me food, a roof, a school uniform. i was expected to grow beside soobin... like a sister.”

you pause, your hand clenched gently on your lap now, voice low.

“but i never saw him like a brother.”

your throat tightens. the guilt returns—not because you loved him, but because you had to hide that love behind closed doors for so long.

“i saw him grow taller, stronger, kinder. i saw the way he held books like they were sacred, the way he spoke when he was angry—so full of fire and righteousness. the way he looked at the stars, like they were speaking directly to him. i fell in love with that boy. and he... he looked at me not like a sister, but like i was the center of his world.”

you wipe a tear from your cheek before it falls.

“we tried to deny it. we tried so hard. but you can’t unfeel something like that. not when it consumes you.”

gyuri’s hands are folded tightly on her lap. her eyes are full, but her face remains still.

“when his mother found out... she was furious. betrayed. she called me names i’ll never repeat. she accused me of corrupting her son. she said i was ungrateful, a viper who’d been fed and turned to bite the hand that saved her. i was cast out. just like that. no farewell. no kindness. just the door, and the rain, and a suitcase that wasn’t even mine.”

you close the album now, holding it against your chest like a shield.

“but he followed me, gyuri. your father followed me into the night. and he told me that if the world condemned us, then we would build our own. that if god turned his eyes away, then we’d find a new kind of holiness—in each other.”

your voice breaks for a moment, but you smile through it.

“we found a chapel in another city. a small, crumbling place that smelled of wax and roses. no one asked questions. we exchanged vows with trembling hands and lips that had already known each other’s sins. a year later, you were born. our little miracle. our redemption.”

gyuri is crying now, silently, hands trembling on her lap.

you reach for her, gently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, just like you did when she was a baby.

“i don’t tell you this to shock you. i tell you because it’s part of who we are. we weren’t perfect. but we loved fiercely. we defied every warning, every doctrine, every cruel whisper... because what we had was real. and that love—it carried us through decades. it gave us you.”

you lean forward now, resting your forehead gently against hers.

“so don’t hate your past, gyuri. don’t hate the pieces of us that had to hide. because without them, there would be no you. no jeongin. no home full of photographs and laughter. we did what we had to... for love.”

gyuri doesn’t speak for a long time. her eyes stay lowered, heavy with emotion, and for a second, you wonder if the truth was too much. too old. too strange to comprehend. but then she shifts forward, takes your hand gently in hers, and kisses the back of it with reverence—like a child greeting a sacred object. her voice is hoarse when she finally speaks.

“i’m sorry,” she whispers, “for everything i said. for the way i left. for how i judged you. i didn’t understand. i didn’t see...”

you shake your head gently, placing your palm on her cheek.

“you were just a girl trying to understand her world,” you murmur, “and we never made it easy.”

gyuri lowers herself slowly to the floor, knees against the wood, hands pressed together flat in front of her in that deep, traditional apology—one only offered when words are no longer enough. her tears fall quietly, but she doesn’t hide them this time. and you… you can’t hold back your own.

“appa would be proud of you,” you whisper, voice trembling with memory, “he always was.”

and it’s in that silence, the warmth of her reverence still lingering between you, that your thoughts drift—past the years of pain and secrecy, past the small house and whispered nights behind a locked bedroom door, all the way back to a moment that never left you. a single fragment of time, like a pressed flower hidden between the pages of a long-forgotten book.

you’re sitting on the grass, the warm light of late spring wrapping itself around your shoulders like a shawl. soobin’s arms are behind him, leaning back as he laughs at something beomgyu says—beomgyu, barely five years old, climbing over his father’s legs with a paper crown on his head. gyuri, only seven, is running barefoot across the small field, a ribbon tied in her hair, holding a wooden sword and pretending to battle invisible dragons.

soobin turns to you, and his eyes are so full of quiet love that it still takes your breath away. he doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to. his smile says it all. we made it. against everything, we’re here.

you remember reaching out and placing your hand on his cheek, the stubble rough beneath your fingers, the sun painting him golden. he kissed your wrist then, soft, grateful. and in that moment, you believed—fully—that whatever sins the world placed upon you were washed away by the love you had built together.

you blink back into the present, your hand still holding the photograph of that sunlit day. your fingers trace the faces, the ghost of his smile, the youth in your own eyes.

“he was everything,” you whisper, barely audible.

gyuri leans into your side, head resting gently on your shoulder.

“and so were you,” she says.

outside, the wind carries the scent of blooming dalias from the garden. jeongin’s laughter echoes faintly from the hallway where he plays. and for the first time in a long time, you let yourself smile—not with longing, but with peace.

because even if the world never understood the story you lived, your heart always did. and that… that was enough.

yes, you were sinners.

but you were also in love.

[avelera]

(Arcane Meta) Mel Medarda does not dislike Viktor and she's not biased against him

I feel like I'm seeing some rehashed arguments leftover from S1, but I see some wild (to me) claims that Mel dislikes Viktor, or looks down on him as a person from the undercity or for being poor, or that Mel is jealous of Jayce's time and wants to keep him all to herself. These are all wild to me because we have canon refutations of every single point that people seem to be ignoring.

Mel does not dislike Viktor. At most, she might be neutral towards him and, at worst, on one (1) occasion saw him as an ideological opponent to one of her goals. We have evidence of this in canon in her reaction to hearing that Viktor is dying and in the scene when he's in the Hex cocoon and she comes to check on him and reassures Jayce that, "He will come back to us." How close she feels to him is up to interpretation, but she shows concern for his wellbeing and genuine care for his recovery.

We have no evidence Mel looks down on Viktor, and why would she? The first time she would have met him would be as Heimerdinger's assistant, a respectable position, and then as the co-founder of Hextech. Viktor may not be Noxian royalty but he has never been low-status when she's known him. As Mel said, "No one is expendable, that's what this is all about." We don't have any evidence or scenes that show Mel dismissing someone she's met in person just because of their birth.

And on that point about being Noxian, Mel is not from Piltover. She is, technically, a political refugee/exile from Noxus, albeit a wealthy one which obfuscates for many the fact she is a refugee. She cannot go back to her home country, as far as she knows.

Mel came to Piltover as a young adult. She wouldn't have grown up with Piltover biases. She'd have her own biases as Noxian, to be sure, and like many people of extreme privilege, I have no doubt that Mel can overlook people in need like the undercity or see people who are wealthy and/or political players as more important to her goals, but automatically ascribing class or cultural biases to her the way Caitlyn and Jayce have them innately towards the undercity as citizens of Piltover who grew up there, is making up a bunch of stuff that just isn't there in the text.

Mel never shows possessiveness of Jayce, quite the opposite, especially when it comes to Viktor. When she hears Viktor is dying, she immediately says that Jayce should leave her to go be by Viktor's side. She never questions why Jayce is taking care of Viktor when Viktor is in the Hex cocoon. She never chastises Jayce for leaving the Council in its time of need (even though she'd have reason to there!) or for leaving to take care of Viktor. She never demands Jayce's time for personal reasons and she never badmouths Viktor. She completely understands the importance of their bond (however you view that bond) and the only thing she advises Jayce to do when she visits him after he abandoned the Council to go help Viktor is go check in with other important people in his life after the bombing, like Caitlyn, who lost her mother, and Jayce realizes Mel is right because she's more adept with people than he is, and realizes he's been neglecting other people in his life who are hurting.

The one scene people use to say that Mel dislikes Viktor is this one, where she encourages Jayce to create defensive Hextech weapons. People use the fact that when Viktor tells her absolutely not, she gives him a disappointed look, and then refocuses her efforts on persuading Jayce, who is the easier target and the more effective one because he has more power.

Personally, I don't see that as disdain at all, it's just practical. Mel has a goal. Her goal is Hextech weapons (a goal she will later walk back when she realizes the consequences). Viktor is unmovable on this point. Jayce is not AND if he agrees, he has the power as a Councilor to make them happen. He could probably also persuade Viktor too, which Mel has zero chance of.

Mel's disagreement with Viktor here to me should not be read as her feelings on him in their totality, it is an ideological one separate from whether or not they care for each other as people. Mel is entirely able to separate those two things as a mature, intelligent, and extremely skilled-with-people person.

(Viktor, on the other hand, has disliked her since the start and sees her as a threat, especially with her influence on Jayce. But that's another essay entirely.)

[hughesmybaby]

His Chosen Bride (Senator!Coriolanus Snow x Capitol Reader).

Chapter 1

masterlist

series masterlist

excerpt

summary: senator coriolanus snow seems on top of the world with everything in his life ahead of him except for one thing. the perfect bride. in his pursuit, your life changes forever.

word count: 1.7k

a/n: thank you everyone for your patience as I prepared this!! i hope you all love it and show your support through likes, reblogs and especially comments of what you thought! i love hearing what my readers and other people in the fandom think about my work, so any of your thoughts would be appreciated.

requests OPEN

Upon his return to the Capitol, his reputation restored, wealth acquired from the Plinths who so generously named him the heir to their grand fortune, his path to power was paved for him and he knew he just had to take the strides to get to the prize. The Presidency.

Coriolanus Snow, scion of one of the oldest and most elite of bloodlines of the great Panem families was home, his shameful exile to District 12 remembered by no one and purged from the registry.

Enrolled in university and an apprentice gamemaker, he was eventually promoted to become Senior Gamemaker upon Dr. Gaul’s semi-retirement and her preparation to hand off the reins to her protégé. Her brain child whom she molded from the vestiges of his sorrow and pain, of his loss in the districts and what hardened him into the man he was now.

When he graduated with honours from the political science department, it was only a few months before he was elected in a landslide to become the youngest Senator in Panem’s history, relying on his contributions to the recent games, memories of his late parents to those of a certain age to secure his win.

He would have considered re-election for another term before advisors of his and other cabinet members of the old, sickly President Ravinstill were close to swearing their support but all echoed the same thing that he lacked, they said. It was not his youth, he was wise for his age they said, but he was not married. If he had a wife, they said - they would be on board for his presidential election. And it seemed that election would be sooner than later, even before his first term finished.

Coriolanus needed to find a wife, not just of good breeding, but of the most impeccable lineage, from among the most illustrious hundred or so families of Capitol society. It was a given it would be purely political and strategic, someone whom he could not love and open his heart to after his previous tragedy pursuing such.

The perfect bride. The search for the perfect companion, the woman whom he would call his wife, his future first lady, and mother of his heirs. The ideal woman who would bridge the gap between his dreams to make them a reality.

He could not just choose the first possible candidate recommended to him or that caught his eye, Coriolanus had to devise a thorough, multi-step testing process to find his perfect wife, his bride.

A rigorous procedure would be curated in finding her. Interviews, tests, exams, genealogical inquiries, fitness tests, and practice scenarios will be prompted from eligible candidates, already filtering through those only from the old, grand families upon application.

Digging through his family library into the latest edition handbook of noble and elite families of the Capitol’s upper class, the creme de la creme, ignoring recently disgraced clans, ones full of scandal and controversy, with plenty of illegitimate children, and extinct ones rotting in poverty nearly like his own had he not reversed their fortune.

He scheduled a meeting with his advisors and closest allies on creating the program, the selection process, examinations and interrogation, and how to make the announcement for the families of these eligible girls to put their names in, with their consent or not.

Coriolanus Snow was born from the upper echelon of society, and only deserved the best woman with whom he would continue his lineage with and hail his presidency with. No one had dared, rather self-important he could argue if he cared, to make as many girls clamour for his attention rather than to propose to a woman of his choice.

Just as he was about to put the book down and shut it closed, a name caught his attention. Yours. Your lineage, accomplishments, your etiquette were second to none, and he had to have you. At all costs. He would burn heaven and hell, but the question remains - would he win you over? Or will he have to force your hand no matter what?

Besides, he requires others to choose from, even if you are the most qualified. It would not do well for your ego to have the satisfaction you were chosen for. He wants you to want it, to beg for it, claim it and aspire to be one worthy to be by his side, motivated by the competition who would slit your throat and ruin your reputation for it.

And yet a lingering thought crept up his mind. He had brought life back into the Hunger Games, that was on its dying breath before his arrival, why not another? Everything is a game if you try hard enough.

…

A brightly lit room surrounded you as you grabbed a few more pieces of dandelions and baby’s breath bunches for your bouquet, in your floral arrangement lessons for the week. Under the watchful eye of your teacher, a premiere florist who is hired by the Capitol’s elite for the most fashionable and well-sought events every season.

Hailing from one of the oldest families among the Capitol’s blue bloods, your family may not be the wealthiest but definitely prosperous to be among them, yet your lineage is prominent even before Panem’s founding, the most ancient of them all.

In your family home’s perfectly manicured garden, you immerse yourself in the arrangement, something that would impress your teacher yet also something you would find pleasant in a vase by your study. No way would someone of your heritage be found associating with anything subpar.

After your studies at the Academy, your lessons and tutoring would never end, usually something different for each day. Piano, ballet, etiquette, floristry, household management, painting and so on.

As you gathered a crimson bow around the branches of your bouquet, you could hear murmurs among the uniformly dressed maids and servants around the stately home, as your mother jaunted towards you in her glossy designer heels.

“Yes, mother?” You greeted politely, observing the unreadable expression on your mother’s face.

She approached you carefully, gently taking your hands in her own, soft and having never experienced hardship.

“A great honour has been bestowed on you, daughter. A promising Senator has taken a liking to you, and wants you to be considered for his future bride.” Your mother smiles in celebration and pride, and your brows furrow in consternation.

“A Senator as old as father? A man old enough to be my grandfather-”

“Hush, darling. He is young, from a proper family of the elite family unlike those Plinths, new money scum. Senator Coriolanus Snow, the son of late General Crassus Snow and his wife Victoria Snow. He is only twenty four, I think you would like him.” She brushes your hair behind your ears, but you turn away from her, pushing her hands away.

“Twenty four, when I am eighteen?”

Your mother shrugs. “It is the way of the world I suppose. I was your age when I met your father. Eighteen and he was twenty one, a match fit for the sort like us.”

“You mentioned I was being considered but no outright proposal or courting has begun. What do you mean?”

She unveiled a large envelope she was holding behind her back, taking it out for you before a gold hued canvas invitation was unveiled.

Dear Y/N L/N and family, I hope this letter finds you well. As I have progressed through my career as a gamemaker and politician, it has been too long since I have navigated through life without a lifelong companion and wife.

You are a woman of unblemished character, accomplished in many ways, intelligent, well-bred and would fit the bill of what a man like me seeks in a future partner.

There is no guarantee that you must receive this invitation and accept, but rather that your name will be included in a pool of candidates to be considered. I hope that you and your family would view this as a position of honour, and even if you shall not be chosen, you will be compensated for your time and this shall only raise your standing in our society.

Please reply to the number and address attached below with your response, and I would be beholden and pleased to hear if you would put your name forward to possibly become my future First Lady.

Sincerely, Senator Coriolanus Snow

You could not believe it, the humiliation of not being asked directly for one’s hand in marriage but having to compete with other ladies of society and grovel for his attention.

“Are you and papa seriously making me do this? The Hunger Games to be someone’s wife and heir maker?!”

Your mother sighs, shaking her head as she crosses her arms. “You do not understand, child. I have heard of other elite families whose daughters, sisters, nieces such as the Heavensbees, the Cardews, Dovecotes, among a few have been invited and all have accepted. No one would even think to refuse a Snow!”

“But it is not guaranteed. How would I not be offended if he did not make a guaranteed offer but wants me to participate like I am in a beauty pageant. I have to close off even entertaining other suitors and I am not even assured that I will not be left dry and humiliated if I was not chosen.”

“Your grandmother was Miss Panem many years ago before the war and those rebels ruined everything, I am sure he will choose you. Even if he did not, any other unmarried peer of yours would scoop you up in no time, that if Snow perceived you as someone potential, they are from the cream of the crop.”

You sighed, putting down your shearing tools and your bunches of daisies and baby’s breath. You never liked roses.

“You have always aimed for the stars, daughter. Would you pass on an opportunity like this or be forgotten to the tombs of time?” Your mother suggests, walking over to you with a guiding hand on your shoulder. “Choose wisely if you want to make something of yourself, to not pass on opportunities like this.

Golden letter in hand, you stared intensely at the dark line above your name, signifying whether you would submit your name or not. With a bold stroke of your ink pen, you sign your fate and future away. I agree to participate.

Let the games begin.

His Chosen Bride Taglist:

(if your name is bolded, I put in your user but it didn't show up when prompted so I'm not sure if you got notified!) Please let me know if you'd like to be added and reminded every time I update.

@xsunaxrinx @bialuvss @emma0320 @callieyanderechan @crimsonred13 @starcrosslove @castellandiangelo @sylmthadmnglla13 @tragicmiserybone @o12lk22gr @anna-stasia @paumartinezsstuff @coriosbunni @nora4us @jupiterstearx @corvinaweeb @batman1asf @imperfectophelia @madmaxsalltoowell @vicky2408 @folklorelogy @bradpittwh0re @linaa20 @abcde601375 @kickmybark @emynunez21 @princessofthereach @maeve-a24 @ellie-bellie-29 @ashfromurfire @dante-pearl @yuuuumii @kxksksjjd @everythingjp @frill0 @aslalali @addriaenne @joyfulyouthlover @rbrsvb @motomami111 @imamybubbles @x-gabrielle-x @crystalstars88 @cc13723things @izzy02soph @shycandykitty @thtweirdointhecornr1917 @drpeperrlover11 @starmaiden @itz-me-cherie @papi-chulo69000 @meetmeatyourworst @sombodynotimportant @hyunjinspdf @bellaramseysgirlfriend @mari-mari12 @kis9na @lvrdilfs @mizuki80mizuki80 @deago21 @hafisjfjsit @miniatureblazellama @livid-euphoria @sugaxmamii @kropka4321 @jamesyrobin @joana2934 @kotadislikesthissite @byisy @shinae28 @atlasedelgard @eimearj123 @urfavewh0r3 @sophs-sofa @dreammie-marrie @cos-ilsee @nikolaikirche0 @bigwmc66 @mandoskenobi @theswreties @soniusstuff @1lovesnowballs @bitvhese @craftycloudcollection @byraaaaan19 @mythic-moon-moth @reading-in-velaris @bestboymikey @marytargaryen @cleverpeachheropersona @adeline32sblog @snowdrops-png @lysonal @tiffdx @bingxuu @noothemoo

[jmkjournalblog]

"Soulmates" Part 1

Part 2

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x FemVampire! Reader

Summary: The Fem!reader, vampire with a penchant for dark humor and psychopathic tendencies, is sent to Nevermore Academy by her parents following an unpleasant incident involving the murder of a couple of triple students in her previous school. Despite their contrasting personalities, the reader and Wednesday form a complex bond, navigating their differences while facing challenges that threaten to keep them apart.

A/N: This text combines three chapters written at different times, so there might be slight differences in style. Also, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes))

Warnings: Shitty humor

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the picturesque town. It was a quaint, almost idyllic place, with its cobblestone streets and charming old buildings—a far cry from the darkness that lurked within the reader's soul. She stood at the edge of town, a lone figure amidst the bustle of the afternoon crowd. Tall and imposing, with an air of quiet confidence that set her apart from the ordinary townsfolk, she surveyed her surroundings with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

The Y/n was not here by choice. No, she had been sent—a pawn in a game she had no desire to play. Her parents, in their infinite wisdom—or perhaps, their utter lack thereof—had deemed it necessary to exile her to Nevermore Academy, a school for misfits and outcasts. It was a punishment disguised as a solution, a way to rid themselves of a daughter whose darkness they could no longer abide.

And so, here she was, alone in a town that reeked of desperation and decay, a stranger in a strange land. It was a bitter irony, she thought, that a creature such as herself—a creature of the night, born to roam the shadows—should find herself so utterly exposed in the harsh light of day. But she was not one to dwell on self-pity, nor was she inclined to mourn the loss of a home she had long outgrown. No, she would embrace this new chapter of her existence with the same ferocity that she embraced life itself.

With a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, the Y/n turned her gaze towards the looming silhouette of Nevermore Academy, its spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a long-forgotten deity. And as she took her first steps towards her new prison, she couldn't help but wonder what twisted fate awaited her within its hallowed halls.

*Y/n POV*

As I stepped into the imposing entrance hall of Nevermore Academy, I was greeted by the sight of a young girl. She was dressed in the school uniform, her blond hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she approached with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Welcome to Nevermore Academy," she said with a wry smile, extending her hand in greeting. "I'm Enid Sinclair. And you must be the new arrival."

I nodded, returning her handshake. Enid's warmth and charm were a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere that hung me like a shroud.

"Nice to meet you," I replied with a forced smile. There's no point in being rude, this school is my last resort, and it's better to try to be nicer to people. "I must admit, I wasn't sure if anyone would meet me."

" I always give a tour of the school to new students, especially since you will be my roommate." A smile spread across her face. God, I wish I could be as carefree "It's going to be so much fun, you, me and Wednesday are three new best friends".

Three best friends? Well, that's one way to look at it—a trio of misfits ready to conquer the world, or at least survive sharing a room.

"Wow, lucky me," I muttered inwardly, plastering on a grin that probably looked more like a grimace. "I've always wanted to be part of a trio. How did you know?" 

I forced another polite smile, masking my inner cynicism with practiced ease. "Okay, we can't stand here all day. Let's go. "

After walking around all the main areas of the school, Enid and I headed towards our room. The whole time we were walking, I couldn't shake the feeling that this place was definitely going to be interesting. Enid had her own issues, but I'd always been attracted to people who looked at the world with an unhealthy amount of optimism. Talking to her should dilute my morbid thoughts with a touch of sweet idiocy. For being alone with myself again does me no good, though it gives me a lot of pleasure.

“So, roomie, ready to see your new abode?” - Enid said with a smile, her hand resting on the doorknob. With a casual shrug, I followed her into the room.

A huge room greeted us, with beds on both sides. The left side was a riot of colors, what I would call “colorblind worst nightmare�� It was a cacophony of hues that defied description. Plush toys adorned one wall. Well at least it is not dakimakura with half-naked characters from anime or furi costumes. On the other side of the room, the atmosphere was stark—black linens on the bed, a desk, and a typewriter. Its practically untouched. It felt more like a museum piece than a living space, devoid of any trace of personality. Enid had mentioned that the other girl had only recently moved in…

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM ROOM?” – Enid asked in irritation.

Her voice startling me out of my thoughts. Distractedly looking around the room, I completely missed the girl who was tearing off colored stickers from the right half of the huge window. It must be Wednesday.

“Dividing our room equally,” replied Wednesday, her voice dripping with disdain. She kicked the last of the colored paper to Enid's side for emphasis. "It looks like a rainbow vomited on your side." She finished in a calm tone, as she returned to the desk at her side of the room.

God, I love drama.

“I...” I could literally see Enid's ears steaming right now.

“Silence would be appreciated.” Wednesday spoke as she quickly cut her roommate off. "This is my writing time."

I like this school already.

“Your writing time ? ” Enid asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wednesday rolled up her sleeves as she situated herself in front of her typewriter. “I devote an hour a day to my novel. Perhaps if you did the same your vlog might be coherent.” she slides the carriage of the typewriter to the side as she continued, “I've read serial killer diaries with better punctuation.”

She read serial killer diaries? One point to the goth girl.

Enid clenched her fists “I write in my voice. It's my truth. It's what my followers love.”

“Your followers are clearly imbeciles.” Wednesday stood up from her desk as she moved infront of Enid. “They respond to your stories with insipid little pictures.”

“Uh, you mean emoji's?” a small smile appears on Enid face “It's how people express their feelings. I realize that's a foreign concept to you.”

“When I look at you, the following emojis come to mind. Rope, shovel, hole.” She continues “By the way, there are two D's in Addams." she moved back over to her desk. “If you're going to gossip about me, at least spell my name correctly.”

“Ahem”- as much as I'd love for this delightful show to continue, I can't just stand there like an idiot with things to do. I could certainly settle down nicely on my suitcase to brew some coffee and continue watching this wonderful drama, but I think sooner or later they'll notice me.

“Oh, sorry about that please, I'm just not used to this attitude. Wednesday, meet Y/n. She's going to live with us too.”

“That's okay, Enid, you can continue this lovely conversation, very intriguing actually. All I need to do is put my things somewhere and ideally lie down myself. The long drive and the splendid but somewhat drawn-out tour, has tired me out.”

Wednesday turned to me. “Nice to meet you, now if you'll excuse it’s my writing time,” she said, before turning back to her typewriter. She began methodically tapping the keys of her typewriter.

I smiled to myself, amused by the interaction. These two were definitely something else.

“Ms. Thornhill has decided that your bed will be on Wednesday's side, there's more room and the closet is close by. Bed should be arriving soon, but in the meantime, you can lay out your things, the outer two doors are yours.”

“Got it, okay then, that's what I'll do for now.”

Taking the suitcase in my hands I headed over to the closet, starting to put things away. I've always had a problem with this, not that I don't like it on the contrary, pedantically folding shirt to shirt, pants to pants, has always calmed me down. Things in the closet should look like they're on the counter of a boutique. If something doesn't look right, I can't sleep well.

Enid put on a song. I guess this is another one of God's tests for all the sins I've done. Don't get me wrong, I like music, but on rare occasions. People who play it on a regular basis to soundtrack their daily routine are the real psychopaths.

“Turn it off!” Wednesday gets up from her chair and heads over to Enid.

I couldn't help but stifle a laugh at the exchange. It was moments like this that made me grateful for immortality. Trying not to attract attention, I peeked out from behind the locker door, amused by the unfolding drama.

“This is your final warning!”

As she got too close Enid raised her hands and let out her rainbow painted nails out a claw. “Don't mess with me. This kitty’s got claws and I’m not afraid to use them.”

Suddenly the door swings open and a woman walks into the room.

“Good evening girls.” She looks around the room throwing a glance first at me and then at Wednesday. “I wanted to make sure that Wednesday and Y/n was settling in...”

She walks to the middle of the room, kicking up mud from her shoes on the wooden floor…. It drives me insane.

“I’m Ms. Thornhill, your dorm mom. Apologies, I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived. I trust Enid has given you the old Nevermore welcome.”

“She's been smothering us with hospitality, I hope to return the favor. In her sleep”.

Such unconcealed aggression, I like it.

“Enid did a great job of showing and telling me everything, thank her so much, and it's nice to meet you,” I interjected, wanting to move the conversation along.

Ms. Thornhill turned to me, offering a warm smile. “I'm very glad it went well.”

“The only thing I would like to ask about is the bed. I wouldn't really want to sleep on the floor on the first day in such a beautiful place. It would have dampened all the excitement I got out of today.”

“Oh right, the guys were supposed to bring it, but it looks like they're running late. I'll have to find them again and tell them.”

At this rate, I was going to sleep on the floor tonight.

“Ms. Thornhill, why do we need the guys? Why don't you just show me where to get it, and I'll take it from there? I think I'm strong enough to do that,” I replied with a sweet smile.

She looked at me in disbelief. I smiled a little, letting her catch a glimpse of my fangs.

“Ah, okay, I didn't realize right away. Not all vampires who are in this school have abilities such as strength or speed, so...Let's go,” she said, turning around and heading for the door. I followed her, casting a disdainful glance at the dirt left on the floor.

Who even does things like that?

Y/n POV

The walk with Ms. Thornhill was uneventful, except for her curious glances, which I pretended not to notice. She seemed… overly friendly, and her cheery disposition grated against every instinct I had. There was something unsettling in how her smile lingered just a bit too long. Still, I played the obedient new student—sweet smiles, polite nods, not even a hint of fangs. It wasn’t hard to find the storage area, cluttered with dusty furniture and half-forgotten relics from who knows how long ago. With little more than a gesture, I hefted the bedframe onto my shoulder, making it look far easier than it should have been.

As I walked back through the hallways of Nevermore, I couldn’t help but scan the dimly lit corridors and high arched ceilings. This place was dripping with history and secrets—I could practically taste it in the air. I wondered what kind of skeletons were hiding in these closets and whether any of them were literal. The thought amused me enough to crack a smile, which I quickly smothered when I caught sight of the door to our room.

Returning to find Enid attempting to cheerfully hang more decorations—and failing spectacularly in the face of Wednesday’s withering glares—was almost worth the trouble. Almost. I stepped into the room, set down the bedframe with a soft thud, and stretched slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh that earned me a sideways glance from both girls. I raised an eyebrow at Wednesday, who, naturally, looked unimpressed.

“You’re back,” she stated flatly, her attention already returning to the clack of typewriter keys. “I’d begun hoping you’d gotten lost and decided to stay that way.”

I grinned, leaning casually against the wall as I met her icy gaze. “Oh, did you miss me already, Wednesday? I’m touched.” I let my words drip with playful mockery, watching for her reaction.

She didn’t even pause her typing. “I don’t miss nuisances. They have a way of making themselves known whether one wishes it or not.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’ve made an impression,” I replied lightly, crossing my arms. “I do so hate being forgettable.”

There it was—a slight pause in her keystrokes. Barely perceptible, but I saw it. Victory. She resumed typing, but I could see the muscles in her jaw tense, and that alone was worth every ounce of effort. Behind me, Enid let out an exaggerated groan.

“Can you two not flirt for five minutes?” Enid asked, half-exasperated and half-amused as she tossed another garish pillow onto her bed.

“Flirting?” I said innocently, a hand coming to my chest. “Enid, I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was simply trying to have a civil conversation.”

“Your idea of civil conversation seems to involve needling people until they bleed,” Wednesday remarked coolly, finally glancing my way. “I’m sure you’re quite proud of yourself.”

“Oh, very,” I said, flashing a grin that showed just the hint of fang. “But I only needle people who are interesting. Take that as a compliment.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a spark in her dark eyes. A dangerous, calculating spark. “Compliments from you hold about as much value as a counterfeit coin. Useless and possibly diseased.”

I tilted my head, letting my smile widen. “And yet you’ve pocketed it anyway.”

“Enough!” Enid interjected, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m already regretting my decision to be roommates with either of you.”

“I thought we were best friends, Enid?” I teased, giving her a mock-wounded look. She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

As the brief silence fell, Wednesday turned back to her typewriter, the clack of the keys resuming with renewed vigor. I moved to finish setting up my space, feeling her presence keenly even as she pretended, I didn’t exist. But I knew better. She’d noticed me, whether she liked it or not. And I intended to keep it that way.

I focused on arranging the few belongings I had, keeping one eye on my two roommates. Enid flitted around, determined to keep the atmosphere upbeat despite the thickening tension, while Wednesday remained stoic, her fingers tapping out words with relentless precision. The mechanical clatter of the typewriter filled the room, a fitting soundtrack to our peculiar dynamic.

As I stowed the last of my clothes, I moved to the shared windowsill. Half of it, Wednesday’s half, was bare and colorless, just like the rest of her side. I dragged a finger across the divider she’d drawn—black tape down the middle, stark and deliberate. When she’d divided the room, she hadn’t left any margin for negotiation. That was fine. I wasn’t one to negotiate either.

“Did you choose the décor yourself?” I asked, tone light but teasing. “It really says a lot about you.”

The typewriter stopped mid-sentence, and her head turned, her expression a mask of cold detachment. “If by ‘a lot’ you mean ‘nothing,’ then you are correct. My surroundings reflect my disregard for frivolity.”

I leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed, giving her a slow once-over. “Yes, I see that. Stark, somber, a touch of morbidity… What’s next, Wednesday? Iron bars over your window? A ‘keep out’ sign? Or is this already your version of a welcome mat?”

“Those who need signs to warn them of danger are already too foolish to avoid it,” she retorted, her voice like ice. She didn’t look away, and I felt the weight of her attention settle on me like a dare.

“Danger? That sounds intriguing.” I stepped closer, deliberately closing the space between us. “But I’d rather find out for myself than take your word for it.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought she’d lash out. Instead, she simply pushed her chair back with a quiet scrape and stood. “Are you always this insufferable?” she asked, stepping closer herself. We were nearly face-to-face now, her glare as sharp as a blade.

“Only when I’m provoked,” I said, my voice softening, the challenge in it unmistakable. “Or intrigued.”

For a heartbeat, I thought she might reach for one of her knives. It wouldn’t have surprised me. But then she stepped back, and the flicker of emotion was gone, replaced by a cold, composed exterior. “Intrigue is a fleeting distraction. You’ll tire of it soon enough.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” I murmured, watching her turn her back to me and return to her typewriter. I had to give it to her; she was disciplined. She’d withdrawn from the confrontation as if it hadn’t fazed her, as if the moment hadn’t happened. But it had.

Enid broke the silence, plopping down onto her bed with a frustrated sigh. “Why can’t we all just get along? Isn’t this supposed to be like… the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“I don’t recall asking for friendship,” Wednesday replied without looking up.

“And I don’t recall rejecting it,” I added with a smirk, earning a scoff from Wednesday.

“See?” Enid grinned, ever the optimist. “Progress! I’m telling you, we’re going to be the best trio ever. Just give it time.”

“Optimism is a fool’s currency,” Wednesday stated, resuming her typing. “It’s usually spent too freely and leaves the owner penniless.”

“Good thing I have plenty to spare,” Enid shot back, unfazed. She turned to me. “Y/n, you’ll see. She’s all doom and gloom now, but she’ll warm up eventually.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I said, letting the implication linger. “Though I have to admit, I like her just the way she is.”

Wednesday’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, and my grin widened. There it was again—the tell that she was paying attention, even if she pretended otherwise.

Enid reached for her phone, likely ready to drown out the tension with music or social media, but she paused, her expression curious. “So, Y/n… what brought you to Nevermore?”

“Exile,” I said simply, my voice taking on a darker edge. “I’m here because my family thought it would be safer to have me… away.”

Enid blinked, unsure whether I was joking. “Safer for who?”

“Exactly.” I allowed a flicker of my fangs to show, then shrugged. “But this place isn’t so bad. It might even grow on me.”

“It’s full of disappointments,” Wednesday said coolly, not missing a beat. “Don’t let the shadows fool you.”

“Disappointments keep things interesting,” I replied, stepping back toward my side of the room. “And I’ve always been drawn to interesting things.”

I felt her eyes on me even after she turned back to her writing. This was going to be fun. Dangerous, maybe—but undeniably fun.

The next morning, the air was crisp, and a thin layer of fog crept around the gothic towers of Nevermore Academy. I found myself sitting on the edge of my freshly delivered bed, lacing up my boots. The rest of the room was quiet, but I could feel a watchful presence. Turning slightly, I caught Wednesday’s reflection in the mirror; she was silently observing me while pretending to prepare her things. Her eyes were intense as ever, like she was sizing me up, waiting for me to make the first move. It amused me, and I made no effort to hide my grin.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I teased, breaking the tension in the room.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate motion that barely disguised her disdain. “Please spare me your nauseating pleasantries.”

“Why, Wednesday, it almost sounds like you didn’t sleep well.” I stood, stretching. “I’d say I’m hurt by that, but I do recall you typing well into the night. Plotting murder, perhaps?”

“If I were plotting murder, you wouldn’t have woken up,” she replied with a deadpan expression.

I laughed softly, loving how quick she was. “Noted. I’ll try to be more deserving of your mercy.” I leaned closer as I passed her on the way to the door. “For now.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she was far from indifferent. Oh, this was definitely going to be an interesting place.

The hallway was bustling with other students, each an oddity in their own right—shapeshifters, psychics, sirens, and more. I navigated the throng with ease, catching glimpses of curious eyes that lingered just a moment too long. Whispers followed me. New arrivals always attracted attention, and I wasn’t exactly the type to blend in.

“Y/n!” Enid’s cheery voice pierced the noise, and she bounded over like a hyperactive puppy, practically glowing with excitement. “How did you sleep? Oh! You’re going to love breakfast here—it’s the best part of the day!”

“I’m surprised you managed to sleep at all with the ambiance,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I half-expected bats to swoop down from the rafters.

“Oh, they’ve tried.” She shrugged with a wide smile. “But seriously, come on! The sausages are to die for.”

I followed her, letting Enid’s chatter wash over me. She was like a rainbow in this dreary place, and, strangely, I found her optimism a welcome contrast. Wednesday walked a few steps behind us, silent and brooding as ever. It was almost comforting.

The cafeteria was a storm of voices, laughter, and clinking trays. Enid led me through the throng of students, her energy a stark contrast to the brooding architecture of Nevermore. We found a spot at a small table near one of the tall, stained-glass windows. As I settled in, a presence made itself known—a girl with sleek black hair, crimson-tinted sunglasses, and a confident air that turned heads without effort. She walked up, holding her tray like she owned the place.

“Mind if I join?” she asked, but it was rhetorical. She was already sitting down, her eyes on me.

Enid perked up. “Oh! Y/n, this is Yoko Tanaka. Yoko, meet Y/n. She’s new.”

“Yoko,” I repeated, my gaze trailing over her with casual interest. I extended a hand, playing along. “Nice to meet you.”

Her grip was cool, steady. She didn’t let go right away, and her lips curled into a smile. “The pleasure’s all mine. So, Enid’s newest roommate, huh? Welcome to the madhouse.”

I returned her smile, undeterred by the playful challenge in her tone. “Thanks. From what I’ve seen, I’m going to fit right in.”

“Really?” Yoko’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table. “It takes a lot to fit in here. But something tells me you’ll manage.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not... ordinary, are you?”

I leaned back, crossing my arms. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I might,” she replied, the light catching the edge of her sunglasses. “Most newcomers are easy to read. But you? You’re a little... more.”

Wednesday, who had been quietly picking at her food, suddenly spoke up. “If you two are done exchanging veiled flirtations, there are more important matters at hand.”

I turned my gaze to her, a smirk playing on my lips. “You know, Wednesday, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Jealousy is a pointless emotion,” she said flatly, though her eyes seemed to darken. “I simply despise wasted time.”

“Oh, so you’d rather spend your time... constructively?” I asked, feigning deep interest. “Writing your next bestseller or analyzing the cafeteria’s murder statistics?”

She set her fork down with deliberate precision. “Both. I find productivity in all things. Unlike some people who waste their breath on hollow banter.”

“See?” I leaned forward conspiratorially, turning to Yoko. “This is what I get for trying to lighten the mood.”

Yoko laughed, a rich, throaty sound that drew a few glances. “You two are something. But don’t worry—I enjoy the kind of banter that makes the daylight hours less boring.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I asked, deciding to prod a little. “To liven things up for me?”

She pushed her sunglasses up, revealing striking eyes that glimmered with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure you out. Vampires don’t often get surprises, you know.”

“Vampires?” I arched an eyebrow, pretending not to know. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves these days?”

Enid jumped in with a cheerful clap of her hands. “Y/n’s also a vampire, Yoko! You two should totally hang out. Maybe you can teach her the ropes!”

Yoko’s smile widened, showing a hint of fang. “Oh, I’d be delighted. As long as she doesn’t get scared too easily.”

I matched her smile, unflinching. “Scared? That’s not really my thing.”

“Good.” Yoko’s voice dropped, her gaze sharpening. “Because there are plenty of things in Nevermore that will test your limits. I’d hate for you to miss out.”

Before I could respond, Wednesday stood up abruptly, gathering her tray. “This conversation has officially crossed into drivel. Some of us have standards.”

“Leaving already?” I asked, enjoying the way her expression never wavered.

“Unlike you, I have productive tasks awaiting me.” She paused, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Try not to lower the collective intelligence of the room while I’m gone.”

I grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

She left without another word, and for a moment, I could have sworn there was a hint of amusement hidden beneath her icy exterior. Yoko watched her go, then turned back to me, a knowing look on her face. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Good,” I replied. “I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

[bunbunsama]

the difference in post-vg rook de riva pregnancies are delicious to me in that:

with emmrich, its a dream come true - the dream finally realized, late and yet, exactly when it was meant to. he's already spent years planning this moment, planning with past faces that he scants remembers as they become so easily replaced by her, & now its no longer a dream. its reality. its in his hands. & how he dotes on her! she doesn't want for nothing, no craving left unsatiated, no desire unfulfilled, all that she wants is met with "of course, dearest". his hand is always on her; in her hair as he pulls it back when nauseas takes hold & on her neck when she lulls her head back as the scent of something hits her wrong; the small of her back when they take their walks to ease the discomfort of a restless baby; holding her hand when she loops her arm around his as they talk to nevarran nobles & senior mourn watchers & the occasional crow. he knows the fade can make dreams reality, turn ideas into truth, & that is what rook has done; she's made real a dream he has long ago put to rest.

with lucanis, its a delicious nightmare - more an anticipated & a dreadfully torrent affair that even an antivan crown birth could not overshadow. lucanis is rightfully terrified outright; his mother was murdered by another house, his father most likely as well, & he watched catarina bury eight other grandchildren due to crow politics. he has barely seen himself as a man, let alone a father. whether he absconds for some time to grapple with the news or not doesn't overshadow how absolutely wild viago goes; if he does leave, viago will never forget it & its only through teia & rook that he even relents when lucanis returns, & if lucanis doesn't leave, viago becomes an unnecessary appendage of the pregnancy. "this isn't just a pregnancy, rook, it's a message; a clear message" house dellamorte lives; house dellamorte will survive. this pregnancy also is a shield for rook; a woman who once ruined a talon operation, who the fifth talon has to negotiate & plead for safe exile, is now the only one who carries the next dellamorte heir - catarina is furious because she cannot make a move. having rook in her favour was necessary after she slayed a god, & with thedas practically in her pocket (her mother is the hof & her father the inquisitor, all of thedas is at her disposal) it would be stupid to rebuke her - but she didn't have to like her. she didn't have to approve of lucanis' love & illario's strange infatuation ("you picked the wrong dellamorte" is something she doesn't forget) but it was just a waiting game; now, with her pregnant (& of course rook knows this pregnancy protects her, that it gives her more sway across the crows) catarina can't do anything unless she truly wants her house to disappear - & there are houses that are waiting, wanting, just such an end. theres also a struggle of where to have the baby, where the baby will stay mostly - which house will they take. a lot of lucanis & viago going back & forth till catarina steps up to the plate & then rook has to play the mother/god-killer card.

bonus: viago will absolutely be the most awful protective & overbearing brother. rook better not be pregnant BEFORE she's married or else she will never hear the end of it because he refuses to have her first child - his first nephew/niece - be a bastard. teia finds the whole exchange fun & her & rook probably are the most normal during the whole exchange, talking about baby names & picking out drapery & fabric for the nursery.

[read-marx-and-lenin]

if there is to be a revolution, when?

I had posted a pertinent Lenin quote a month ago:

I can't say for certain how long it will be until the next great crisis in American politics. It will probably be precipitated by the next big recession. The US is running out of tricks to extend its economic productivity without major structural changes. The age of neocolonialism is waning and the US military is becoming more of a joke every day. When the US is no longer able to enforce a neoliberal order on the third world, when the trillions of dollars invested in the military fail to return any more profits, the US economy will stop bouncing back like its citizens always expect it to, and when that happens there will be a major political reckoning for both Republicans and Democrats.

Without a disciplined and organized left-wing opposition movement, however, the only force that will exist to fill the power vacuum will be the reactionary right. So far, Nazi Germany has been the worst-case scenario for when an imperial power in decline is subsumed by reactionary backlash. The US is not really in the same position as Germany was; in many ways, Germany was simply attempting to do what the US had already completed in the 19th century via "Manifest Destiny" and the genocidal actions taken against the indigenous nations. The US reactionary backlash will probably instead be internally focused and result in a civil war.

It is important to remember that A) as the center of the imperial core, the US will probably be the last to turn socialist, and B) despite this, there is value to our organizing even when we're on the extreme fringe. The Bolsheviks and the CPC were both extraordinarily marginalized when they first began organizing. Mao started out as part of a group of only 50 communists when the CPC was first organized, but 28 years after this and 22 years after the Shanghai Massacre, the PRC was founded. The Bolsheviks were essentially bandits and outlaws throughout the dawn of the 20th century. Virtually up until the eve of the October Revolution, Lenin and Stalin were in exile. Lenin wrote the April Theses while in exile in Switzerland, and Stalin was in exile in Siberia until the outbreak of WWI led to his conscription.

Even when things seem hopeless, there is no value in giving up the struggle. The only mechanism for separating and distinguishing the vanguard from the opportunists and traitors is practice. Only through organizing in the real world and putting our theories into practice will we determine who is right and who is wrong, and only by organizing in the real world will we be ready when the crisis arrives to shut out the reactionary forces and lead a socialist revolution.

[novaursa]

The Dragon's Right (12)

- Summary: It was by grace of the gods that firstborn child of Viserys I and Aemma was born a boy and he lived. And all of the rest, scholars will later say, is by power of something more malevolent in kind.

- Pairing: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 6 700+

- Previous part: 11

- Next part: 13

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

The skies over Dragonstone were overcast, a heavy blanket of gray clouds that seemed to press down on the ancient fortress. The sea winds swept through the courtyard, carrying the salty tang of the ocean as you stood, watching the crimson form of Caraxes descend from the heavens. The Blood Wyrm was unmistakable, his long, serpentine body slicing through the air with a grace that belied his fearsome reputation. As Caraxes landed with a thud that sent vibrations through the stone beneath your feet, you couldn’t help but feel a strange mixture of nostalgia and wariness.

It had been ten years since you’d left King’s Landing, ten years since you’d made your choice to live in exile with Rhaenyra, far from the politics and treachery of the court. Yet, even here, on the windswept isle of Dragonstone, the shadows of your past seemed ever-present. And now, with Daemon’s arrival, those shadows had come calling once more.

Daemon slid off Caraxes with a practiced ease, his movements as fluid and confident as ever. His silver hair, longer now, whipped around his face in the brisk wind. He wore a dark riding cloak that billowed behind him as he approached, his expression a curious blend of amusement and something else, something that made you tense.

“Nephew,” Daemon greeted, his lips curling into a wry smile as he stopped before you. “It’s been too long. I’d say Dragonstone suits you, though I must admit, the quiet life doesn’t seem quite your style.”

You clasped his arm in greeting, your grip firm as you met his gaze. “Daemon,” you replied, your tone cordial but guarded. “I’d say the same for you. But then, I don’t imagine you’ve come all this way just to admire the scenery.”

Daemon laughed, a low, almost conspiratorial sound. “No, no. Though I must say, the view from the skies is magnificent, as always.” His eyes gleamed with that familiar mischievous glint. “I couldn’t resist dropping in. I still remember the show we put on all those years ago—Lannister’s face was something to behold, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips. “Yes, you did enjoy yourself, didn’t you? Stirring up the hornet’s nest and then watching it burn.” There was a pause, then you added, more seriously, “But we’ve paid the price for it, haven’t we? Exiled from our father, from the crown. All for defying a marriage that should never have been considered.”

Daemon shrugged, as if such consequences were of little concern to him. “What’s life without a bit of rebellion, hmm? You and Rhaenyra made your choice, and I supported you then as I do now. Besides, it was amusing to see the Lannisters quiver for once. You took what was rightfully yours—no more, no less.”

You nodded, though the weight of the years spent in exile bore heavily on your shoulders. “But why are you here now, Uncle?” you asked, your voice turning serious. “You didn’t come all this way just to reminisce.”

Daemon’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a more contemplative look. He took a moment, glancing around the courtyard, his eyes lingering on the old walls and the distant sea beyond. “Viserys sent me,” he said finally, his voice quieter. “He wishes to see you both. He’s… missed you, despite everything. The years have not been kind to him without his children. And he wants to meet his grandchildren.”

The mention of your father’s name brought a mix of emotions surging to the surface. You’d tried to bury your anger, your resentment, but hearing that Viserys wanted to see you now, after so many years of estrangement, felt like reopening an old wound.

“He wants to meet my children now?” you said, your voice flat, betraying none of the turmoil inside. “I suppose it’s been difficult for him, hasn’t it? So difficult that he married Alicent Hightower after Otto couldn’t push her onto me as well.” Bitterness seeped into your words. “And then he tried to do the same with Rhaenyra.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, watching you closely. “I won’t deny that Otto Hightower’s machinations played a part in all this. And yes, Viserys made his choices. Poor ones, perhaps. But he’s still your father, and the weight of his crown has only grown heavier over the years.”

You turned away, looking out toward the horizon where the sky met the churning sea. The memories of those last days in King’s Landing, the betrayal, the forced choices—it all felt too close, too raw, even now. “He was willing to sacrifice both of us for the sake of alliances, for the sake of his damned peace.”

“And now he’s paying the price for it,” Daemon said softly, his voice lacking its usual bite. “You and Rhaenyra—your absence has left a wound in him. He’s not the man you remember, nephew. The years, the burdens of the crown… they’ve taken their toll. He’s not well.”

You took a deep breath, trying to steady the storm of emotions inside you. Part of you wanted to scoff, to dismiss the idea that Viserys could feel regret, that he could truly want to reconcile. But another part of you, the part that remembered your father not as a king but as the man who had once held you and Rhaenyra close, who had smiled and laughed and told stories of old Valyria—that part of you ached to believe it.

“And what of Rhaenyra?” you asked, turning back to Daemon. “He’s banished her in all but name. What does he want from her now?”

Daemon sighed, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “He wants his daughter back. He wants his son back. He wants to meet the children he’s only heard about in letters. Whatever anger or pride kept him away before, it’s fading. He’s sick, Y/N. And he’s afraid.”

You clenched your jaw, the conflicting emotions tearing at you. This was the last thing you had expected—a summons, an invitation to return after all these years. And yet, the thought of facing your father, of returning to that world of intrigue and betrayal, made your blood boil.

“It’s not that simple,” you said quietly. “We’ve built a life here. Our family is here. And after everything that’s happened…”

“No,” Daemon agreed. “It’s never simple. But he’s reaching out, in his own way. He’s trying to mend what’s broken. If you’re willing to listen.”

You looked down at the stones beneath your feet, the wind carrying the distant cries of the dragons above. This was a decision that couldn’t be made lightly. Too much was at stake—your family, your children, and Rhaenyra’s heart, which had been battered by years of rejection and exile.

“And if we say no?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Daemon shrugged, though there was a seriousness in his eyes that belied his casual posture. “Then you stay here, and the world keeps turning. But know this: Viserys is dying. If you don’t see him now, you may never have the chance to see him again.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating. You turned away, your heart pounding as you tried to process what Daemon had said. It felt like a trap, like the last desperate plea of a man who had already lost too much. But there was also truth in it, a truth that made your chest ache.

“I’ll speak to Rhaenyra,” you said finally, your voice strained. “But I make no promises.”

Daemon nodded, his gaze understanding. “That’s all I ask, nephew.”

He turned then, walking back toward Caraxes, who waited patiently in the courtyard. As Daemon climbed back into the saddle, he looked back at you one last time, his expression solemn. “Take your time, Y/N. But don’t take too long.”

With a final nod, he urged Caraxes into the air, the great dragon’s wings beating powerfully as they lifted off the ground, the sound echoing across Dragonstone.

You watched as they disappeared into the sky, the wind whipping around you, carrying with it the weight of the past and the uncertainty of the future. The decision lay heavy on your shoulders, a choice that could change everything once again.

The horns of the city rang out twice, their deep, resonant call echoing across the Red Keep and through the streets of King’s Landing. The sound brought King Viserys back from his restless thoughts, his frail form stiffening as he looked out the open window. His children had returned, just as Daemon had promised. The realization brought a mix of relief and trepidation to his heart.

Viserys turned to Ser Harrold Westerling, who stood dutifully at his side. The years had not been kind to the king; his skin was pallid, his frame thin and weakened, and his once proud stance was hunched, as if the weight of his crown had finally crushed him. His breathing was labored, each intake a struggle, but his eyes, though dimmed, were still sharp with anticipation.

“Ser Harrold,” Viserys said, his voice strained but determined. “Prepare an escort. The Prince and Princess are to be brought from the Dragonpit to the Red Keep with all the honor they are due. Ensure their children are treated with the respect of their station.”

Ser Harrold bowed, his face a mask of concern. “As you command, Your Grace.” He hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on the king’s weary form. “Shall I summon the Maester? You seem... unwell.”

Viserys waved him off, his hand trembling. “I’ll see my children first. There will be time for rest later.”

With a nod, Ser Harrold left to make the arrangements, leaving Viserys alone in the chamber. The king took a deep, shuddering breath, leaning heavily on his cane as he made his way toward the door. Each step was a struggle, but the thought of seeing you and Rhaenyra again after so many years gave him strength he had thought long gone.

The courtyard of the Red Keep was filled with anticipation as the welcoming party assembled. Lords and ladies, retainers and servants all gathered, whispering among themselves as they awaited the arrival of the Prince and Princess. Viserys stood at the head of the party, flanked by his Kingsguard and councilors. His gaze was fixed on the grand entrance, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.

And then, you rode in, leading the procession on horseback, Rhaenyra at your side. The sight of you both, after so long, took his breath away. You had changed in the ten years you’d been away—no longer the young man who had left King’s Landing in a storm of rebellion and defiance. Your hair, still the pale blond of your Targaryen lineage, was longer now, pulled back into a neat braid. Your features were more defined, a hardness in your jaw and eyes that spoke of battles fought and won. You wore dark armor, polished but unadorned, the emblem of House Targaryen etched into the breastplate. There was an air of command about you, a strength and resolve that had grown in your years of exile. But there was also something colder, a guardedness in your expression that made Viserys’s heart ache.

Rhaenyra rode beside you, her presence as commanding as ever. Her silver hair, loose and windswept, framed her face, and her violet eyes were fixed ahead, the only hint of her anxiety the slight tension in her jaw. Behind you both, riding on smaller horses, were your children—Jacerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey. They sat tall in their saddles, their expressions a mixture of awe and trepidation as they took in the grandeur of the Red Keep.

You dismounted first, your movements fluid and controlled, as you stepped forward to greet your father. Rhaenyra followed suit, helping the children down from their mounts. Viserys felt a lump in his throat as he watched, his eyes lingering on his grandchildren, whom he was seeing for the first time in the flesh.

“Father,” you greeted, your voice formal and cold. The title was spoken without warmth, your eyes meeting his with a mixture of disappointment and disdain. “It’s been a long time.”

Viserys’s heart clenched at the harshness in your tone, the bitterness that lay just beneath the surface. He took a faltering step forward, leaning heavily on his cane. “Y/N...” he murmured, his voice hoarse. “You’ve... you’ve grown into a fine man. I—”

“Save the pleasantries, Father,” you interrupted, your voice low but cutting. “We both know why we’re here. You sent Daemon to bring us back after ten years of silence. What is it you truly want?”

The courtyard seemed to still at your words, the gathered nobles exchanging uneasy glances. Rhaenyra stood slightly behind you, her face unreadable as she placed a reassuring hand on Jacerys’s shoulder. The boy looked up at his mother, his eyes wide with uncertainty, but he remained silent.

Viserys swallowed, the pain in his chest worsening. “I wanted... I needed to see you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “I’ve missed you both, more than I can say. And I... I want to meet my grandchildren.” His eyes moved to the three boys, his gaze softening. “They... they’re beautiful, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head, her expression guarded. “They are my pride, Father.” Her tone was polite but distant, and Viserys felt the chasm between them, one that had only widened with time.

You turned to Alicent then, who stood beside Otto, her face pale and tense. “Alicent,” you greeted, your tone almost polite but edged with disdain. “Or should I say, Your Grace?” You gave her a curt nod. “I must confess, I’m unsure of how to address you now.”

Alicent flinched at the coldness in your voice, her eyes lowering for a moment as she struggled to maintain her composure. “Prince Y/N,” she began, her voice strained but steady. “It is... good to see you after so long. The king has been unwell, and it is a comfort to him to have his family near once more.”

“Family,” you echoed, the word heavy with irony. “Yes, I suppose that’s what we are. Though I doubt Rhaenyra and I were much of a comfort to him when he chose to marry you.”

Alicent’s eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she forced herself to meet your gaze. “I never wished to cause you or Rhaenyra pain,” she said quietly, her voice sincere despite the tension between you. “I—”

“Stop,” you said, your tone softening just slightly. You could see the pain in her eyes, and though part of you wanted to lash out, you restrained yourself. “This isn’t about you, Alicent.”

Before the silence could stretch any further, Maester Mellos stepped forward, bowing deeply. “Prince Y/N, Princess Rhaenyra,” he greeted, his tone deferential. “Welcome back to King’s Landing. We have much to discuss, but for now, let us focus on your safe return.”

You nodded curtly, though your gaze remained on your father. “Yes, there is much to discuss.”

The tension in the courtyard was palpable as you turned to Tyland Lannister, who had remained silent through the exchange. His face was a mask of civility, though there was a tightness around his eyes as he forced a smile.

“Prince Y/N,” Tyland greeted, his voice strained. “It’s good to see you again. The realm has missed your presence. We hope you’ll find King’s Landing... accommodating.”

You studied him for a moment, your expression unreadable. “Lord Tyland,” you said finally. “I hope your brother has recovered from the shock of our departure all those years ago.”

Tyland’s smile faltered, but he kept his composure. “Lord Jason has moved on, as have we all,” he replied, his voice tight.

Before the exchange could escalate further, Otto Hightower stepped forward, his voice smooth and diplomatic. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation inside, Your Grace, Your Highness. We’ve had food and wine prepared, and there is much to discuss.”

Viserys nodded, though his gaze remained on you and Rhaenyra, his eyes lingering on the boys beside her. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, let us go inside.”

You exchanged a glance with Rhaenyra, who gave a small nod. The five of you—husband, wife, and children—followed the king into the Keep, the tension hanging over the family like a storm waiting to break.

The grand hall of the Red Keep was filled with the soft clinking of silverware and the murmur of conversation as the family gathered for the first meal they had shared in over a decade. The long table was set with an abundance of food and drink, from roasted game and fresh fruits to flagons of fine Dornish wine. Yet, despite the luxurious spread, the atmosphere was strained, the tension palpable in every glance, every word exchanged.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, his frail frame dwarfed by the opulent chair. He watched his family with a mixture of relief and trepidation, his gaze flickering between you, Rhaenyra, and your children, and then to Alicent, who sat to his right, her expression carefully composed. On the other side of Alicent were her children—Aegon, Aemond, and Helaena—all of whom sat quietly, their eyes darting curiously to you and Rhaenyra.

You and Rhaenyra were seated directly across from Alicent, your children beside you. Jacerys and Lucerys were trying to appear composed and dignified, their youthful faces betraying their unease in such an imposing setting. Joffrey, the youngest, shifted restlessly in his seat, glancing up at the grand, unfamiliar surroundings. You reached out and gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, a small smile on your lips.

Viserys cleared his throat, drawing everyone's attention. “It is... heartening to have my family together once more,” he began, his voice weak but sincere. “We have much to discuss, but let us first enjoy this meal.”

The conversation started tentatively, with polite inquiries about the children and your life on Dragonstone. But as the meal progressed, Viserys turned the topic to the elephant in the room, his eyes resting on you and Rhaenyra.

“I understand,” Viserys said slowly, his gaze shifting from you to Rhaenyra, “that you were married in the old Valyrian chapel on Dragonstone. An ancient and sacred place.”

You inclined your head slightly, your expression neutral. “Yes, Father. Rhaenyra and I were wed there, according to the customs of our ancestors.” Your tone was measured, but there was a subtle edge to it. “It is as valid a marriage as any other in the eyes of our house and tradition.”

Tyland Lannister, seated a few places down, shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His lips pressed into a thin line as he recalled the enormous sum House Lannister had spent on the grand wedding that never took place, not to mention the damage to the Sept near Casterly Rock. “Of course, Prince Y/N,” he said, his voice strained. “One can hardly dispute the... sanctity of such a union. Though the Sept where... your departure occurred still bears the scars of that day.” He forced a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

You gave him a cool look, your expression unyielding. “I’m sure House Lannister can afford a few repairs, Lord Tyland.”

Tyland’s jaw tightened, but he did not press the matter further, his hand clenching around his goblet.

Alicent, who had been observing the exchange quietly, set down her knife and fork, her eyes lingering on you and Rhaenyra, then shifting to the children seated beside you. There was an underlying tension in her gaze, a restrained irritation that simmered beneath her polite facade. It was a feeling she had harbored for years, one that had only grown as she watched you and Rhaenyra defy everything the realm expected of you.

She couldn’t help but wonder, as she often had, if Rhaenyra had deliberately lured you into her bed before you left for the Dornish border. Had she seduced you, entangled you in her web to secure your loyalty and affection so completely that you would defy the king and steal her away from her own wedding? The thought gnawed at her, though she pushed it down, focusing instead on the repulsion she felt at your union. To her, who had been raised in the Faith of the Seven, your marriage was an affront, a sinful act of selfishness that mocked the very traditions she held dear.

As Alicent’s gaze lingered on your children—on Jacerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey—Rhaenyra felt the weight of her scrutiny. She looked up sharply, her eyes locking with Alicent’s. There was no warmth in Rhaenyra’s gaze, only a cold, defiant challenge. For a moment, the two women stared at each other, the years of bitterness and betrayal hanging between them like a shadow.

“Rhaenyra,” Viserys said suddenly, breaking the tension, his tone filled with a forced cheerfulness. “I must say, the boys have grown strong and handsome. I would very much like to get to know my grandsons better.”

Rhaenyra tore her gaze away from Alicent, her expression softening as she looked at her father. “They are as spirited as their namesakes,” she replied, her voice steady. “Jacerys and Lucerys have been practicing their swordplay, and Joffrey, well... he is still finding his way, but he has the heart of a dragon.”

Viserys smiled, though the effort seemed to cost him. “I look forward to seeing them in the training yard. Perhaps they could even teach their uncles a thing or two.” He gestured toward Alicent’s children, who had been watching the exchange in silence.

Aegon, now a young man, glanced at you and Rhaenyra with a mixture of curiosity and something else, something darker that he hid behind a lazy smirk. Aemond, his face serious, studied you with the intensity of someone trying to understand an enemy. Helaena, on the other hand, seemed lost in her own world, her fingers tracing patterns on the tablecloth as she muttered softly to herself.

You looked at your half-siblings, your expression unreadable. “We will see, Father,” you said evenly. “It’s been a long time since we’ve shared such... family activities.”

Alicent’s eyes flicked to you, and for a moment, she almost spoke, her lips parting as if to say something, but then she stopped, her fingers tightening around the stem of her goblet. She looked at Viserys instead, forcing a smile. “The children have missed having their father present. I’m sure it would do them good to spend time with their family,” she said, though her words felt hollow.

Viserys nodded, his eyes distant. “Yes, yes... family. It is what binds us, even when we are apart.” He looked at you then, his gaze lingering on the hardness in your eyes, the guarded expression on your face. “Y/N, Rhaenyra... these years have been difficult for us all. But now that you are here, perhaps we can begin to heal these wounds.”

“We’ll see,” you said quietly, your tone flat. “It’s not so easily done, Father.”

The conversation drifted on, the tension ebbing and flowing with each exchange. The food was eaten, though few seemed to have much appetite. The wine was poured, though most drank sparingly. The atmosphere remained strained, the past casting long shadows over the present.

Aegon, his gaze flicking between you and Rhaenyra, leaned back in his chair, his smirk returning. “So, what’s life like on Dragonstone, brother? It must be... exciting, living among the dragons and the ghosts.”

You looked at him, your expression cool. “It has its challenges,” you replied, your voice calm. “But it’s home.”

“And the people there?” Aemond asked, his tone more direct. “Do they welcome you as their Prince, or do they fear the dragon that stole the princess away?”

There was a sharp intake of breath around the table, but you merely raised an eyebrow. “The people of Dragonstone know where their loyalties lie,” you said smoothly. “And they respect those who defend them, not those who sit idle in luxury.”

The barb hit its mark, and Aemond’s eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Alicent spoke up, her voice strained but firm. “That’s enough, Aemond.” She turned to you, her gaze steady. “Y/N, Rhaenyra... despite everything, I am glad you are here. For the king’s sake, if nothing else.”

Rhaenyra’s lips tightened, but she inclined her head slightly. “For the king’s sake,” she echoed, her voice tinged with bitterness.

The uneasy quiet was punctuated by the occasional clink of cutlery against porcelain, the scrape of a chair, or the hushed murmur of a courtier whispering nervously. Though there were many gathered at the table, it felt as if there were only two camps—those who stood with you and Rhaenyra, and those who supported Alicent and her children. And, of course, King Viserys, caught between them all, like a man trying to hold back a tide with his bare hands.

Alicent set down her goblet, her fingers lingering around the base, and cleared her throat, drawing the attention of the table. Her eyes moved from Rhaenyra to you, then back to Rhaenyra, a calculated look in them. “Rhaenyra,” she began, her voice polite but edged with something sharper. “It’s been so many years since you left. We all... wondered what compelled you to take such drastic actions.” She smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “I suppose, after everything, you must have had your reasons for eloping and leaving your family behind.”

Rhaenyra stiffened, her fingers curling around the stem of her goblet. “My reasons, as you put it, were very clear, Alicent.” Her tone was steady, but you could hear the barely restrained anger beneath the surface. “I chose to marry the man I love, the man I wanted to spend my life with. That is a choice that, as I recall, was not available to you.”

A sharp intake of breath rippled around the table, courtiers exchanging glances. Alicent’s smile faltered, but she recovered quickly, her eyes flashing with something dark. “You’re right, of course. Duty has often dictated my choices. But not everyone has the luxury to simply follow their heart, especially when the stability of the realm is at stake.” Her voice was soft, but there was steel in it.

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed. “The stability of the realm? Is that what you call forcing me into a marriage with Jason Lannister? All for some political gain?” She leaned forward, her voice rising slightly. “You speak of duty, Alicent, but don’t pretend for a moment that you or your father haven’t benefited greatly from those same decisions.”

Alicent’s face flushed, but she kept her composure. “We all have a role to play, Rhaenyra. You were supposed to be the princess, to stand by your father’s side, not flee to Dragonstone with your brother and leave the rest of us to pick up the pieces.”

Rhaenyra opened her mouth to retort, but you reached out, placing a hand on her arm, your touch gentle but firm. “Enough,” you said quietly, though your voice carried authority. You turned to Alicent, your gaze steady and unreadable. “We did what we felt was right, given the circumstances. And it’s clear those decisions were not made lightly.”

Alicent met your gaze, her eyes searching, as if trying to understand you, trying to find the man she remembered. “And what circumstances were those, Y/N?” she asked, her voice softer now. “What was so dire that it justified breaking your father’s heart and turning your back on the realm?”

You exhaled slowly, your eyes flicking to Viserys, who watched the exchange with a pained expression. “Our father was forcing Rhaenyra into a marriage she did not want, to a man she did not love. And he was willing to do the same to me.” Your voice was calm but firm. “I made a promise to protect my sister, and I will not apologize for keeping that promise.”

The hall was silent, every eye on you and Alicent. You could see the hurt in her eyes, the resentment she tried to hide behind her composed mask. You turned away from her then, focusing on Otto Hightower, who had been watching the exchange with a calculating expression.

“Lord Hightower,” you said, your voice carrying the weight of your title. “Perhaps you could enlighten us on the current state of the realm. I would hope that as heir to the throne, I would be made aware of any... pressing matters.”

Otto leaned forward slightly, a faint smile on his lips as he addressed you. “Of course, Prince Y/N. The realm is... stable, for the most part. The Stepstones remain a volatile area, despite Prince Daemon’s recent efforts. There are still struggles with Dorne, though nothing that threatens immediate conflict.” He paused, his gaze shrewd. “There have been whispers of unrest in the Riverlands, but they have been managed thus far.”

You nodded, though your expression remained serious. “And what of the alliances formed in my absence? Surely, there have been changes in the political landscape.”

Otto’s smile widened, though it did not reach his eyes. “Indeed. Since your departure, several key marriages have strengthened ties with the Reach and the Stormlands. The marriage of your sister, Princess Helaena, to Prince Aegon has also ensured a more unified front within House Targaryen.”

You glanced at Aegon, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He looked at you with a mix of curiosity and disdain, his mouth twisted into a faint smirk. “And what of your marriage, Y/N?” Aegon drawled, his voice carrying across the table. “I’ve heard many tales of the... unique customs on Dragonstone.”

You shot him a cold look, your patience wearing thin. “My marriage is as strong as any in this room,” you said sharply. “And it is recognized by those who matter.”

Before Aegon could respond, Viserys raised a hand, his voice trembling but determined. “Enough of this bickering. We are here as a family, not as political adversaries.” He looked at you and Rhaenyra, his eyes pleading. “I have missed you both terribly. And I wish to see my grandchildren grow up knowing their family. Whatever has happened, we must find a way to move forward. Together.”

There was a moment of silence, the king’s words hanging heavy in the air. You glanced at Rhaenyra, whose face softened slightly, her anger ebbing away in the face of her father’s frailty.

But Alicent wasn’t done. She turned back to Rhaenyra, her eyes hardening. “And what of your sons, Rhaenyra?” she asked, her voice deceptively light. “You’ve been away so long. Do you ever wonder what kind of life they could have had here, at court? Among their family?”

Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Alicent, her eyes narrowing. “My sons are dragons, Alicent. They belong on Dragonstone, among their people, not in this nest of vipers.” Her voice was cold, each word a dagger.

A murmur rippled through the courtiers, tension rising. You could see Otto’s calculating gaze flick between you and Rhaenyra, as if weighing the implications of every word spoken.

Alicent’s face tightened, but she didn’t back down. “I suppose that’s one way to see it,” she said quietly. “But a child should know their family. Even if that family isn’t perfect.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her voice low and dangerous. “Don’t you dare presume to lecture me on family, Alicent. You, who wormed your way into my father’s bed, who bore children of your own while trying to strip me of everything that was mine.”

The tension at the table was suffocating now, every courtier’s gaze fixed on the two women, their faces pale with the anticipation of what might come next.

Before the situation could escalate further, you interjected, your voice calm but firm. “We will discuss this another day,” you said, your eyes moving between Alicent and Rhaenyra. “This is not the time or place for such discussions.”

Alicent’s gaze flicked to you, her eyes filled with a mixture of resentment and sadness. “You’ve changed, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice almost a whisper. “You used to care more about... so many things.”

You felt a pang in your chest, but you forced it down, your expression unyielding. “I still care, Alicent. But my priorities have changed.” You glanced at your children, who were watching the exchange with wide eyes, their confusion and fear evident. “My family is what matters now. And I will protect them, no matter the cost.”

A silence fell over the table, the weight of your words settling like a stone. Viserys looked between you and Alicent, his eyes filled with a deep sorrow, as if he were watching his family splinter before his eyes.

Otto, ever the diplomat, leaned forward slightly, his tone soothing. “Perhaps we should continue this conversation another time. For now, let us focus on what unites us, rather than what divides us.”

Viserys nodded slowly, though his gaze remained troubled. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, let us try to be... a family again.”

The meal continued in strained silence.

The bedchamber in the Red Keep felt both familiar and foreign after so many years. The room was adorned with rich tapestries depicting dragons in flight and the Targaryen sigil emblazoned proudly on the walls, a constant reminder of your heritage and the legacy you bore. The soft flicker of candles illuminated the space, casting a warm glow over the plush rugs and the intricately carved bed that dominated the center of the room.

You stood near the window, gazing out over the sprawling city of King’s Landing, the lights of the city twinkling like distant stars in the darkened sky. The sounds of the bustling capital, though muffled, reached your ears—the hum of voices, the distant clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional call of a merchant trying to sell his wares even at this late hour. It was a strong contrast to the quiet, windswept solitude of Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra was across the room, slipping out of her gown and into a simpler, more comfortable robe. Her silver hair, loose now, cascaded down her back in waves. She watched you from the corner of her eye, sensing the tension in your posture, the heaviness in your shoulders.

“Y/N,” she said softly, her voice breaking the silence that had settled between you. “Are you all right?”

You sighed deeply, turning away from the window to look at her. “I’m not sure how to answer that,” you replied, your voice tinged with frustration and sorrow. “Seeing him today... I barely recognized the man who was once our father. He’s a shadow of what he used to be.”

Rhaenyra moved closer, her bare feet silent on the thick rug. She reached out, placing a hand gently on your arm. “He’s aged more than the years should allow,” she agreed, her tone laced with sadness. “But it’s not just time, is it?”

You shook your head, your jaw clenched. “No, it’s not.” You turned back to the window, the city sprawling out beneath you, feeling impossibly far away. “It’s them. The Hightowers. Otto, Alicent... they’ve twisted him, manipulated him. I remember a time when he was strong, decisive. Now he seems... broken, as if they’ve drained the life out of him.”

Rhaenyra’s hand tightened on your arm, a gesture of solidarity. “They’ve poisoned his mind with their ambitions. Alicent has always been her father’s pawn, and Otto... he’s wanted to control the throne for as long as I can remember.”

You nodded, your eyes narrowing as you thought back to the day’s events, the way Otto’s gaze seemed to assess every word, every action, always calculating, always scheming. “I saw the way he looked at us today, weighing the situation, trying to find a way to turn it to his advantage. And Alicent...” You trailed off, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “She’s no different. They want to use Father as a puppet, to control the realm through him.”

Rhaenyra sighed, her gaze dropping to the floor. “And he lets them. He let them slither their way into every corner of his life, every decision. He’s not the father who once stood before the council and proclaimed us his heirs, who would have fought for what was right, no matter the cost.”

You turned back to her, your eyes softening as you reached up to brush a strand of hair from her face. “I know, Rhaenyra. I know. But what can we do? If we push too hard, if we try to wrest control from them, it could tear the realm apart.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes flashed with defiance. “Then let it tear. We have dragons, Y/N. We have strength they can only dream of. We can remind them what true power looks like.”

You shook your head, your expression pained. “I don’t want to fight them, Rhaenyra. I don’t want to start a war. But I won’t let them continue to destroy what little remains of the father we once knew.”

She looked at you, her gaze intense, searching your face for answers, for a way forward. “Then what do we do?” she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

You took a deep breath, your hand still lingering on her cheek. “We play their game, for now. We show them we’re not weak, but we don’t strike unless we have to. Father needs to see that we’re here, that we’re not abandoning him to their schemes. Maybe... maybe we can remind him of who he used to be.”

Rhaenyra leaned into your touch, her eyes closing briefly as she took comfort in your presence. “I want to believe that’s possible,” she murmured. “But I fear he’s too far gone. Every time I look at him, I see the pain in his eyes, the weight of all these years of being pulled in different directions. I see...” Her voice caught, and she paused, taking a shaky breath. “I see how they’ve taken him from us.”

You pulled her closer, wrapping your arms around her, holding her tightly as if you could shield her from the world, from the pain that seemed to seep into every corner of your lives. “We’ll find a way, Rhaenyra. We have to.”

For a moment, the two of you stood there in the low lit chamber, the world outside forgotten as you held each other, drawing strength from the connection that had carried you through so much. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, and the distant sounds of the Red Keep—the footsteps of guards, the murmur of servants—faded into the background.

“Do you think he’ll see it?” Rhaenyra asked softly, her head resting against your chest. “Will he see that they’ve twisted everything, that they’ve made him into a tool for their own gain?”

You sighed, your fingers gently tracing circles on her back. “I don’t know. I hope so. But even if he does, I’m not sure he has the strength left to fight them.”

Rhaenyra pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting yours, fierce and determined. “Then we’ll be his strength. We’ll remind him that he’s not alone, that he still has us.”

You nodded, your gaze steady as you looked down at her. “We’ll fight for him, for the father we remember, for the man who once fought for us. But we have to be careful. We can’t let Otto and Alicent see us as a threat, not yet.”

Rhaenyra’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “For now, we’ll play the dutiful children. But if they push us too far...” Her voice trailed off, the unspoken threat hanging in the air.

You leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “If they push us too far, we’ll remind them what it means to cross House Targaryen.”

A faint smile curved her lips, and she reached up to cup your face, her thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I’m glad I have you by my side,” she whispered, her voice filled with emotion.

“Always,” you murmured, your voice firm. “Now and forever.”

The two of you stood there for a long moment, the weight of your responsibilities, your fears, and your love all intertwined in the quiet darkness of the chamber. 

[valyrianink]

Sworn To Secrecy

Gwayne Hightower x Targaryen Niece Reader

۶ৎ 3k words

↳ Summary:

In hopes of casting off his longing, Gwayne sought solace in the Streets of Silk, only to face a temptation far more ruinous than he had ever dared imagine.

↳ Warnings:

MDNI! 18+, Targcest (Uncle/Niece Dynamic), Power Dynamics, Mention of Alcohol, Mention of Canon Typical Aegon

Ser Gwayne Hightower had long understood his purpose.

A knight of duty. A protector of family. A man forged in discipline, shaped by loyalty, bound by the unwavering oaths sworn in the name of his house.

And yet, there was you.

You had been a part of his world for as long as he could remember, a presence ever near, ever familiar.

His sweet niece. A princess. A daughter of House Targaryen.

And still, somehow, you had always been more than just a name in his mind.

It had been harmless once. The fondness. The quiet understanding. There were things about you, things he could never quite keep at bay. You were every bit the princess the realm expected, yes. Learned in history, in the songs of old Valyria, in the customs of courts and queens. You spoke with grace, held your poise like a blade. But gods, you were more than that.

You sparred with knights in the practice yard, dressed not in gowns but in tailored garb befitting a lady who still knew how to move. Breeches beneath a belted tunic, hair pinned back neatly, refined, yet unapologetically practical. You read with fire in your eyes, challenged maesters without hesitation. You rode like a storm, unyielding, your dragon soaring overhead with a cry that echoed your spirit.

He admired you. Fiercely. And admiration, when left unchecked, had a way of slipping into desire.

But a heart’s desire is never easy to control.

And gods knew he had spent years trying.

He drowned himself in duty. In war. In the endless hours upon the training grounds, swinging his sword with a force meant to purge thoughts of you from his mind. He rode for Oldtown. For Harrenhal. For the Stepstones. He said yes to every call, every mission, every exile from your orbit.

And yet, even the strongest of men falter.

There were sleepless nights, too many to count. Nights when war was not the only weight on his shoulders, nor politics the only storm in his mind. It was you, always you.

He tried to find rest, but your name echoed in the silence. The memory of your laughter, your voice at council, the way your eyes met his in passing. There were times he volunteered for postings he had no business in, only because it brought him closer to the capital. Closer to you.

He told himself it was duty. Seeking your counsel on matters of court. Attending the same feasts, the same sermons, the same training sessions. But it was more than that.

You steadied him. You kept him going. And gods help him, that terrified him more than war ever could.

He told himself he could endure it. That duty was enough, that distance would dull the ache. But there were moments when even his resolve began to crack. Moments when the silence of his chambers became unbearable, when the ghost of your touch lingered on his skin far too long.

His thoughts were a battlefield of their own, and try as he might, he could not win.

So when the invitation came, when the other knights spoke of indulgence, of a night by the Streets of Silk, of escaping the weight of war for just a few fleeting hours, he let himself agree.

Not because he wanted to.

But because he had to forget.

To forget you.

To forget the way your voice lingered.

To forget the way something in him had started to shift. Want. Burn.

He long understood his boundaries not just out of propriety and discipline, but out of respect.

And so, he went.

But little did he know, the gods had other plans for him that night.

Gwayne remained at the edge of it all, armor exchanged for a dark tunic, a goblet of Dornish red in his hand. He told himself it would be just a drink. Just a night away from his thoughts. It was all going well.

۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ ─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ─── ۶ৎ

He kept to the shadows, content to let the music and laughter wash over him like a distant tide. The air was heavy with spice and perfume, the candlelight casting golden halos over flushed cheeks and bare shoulders. He watched lords trade crude jokes and coin for pleasure, and knights drown their sorrow in wine and fleeting warmth.

He leaned against the cold stone wall, letting its chill seep into his back, a contrast to the heat thrumming through the room. His grip on the goblet tightened with every passing moment, jaw tense beneath a veneer of calm. The taste of the wine was rich, but it did little to dull the storm inside him.

But not him. Never him.

This wasn’t his world. Not truly. Yet tonight, he lingered. Because for once, he was tired of resisting. Tired of pretending that thoughts of you hadn’t taken root in every corner of his mind, no matter how far he ran or how long he bled for a realm that demanded all and gave nothing in return.

He took another sip, slower this time. The rim of the goblet trembled just slightly as it met his lips.

He could almost forget.

Almost.

But then, he saw you.

You were seated beside your brother Aegon, the two of you nestled in a corner of the hall like a secret waiting to be discovered. Your laughter rose above the din. Clear, unrestrained, and utterly unguarded. It carried over the music and clinking goblets like a siren’s call, drawing attention without ever meaning to. The wine had painted your cheeks with a delicate flush, and your eyes shimmered with that familiar gleam. The thrill of mischief, of play, of danger barely restrained.

You leaned into Aegon’s shoulder with the casual closeness of those who had shared both blood and secrets. Your movements were instinctual, thoughtless. The kind that came from years of growing up tangled in the same chaos, surviving the same court. You tilted your head toward him, whispering something no one else could hear, and he laughed in response, throwing his head back, utterly careless.

To anyone watching, you were simply siblings. Royal, golden, touched by dragonfire. But Gwayne saw more than that. He saw the ease in your posture, the way you folded yourself around Aegon like a ribbon, the way your fingers brushed his wrist in passing. Like kin, yes. But also like co-conspirators. A united front forged in fire and wine and secrets no court would understand.

But Aegon was not like you.

His hand rested too comfortably upon your waist, fingers drawing lazy, possessive circles in the silk of your dress as though you belonged to him, as though he had the right. He leaned in too close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered something low, words meant only for you, thick with implication. Whatever he said made you laugh, or perhaps it didn’t. Perhaps that sound was something else entirely, brittle and uncertain, dressed up to seem amused.

You did not pull away. You did not push his hand aside. And maybe you didn’t know how. Maybe no one had ever taught you how to refuse him. Not in this world where bloodline meant duty, and closeness blurred into expectation. Or maybe, just maybe, you didn’t try.

And gods, that thought struck Gwayne harder than any sword ever had. Because if you didn’t want him there, why did you smile like that? Why did you lean into his touch so easily, so familiarly? Was it protection, performance or was it something else entirely? Something Gwayne was never meant to name.

This wasn’t the Red Keep. This wasn’t some harmless midnight visit to his chambers cloaked under the excuse of wine and jest, hidden behind stone walls and duty-bound glances. This was the Streets of Silk, a place where intentions were rarely innocent, where shadows danced with desire, and every touch had a cost.

The Targaryens had always been whispered about for their peculiar customs, their tangled bloodlines, and their tangled morals. But this, whatever bond you and Aegon shared, it had never been that. Gwayne knew it. He had seen it, again and again. It was the closeness of siblings, yes. Loud, familiar, and foolishly unguarded. It was reckless, but it was not wrong.

And yet, as he sat there, watching Aegon's hand drift lower, his laughter growing louder, his breath too close to your cheek… Gwayne felt that certainty begin to fray. Aegon would never change. That much was carved into stone.

But what of you?

Gwayne's grip tightened around his goblet as a thousand questions swirled in his mind like a storm off the Narrow Sea. What were you doing here? Surely, you knew what kind of place this was. What it meant for a princess of your stature to be seen in such company. Was it recklessness? Defiance? Or had you simply followed an invitation without knowing what it truly entailed?

And worse, was this your intent all along? Had you come seeking a reprieve from the weight of your station, just like he had? Had the burdens of war and court and expectation finally worn you down to the point that you, too, sought escape in wine and laughter and blurred lines?

He hated himself for even asking.

But gods help him, a darker thought whispered beneath it all. Maybe you weren’t looking for escape. Maybe you were just looking for something… or someone… else.

And that possibility hollowed him.

From there, Gwayne rose to his feet.

He had no plan. No right. No claim to you beyond stolen glances and the weight of what remained unspoken between you.

And yet, he could not stay rooted there, watching from the edge like some idle court fool, pretending he did not see what was clearly unfolding. His gut twisted with the dreadful certainty of what came next. Aegon, emboldened by wine and privilege, always took what he wanted. And you, laughing softly beside him, cloaked in innocence or perhaps stubborn defiance, seemed too unaware of the danger or too weary to care.

Gwayne's pulse thundered in his ears, his body moving before his mind could reason it away. It was not jealousy that burned in him, not entirely. It was something deeper. Older. A need to shield what he could never truly possess. A need to stop something before it crossed the line that would haunt both of you after the laughter died down and the wine soured on your tongues.

He didn’t know what he meant to do. He just knew he couldn’t bear to watch any longer.

Not when it was you.

Not when the cost of silence might be your ruin.

You hardly noticed when Aegon guided you away from the crowd, his arm a steady anchor as you leaned into him, intoxicated more by comfort than wine.

"Come, sweet sister," he murmured, his tone laced with softness, practiced and disarming. "You need rest."

The corridors beyond the brothel's common room were quieter, darker. Silk curtains shielded private chambers. Candlelight painted golden patterns upon the floor. The room he chose was small, warm, fragrant with incense and myrrh.

Aegon had sprawled himself across the cushions before you even realized you had followed him in. His tunic was loosened, goblet discarded on the nearby table. He watched you with half-lidded eyes, a lazy smirk playing on his lips.

You stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the carved frame for balance. The air was thick, perfumed and heavy. Your limbs were warm, too warm, your breath shallow. Whatever you drank downstairs clung to your senses, muffling your better judgment like fog upon glass.

“You always were stubborn,” Aegon drawled, reclining further. “Even drunk, you still hesitate.”

You laughed, or maybe you tried to. It came out soft, confused. The room swayed slightly when you stepped inside. His hand patted the space beside him, beckoning like a cat drawing a moth to flame.

You didn’t sit, not right away. But the wine made you slower. And when your knees buckled slightly, you let yourself sink down, legs folding beneath you. The pillows were plush. The silence, disorienting.

Aegon shifted closer. “You’ve always been too bright for court,” he murmured, his voice brushing your skin more than your ears. “Too rare for them to understand. But me—I’ve always seen you.”

Then his hand found your waist. It settled there too comfortably, his thumb drawing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. A tickle of unease crept up your spine.

You opened your mouth to speak, but your thoughts lagged behind.

His fingers trailed up, skimming your side, reaching for the laces of your bodice.

"Aegon—" you whispered, the name caught somewhere between a question and a warning.

But he wasn’t listening. His touch had turned more deliberate. The strings began to loosen beneath his fingers, the neckline falling slightly askew.

Your breath hitched.

“Stop,” you said again, clearer this time.

He stilled but the moment stretched too long. The firelight flickered against his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes. Your dress slipped another inch.

And somewhere beyond the door, bootsteps echoed, distant, approaching.

And then—

The door slammed open.

The sound cracked like thunder, hard enough to rattle the flame in every candle. Curtains swayed with the sudden gust. A goblet clattered to the floor, rolling until it thudded against the base of a nearby table.

There he was.

Ser Gwayne.

The room stilled around him. You froze where you sat, bodice half-undone, breath caught in your throat. Aegon’s hands hovered mid-air, as though feigning innocence could reverse what had nearly happened. But the silence that followed was far worse than any outcry.

Gwayne stood unmoved. A wall of steel and fury, the low candlelight casting long shadows across the firm line of his jaw, the sharp angle of his cheekbones. His tunic was disheveled, cloak swept back over his shoulders as if he had walked with purpose. No, stormed through the streets and straight into this moment.

He had known. Gods, something in his chest had already told him before he saw it. But knowing and seeing were two different beasts. And now, faced with the truth sprawled before him, he was all restraint. He did not flinch. Did not shout. His sword remained sheathed. But the heat that radiated off of him was blistering. Unspoken judgment filled the air, heavy as a drawn blade.

His eyes never left you, not even for a second. Not Aegon. Not the loosened gown. Just you. And in that gaze, there was no question of what he had walked into. Only certainty.

"You shouldn’t be here."

His voice wasn’t raised. It didn’t need to be. It carried the weight of stone and fire, deliberate and cold and controlled. The kind of tone used not in passion, but in war.

The echo of his entrance was still clinging to the walls when Aegon laughed. A bark of sound, mocking, ill-timed, and wrong in a room so near to ruin.

“And you should, Uncle?” Aegon slurred, stepping forward with that same careless swagger, wine still wet at the corner of his mouth. “Ser Gwayne, the pious knight, here in the Streets of Silk? Gods, who would've guessed…”

Gwayne didn’t flinch. Not at the name. Not at the jab. His gaze was set, unmoving, sharp as any drawn blade. His jaw tightened, the muscle there twitching with the effort to stay his hand.

“Leave her,” he said, voice low and cold. A command, not a request.

Aegon scoffed, throwing his arms wide. “You think I dragged her in here? She’s no little maid with stars in her eyes. She followed, like she always does.”

He turned to you, then. That familiar smirk, now twisted and dark. “Tell him, sweet sister. We were just talking, weren’t we? Sharing wine, like old times.”

But your mouth was dry. Your voice caught. The drink blurred your thoughts, but not your shame. Because what Aegon said wasn’t wholly untrue. It had been familiar. He knew how to twist your memories into warmth, how to lull you with the comfort of old bonds and soft laughter.

Still, you looked away. And that was answer enough.

Aegon’s expression soured. The grin dropped. “Oh, don’t be so bloody righteous, Gwayne. You’re not just here for chivalry. You think I don’t see it? The way you look at her?”

That did it.

Gwayne moved, swift, fluid, like a storm breaking. In two strides, he had Aegon by the collar, shoving him hard into the wall. The impact shook the candlelight, rattling the very frame of the door.

“You’re drunk,” he growled, voice tight and controlled. “A good night’s sleep might help.”

You gasped and stood. Wobbling, bodice clutched desperately.

“Uncle—”

He turned to you the instant you spoke. His grip on Aegon released, and the venom in his eyes gave way to something else. Not pity. Not gentleness. But concern, deep and unyielding.

From the hall came hurried steps. Two of Gwayne’s men, knights in half-armour, answering the storm their commander had stirred. One caught Aegon as he staggered, still laughing, though there was fear beneath it now.

“Get him out of here,” Gwayne ordered. "Get him back to the Keep. Now."

You watched them drag your brother away, his curses slurred and dying off in the distance.

And then silence.

The room, so recently filled with wine and heat and too many hands, was quiet save for your uneven breath. You turned, and your dress slipped lower across your shoulder. Gwayne’s eyes caught the movement, lingered, but only for a heartbeat. Still, it was enough to see what flickered in them.

Guilt. Hunger. And restraint burning at the edges.

“You should not be in a place like this, Princess,” he said quietly now.

“But you’re here, Uncle,” you replied, lips parted, voice soft with drink but steady. “So, I shouldn’t worry.”

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. As if to will the moment away. As if it would cleanse the thoughts already carved into his mind.

Gods, what if he hadn’t seen you? What if he hadn’t followed his instincts? Would you be safe? Would you still be whole?

He stepped forward, the scent of leather and wind clinging to him. His cloak came from his shoulders in one smooth motion, and he placed it gently over yours.

“Come,” he murmured. “Let me take you back.”

The night was cool, but the air still clung heavy with wine, heat, and something unspoken.

Gwayne said nothing as he hoisted you gently into the saddle. Not behind him, as a knight might carry a ward, but in front, across his lap like a lady of grace and station, swathed in his cloak. The gesture should’ve felt formal. Dutiful. But it didn’t.

You felt the solid warmth of his chest at your back the moment he mounted. One strong arm circled around your waist to steady you, hand spread just below your ribs. The closeness was steadying in a way nothing else had been tonight. His presence was so calm, so controlled, sliced through the haze of drink and confusion like a tether pulling you back to yourself.

It should have been chaste. Innocent. Protective.

But it wasn’t.

Not with the way your side pressed flush to his chest with each stride of the horse.

Not with how your head, heavier than usual, tipped ever so slightly against his collarbone.

Not with the feel of his thigh against yours, warm through layers of leather and silk, as the saddle rocked beneath you.

And gods, he was quiet. Grounded. Unmoving except for the careful reins in his hands and the subtle adjustment of his hold when your body shifted with the rhythm of the horse. Neither of you spoke. Not for a long while.

The clatter of hooves on damp cobblestone echoed down the sleeping streets. Around you, the city seemed still as though the world, for this moment, belonged only to the two of you. The soft rustle of fabric, the sound of his breath close behind your ear, the faint creak of leather with every step.

You should not have gone there. You knew that now. Even in the haze of wine and fading adrenaline, your thoughts came clearer with every passing minute. You had walked willingly into a den of danger, lulled by familiarity and the illusion of control. What if Gwayne hadn’t come?

But he had.

And now, here, with his arm secure around you, his cloak heavy on your shoulders, and his scent, clean linen, faint myrrh, steel, surrounding you, you didn’t feel foolish. You felt safe. Anchored. Like no harm could reach you so long as he was near.

His voice broke the quiet eventually, deep and low, rasping like it had been dragged up from somewhere buried.

"You were reckless tonight, Princess."

The words could’ve scolded. But they didn’t. They settled into you like something close to worry, real and tender.

"I could say the same to you, Uncle," you murmured in return, not turning your head, only letting your words carry back into the space between your bodies.

His arm didn’t tighten, but it lingered. His grip steady, reassuring.

"You're fortunate I’ve no mind to trouble your mother with this," he added, quieter now. It almost sounded like a secret. Or a kindness.

The wind pulled strands of your hair from where they’d been pinned, sending them fluttering over his jaw. He didn’t brush them away. He let them be. Let you be.

And for the rest of the ride, neither of you spoke again. The Keep loomed ahead, tall and yawning with torchlight spilling from its gates. But you wished, in some part of you, that the ride was just a little longer. That the road stretched a little farther. That the world could stay this quiet, this gentle, for a while more.

Not until the gates opened before you and the guards stepped forward did Gwayne begin to shift, preparing to dismount.

And even then, his hand lingered at your side. Protective. Steady.

Home.

The stone corridors of the Keep were hushed at this hour, wrapped in that peculiar silence only found deep into the night. The torches lining the walls flickered low, casting golden tongues of firelight across the cold grey stone. With each step, your footsteps echoed faintly, soft against Gwayne’s heavier stride.

The cool air had done little to fully sober you, though the fog had lifted just enough to leave your thoughts clearer. And heavier. Everything that had transpired still sat on your shoulders, wrapped in silence, still unspoken. Yet there was comfort too… in the rhythm of Gwayne’s pace beside you, in the way your shoulder brushed his arm with every few steps, in the soft weight of his cloak still draped over your frame.

The cloak clung to you, thick with the scent of leather and faint smoke. But beneath that was something warmer. Something distinctly him, sun-warmed steel, myrrh, and the lingering trace of his skin.

He hadn’t spoken since helping you from the saddle, hadn’t left your side as you made the quiet trek through the castle’s inner halls. Not once. He kept pace without rush, without reproach. One hand hovered near the small of your back, as if ready to catch you if your legs faltered, even though you walked steadily now. It was protective, but never imposing. Never demanding.

When you finally reached the door of your chambers, your hand hesitated on the iron handle. You felt him slow beside you. The silence stretched. Not awkward, but full.

Then, just as you turned to thank him, his voice broke the quiet.

“Try not to sneak out again,” Gwayne said, his tone low and dry, almost too casual. “I don’t think I have it in me to storm through another brothel tonight.”

You blinked, startled, then let out a soft laugh that slipped past your lips before you could catch it.

“Was that a jest, Ser Gwayne Hightower?” you asked, head tilting, lips curling upward despite yourself.

He turned to face you more fully now, just slightly. The torchlight brushed the sharp line of his jaw, caught in the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Blame the wine,” he murmured. “Or the fact that you’re impossible to guard when you vanish into the night.”

You stepped closer—barely, but enough that the hem of your cloak brushed his boot. Your voice dropped just a touch, playfully conspiratorial.

“Thank you, Uncle.”

The moment thickened. Just for a breath.

Then Gwayne cleared his throat lightly, gaze dipping. Respectfully, but not without heat.

“You’re my charge, Princess,” he said, more composed now. “It’s my duty.”

You gave a little hum, feigning disappointment. “Such a dull answer. You always say that.”

His hand, gloved now, rose just slightly then hovered near your elbow, offering quiet support, not touch. Ever the gentleman.

“You should rest,” he said gently, voice lower now, earnest beneath the formal tone. “Truly. You’ve had too much wine… and too much almost. I won’t leave until you’re safely behind this door.”

You leaned slightly on the handle but didn’t turn it. Instead, you swayed, just the slightest bit, the remnants of the wine still warm in your veins. You looked up at him from beneath your lashes.

“You’ll stand here all night if I don’t go in?”

“I will.”

“How dreadfully noble,” you whispered, and your fingers toyed with the edge of his cloak at your shoulder.

Gwayne inhaled slowly, his jaw tense but not angry. No, never that. If anything, it was restraint. Thick and thrumming between you both.

“I won’t push you, Princess,” he said after a beat. “But I will worry.”

And something about the way he said it. Quiet, measured, with no pretense of knightly duty, made your heart lurch.

You sighed softly, finally releasing the latch with a click. “Fine,” you relented, turning back to the door with a little smirk. “But only because you asked so nicely.”

He let out a small exhale, not quite a chuckle, but something close. Relief maybe. Fondness, definitely.

As you slipped into your chamber, you turned once more, catching him lingering just outside the threshold.

“Will you still be standing there when I wake?”

“Only if you vanish again,” he said, eyes warm now despite the steel in them. “Goodnight, My Lady.”

And when he looked back, your lips were already on his.

It was reckless. Desperate. A kiss that carried too many nights unsaid, too many glances stolen. His mouth met yours with stunned hesitation but only for a breath.

Then he kissed you back.

Hard.

Your bodies collided with a force that had nothing gentle left in it. The door slammed shut behind you as you pressed him against it. His hands came up to your waist, your back, then your jaw like he didn’t know what part of you he needed more.

He tore himself from your mouth just enough to rasp, “We shouldn’t do this—”

“I don’t care,” you whispered, breathless. “I don’t care.”

And whatever fragile restraint he had left shattered completely.

He surged forward, backing you into the room like a man possessed, guided by something deeper than lust, something forged in silence and stolen glances over too many restrained evenings. You stumbled together through the candlelit space, lips fused, breath shallow and uneven. Your hands clutched at him like he might vanish if you let go, fumbling through layers of buckles and fabric, through the rigid lines of his belt and the worn leather of his tunic.

Somewhere along the way, the weight of his sword fell with a harsh clatter against the stone, forgotten. His gauntlet followed, then his tunic.

Then his hands, those calloused, knight-worn hands, gripped your thighs, firm and certain, and lifted you as though it cost him nothing. You gasped, arms tightening around his shoulders as your back struck the edge of the heavy oak table. The impact scattered quills, overturned cups, and sent a silver tray crashing to the floor in a ringing clatter.

Neither of you flinched.

He slid you fully atop the wood, standing between your knees, pressing close. His mouth left yours only to trail lower, dragging hot and open down the slope of your neck, the edge of your collarbone. You tipped your head back in a breathless surrender, fingers burying into his dark hair, pulling him closer as a soft moan slipped past your lips.

The sound of fabric tearing split the air, sharp, urgent. The bodice of your dress gave way under his hands, seams straining, silk parting like it had always been meant to. The cool air hit your bare skin, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth, his hands. Exploring, reverent, hungry.

He took his time.

Not like a man simply giving in to want, but one who had waited too long, who had held back too much, and now needed to memorize you. Every line, every shiver, every breathless sound you made. His touch was both worship and want, fingers trailing down your sides, lips brushing places no one else had dared to touch.

Gwayne lowered himself slowly, reverently, his lips worshipping every inch of skin he uncovered along the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breast, the line of your ribs. His breath was warm, his stubble a soft scrape against the most delicate parts of you.

Each kiss was a vow unspoken. Each press of his lips a confession buried too long.

"If your heart wavers," he murmured lowly between kisses, "If you change your mind-"

"I won't."

His hand, steady yet reverent, slid beneath the hem of your skirts, pushing them up to your hips. A calloused thumb brushed the inside of your thigh, and your breath hitched. Your hips shifting instinctively, your body already betraying how much you craved this.

Then his fingers found the slit between your legs.

A gasp spilled from your lips as he touched you. First soft, exploratory strokes, testing what made you twitch, what made you arch, what made you moan. He watched you the whole time, eyes dark, lips parted.

One finger slipped into you slow, deliberate and your thighs clenched around his wrist. His mouth never stopped moving, showering you with open-mouthed kisses as he worked you with skilled, patient hands.

And when his thumb circled your pearl just right, your head fell back, hands gripping the edge of the table, your moan echoing softly off stone.

"That’s it," he said, voice like a prayer.

“I need you, Gwayne.”

There was no room left for doubt.

He lowered his head again, lips reverent as they traveled downward. Soft at first, then firmer, more intent. Each kiss was an oath, a confession, a sin he was willing to burn for. And as his hand found the parting of your thighs, his touch slow and deliberate, your gasp filled the air like a hymn.

You arched into him, trembling under the sensation, your back hitting the wooden frame again as his mouth moved with devotion, teasing you, tasting you, undoing you bit by bit.

And gods… you were seeing stars.

Your body trembled as his mouth worked its divine sin between your thighs, pulling sounds from you that no septa would ever dare name. The pressure was building, spiraling, stealing your breath with every flick of his tongue.

Then—

A soft knock. The creak of the door beginning to open.

“Princess?” came a voice, one of your handmaidens, no doubt coming to help you with your nightly routine.

Panic curled in your belly, but so did a wild sort of thrill. You found your voice, cracked and breathless.

“Not now,” you managed, barely stifling a moan, “I can manage.”

The door paused, silence on the other end.

“Of course, my lady,” came the hesitant reply and then the footsteps retreated.

Gods, you were struggling.

You looked down at him, eyes wide with disbelief, and he simply met your gaze with the ghost of a smirk, his shoulders anchoring your legs as if he had no intention of stopping.

And he didn’t.

Not until you broke. Shaking, ruined, whispering his name like prayer and curse all at once.

He rose with a glint in his eye, hands firm on your hips as he pulled you to him. Mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that stole the breath right from your lungs. You tasted yourself on his tongue, warm and slick and sinful, and yet you kissed him back just as greedily, your fingers still fisting his tunic.

When he finally pulled away, lips flushed and smirking, he murmured against your mouth, “Now I see why Aegon always has that damned smug look on his face.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Please. Aegon couldn’t handle me if he tried.”

Gwayne chuckled low, a rare sound from him. “Seven help us both if he ever finds out.”

“He won’t,” you smirked. “You don’t talk, and I don’t share.”

He tilted his head, a mock-serious glint in his eye. “Sworn to secrecy then, are we, Princess?”

“Sworn, Ser,” you replied with a grin, pulling him back in by the collar. “But you’ll need to keep reminding me why I shouldn’t tell.”

And that was just the beginning of the night.

[yourbasicqueerie]

The Goddess Who Promises Endless Apologies Of Paradise (fosca x reader)

꩜ Summary:

Basically the plot of Passion but in which Fosca is acc appreciated and seen for the wonderful, hurt, tortured, beautiful woman she is. Gender bent in the sense that the reader is called georgia morandi.

꩜ Notes:

So….i watched passion and was mentally tortured by this godamned apology for godly writing (fuck you Steven sondheim and your bigger than life characters, if you where a woman I would have burned you at the stake for having such an amazing understanding of feelings, but since ur not ill suffice by kicking the doors of heaven and screaming at ur face) until I wrote this. I have a few chapters done, but idk how its going to end (IF I end this), so….join me for this ride! I made a playlist for fosca! U can find it here

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You arrive alone.

The coach deposits you at the gate of the military outpost like an afterthought, mud splashing the hem of your dark skirts. You thank the driver—reflex more than sincerity—and step out onto unfamiliar soil.

 The wind here is rawer than in Milan, and the trees stand brittle and still, as if even the land is holding its breath.

A soldier escorts you through the gate and up the path toward the estate—a large, aging villa that has known better decades. You pull your coat tighter. A place like this feels less like a new post and more like an exile.

Inside, Colonel Ricci awaits you.

“You must be Signorina Giorgia,” he says, his voice clipped and proper.

You nod. “Yes, Colonel. Giorgia Morandi.”

He takes your gloved hand with practiced politeness. “I trust your journey was uneventful?”

You offer a neutral smile. “Long.”

He chuckles—thinly. “All roads here are long. But we’re glad to have you, especially for the work ahead. Our records are a mess.”

And that’s why you’re here, at least officially: to assist with administrative duties, sorting through months of disorganized military correspondence, budgets, transfers. On paper, it’s a bureaucrat’s post. In truth, you know you were chosen not only for your skills, but your gender—perhaps the Colonel believes that the presence of a woman in such a sterile place might be… soothing. You’re not flattered.

As you follow him through the hall, he says, “You’ll find the soldiers here rough around the edges. But harmless, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

He doesn’t answer.

You are shown to a modest room upstairs. The shutters creak when you touch them. There is no mirror.

You eat your first dinner in the mess hall with a cluster of officers. The table is loud with male voices—laughter, teasing, offhand remarks about Milanese women. You let most of it wash over you, your posture straight, your expression unreadable. You’ve dealt with worse.

Someone asks why your husband didn’t accompany you.

“I came here to work,” you say, evenly. “Not to bring a chaperone.”

It’s true. You left him in Milan to tend to the family business. You didn’t kiss him goodbye. Your marriage is lavender at best—pleasant in social function, barren of intimacy. He doesn’t love you, and you don’t love him. You both prefer it that way.

Still, your voice catches slightly when you say the word “husband,” and you scold yourself for it. You’ve lived your life with grace, with pragmatism. There’s no use craving what you were never meant to have.

Just when you were trying to pry off an overly drunk official—

A scream.

It’s not a cry or a shriek, not something childish or sudden. It is a full-body, soul-wracking scream, raw and unfiltered, tearing through the air from somewhere above.

Your spoon clatters into your bowl.

No one else even flinches.

You look around, stunned, your pulse racing. “Was that—?”

The Colonel does not look up from his soup. “Fosca.”

“Fosca?”

“My cousin,” he says simply. “She has… fits. You'll get used to it.”

You don’t respond. The table resumes its conversation as though a ghost hadn’t just howled through the house.

That night, you lie awake. You hear nothing anymore, but the echo of the scream stays with you, embedded beneath your ribs.

The next morning, you begin your duties. The Colonel has given you a cramped study that smells of paper and disuse. You open your case, arrange your fountain pens, smooth your skirt over your lap. Work is good. Work is order.

Still, sometime after lunch, you knock on Ricci’s office door.

“I was wondering,” you say. “Would it be possible to send a few books to your cousin?”

Ricci blinks. “Books?”

“I brought several with me. I thought perhaps she might.…enjoy something to pass the time.”

He considers this. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I’ll make sure she receives them.”

He takes the small parcel—three novels, well-worn—and sets them aside.

“She’s not quite like other women, you understand.”

“I gathered,” you say carefully.

“She’s very sensitive. I trust you won’t take her… condition too personally.”

“No. But I won’t ignore it, either.”

He says nothing. You leave.

That evening, another scream. Softer this time. But it cuts even deeper.

You find yourself standing in the hallway outside the upper rooms. Just standing. Listening.

You don’t knock.

You return to your own quarters, palms cold, heart unsettled.

You’ve always been practical. You’ve always known your place.

But you’ve never heard a woman sound like that.

I HAVE 3 CHAPTERS OUT ON AO3, READ HERE