#of a “person” and more of something that shares our soul... the voice of emotions that are too painful or overwhelming for us to sing alone

[twilightofthesandwiches]

So Kris as we know them is a pretty quiet, deadpan and stoic person. It’s one of their main identifying features that the game constantly draws attention to via both comedic and serious moments.

But like with everything we think we know about Kris, it is always worthwhile to consider how much of their behavior is natural or real, and how much of it is a result of our influence as a possessing entity, or simply colored by our biased and partial look into their life.

First things first, it’s important to remember Kris isn’t quite as quiet as they might seem to us, because we’re incapable of hearing them talk. We can only really gleam when they said something from the reactions of the other characters around them. So there’s plenty of times we can’t quite judge how much Kris was actually talking.

And that also extends to their emotional reactions to some degree there are plenty of times times where other characters note how Kris is smiling, laughing, shouting, looking scared or having another kind of reaction that is not conveyed by their still and stoic Sprite.

The thing about not being able to hear Kris is actually very curious, cause it’s also consistent with the Humans of ‘Undertale’. Frisk and Chara’s voices were also imperceptible to us, only gleaned from the reactions of the other characters. Even when it comes to a recording of Chara’s voice.

The only exception is our little ‘conversation’ with Murder-Route Chara, but this is when they became something not-quite-fully-human beyond our control and it still lacked voice-bleeps for the text, which might indicate that we’re still not quite able to hear them.

So… not being able to hear a character’s dialogue might be a side-effect of possession/sharing a body (since one could say we’re kinda controlling both Frisk and Chara throughout Undertale)…. Or it might be a feature of Humans in the Toby Fox Multiverse? That their voices are imperceptible to Unkillable Body-Snatching Time Gods? After all, we can’t hear Kris even when we’re outside their body.

Whatever it is, their lack of visible emotional reactions might be connected to it as well. Although, it is a lot less… absolute. While we never hear (read?) their voice, there are a few times where Kris’ sprites do have facial expressions and body language that clearly convey an Emotion. And there seem to be more and more of them in later Chapters.

Maybe these are just moments that are… so extremely expressive that they shine through the general obscuring mask of stoic-ness that usually hides Kris’ expressions from us? Are the expressions that are imperceptible to us just too subtle to show up on their Sprite? Or is it because these actions were technically taken totally independent of our possession?

...But also, despite it being sometimes hard to determine how much Kris is really talking and how expressive they seem to the characters in-universe, there are a few indications that they are seen as a generally quiet and stoic person from the other characters' perspective as well. Even if it’s not as exaggerated as it seems to us.

And if you combine that with the few more-expressive Sprites they have, and how these only occur as part of actions Kris takes of their own will, and they’re more frequent in recent Chapters as Kris’ independence from us is growing… it’s not unreasonable to assume their laconic deadpan-ness is purely a result of our influence, and without us they’d be a lot more emotional and expressive.

But… hmmm… the thing is that others do notice that Kris is kinda acting Out-Of-Character, but never really point out their quietness or lack of expressiveness as the reason for it. If anything, the SOUL’s possession of Kris makes them come off as uncharacteristically social and talkative.

Folks who have known Kris for their entire life (like Noelle), do seem to characterize them as a quiet person who does not show their emotions easily. The "Newest Girl Girl" shows us pre-Chapter-One Kris barely reacting to Susie's bullying, annoying her by not speaking before demolishing her with just a well-placed softly-said word and both it and the other Noelle Blog Post about Kris repeat the sentiment that 'who can tell what Kris is thinking'.

Most notably, I think, is how Weird Route Noelle describes Kris’ Real Voice (specifically contrasted against the SOUL’s ‘voice'), as ‘deadpan and mumbly’ - and that’s the thing that makes it feel real and familiar and authentically Kris for her. The SOUL’s voice was weird and unnatural because it wasn’t deadpan enough to be the Real Kris.

Also, in the Normal Route, when Noelle is trying to talk to Susie about Kris acting odd, which Susie doesn’t understand cause she hasn’t known the pre-possession Kris all that well, we have this exchange…

The implication, especially paired with Noelle’s Weird Route dialogue, is that ‘yelling’ is the default for the SOUL’s voice, while mumbling is generally for when Kris is saying things of their own volition, because deadpan mumbling is the honest expression of Kris' free will.

All of this does seem to paint a picture of Kris as a generally withdrawn and quiet sort of person with an air of Edgy Teen Apathy to them, albeit when they do allow themself to show their feelings openly, they can be very expressive and emotional. It’s just a rare occurrence even without the whole possession problem.

But… the complicating factor about that interpretation is Tenna. And specifically his secret bonus dialogue in the second Board of the Sword Route.

Which adds a lot of context to some his other dialogue aimed at Kris and his general anxiety about whatever they’re enjoying his games.

I said before that most characters talking about Kris acting ‘weird’ generally will not talk about their stoicism, but Tenna is the exception to that. He is extremely troubled by his inability to make Kris ‘laugh and cry’, seeing it as a failure on his part. If his Games were truly fun and engaging, Kris would've been more reactive.

This conversation with Susie especially, feels very much like a mirror of Susie and Noelle’s conversation in Chapter 4.

Someone who has known Kris since childhood is bothered by their behavior, while Susie, who has only really gotten to know Kris while they’re under our control, can’t understand what the problem is cause that’s just what seems normal to her with Kris.

Tenna thinks Kris should have a more emotional responses to their show, and that their stoicism demonstrates that they’re just not having fun. For Susie, Kris is just kind of emotionally withdrawn by default and has no reason to assume that they’re not enjoying themself just because they’re not expressing it as openly as she or Ralsei do.

So that makes me think, like… if Kris’ deadpan reactions are normal for Noelle but concerning for Tenna, that might still be a relatively recent development?

Well, if that's so, then Kris’ lack of expressiveness might still be related to their peculiar situation with the SOUL, and the reason why no one’s saying that they’ve only gotten really unresponsive recently is that….

Something has been going on long before we came in.

Or it could be just something totally mundane. Maybe they just became withdrawn and kinda emotionally-numb due to their parents’ divorce, or Asriel moving to college, or Dess’ disappearance or the mental exhaustion of following Evil Phone Voice's instructions all the time or some sort of combination of these factors? So for anyone who sees Kris every day and saw them gradually close themself off to the world, that is their normal behavior now… but Tenna still thinks of them as the happier and more expressive child who used to watch him regularly.

Or maybe this is some sort of a mix of the two options?

[sproutingcorpse]

really struggling to word this but likeeeee. as much as i have a bone to pick with how tommy is presented in fanon (during the peak of dsmp's popularity especially) there's something really poignant to me about how ctommy has become such a vessel of idealized projection and made in the image of our personal interpretations as fans.... the dsmp as a whole largely revels in the catharsis of creating art and how our love for a story allows it to transcend the realm of fiction and become something Real and how the dsmp was ultimately brought to life by our own hands as fans as it was by the content creators', and thats exactly how ctommy functions to me: this bridge between content creators and fans, artists and audience. just as hatsune miku is the voice for producers who can't sing their own feelings themselves ctommy shoulders our pain and grief as people living through a time where the world seemed to do nothing but fall apart

ctommy is far from my favorite dsmp character yet he's like the guy i draw most and the only real logical explanation i have for this is that he's kind of like hatsune miku. to me

[ghostlyferrettarot]

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in the signs and what it tells us about our future partner ˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖

❗️All the observations in this post are based on personal experience and research, it's completely fine if it doesn't resonate with everyone❗️

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💖Masterlist💖 💖Masterlist 2💖

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in the Aries: Your soulmate is direct, brave, and somewhat impulsive. They tell you what they feel without hesitation; they get angry quickly but get over it just as quickly. They have a childlike, fun, and competitive side, and want to share adventures. They are someone who defends what they love. They don't hide. They go forward. They may have an active or athletic body, a lot of energy in their gaze, and may have a defined jaw or quick movements. They walk as if they have a clear destiny. Sometimes scars, marks on the skin, are signs of someone who throws themselves fearlessly into what's coming. A firm voice, these partners remind me of Theo James (lucky you hehe).

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in the Taurus: Your soulmate is constant, stable, and loyal. They don't need to promise; they demonstrate with presence. They love with tact, with details. They are someone who wants to build, not just experience intense emotions. They take care of you without you asking. They don't rush into anything. They have a deep relationship with the body, with food, with the senses. They process everything they feel in their own time. They usually have a strong body, harmonious proportions, and soft or warm skin. They may have a defined neck or back, full lips, and a natural scent that envelops you. They move their hands slowly. Solid aesthetics, comfortable clothes.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Gemini: Your soulmate has a thousand interests, a thousand passions, and wants to share them all with you. They get bored easily, but if you catch them with your brain, they stay. They are curious, brilliant, and need a mental connection. They love to learn, ask questions, and observe. They can be chaotic, but never indifferent. I've noticed they tend to have a quick gaze, expressive gestures, and a mischievous smile. They may have slender hands, a lithe or lanky body, and a youthful style regardless of their age. They speak with their hands and move quickly. They have a captivating voice and exaggerated reactions. They dress oddly, a mix of styles, but they always have something. They like glasses, accessories, or things that spark curiosity; someone who comes to mind is Evan Mock.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Cancer: Your soulmate is gentle, sensitive, and empathetic. They have a protective heart, a genuine need to care. Sometimes they have a hard time opening up, but when they do, it's all yours. They're intuitive, homey, and remember things you didn't even know you said. They need depth, tenderness, and secure bonds. They tend to have large, moist eyes, as if they're always on the verge of feeling something. They have a warm body, arms that hug tightly, and a sweet face. They may have rounded features, fair or very soft skin. Their style is cozy: oversized sweaters, comfortable clothes. They have a sweet or lilting voice. They have a maternal/paternal quality, even if they don't realize it.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Leo: Your soulmate shines brightly. They have such a strong energy that it doesn't go unnoticed. Proud, charismatic, passionate. They like to show their love in a big way, with intensity. They want to be chosen, admired, and give their all for the right person. They have a huge heart, but also an ego that needs nurturing. They are generous, protective, creative, and want to love with all their soul. Your persona may have striking hair, a big smile, and an upright posture. They tend to have a theatrical or flashy style and like to stand out. They wear perfume, accessories, something that says "I'm here." A strong voice, a confident gaze. They may have a large body or sweeping gestures. They dress up even for being at home. They always smell good.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Virgo: Your soulmate is analytical, observant, attentive to everything that happens without making much fuss. They don't like grand gestures, but they do like details that show love: remembering your coffee, gently correcting you, helping you without saying "I love you." They are demanding, but also very generous with what they consider valuable. They love serving, fixing, and improving what they love. They have a deep, sometimes solitary inner world. Black cat energy. They have delicate or "clean" features, a well-groomed body, perhaps slim or with subtle movements. They have delicate hands, fair or even skin, and a shy but charming smile. Their way of dressing is neutral, neat, and well-coordinated. They have a calming quality. They speak softly and think carefully before saying anything.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Libra: Your soulmate is sociable, charming, and balanced. They know how to say the right things, when to listen, and how to take care of you without making you uncomfortable. They have aesthetic sensitivity, refined taste, and an inner need for everything to be in harmony. They want a beautiful, caring, and equal relationship. They are romantic, but also fair. They hate unnecessary drama and seek peace, beauty, and complicity. I've noticed that this Juno is with people who have soft features, harmonious proportions, and a perfect smile. They may have dimples, well-groomed skin, or a tender gaze. They have a soft voice, refined manners, and a delicate scent. They always seem to be in control… but gently. It makes you want to trust them.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Scorpio: Your soulmate is intense, mysterious, and emotionally deep. They don't talk much, but they feel everything. They love with all or nothing. They may have a difficult past, secrets but they also have an enormous capacity for transformation.They are protective, loyal, and sometimes possessive. If they love you, it's forever. And they aren't interested in superficial things. They want your whole soul. Physically, they usually have deep eyes, a gaze that takes your breath away. They may have pale or very dark skin, marked features, and visible or hidden scars. They wear dark clothes, have an intense aesthetic, a hypnotic voice, and slow gestures. They have something erotic about them even without trying.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Sagittarius: Your soulmate is free, fun, and philosophical. They want to learn, explore, and live. They make you laugh, they open your mind, and they take you down new paths. They don't stay still, but if they choose you, they take you with them. They're optimistic, wise, a bit clumsy at times. They speak their mind. They love the truth, even when it hurts. And they believe in love as a shared adventure. They have long legs, a big smile, and a traveler's gaze. They can have an strong body, golden skin, and expressive features. They speak loudly, walk quickly, and are always in a hurry to live. They have an accent (could be from a different country than yours), travel stories, and meaningful tattoos. They are light in motion. When it comes to girls, this placement reminds me of Daisy from Daisy Jones and the Six.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Capricorn: Your soulmate is strong, steady, and responsible. They're serious, but they soften with you. They have goals, structure, and ambition. They're the type of person who helps you grow, who silently protects you. They don't love easily, but when they do, it's pure loyalty. They have an angular face, a defined jaw, and a straight posture. They may have a steady gaze, thick eyebrows, and a sober style. They dress neutrally, classic, and elegantly. They like functional things. They have a strong body and large, firm hands.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Aquarius: Your soulmate is different. They don't follow rules, they don't seek approval. They have strange ideas, unusual hobbies, and an open mind like few others. They believe in freedom, in friendship as the basis of love, and in unconventional bonds.They're someone who makes you think, who pushes you to question everything. They don't need to possess you; they need you to choose them every day. They usually have an alternative style, piercings, hair colors, something that breaks the mold. They may be tall, thin, or have eccentric gestures. Bright eyes, a spontaneous laugh, or an unusual way of walking. They're unusual. They're unique. And it feels like a beautiful experiment, hehe.

˖⁺‧₊˚💖˚₊‧⁺˖ Juno in Pisces: Your soulmate is pure heart. Sensitive, dreamy, intuitive. They have such a vast inner world that they sometimes get lost in it. They have the blessing and also the curse of feeling everything: yours, theirs, the world's. They can be spiritual, artistic, shy, or all of the above. They are the person who looks at you as if you were magic. I've noticed that these people have soft skin, a low voice, a soft or delicate body. They walk as if they were floating. They have tattoos, wear vintage clothes, like water, melancholic music; they also tend to be artists.

[allurer23]

TURN THE PAGE TO US

YOU ANNOTATED MY SOUL

In Focus: Mark Lee × Reader

Synopsis: You and Mark Lee: two English Lit majors, one department, zero peace. You can quote The Waste Land by heart, and so can he—but your shared talent for verse usually ends in verbal warfare. Forced to co-lead a competitive research project, Mark’s infuriating intelligence and maddening focus drive you up the wall. Yet, rivalry softens into playful banter, and late study sessions stretch longer than expected. Turns out, the line between rivalry and something softer is written in pencil—easily erased, effortlessly rewritten.

Warnings: Rivals to lovers, Explicit sexual content / verbal kink, Mentions of sexual tension, arousal, and suggestive dialogue, Dom/sub implications (voice kink, praise/degradation mix), Consensual power play, Intense academic rivalry dynamic, Emotional repression / internalized longing, Some strong language (casual swearing), Alcohol (minor party scene), Academic stress / intellectual elitism, Brief reference to being interrupted post-kiss, Heavy use of literary references / sarcasm / metaphor, No actual smut scenes occur, but it’s very hot

Author’s Note:

This is the first footnote in TURN THE PAGE TO US—because nothing screams ‘healthy coping mechanism’ like falling for the one person who annotates your entire existence.”

I didn’t mean to write something this long, but apparently, Mark Lee + academic rivalry + literary thirst = me losing all control. This ended up way longer than planned, and I still haven’t finished it—so I’m posting it in two parts.

This is Part 1, guys

You can read Part 2 here

This is for the girls who annotate their fantasy smut and the guys who smell like books and think arguing about Kafka counts as foreplay. This fic is messy, wordy, and borderline unhinged in the best academic way. To everyone who's ever caught feelings during a debate—this one's for you. Engagement means the world: likes, reblogs, comments, screams in the tags.

Please be 18+ if you’re reading.

"You underlined metaphors. I read between the lines. Somewhere between ink and irritation, we annotated each other."

Third coffee of the day. And I hate coffee. It tastes like existential dread steeped in burnt hope. But like Gregor Samsa waking up as a bug, I didn’t choose this life—I just…adapted. Caffeine is my metamorphosis.

Sips, grimaces, and watches Mark Lee walk in, perfectly on time, of course.

And there he is. Mark Lee. Human punctuation mark. Probably thinks the sun rises because he quoted Woolf at it. He writes like he’s got a personal vendetta against mediocrity and walks like he’s never been told he’s wrong. Spoiler alert: I’ve told him. He didn’t listen.

The academic rival I never asked for but somehow ended up stuck with since freshman year. Ever since our first clash over whether The Waste Land is genius or just a fever dream with footnotes, it’s been intellectual warfare. I don’t know why, but every time I see him, I feel this irrational irritation—like my brain knows it’s about to be challenged, and my ego's already rolling up its sleeves.

And of course, can't forget to mention his group. The ever-infamous Dream boys. The campus golden group. Seven of them, like some mythological fellowship but with more hair gel and less emotional regulation. A cocktail of charisma, chaos, and misplaced confidence.

Professor Jung walked into the classroom with the kind of smile that only meant one thing: chaos was coming. Not the scream-and-run kind. The academic kind. The kind that ruined friendships, ignited crushes, and made someone cry in the hallway after overanalyzing Jane Eyre.

“Let’s start today with a wonderful question,” he said, practically rubbing his hands together like a Bond villain with tenure. “Fate versus free will in literature.”

Of course. Of course. The kind of question that turns polite English majors into caffeinated gladiators wielding highlighters and wounded pride.

“Think Kafka’s labyrinths of absurdity or Austen’s cages of etiquette,” he continued, eyes gleaming like this was the TED Talk he'd been preparing his whole life for. “Who really writes the story—the characters, or some invisible puppeteer called fate?”

Naturally—and I mean this with every ounce of disdain in my soul—Mark Lee’s hand shot up. Instantly. Like he had been waiting for this moment since the womb. Like fate had chosen him, which is ironic, considering he clearly sides with it.

He wore that insufferable smirk—the one that made girls sigh and me want to throw a Norton Anthology at his face. His glasses glinted like they were part of some book-boy cosplay, which, tragically, only made him hotter. Tragic for me, I mean. Not the population of people who thirst after tortured literature boys who quote Woolf on first dates. (Yes, he did that. I overheard. He used To the Lighthouse. Someone really should’ve drowned him there.)

I raised my hand too. Because if Mark Lee was jumping into the ring, I was showing up with verbal brass knuckles and annotated Kafka.

We both started speaking—of course—and Professor Jung smiled like his plan to cause chaos was going exactly as intended.

“Y/n, go ahead,” he said. And I did. With glee.

“Fate? Please. That’s just what authors use when they don’t want to admit they wrote themselves into a corner. The Trial isn’t an ode to inevitability—it’s a primal scream from a man being smothered by bureaucracy and desperately trying to claw meaning out of the absurd. Free will exists. It's just ugly and panicked and gets drowned in paperwork.”

Mark’s smirk—God, that smirk—deepened. Probably because he thought he was about to say something clever. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.

“Delusional,” he said, all smooth confidence and unjustified cheekbones. “Austen’s characters are textbook fate victims. Emma? Lizzie? They ‘choose,’ sure but only within the bounds of societal programming. It's not free will, it’s conditioned responses. Fate, just wearing a petticoat.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my ancestors. “You’re reducing character arcs to algorithms. Emma isn’t doomed—she’s flawed. And she changes. Growth is a choice, Mark Lee. Free will is messy, but that’s what makes it beautiful. Fate is a cop-out for people too afraid of consequences.”

He leaned back like he was lounging in a coffee shop, not verbally brawling in front of thirty people. “And yet the greatest tragedies rely on fate. Romeo and Juliet, Gatsby… Doomed from the start. Fate is the poetry of inevitability.”

I gave him a smile that could peel paint. “And maybe you just like sounding poetic while ignoring the fact that most tragedies are people screwing up, not the stars aligning. Gatsby wasn’t doomed. He just made garbage decisions and idealized a girl who liked shiny things.”

He adjusted his glasses like he was preparing to deliver an epiphany. “So you’re saying free will is just people being dumb?”

“Exactly,” I said, triumphantly. “Free will is people being dumb, brilliant, selfish, selfless, human. Orwell’s 1984? Winston tries. He chooses resistance. That’s the whole point. Even a doomed choice is still a choice.”

Mark tilted his head, all faux-curious. “And he’s crushed. Crushed by the inevitability of the system. Free will doesn’t win. Fate does.”

I could practically hear the air crackling. Our classmates were silent, hanging on every word like this was a courtroom drama and someone’s scholarship depended on it. Maybe mine did.

Professor Jung finally clapped his hands, grinning like a man watching two tigers fight over a Shakespearean soliloquy. “Exactly what I wanted. Good. Very, very good.”

I slumped back in my seat, heart thumping, and glared at Mark’s profile. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. His smirk. His glasses. His perfect posture, like he didn’t just ruin my blood pressure for the day.

After the verbal warzone had been declared over by Professor Jung, I packed up my notes with all the casual serenity of a boiling kettle. Mark was still smugly tucking his glasses into his collar like he hadn’t just played devil’s advocate for fate, of all things. Fate. I mean, who chooses to side with destiny in 2025?

“Y/N and Mark, please stay back,” Professor Jung said, just as I was plotting the most satisfying way to avoid him for the rest of my life.

I glanced sideways at Mark—or as I affectionately referred to him in my mind, the walking thesis footnote of my irritation. His brow arched, clearly intrigued, and I hated that it looked good on him. Could someone’s face be grammatically correct? I didn’t want to talk about it.

Once the last student dragged their bag out and the door clicked shut behind them, Professor Jung beamed like he’d been waiting to drop a literary bomb.

“I like the way you both think,” he began, steepling his fingers like some benevolent academic overlord. “You don’t just read literature—you wrestle it. Respect it. And occasionally stab each other with it.”

I said nothing, just nodded politely while standing as far from Mark as physically possible without flinging myself out the window.

“There’s an international literary conference hosted by the University at Veritas,” he continued. “It’s prestigious, competitive, and… paired.”

Mark straightened beside me like someone had just offered him a sonnet and a scholarship. I, on the other hand, was already sensing doom wrapped in MLA format.

“It’s on the notice board, but I’m telling you two specifically,” Professor Jung went on, smiling that same evil-genius smile he’d worn this morning. “Because I think—no, know—that if you teamed up, your chances of getting accepted are incredibly high.”

My brain short-circuited.

Team up?

With Mark fate-is-a-poem Lee?

We’d kill each other before we even chose a font.

“That’s… very kind of you, Professor,” I said, my voice politely strangled.

Beside me, Mark let out a soft, amused hum. Like a man already composing the opening paragraph of our academic obituary.

“I’m in,” he said. Instantly. No hesitation. Of course.

I looked at him like he’d just offered to co-author my nightmare.

“I mean,” he added, shooting me a sideways glance that felt like a challenge dressed as a compliment, “if Y/N can handle it.”

Handle what? His metaphors? His smugness? His perfectly organized notes that somehow always smell like cinnamon and ink?

“Oh, I can handle it,” I said sweetly, a dangerous smile curving on my lips. “Just don’t start talking about Austen like she’s a 19th-century NPC again and we’ll get along just fine.”

Professor Jung clapped once. “Perfect. Submit a proposal by next Friday. Surprise me.”

As we stepped into the corridor, I could already feel the words crawling up my throat like they were too irritated to stay inside.

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” I muttered. “This isn’t a prize. It’s community service.”

Mark had the audacity to laugh. “I don’t know, I think we might actually work well together.”

I stopped walking. He did too, turning slightly with that same irritating eyebrow tilt like he thought this was a scene from some academic rom-com. It wasn’t.

I crossed my arms. “Meet me at 4 p.m. in the book cafe outside campus. We need to figure out a topic before your ego writes a paper all by itself.”

He gave a mock salute. “Wouldn’t dream of being late.”

Then he walked off, all easy strides and unbearable confidence, like we hadn’t just declared a ceasefire for the sake of intellectual dominance.

I stared after him, jaw clenched.

This was going to be a disaster. A well-researched, peer-reviewed, highly-cited disaster.

I walk toward the field where my so-called friends are lounging like overfed cats under the sun. Chenle’s playing basketball, all fluid limbs and annoying laughter. The rest? Already grinning like they know something I don’t. Which is impossible. Unless…

“Hey, Mark Lee,” Haechan calls, eyes glinting like he’s logged into my brain. “You look like someone tore your ego again today. Was it our Lit Queen?”

I flop down onto the grass beside them with the dramatic energy of a tragic Greek hero. “Today’s topic was free will vs. fate in literature,” I mutter, tugging blades of grass like they personally offended me. “Obviously, I sided with fate—because hello, I’m not naive enough to believe I have control over anything in life—but now I don’t know if I won or if she did or if I just got verbally suplexed by a girl in winged eyeliner.”

Haechan snorts. “Verbal suplex. That’s a new low, even for you.”

“It’s like she thrives on chaos." I continue like a man possessed. "The moment the professor mentioned fate, her eyes lit up like she was summoning literary demons just to argue.”

“She probably lives in hell, Mark. Maybe she’s just giving you directions,” Renjun says without looking up from his notebook.

“The worst part isn’t the debate,” I mumble. “It’s the fact that I’m teamed up with her. For the inter-college conference.”

That gets them. A collective gasp like I just announced I’m marrying her tomorrow.

“Oh,” Jaemin says, eyes wide. “You mean her? The girl who corrected Professor Kim when he misquoted T.S. Eliot?”

“She’s the same one who once sent Sunwoo a list of grammar corrections when he asked her out,” Haechan adds, cackling. “Imagine trying to flirt and getting a red-inked Google Doc back.”

“She brought up Plato at that party last week,” Jeno says, shaking his head. “And they were literally talking about their dating lives. I think someone asked what her type was and she went ‘philosophically or emotionally?’”

Chenle jogs up just in time to drop the final blow. “Rumor says she turned a guy down by sending him a bibliography on why she’s emotionally unavailable.”

“A bibliography?” Jisung blinks. “Like… with citations?”

“I think there was APA and MLA formats involved,” Chenle grins.

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “You guys don’t understand. I notice… things now. Like—like the way she rolls her eyes every time I speak. Which is always. She does this dramatic slow blink and I swear, I hear ‘disappointment’ in 4K.”

“She probably keeps a thesaurus in her bag just to judge your vocabulary,” Renjun mutters.

“And the eyeliner,” I continue like I’ve lost control of my mouth. “You know? That perfect little wing at the corner of her eye? Like she’s ready to slice me with it.”

“Oh my god,” Jaemin groans. “He’s noticing eyeliner. This is terminal.”

“She bites her pen when she’s thinking,” I say, ignoring them all now. “Like the cap is a life-or-death decision. And when she drinks coffee, she winces. She hates it. I know she does. She drinks it like it’s a punishment, not a preference. That’s not someone who likes caffeine. That’s someone who’s forcing herself to function in a coffee-drunk world.”

“You’re in deep, man,” Jeno laughs, clapping my shoulder. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

“I am not—” I stop, because, okay. Maybe I am. Maybe the worst part isn’t even being teamed up with her. Maybe it’s the fact that I can’t stop thinking about how her voice sharpens when she’s passionate about a book. Or how her handwriting looks like it belongs in some old library archive. Or how her smirk makes me want to argue with her just to see it again.

“She’s going to destroy me,” I say aloud.

“She already has,” Haechan smirks. “And we’re just here for the literary funeral.”

I walk into the book cafe and spot Mark Lee instantly—half-slouched in a corner booth, dressed like a Pinterest board for "hot literature major energy" and scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t been waiting here early on purpose.

He looks up the moment I sit across from him and slides a caramel frappuccino toward me like it's a peace offering.

“I don’t drink frappuccinos,” I say, pulling out my laptop and notebook. “Especially not ones pretending to be desserts.”

“You should,” he says smoothly, “it’s better than wincing like you're in physical pain every time you drink coffee. Just spare the Americano your judgmental stare.”

He says it like he’s read the last ten pages of my life.

Which is the worst part.

Because he kinda has.

“I’ve already chosen our topic,” I announce, ignoring his smirk. “‘The Quiet Catastrophe: Literature as a Witness to Absurdity and Human Frailty.’ It’s in line with the conference theme and—”

“Of course you chose that,” he cuts in, leaning back like he’s bracing for impact. “Tell me, what’s your word count goal this year for Kafka-Dostoevsky Existential Crisis Essays? A hundred thousand?”

I glare. “It’s a strong theme.”

“It’s a recycled theme.” He raises an eyebrow. “I'm just saying… have you considered that Franz and Fyodor might want you to move on?”

I open my mouth, then close it. Because damn it, he’s not wrong.

“I was thinking,” he continues, voice casual but eyes very not, “what if we pitched ‘Ink as Ammunition: Literature as Resistance in Postcolonial and Feminist Texts’? It’s bold, fresh, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll meet authors who don’t end their novels in total despair.”

I hate that it’s a good idea.

I hate that my face reacts before my pride does—because he sees it.

His smirk deepens.

“I don’t want to waste time arguing,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “So fine. We’ll go with your idea.”

“Wow.” He places a hand over his heart dramatically. “Mark this day, for she has spoken the word: fine.”

We fall into a silence so deep it might as well have its own heartbeat—the kind of silence that says.

I catch his brown eyes catching the light every time he lands on a good point, like he’s just uncovered some secret cheat code for the paper. His eyebrows furrow into that “serious genius” crease, and of course, his damn glasses betray him by slipping down his nose as he leans in to sneak a peek at what I wrote. The way he pushes them back up with one lazy finger? Too casual, too precise—like he knows exactly how distracting he looks.

Focus, Y/N. Focus on the paper, not the guy who plays basketball to ease his tension and somehow looks like he just walked off a runway. And yes, he looks damn hot when he plays, but this is strictly an academic observation, no judging.

Mark’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Handmaid’s Tale?”

I nod, trying not to make it obvious that I’m really thinking about how his hair falls perfectly messy when he pushes it back, and how the sleeves of his shirt roll up just enough to make me wonder if he knows the effect he’s having.

“What’s running around in that head of yours?” he asks, eyebrow raised, suddenly silent like he’s waiting for some grand revelation.

Definitely not how good you look right now.

"Oh nothing"

“And seriously,” he adds, eyeing my pen like it’s a secret weapon, “you should stop chewing on that thing. I know you’re hunting for a sentence to obliterate me with.”

“I’m not,” I snap, yanking the pen away like it’s a live bomb.

We’re both silent for a while — a rare event, considering we usually argue over everything from font sizes to who gets top billing on the title page. But right now, it’s just the clack of keyboards and the soft hum of the café.

“I don’t like this,” he says suddenly.

I glance up. “What, being productive?”

“No. You being quiet. It’s weird. It’s like I’m watching a thriller with no plot twist. Where’s the snark? The dramatic sighs? The eye rolls?”

I shrug. “Maybe I’m saving all my energy for the bibliography.”

He grins. “Oh, I get it now. You’re lulling me into a false sense of security before you hit me with the footnote from hell.”

I sip the Frappuccino — the one I swore I wouldn’t drink. He notices, of course.

“It’s good, isn’t it?”

“It’s tolerable.”

“You say that about everything you like. Just admit you love it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That line working on anyone else?”

He leans back, smirking. “Only the ones who can spell ‘conscience’ without autocorrect.”

I can’t help the laugh that slips out. He notices that too.

“You laughed,” he says like he just won a bet.

“Congratulations. What do you want, a trophy?”

“No, just acknowledgment. It’s rare. Like finding a happy ending in an existential novel.”

I grin. “You’re really trying to make metaphors happen today, huh?”

He shrugs.

We fall back into silence.

Two weeks had passed since our abstract got the green light from Mr. Jung. Since then, it felt like we’d been living in a war zone—bickering over everything from fonts to spacing, to whose point held more weight. Every tiny detail turned into a battlefield.

“I’m taking you to the party,” Giselle declared, even though I was standing right next to her.

“I’m not coming,” I replied, flipping through Onyx Storm. Honestly, can you blame me? The ending was right around the corner.

She rolled her eyes. “I’m taking you. That’s not a request, Ms. Litlady. And please, don’t start in on Plato or whoever. People are still talking about that.”

“They asked me a question,” I shrugged, marking my page before closing the book. “I just answered.”

“It’s a party, not a philosophy lecture. Dress up and come with me. Jungwoo’s picking us up.”

“It’s not like I hate parties.”

She grinned. “Exactly. You like parties—you’re not one of those typical bookworms who lock themselves away all weekend.”

“Yeah, well, I like finishing Onyx Storm more.”

“Whatever. You can finish it later. You’ve been working on that paper with your academic rival nonstop. You need a break from that hot nerd.”

“He’s not hot. More like a mosquito buzzing in my ear and I'm just tolerating him.”

“Speaking of that hot nerd, only you can hold a conversation with him. I heard Jia finally snagged a date with him last month, and he went on about the Renaissance and its impact on literature, the printing press, the first Bible—all that jazz.”

A small smile spread across my face. “That sounds exactly like him,” I said, walking to my closet.

“The red one or the black one?” Giselle asked.

“I like the red one. It looks good on you.”

“Done and done.”

The music was loud, the air smelled like cheap cologne and spilled cider, and the lights were dim enough to make everyone look ten percent more attractive than usual—which meant nothing to me, obviously. I was here for a drink and maybe a reason to leave early.

Then she walked in.

Giselle first—grinning, glossy-lipped and glitter-eyed. Jungwoo next, bouncing like the Labrador he was. And then her, in black. Not the mournful academic black we lived in, no. This was dangerous black. Skin, collarbone, the glint of a necklace that caught the light every time she tilted her head and laughed.

And she laughed.

At him.

Jaehyun.

The golden boy. Soccer star. Her brother’s best friend. The type of guy who didn’t have to work for charm—he just breathed and people adored him. She was leaning in, brushing his arm, and throwing her head back like he’d just told the best joke in the world.

I hated it.

I didn’t even know what he said, and I hated it.

Haechan appeared next to me with a red cup and a knowing look. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re glaring.”

“Same thing.”

“She looks good tonight,” he said. “Not that I noticed. I mean, Jaehyun noticed. And half the team. But not me. Just saying.”

I rolled my eyes, took a swig of something that burned, and tried not to look back. Failed.

“She laugh like that with you during group projects?” Haechan smirked, the devil in a hoodie.

“She doesn’t laugh with me. We argue.”

“And yet,” he drawled, “here you are. Third drink. Sixth stare. First stage of denial. Classic.”

I turned away. “Shut up.”

“She’s just talking to Jaehyun, man. Your crush is allowed to talk to people.”

“She’s not my—”

I paused.

He grinned.

I hated him.

____

I walked into the room after attending a call from Renjun. She was laughing again. That sharp, carefree kind of laugh that somehow always managed to echo over the music. And of course, it was Jaehyun standing next to her. She tilted her head slightly when she laughed, like whatever he said was the cleverest thing she’d heard all night. Whatever.

I made my way to the bar. Not toward her — just the bar. The fact that she was already there? Unfortunate timing.

I stepped into the space beside her, nodding at the bartender. “You do remember our submission’s due next week, right? Or is your strategy just charming Jaehyun into doing it for us?”

She turned toward me, a slow, amused look crawling up her face. “Mark Lee at a party and talking about work? I’m shocked. Blink twice if you’re being held hostage.”

I grabbed my drink. “I just figured your attention span might need the reminder.”

Her smirk widened. “Worried I’ll outshine you again?”

“Again implies it happened once.”

“You’re right. But let’s not forget all those other times I accidentally outdid you — it’s kind of a pattern by now.”

I took a slow sip. “Delusions are getting bold these days.”

She laughed under her breath. Not the same kind of laugh she gave Jaehyun. This one had teeth. “The cafe’s closed tomorrow,” she said, casually, like it was no big deal. “So if you want to get this done before the deadline, you’ll have to come to my place. I’ll text you the address.”

I raised an eyebrow, letting a beat of silence stretch before answering. “You sure your Wi-Fi can handle all that ego in one apartment?”

She looked at me over her glass. “Guess we’ll find out.”

And just like that, she turned back to her conversation — not sparing me a second glance.

Fine by me. I got what I came for. A drink. And a reminder that this partnership was going to be the end of one of us.

Probably her.

___

She said her place. Her place. I didn’t ask questions—just said yes like a man trying to win a debate by proximity.

But now I’m standing in front of her door with a backpack full of citations and a mouth that can’t stop thinking about hers. This isn’t about the paper anymore. Not really.

She’s let me in—literally. And I don’t know what I’ll do when she forgets I’m the enemy and starts looking at me like I’m something else entirely.

He stepped into my apartment like he owned the place, tossed his bag onto the floor beside the low table in the hall, and sank onto the opposite side without a word. We didn’t need pleasantries—not in our world of rivalry laced with disdain.

I shouldn’t have said my place. I could’ve picked the library. A cafe, The quad. Literally anywhere that didn’t have soft lighting and shelves full of books that double as secrets and i didn't realise it tho.

But the way he looked at me—like he knew something I didn’t—made my mouth move faster than my brain. And now we were meeting in a space where my defenses didn’t work.

My apartment wasn’t neutral territory. It had favorite pens and worn notebooks and a bookshelf I’d never let anyone touch. Not even the friends who knew what I read when I wasn’t trying to impress professors.

He pulled out his laptop and the familiar clack of keys filled the silence as we settled into rhythm, working through the final citations. I was focused, eyes scanning a paragraph on postmodern consumption—but I felt it the moment his attention drifted.

Not to me. Not yet.

His gaze had shifted—toward the corner.

Bookshelf.

I followed it too late. He was already rising, curiosity pulling him like a magnet to the shelf I usually guarded with selective disclosure. His fingers grazed the spines, pausing over a particular set of titles that didn’t exactly scream Kafka.

Twisted Love. Fourth Wing. Iron Flame. A Court of Thorns and Roses.

I didn’t have to look up to know the smirk forming on his lips.

“Interesting collection,” he murmured, voice laced with something that wasn’t entirely mockery.

I turned my face toward him slowly, schooling my expression into bored defiance. “It’s called research,” I said coolly, though I could feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck.

He pulled a book halfway out. “For our project?” he asked, taking a step closer.

“For the sake of literature as a whole,” I countered, folding my arms across my chest.

Another step. “Didn’t know you were into… dragons, morally grey men, and explicit tension.”

I didn’t move. “Didn’t know you had time to read spines while pretending to be better than me.”

That earned a short laugh, rough and low. He closed the distance until he was standing right beside me, the book still in his hand, his fingers brushing the edge of the cover like it was a dare.

“I guess I underestimated the kind of stories that get your attention,” he said, his voice quieter now, deeper.

I tilted my head. “And I overestimated your sense of boundaries.”

His gaze flicked to my lips for a fraction of a second too long before settling back on my eyes. “So… which one’s your favorite?”

I reached out, plucked the book from his hand with deliberate slowness, and placed it back on the shelf.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said, and turned back toward the table and settled into the chair.

I could still feel his stare on my back. Heavy. Unspoken.

The citations could wait a few seconds more.

He didn’t come back right away.

I could feel him still standing there. The air around the bookshelf was thick—static, electric. His presence dragged across my skin like a storm waiting to break.

And then he came back after grabbing another book from my collections.  Not quietly. Not carelessly.

He sank into the chair like he owned it. Like he owned the moment. Like he’d found a secret and was now deciding just how deep he wanted to bury it in me.

No glance at the screen.

Only me.

His eyes were darker than before. Focused. Sure.

“Research purposes, huh?”

Low. Laced with something that tasted like trouble.

I didn’t flinch. “You know—methodology, citations, critical discourse—”

“You mean your collection over there?”

He jerked his chin toward the shelf. “Looks a hell of a lot more like late-night escapism than anything academic.”

My throat tightened. “You’re making assumptions.”

He smirked. “Am I?”

Then he leaned in. Slow. Measured. His voice dipped into something filthy and deliberate.

“You’re the girl who quotes Barthes in class, who sighs at Kafka like he ruined you—but you’ve got a whole row of books with titles like Thorns and Temptation, Credence and Twisted series.”

I blinked.

He didn’t stop.

“Let me guess. The main guy’s always a tortured immortal. Says he’s a monster. Calls her little mortal, my mouse, my princess or butterfly, before bending her over a throne.”

“That’s not—”

He cut in, brutal and soft. “You like that shit.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

“And I bet you read it one hand on the page, the other under the covers, acting like you’re too good for it. Telling yourself it’s just fiction. Just tension. Just... literary curiosity.”

He grinned. Dark. Triumphant.

“But you keep going back to the same scenes, don’t you?”

I crossed my arms. “So what if I do?”

“So nothing.” He shrugged. “Except you walk around like your head’s above it all. As if you wouldn’t come apart if someone actually pressed you up against a wall and whispered the things you pretend you hate.”

He was too close. I could smell his cologne—woodsy, dark, intoxicating.

“You think that’s all it takes?” I tried to say it steady, but my voice betrayed me. Too tight. Too breathless.

He tilted his head, eyes on me like a predator amused by how long his prey thought it could pretend.

“No,” he said. “I think you want someone who gets it. Someone who won’t judge you for reading smut dressed in metaphors.”

His hand reached forward. Not touching. Just close. Suggestive.

“I think you want someone who’d highlight those lines with you. The ones where she begs. Where he growls. Where the line between danger and desire blurs and she likes it.”

I felt heat rush to my face. My stomach twisted. My legs didn’t move.

“And I think,” he continued, “you’ve spent so long playing the good girl with her annotated classics and tragic quotes... you’ve forgotten how much you crave someone seeing you. Really seeing you.”

“You don’t know me,” I whispered.

“I do now.”

His voice was a promise. A threat. A challenge.

“And you know what’s wild?”

He leaned in just enough to ghost his lips near my jaw. “I’m not judging you. I’d read them with you. Out loud. Every filthy line. Make you admit which parts made your thighs press together. Make you say it—this one, this is the line that made me want to be ruined.”

My breath shuddered.

His knee slid against mine again. Pressed there. Solid. Heavy.

“You still gonna act like you’re above it?” he whispered. “Or are you gonna let me peel that good girl persona off you page by page?”

I didn’t answer.

Because if I did—I wasn’t sure if I’d stop.

Because the thesis wasn’t the only thing unraveling.

I was.

And God, maybe I wanted him to keep pulling.

He didn’t pull away.

He leaned closer.

Still no contact—just his presence, thick and heavy and humming with a kind of heat that felt almost unfair.

“You’re really going to sit there and act like your thighs haven’t been pressed together for the last five minutes?” he murmured, voice low, velvet over something razor-sharp. “Like you’re not wet under that skirt and trying not to squirm in your seat?”

I raised a brow, careful. Steady. “You always talk like this during research sessions? No wonder your GPA’s hanging by a thread.”

He smirked. “Cute. Deflecting.”

He dragged his chair an inch closer, the scrape of wood jarring in the silence. His knee bumped mine. Intentional. Firm. And then his fingers tapped the table, slow and steady, inches from where mine rested.

“You know the parts you reread the most?” he said, gaze dropping to my mouth. “The ones where he doesn’t even touch her yet. Just tells her what he’s going to do. How he’s going to make her lose control.”

“Sounds like someone’s projecting,” I said coolly, even though my pulse was sprinting and I could feel the heat crawling up my throat.

He leaned in further, his breath brushing my cheek like a secret I wasn’t allowed to hear.

“I bet you love the build-up. His mouth at her ear. The words he says when no one else is listening. You’re already soaked for me, aren’t you? Look how easy it is to make you squirm.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Because if I did, he’d know.

“You act like you’re above it,” he said, voice going lower. “Like none of it gets to you. But I see the way you shift in your chair. How you stopped breathing when I said ‘wet.’”

I scoffed, leaned back just a little. “You’re giving yourself too much credit.”

“Oh, I haven’t even started,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “Want me to read aloud your favorite passage? The one where she’s told to shut up and take it? Where he pins her wrists and tells her, You’re not going anywhere until I’ve ruined every part of you?”

I stood abruptly.

His eyes tracked every inch of the movement like a dare.

I didn’t speak. Just reached for the book near his elbow—my copy, spine cracked, pages dog-eared and traitorous—and walked to the nearest bookshelf to shelve it. A small act. Simple.

But it was enough.

He was behind me in seconds. Catching my wrist to turn me towards him.

His hand landed on the shelf above mine, boxing me in. His body close. Too close. Heat radiating from his chest to my neck, not touching, but god, it felt like he was.

“You’re not fooling me,” he said, voice dark against the shell of my ear. “You can act cold all you want. Witty. Detached. But you’re the kind of girl who reads the dirtiest pages twice, then closes the book just to sit there and feel it.”

I gripped the spine of the book tighter.

“You want someone to make it real,” he said. “To tilt your chin up, press their mouth to yours, and say, Don’t run. Take it.”

My chest rose too fast.

“You’d hate how much you’d love it,” he whispered. “How fast you’d fall apart. How easily you’d beg when I tell you, Keep your eyes on me while I make you mine right here.”

I should’ve told him to back off.

Should’ve moved. Should’ve breathed.

Instead, I froze.

And that’s when he kissed me.

Hard. Fierce. Like he’d waited too damn long and couldn’t hold it in any longer.

His hand slid to my waist, dragging me closer. His mouth crushed mine, no hesitation, no apology. Just fire and hunger and everything we’d been pretending not to want.

I gasped against him, hands fisting in his shirt as his body pressed against mine, pinning me lightly to the shelf.

He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating between us, his mouth moving over mine with brutal precision. Tongue teasing. Teeth grazing. Every second pulling me deeper, tighter, unraveling something I hadn’t even realized was wound that tight.

The book fell from my hands, hit the floor with a thud I barely heard.

“You feel that?” he breathed against my lips. “That spark when I touch you? That ache? You think I can’t tell how wrecked you are right now?”

He kissed me again, slower this time, more purposeful. Like he wanted me to remember it later—alone, frustrated, aching.

“I could fuck you with just my voice,” he whispered, mouth trailing to my jaw. “And baby—don’t lie—you’d let me.”

The bell rang.

Sharp. Final. Echoing down the hallway.

“Y/n?” My brother’s voice, too close.

I jerked back, panting.

His eyes were wild. Lips swollen. Still breathing hard.

I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand, heart pounding out of rhythm. He didn’t say anything. Just watched me.

“Y/n?” Louder now.

“I’m—coming!” I shouted, hating how wrecked my voice sounded.

I didn’t look at him as I turned.

But I felt his stare all the way to the door.

And long after I left, his kiss still burned like it hadn’t finished yet.

“The problem wasn’t that he kissed me. It was that I kissed him back.”

or

“We were supposed to write a paper. Not rewrite every boundary I ever built.”

___

Author's note:

Well, if you’ve made it this far, congratulations—you survived Part One of You Annotated My Soul without throwing your device across the room. This story is basically my caffeine-fueled brainchild, packed with all the awkward academic tension, chaotic vibes, and just enough cursed chemistry to keep you hooked. If you liked the drama (or even just the mess), drop a comment or reblog—it’s like digital high-fives that keep me writing.

Part Two is brewing, and spoiler alert: that kiss? Just the appetizer. Stay tuned for the main course.

Thanks for sticking around—and try not to ship them too hard.

Now, I see this fic is not that long.

[girlactionfigure]

There’s a Jewish holiday coming up in two days, It’s called Passover.

And for those who aren’t familiar, I want to share what this time of year really means to Jews — and especially to me — and to all religious and Orthodox Jews around the world who observe it.

See, from the outside, a lot of people think Jewish holidays are just about food, family, wine, gatherings — like a big dinner party.

But Passover is different.

Passover is hard work. Passover is a lot of preparation. Passover is soul-searching.

For weeks before it even begins, our entire lives shift. We (by we, I of course mean our wives…) clean our homes like absolute crazy people. And not for spring cleaning. Not for guests. Not because company is coming over — but for something called chametz.

Chametz is any food made from grain — wheat, barley, oats, spelt, or rye — that has come into contact with water and risen. Bread. Pasta. Cake. Cookies. Even tiny crumbs.

And on Passover, Chametz is completely forbidden.

We scrub down our kitchens. We check every pocket of every coat. We vacuum cars. We clean toys. We search by candlelight the night before Passover to make sure not a single crumb is left in our homes.

Why?

Because chametz represents more than just bread. It represents ego. Arrogance. Laziness. The things that puff us up and hold us back.

And when Passover comes in, we want a fresh start. A clean sheet. A home, and a heart, without chametz.

And then comes the heart of Passover: The Seder.

Seder means “order.”

It’s not a meal you rush through. It’s not about eating and moving on.

It’s a night where we sit, usually for hours, surrounded by family, by friends, and most importantly, by our children.

Because the entire purpose of the Seder is to tell our story to our little children.

The story of the Jewish people. The story of Egypt. Of slavery. Of exile. Of pain. Of miracles. Of redemption.

We read from a book called the Haggadah — which literally means “the telling.”

We dip vegetables in salt water to remember our tears.

We eat bitter herbs to remember the bitterness of slavery.

We eat matzah — flat, dry bread — to remember how quickly we had to run to freedom, with no time to wait for the dough to rise.

We drink four cups of wine to celebrate the four expressions of freedom promised to us by G-d.

And we sing.

We sing songs our ancestors sang. Songs they whispered in hiding. Songs they cried in exile. Songs of hope. Songs of faith. Songs that say — we are still here.

That’s what Passover is.

It’s not just a Jewish holiday.

It’s our origin story. It’s our identity. It’s everything we’ve survived — and everything we still hope for.

And at the center of it all is this powerful line we repeat every year at the Seder:

“In every generation, a person is obligated to see themselves as if they personally left Egypt.”

It’s not just history. It’s personal.

We all have our Egypt. We all have our struggles. We all have things we’re trying to break free from.

And Passover reminds us — freedom is possible. Miracles happen. And our story is still being written.

And every year — in every Jewish home where there is a Seder — no matter where that home is in the world…

It always ends the same way.

After hours of storytelling, of singing, of laughing, of crying, of remembering who we are and where we come from… comes this moment. 

Everyone rises. Everyone’s voice comes together — loud, raw, emotional, sometimes through tears — and we scream at the top of our lungs:

“L’shana Haba’a B’Yerushalayim!”

“Next year in Jerusalem!”

“Next year in Jerusalem!”

“Next year in Jerusalem, Amen!”

[lunajay33]

Never the Right Time

•🩶💋🦇🍂•

Summary: Living as a single mother in Velaris was difficult but at least she had her family, the inner circle, but the trauma of living under the mountain still lays heavy on her heart, the nights she shared with an heir of the autumn court by force of amarantha leading to the creation of her daughter, will she find love? Was she ever loved? Maybe her childhood best friend will show her

Pairings: Azriel x f!reader, Eris x f!reader

•Masterlist•

I was never meant to go to the party, I was suppose to have a girls night with Mor but Rhys was feeling anxious and asked me to come along and I’d do anything for my brother after everything he’s done for me

After our mother, sister and father passed we were there for eachother, holding eachother as we wept, Azriel and Cassian doing everything they could to cheer us up in their own ways, I cherished my little family but that night under the mountain changed everything

I was played out to be a gathering of high lords and their guests but she tricked us, Amarantha ruined so many lives, she took my brother away from me for 50 years as her own personal play thing and I was banned from speaking to him, thankfully we could communicate through thoughts, but seeing him break slowly was a different pain

Over the years amarantha became more cruel, she picked me and Eris Vanserra, the eldest of the leader of Autumn court, to have forced intimacy knowing his past with my family, she thought it was funny, night after night forcing us to be together while she watched, many tears were shed between the two of us and I guess along the way we bonded over the trauma, after everytime we’d apologize to eachother profusely even though we both knew it wasn’t either of eachothers fault

But when Feyre my lovely sister in law came and saved everyone I thought maybe Eris would want to keep in contact and help eachother being the only two to know what we felt but the night everyone left he was gone not even a word and at that moment I felt a strange tug in my chest, like I lost something

Rhys took us home after his talk with Feyre, our family swarming us immediately, Feyre came into our lives shortly after, Rhys had her and she had him to grow past what happened under that wretched mountain but I was lost, so many nights feeling like dirt until a month after during a cold night in Velaris I felt shadows swirling along my body holding me like a hug

•Flashback•

“You know I’ve always loved these little guys” I whispered knowing Azriel was stood behind me on the balcony

“You need to leave this room angel” his calm but rough voice soothed my soul for a moment until those feelings of disgust came crawling back

“I can’t Az, I feel like scum what she made me do and now…….” My heart felt like led

“What? You know I’ve always been there for you, I remember when you feel and scraped your knee when you were so little chasing after cas and I, but I came back to you and wiped your tears, and I’m here for you know” he said his scared fingers tracing through mine

“She made me do terrible things az, she thought it would be funny since the family and Eris have bad blood……..she forced us to have sex night after night for 40 years Az, I felt so wrong and Eris is the only one who knows what that felt like and I haven’t heard from him since and now…..now I’m pregnant” I gasped finally letting it all out

His face shocked, the first time I’ve ever seen him express so much emotion

“Oh angel, it’s gonna be okay, whatever happens I’m here” and that’s when I felt alive again, a golden string of love connected between us, my best friend

“My Mate”

•Present•

It’s been a year since then, Mor was over the moon to find out, Cass acted like a teenage girl all giddy for his brother, and Rhys was so proud of both of us, but when they all heard my story and finding out about my pregnancy they supported me, and now I have a beautiful little girl, turns out I was 5 months along when Madja checked on me the day after I told Azriel

So now Azriel and i are raising the cutest little girl, her hair as fiery as autumn, her eyes a deep purple like Rhys’ and mine, she’s everything I ever wanted but I’ve had this nagging feeling that Eris is out there and doesn’t know he has a daughter, even though Azriel stood up and took that fatherly role

I was sat in the living room of the house of wind watching Harlow crawl around and giggle at Azriels little shadows, ever since I had Harlow I felt more at home up here and so me and Azriel permanently moved in, it’s been a smooth year with him, he helped me heal as best he could, he went from my mysterious, quiet best friend, to my mate that used every chance he could to touch me either hugging me, running his hands through my hair, rubbing my belly, telling me every second he could how much he loved me or how beautiful I am, I never thought I’d see that side of him but I felt amazing to be the only one to receive his love

“She’s just like you, that’s why the shadows love her” Azriel whispers in my ear as I lay my head on his shoulder

“She’s like you too you know, she’s a little grump when she doesn’t have me around” hearing his laugh rumble under me made my heart swell

It was silent for a while more until Harlow crawled into my lap and fell asleep, her little blue dress sparkling from the fire shimmering in front of us

“I can hear your thoughts screaming from a mile away what’s got you so distressed Angel?” His eyes pierced into mine like he could read every bit of me

“Don’t be upset…….you know I know that you’re Harlows father and I’m lucky enough to have had you with me through everything but…..there’s this nagging feeling in my chest that Eris doesn’t know, that if I don’t tell him I’ll be letting her down and in the future she’ll wonder why she has her red hair and how she was created and I’d be robbing Eris of a pure love that is a child, he’s not cruel Az, not like how the rest of Prythian sees him, he’s kind and selfless………what do you think?” I chewed on my lip anxiously waiting for him to answer not being able to read what he was feeling

He tucked some hair behind my ear holding my cheek tenderly

“I think you’re right, she’s brought so much joy into my life I never thought I’d experience, who am I to stop you from giving our little girl the love and life she deserves, even if I don’t fully trust Eris I trust you”

“I love you Azriel”

“I love you y/n, more than all the stars in Velaris”

Thankfully the next day Rhys had to go have a highlords meeting in the autumn court and it was a perfect moment to try and find Eris and tell him everything

I dressed Harlow in an emerald green dress that had a sparkly black strap around the middle, I wore a ankle length silk dress a dark grey with a black shoulder covering

“Are you ready my lovely sister and adorable niece?” Rhys asked smiling from the doorway of the nursery, it was so nice to see him smile after what he went through

“I guess as ready as I’ll ever be, I’m nervous Rhys” sucking in an anxious breath, all these feelings I’ve been holding in since under the mountain and all the questions gone unanswered when I needed Eris

“Oh my little star, it’ll be okay, one way or another everything will work out” I sighed picking up Harlow as Rhys wrapped his arms around us both in a warm hug

“Okay im ready”

The air was suddenly crisp with a chill nipping at my exposed skin, the light breeze blowing my hair back as the leave rustled along our feet

“You can open your eyes” Rhys chuckled

“Sorry I’ll never get use to that……..well I guess it’s now or never” we both walked into the Vanserra Mansion, maids leading me one way as guards led Rhys another to the meeting

“Umm excuse me is Eris free by any chance?” I asked the maid infront of me

“I’ll check on master Eris, please wait in the library miss” she smiled as she motioned to the two big oak doors to the left of the hall

I always found comfort in reading, many lonely night trying to escape in the words of the pages, but then Azriel became my mate and nothing could compare to the fantasy and romance he gave me

Pushing inside it was huge, walls upon walls covered with books it was beautiful, noticing a comfy burnt orange couch placed infront of the burning chimney I sat down laying Harlow down in her blanket infront of me as she had fallen asleep, she really is the light of my life even if the way she was created was under horrific circumstances I still love her

I hear the doors open behind me and the room gets warmer and I know it’s Eris, after 40 years of being with him I just know

I stood turning to him standing tall gathering as much courage as I could, his pants a dark brown his vest a deep burgundy embroidered in gold thread, finally meeting his eyes

“Eris”

He gasped starring at me almost stunned

“Eris are you okay?” He finally shook out of whatever daze he was in and that stoic expression was back on

“Y/n it’s been a while, wasn’t expecting to see you” he said holding his hands behind his back

“Why did you leave me Eris?” Just jumping right in was all I could think of, might as well get this over with

“What?” He asked suddenly shocked again

“40 years, she made us do things for 40 years and then we were free and you didn’t even stay to atleast say goodbye, I needed you Eris you were the only one who could understand I looked for you but you were gone…..I spent so many sleepless nights just wanting to talk to you” the emotions were finally spilling out to the person I’ve been craving to talk to

“I’m……I’m so sorry my dear I just….i couldn’t bare to say goodbye, to know that after everything you’d just finally be gone so I thought if I never said goodbye maybe we’d find our way back to eachother again” he sighed showing that emotional side to me like he always did under the mountain

“Maybe things would’ve been different but that’s not the only reason I’m here Eris, I didn’t find out until a while after I got back to Velaris and then coming to terms with the decisions of coming here but……just come over here” a lump forming in my throat not being able to say the words, confused he rounds the coach now facing me and Harlow, picking her up I sat he gently in my lap as I eased back down onto the cozy couch

He dropped to his knees infront of us his one hand gripping my knee as the other gently traced Harlows rosy cheek

“She’s mine” it wasn’t a question it was a statement, anyone that knew our story knew that she was biological his

“She’s beautiful isn’t she” my heart settling

“Lovely” he was completely awe struck

She started stirring blinking open her big eyes instantly giggling when she sees Eris

“She has your eyes and your smile”

“Her name is Harlow, Azriel thought it was perfect” his movement stopped as he looked at me tearing his eyes from our giggling little girl

“And what reason did he have to name my child”

“Eris please don’t be like that with me, you have no idea how hard it was to go through being pregnant and lost but he was there for me he’s my best friend and……he’s my mate”

“What? No that’s impossible”

“How is it impossible, I know mates are rare but is it so wrong for me to have found happiness?” I sigh looking back down at Harlow as she plays with Eris’ fingers

“Just forget it, I’m coming back to Velaris with you, father can not know about you or Harlow, I need to make sure you’re okay”

“Are you sure? You don’t have to pretend you want to be apart of our lives if you don’t want to I’d understand”

“No im coming I need to be there I don’t care if Azriel is your mate I want to be apart of both your lives and protect you from Baron” he smiled brushing my hair back making my heart jump

“Okay you can come but don’t go starting trouble with Azriel please” he smirked

“I’ll try my dear”

We winnowed back home to Velaris, Rhys wasn’t very happy about the decision to bring Eris back with us but he’d do anything for me he always has

I gently laid Harlow down in her crib as to not wake her from her nap after her feeding when I felt shadows swirl around my ankles making a sense of calm set over my body

“Mother above I’ve missed you Az” I sighed turning to see him leaning against the door frame

“How did it go?” He asked stepping closer as he placed his scarred hands on my hips

“Better than I thought but I still feel like somethings unresolved, he already loves her though who wouldn’t” at that he smiled

“Of course he would she takes after you” but I know the next thing I say will wipe that smile away

“He’s here…….he said he wanted to come back here for a while to protect us from baron”

“I know can’t say I’m too happy about him being here but I know the past baron has with people involved with his children and I’ll take that extra protection for you both even if it’s Eris”

“Wow I never thought thee shadow singer would be agreeing with me” came Eris at the door way

Azriel growled as he turned glaring daggers at Eris

“Please don’t fight at least not while I’m here I can’t take it right now” I pleaded already feeling a headache coming on

Both their expressions calmed as they looked at me with the same expression……..Love and that’s when I felt it, the same spark I have for my beloved Azriel was now singing for Eris too, making me gasp and clench my chest

“No” Azriel gasped as he pulled me into his chest

“This doesn’t make any sense” I whisper

“How do you think I felt when I find my mate and she tells me she’s already mated” Eris sighs

“Azriel I’m sorry I still love you this doesn’t change anything……oh mother above I don’t know what to do” I panic scared I’ll lose everything I’ve tried to build and heal from

No body said anything making the panic set in more mixing with nausea, I pushed past Eris in the door way and went straight to Rhys and Feyre

Tears were now streaming freely as I pushed open their bedroom door, they looked at me immediately swarming me with worry

“Y/n my star what’s wrong what’s going on?” Rhys asked as he sat me down on the bench at the end of their bed, Feyre sitting next to me as she rubbed my back soothingly

“Eris……I don’t understand it’s not possible Rhys, and what if Azriel doesn’t want me anymore what if I lose everything oh I’m gonna be sick” I gasp breathing quickly

“Shhhhhh you need to breathe and tell me what happened did Eris hurt you?” He asks brushing my hair back from my face

“Maybe somethings wrong with me maybe the mother made a mistake what if neither of them want me”

“What are you trying to say honey” Feyre says calmly

“Two…….how can I have two mates” they became like statues at my words

“What? I’ve never heard of that happening in all my life” Rhys says squeezing my knee

“Do you think Azriel hates me now, what if I’m disgusting to him now and he leaves me and Harlow what if he never wanted me in the first place and he would’ve never loved me if it weren’t for the mating bond” I continued spiraling

“That would never happen Angel” Azriels voice rings from the door way, we all look up seeing him and Eris there looking almost as distraught as me

“We’ll give you some time” Feyre says taking Rhys’ hand and leaving the room

Azriel kneels infront of me taking my hands as Eris takes feyres spot

“I loved you long before we became mates, I loved the way you always tried to play with us as kids, how you always tried to cheer me up, how you smell like a cupcake and the way your hair shines in the sun, I’ve loved you for so long and this won’t stop that, we can figure it out because I’m never leaving you or my little girl”

“Really you mean it?” I sigh relaxing at his heart warming words

“Of course my angel, maybe the mother thought you were so special and so filled with love you were meant to have two mates to spread the joy you give” Azriel rarely got this emotional with me

“I love you Az, always” I lean down placing my forehead against his sending a jolt of love down our bond

“Not as much as I love you, forever”

The moment was interrupted by Eris clearing his throat

“I didn’t mean to cause you so much trouble my dear” he said soothingly, he always talked to me like I was fragile under the mountain and I can’t deny how he only treats me with that kindness

“It’s not your fault anymore than it is mine, just give this time for me to figure out how I feel”

“Of course I’d give you all the time in the world my dear……..I’ll go check on Harlow” he said as he placed a gentle kiss to my cheek before leaving me and Azriel alone

“You know I could go to that bakery you love and get you your favorite cookies”

“You read my mind”

[gatheringbones]

[“Richard Schwartz’s work on IFS identifies six assumptions that are foundational to the work we’ll do together in this book. As you work with your parts, hold each of these assumptions as truth. It will help support you as you get to know your parts.

Assumption 1: We all have parts

The model asserts that we all have parts. I have parts. You have parts. Even if we aren’t aware of them, we still have parts. Have you ever had the experience of being of two minds or more on a topic or situation? For example, with the possibility of a job promotion, you may hear a voice say, “You’re not qualified; you’re not ready.” And another says, “You’ve worked hard and earned this.” One part will tell you, show you, and even provide examples from your past about how qualified you are and what you’ve done to prepare for the promotion. While another part will have a strong stance that you will fail if you take the promotion, and it, too, will give reasons from your past and/or unforeseen future dangers to support why you are not ready. This is an example of how parts may show themselves within your internal system.

Assumption 2: Parts are forced into extreme roles

Parts have been forced into unnatural roles due to attachment wounds and/or trauma. Gina Ryder, an educator and journalist, defines the origin of attachment trauma as “a rupture in the bonding process between a child and their primary caregiver.”7 When our needs are not understood or met as children, or we experience abuse and/or trauma, parts take on extreme roles to protect us from the pain we previously experienced. Our parts may be activated with even the slightest provocation. If a situation is the least bit like the original one, parts will respond with intensity as if they are protecting us from the initial pain. Parts can express themselves extremely through emotions, such as rage or sadness, somatically through migraine headaches or nausea, with images in vivid dreams or horrifying nightmares or through beliefs like “I’m not good enough.”

Assumption 3: All parts are welcome

Are all parts welcome? What about parts that hurt people or do bad things? IFS holds that all parts are welcome within an internal system that chooses to understand and get to know each of the parts. It is only through relationship with our parts that we can welcome them. Relationship builds trust. As trust deepens, our parts will share their experiences with us. We welcome our parts by being with them and validating their experiences as they share who they are. We say there are no bad parts. But parts do engage poor strategies to get their needs met.

Assumption 4: We all have a Self

Self is the core or essence of a person. Self is also called the Soul, the Seat of Consciousness, and Prana. Like parts, we all have a Self. It is the intuitive, wise, healing energy we all possess.

Assumption 5: Parts carry burdens

Burdens are emotions, beliefs, and thoughts that affect how parts view themselves, others, and the world, and impact their interactions. Parts are not their burdens; they carry burdens. The extreme roles parts take on are their burdens. Instead of referring to a part as “The Rager,” which makes the part the burden, we want to say, a part that has, expresses, feels, or carries rage. This allows for separation between the part and its emotions or actions.

Assumption 6: Parts are well-intentioned

We must always remember that regardless of how parts behave, they are always well-intentioned. Our job is to connect with our parts and get to know them to understand their intentions. Even parts who cause problems and difficulties in our lives have the best intentions. Parts do what they do because they are not aware of their impact or alternatives. They often believe that if they stop, something bad will happen to us or someone important to us.”]

tamala floyd, from listening when parts speak: a practical guide to healing with internal family systems therapy and ancestor wisdom, 2024

[lizzyiii]

Our boy Aemond is he gonna turn for our baby Mikaelson? ❤️✨

girrlllll chileeee, you're getting too ahead of the story😝

His Lady Love (11)

pairing | aemond x vampire!mikaelson!reader taglist | to be added to the tag list just add your username to this DOC word count | 5.5k words summary | you finally reveal the truth of your existence to Aemond and Helaena, sharing the painful memories of your immortal life as the youngest mikaelson sibling and original vampire. Through tears and anguish, you expose your family's curse—eternal life without hope—and the deep scars it has left on your soul, as you recount memories of betrayal, loss, and survival.. tags | ANGST, ANGST, oh and more ANGST. klaus mikaelson??? violent death, blood and gore, lowkey mental and emotional abuse, subtle depression. note | actually kind of love this chapter, I just love writing klaus in general. he's just so interesting, but I do think he's too overrated and done some really horrific things but people overlook that because of his charismatic and charming personality

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated ✨

𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 - 𝐍𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

Aemond’s patience was a testament to the gravity of the moment, granting you the decency of privacy as you prepared to bare your soul. He remained in your solar, yet, even in the solace of solitude, you found yourself stalling, prolonging the inevitable.

You sank into the warmth of the bath, the fragrant water enveloping you like a gentle embrace. Each splash seemed to wash away not just the grime of the day before but the weight of your secrets, if only for a fleeting moment.

Emerging from the bath, you took your time, each gesture deliberate, each action a shield to stave off what awaited. You braided your hair intricately, each twist and weave a quiet reflection of the centuries that had passed, and you chose a gown—simple, yet elegant.

You stood before the mirror, your fingers trembling as they traced the delicate embroidery of the white gown that fell gracefully over your form. It was simple yet beautiful, much like the veneer you had worn for centuries. The gown’s gold embroidery caught the flickering sunlight, glimmering like the sun.

With a deep breath, you clasped the necklace around your neck, the Mikaelson emblem resting between your breasts like a lingering reminder of your lineage and the power that came with it.

Finally, with resolve steadying your heart, you pushed open the door to your solar. The scent of Aemond lingered in the air—earthy, faintly reminiscent of the dragonrider’s presence, grounding and yet intoxicating.

There he stood, framed by the soft, dappled sunlight that filtered through the window, his silhouette carved sharply against the room’s shadows. His one eye, always so piercing, was fixed on you—curiosity flickering within the cool violet depths, but also something darker, apprehension, perhaps even doubt.

“Are you ready?” His voice was low, steady, though an undercurrent of urgency rippled through it, enough to set your heart racing.

You swallowed, nodded, and then hesitated, your gaze shifting away from his for a brief moment before returning to him. "Helaena... she needs to be present as well."

Aemond’s brow furrowed, confusion lining his features as he studied your expression. “Why?” he asked, his voice measured but edged with impatience.

You let out a soft sigh, pursing your lips as you answered, “She’s already seen... *what* I am. Or at least, part of it.” You took a steadying breath. "When I killed those men to save Jaehaerys. She saw me—saw what I can become. She just doesn’t know the whole truth yet."

Aemond’s gaze darkened with understanding, though there was a glint of surprise in his eye. “And she just reacted to that without fear?” he asked, voice tinged with disbelief, though he kept it soft.

You shrugged, feeling the weight of the awkwardness that had settled between the two of you ever since you revealed your true nature. Every interaction since then seemed unnatural, almost fragile.

"I suppose it was the shock of almost losing Jaehaerys," you admitted. "She was too focused on him to question anything else. But now... I owe her the truth as well."

Aemond let out another sigh, his gaze distant as if struggling with words left unspoken. You turned your face away, uncertainty swirling in your chest. But then, to your absolute surprise, his hand reached out to you, a gesture that felt both unexpected and intimate.

Without hesitation, you accepted it, your fingers intertwining with his, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was firm, steady, grounding you in the moment as he began to lead you out of your chambers.

You followed without question, walking silently beside him, the gravity of what was to come weighing heavy between you.

He led you through the winding halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, his steps purposeful as the weight of the upcoming confrontation hung in the air. Finally, you reached the Queen's chambers.

Inside, you immediately caught sight of Alicent and Helaena seated together, quietly conversing on a chaise. The soft murmur of their conversation died the moment you and Aemond crossed the threshold.

Alicent’s sharp, perceptive gaze shifted to Aemond first, a flicker of suspicion and curiosity passing across her features. You could see the unease in her eyes, sensing that something important was amiss.

Aemond, however, made no effort to meet his mother's gaze, deliberately avoiding her presence as though she weren’t there. His silence spoke volumes, but Alicent’s focus quickly shifted to you.

Her brown eyes softened, and with a graceful rise from her seat, she approached you. Aemond's hand slipped from yours as you stepped forward to greet her.

"Queen Mother," you greeted, bowing your head slightly, unsure of how this moment would unfold.

To your surprise, Alicent did not remain distant or reserved. Instead, she moved swiftly toward you, wrapping you in a tight, unexpected embrace.

Her arms felt warm, maternal, and for a brief moment, the weight of your secrets and the danger surrounding you seemed to dissipate in the warmth of her embrace. She leaned in, her voice a soft whisper in your ear.

"I am so glad you are safe, sweet girl," she murmured, her tone filled with genuine relief. "The crown offers its deepest gratitude for returning Jaehaerys to us, alive and unharmed."

Her words stirred something deep within you—gratitude, perhaps, or the unfamiliar comfort of being seen as more than just what you were. You stiffened slightly in her embrace, though part of you longed to melt into it.

"Thank you, Your Grace," you whispered, your voice faltering as the emotions of the moment swirled around you. Alicent’s embrace felt almost too warm, too human, for someone like you—a creature cursed with an eternity of isolation.

But the sound of a throat clearing broke the brief moment of tenderness. You and Alicent quickly parted, your attention drawn to Aemond, whose eye was fixed on you with a simmering impatience. He stood tall, his presence commanding and unyielding, barely sparing his mother a glance.

"Mother," Aemond said, his voice cutting through the air like the blade of Dark Sister itself, "I need to speak with the Queen in private."

Alicent’s brow furrowed at his words, the slight tension between mother and son palpable. She opened her mouth, perhaps to question or protest, but something in Aemond’s gaze silenced her.

He was resolved, and Alicent, wise enough not to provoke him further, merely pressed her lips into a thin line. Her gaze shifted between you, Helaena, and Aemond, weighing the gravity of the situation, before she nodded, albeit reluctantly.

"Of course, Aemond," Alicent finally said, her voice gentle but tinged with concern. She gave you one final look—filled with questions she would not yet ask—before turning to leave.

She paused only briefly by Helaena’s side, offering her daughter a reassuring touch, then swept from the room, her presence lingering even after the door had closed behind her.

The silence that followed was heavy, the air thick with unspoken words. Aemond, still standing with that unyielding presence, took a step closer, the intensity in his gaze impossible to ignore.

Helaena’s gaze, usually serene and distant, was now clouded with confusion. She glanced between you and Aemond, sensing that the weight of what you were about to reveal was far greater than she’d anticipated. Yet, she remained silent, waiting, her hands folded neatly in her lap, as if bracing herself for the truth.

Aemond’s presence, on the other hand, was far more commanding. He stood tall, casting a sharp glance at the maids and ladies in waiting, who quickly scurried out of the room under the silent weight of his glare.

It was only when the door closed behind them, leaving just the three of you in the chamber, that the tension in the room thickened.

You swallowed, steadying yourself before speaking. "Helaena," you began, your voice calm but edged with the gravity of the moment, "do you remember the night I left with Jaehaerys?"

Her delicate features twisted slightly as she recalled the night in question, a memory clearly etched into her heart. Her voice, usually soft and melodic, was now laced with sorrow. "You saved my children… from the rats."

Rats. That was how she had chosen to remember Blood and Cheese—the two men who had threatened her family’s life. A kinder word for the monsters they truly were.

"Do you remember how?" you asked carefully, watching her reaction, feeling the weight of Aemond's unwavering gaze on you.

Helaena frowned as she spoke again, her words as innocent as they were brutal. "You tore the first man’s throat with your teeth… and you commanded the other to stab himself."

The room grew colder with the silence that followed. Aemond’s eye had darkened, his expression a mix of astonishment and curiosity. You could feel him piecing together what had happened, what you had kept from him for so long.

You nodded slowly, acknowledging the truth of Helaena's words. "Yes," you confirmed, your voice barely above a whisper. "That was me. What you saw… was only a glimpse of what I truly am."

Helaena blinked, her gaze softening with understanding, though confusion still lingered in her eyes. "But how?" she whispered, her voice shaking slightly.

You turned your attention to Aemond then, meeting his gaze directly, feeling the intensity of his scrutiny. His silence was louder than words, and his curiosity sharper than any blade.

"In the beginning, our family was human, five centuries ago now," you began, your voice steady despite the tremor running through your heart.

"Though our mother dabbled in the dark arts, we were mostly a family like any other, trying to survive in a time when survival was far from guaranteed." A faint smile ghosted your lips, though it did not reach your eyes. "And for a time, we were happy."

A heavy silence fell over the room as you turned away from Helaena and Aemond, your gaze drifting to the shadows cast by the flickering sunlight. Helaena rested on her chaise, her eyes wide with curiosity, while Aemond remained at the center of the room, his stance rigid, every muscle poised in anticipation.

"But that happiness," you continued, your tone darkening, "was shattered one night. My younger brother, Hendrik, was killed. Slain by the very creatures who ruled our village’s nights—men who could transform into wolves under the full moon."

Aemond’s eye narrowed slightly, his attention sharp, but he did not speak. Helaena, sitting quietly, clutched her hands together, her gaze never leaving you as you spoke.

"Our family was devastated," you said, your voice cracking as you recalled the memory of your brother’s death. "You see, before I was even born, my parents had already known such pain. They had lost their first daughter, Freya, to a fever one harsh winter. My mother, shattered by grief, vowed she would never lose another child. So, when Hendrik was taken from us, our father forced her to act. He demanded she call upon the darkest of magics to protect us from ever falling prey again."

You paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. "Thus, the first vampires were born," you whispered. "But with this strength, this speed, this immortality, came a curse. A hunger."

"A hunger for what?" Helaena’s voice was soft, laced with the innocent curiosity she often carried, though now tinged with something darker—fear.

You met her gaze, your own eyes hard with the truth you could no longer conceal. "For blood," you answered, the word hanging in the air like a blade waiting to fall.

"We do not require food or water, those are indulgences. Pleasures we once took for granted, now rendered meaningless. What we need to sustain ourselves… is blood. Without it, we wither. We decay, like corpses left to rot in the ground."

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Helaena’s face paled, her fingers trembling slightly as she absorbed your words. Aemond’s expression remained unreadable, though the flicker in his eye betrayed the internal storm he was wrestling with.

You inhaled deeply, forcing yourself to continue, knowing that this truth was just the beginning. "The blood lust consumes us if we let it. My family, we learned how to control it, how to live among humans without succumbing to the beast within. But it is always there, lurking beneath the surface."

The silence in the room felt suffocating, pressing down on you like a weight too heavy to bear. Desperate to break the tension, you spoke before your thoughts could catch up to your words. "I could show you," you blurted out, your voice barely above a whisper.

Aemond blinked, his singular eye narrowing in intrigue as he stepped closer, his presence commanding. "Show us? How?" His tone was measured, but you could hear the underlying curiosity—perhaps even a touch of suspicion.

"Through my memories," you replied softly. "One of my many gifts." You could feel the energy pulsing in your fingertips as you spoke, the ancient magic within you stirring. "It’s the only way for you to truly understand." You gestured for him to take a seat beside Helaena, who looked between the two of you with wide, expectant eyes.

Aemond hesitated for only a moment before following your instruction, settling beside his sister. His sharp gaze never left you, as if he was weighing every move you made, every word you spoke.

You stood before them, inhaling deeply as you focused your mind, your fingers lightly brushing their temples. The magic flowed, ancient and powerful, as you called upon the memory you intended to share.

The scene that unfolded was vivid, like stepping into a dream. The air was filled with laughter and song, the night lit by the glow of bonfires and candles as your village celebrated one of its strange but joyous holidays.

You had been so naïve then, your heart unburdened, the grief of Hendrik's death momentarily forgotten. You could feel the warmth of the night, the joy in the air as you twirled around the fire, Finn’s laughter ringing out as he spun you in a carefree dance.

The memory shifted—your joy dimming as you realized how late it had grown. You had stayed out far past your curfew, long after your family had returned home.

Panic clawed at your chest as you hurried through the darkened streets, the vibrant festival fading behind you as you made your way toward your family’s hut. The village that had felt so alive only moments before now seemed eerily quiet, shadows stretching long across the ground.

You moved without caution, without thought, only the mounting dread driving you forward as you rushed into the hut. What you saw froze your blood in your veins—a massacre.

You guided Aemond and Helaena deeper into the memory, forcing them to see, to feel what you had felt. The dread, the growing realization that something was terribly wrong.

You could feel Aemond stiffen beneath your touch, but he didn’t pull away, his curiosity holding him still. Helaena’s breath quickened, her hand instinctively reaching for your wrist as the memory unfolded.

Everywhere you looked, blood painted the walls and floors, the very scent of it thick and suffocating. The bodies of your siblings lay strewn about, lifeless, their blood seeping into the ground. A scream tore from your throat, raw and filled with the kind of anguish only centuries could numb.

Your eyes immediately found Niklaus, lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes were closed, and a deep wound marred his chest. You dropped to your knees beside him, shaking his shoulders, your hands slipping against his blood-soaked skin. "Niklaus, wake up!" you sobbed, desperate, unwilling to accept what your eyes were telling you.

But Niklaus didn’t stir. None of them did. Elijah, Rebekah, Finn, Kol—they all lay broken and still.

More cries racked your body, your voice hoarse from screaming as you knelt among the fallen, each heartbeat filling you with an unbearable grief. Then, a sound from behind—a voice, cold and venomous, cutting through the chaos like a blade.

"You know not how long I've waited for this moment."

Your blood ran colder than before. Slowly, you turned, your heart pounding as your gaze fell upon the figure in the doorway. Your father, Mikael, stood bathed in the blood of his children, his face twisted in cruel satisfaction. His sword dripped with the very essence of your kin, your family.

Before you could even draw breath, his sword flashed, and a sharp, searing pain pierced your chest. You gasped, a choked sound escaping your lips as you stumbled back, the life draining from you.

Your knees buckled beneath you as you collapsed beside Niklaus, your body growing cold. The strength seeped from your limbs as darkness edged in from the corners of your vision.

Mikael’s cold gaze remained fixed on you, watching as your life slipped away. Your final breath left your lips in a shudder, your hand still reaching for Niklaus, but he remained still.

The memory surged forth, a vivid nightmare that felt all too close, even after all the years that had passed. It was a dark night, mere weeks since your transformation, and chaos reigned in the village.

The villagers, fueled by fear and anger, sought to rid themselves of you and your siblings after the bloodshed that had followed your awakening—a bloodlust you had barely begun to comprehend.

Finn and Kol had already made their escape. Finn’s voice had been urgent, his grip firm on your arm as he implored you to join him.

But you had begged him to stay, to help your family escape together. Yet his resolve had faltered, and he had slipped away into the night, leaving you behind in a whirlwind of dread and desperation.

Elijah and Rebekah were frantically packing the remnants of their lives, their expressions strained with urgency. You could feel the weight of fear suffocating the air around you, a heavy tension that made your heart race.

The deep-seated hatred your father held for you and Niklaus loomed over you like a storm cloud, threatening to break at any moment. It was a hatred that could ignite into violence without warning, and you knew it.

Your heart raced as you realized it was up to Niklaus to persuade your mother to flee with you. You paced, the flickering fire casting shadows that danced on the ground, mirroring the turmoil within you.

Then, at last, Niklaus entered your line of sight. He stepped through the trees, and the world around you came to a halt. There was something unsettling about him; his usual bravado was replaced by an unsettling vulnerability. His hands trembled slightly, fingers clenched at his sides as though they held the weight of the world.

"Niklaus," you asked, worry knotting in your stomach as you approached him, gently cupping his hands in yours. "What’s happened? Where’s Mother?"

His terrified blue eyes met yours, glistening with unshed tears. He shook his head, and dread filled the air between you. "She’s dead."

Time seemed to freeze, the world around you fading into a blur. You blinked, disbelief clouding your mind. "What?"

"I—" He swallowed hard, anguish etched on his features. "Father—he—he killed her."

The words crashed over you like a wave, cold and suffocating. Tears welled in your eyes as the harsh reality settled into your bones. "No. No! This can’t be!"

You turned away, desperation flooding your veins as you intended to return home, to your mother. But before you could move, Niklaus’s arms encircled your waist, holding you tightly against his chest. "You cannot go back!"

"Let me go, Niklaus!" you yelled, anguish spilling forth in choked sobs. "Mama! Mama!"

The name echoed in the forest, each cry a plea, each scream an invocation. You expected her to appear, to sweep you up into her embrace and assure you that everything would be alright. But the silence that followed was deafening, a stark reminder of the void she left behind.

You broke down in Niklaus's arms, the weight of your grief crashing over you like a tide. He held you tight, rocking you gently as if you were still a child. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the ache in your heart and the overwhelming emptiness that threatened to swallow you whole.

"A glooming peace this morning brings; the sun, for sorrow, will not show his head," you recited softly, your voice echoing in the dim light of the crypt. The words from the latest play felt heavier in the air, reflecting the turmoil that had once engulfed England.

"Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; some shall be pardoned, and some punished. For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

Your gaze drifted down to Finn, lying in that same accursed casket, the familiar silver dagger lodged deep in his chest. Time had moved on, and yet here you were, five hundred years later, still shackled by the past.

Your family had relocated to Denmark, leaving the ruins of England behind, but the pain of loss clung to you like a shroud. Finn remained as he was, forever caught in that moment, forever untouched by the passing centuries.

Elijah had gifted you the latest work from an emerging playwright, a man named William Shakespeare, with the hope that it would bring you some joy.

You had thought it fitting to share the story with Finn while he lay in eternal slumber, believing that perhaps the beauty of words might bridge the chasm between the living and the dead.

As you reached the poignant conclusion, tears brimmed in your eyes, the heart-wrenching tale resonating within your very soul.

You closed the book gently, feeling the weight of both grief and longing. Your heart ached not just for the characters but for the brother you had lost to a fate more cruel than death.

“That was quite sad, was it not?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you looked at Finn's serene face, still and undisturbed. "Even in the depths of darkness, love remains, yet it always seems to come at a terrible cost."

You ran your fingers gently over the spine of the book, as if the words could somehow transcend the veil of death and reach him. “I wish you were awake to truly enjoy this story with me,” you murmured, your voice barely breaking the silence of the mausoleum.

A sudden idea ignited in your mind, flickering like a candle in the dark. When you and your family had moved to a sprawling mansion in the lush countryside of Denmark, you had insisted on a grand mausoleum to be built for Finn.

It was a sanctuary for you and a place where Finn could rest peacefully, far removed from the grim dungeons of England that Niklaus had left him in.

Your gaze wandered to the entrance of the crypt, the heavy stone door that concealed the world outside. Then your eyes fell on the dagger lodged in Finn’s heart, its silver glinting in the dim light.

Perhaps? If only for a fleeting moment? The thought pulsed through you like a heartbeat, urging you onward.

As your hands glided over the hard wood of his coffin, they trailed down to Finn’s body, gently caressing his dark hair. You could almost feel the warmth of him again, a reminder of the brother you had lost.

Your heart raced, anticipation mingled with trepidation, as you finally wrapped your fingers around the silver dagger.

In that heartbeat, you paused, caught in the gravity of your decision. Then, with a deep breath, you began to pull it from his chest, the air heavy with unspoken consequences.

“What are you doing!”

The sharp voice sliced through the quiet, causing your hand to jerk away from the dagger and fly to your heart. You turned to find Niklaus standing in the doorway, a gift box clutched in his hands, yet his expression was thunderous, dark clouds gathering in his stormy blue eyes.

You shook your head rapidly, feeling your hands tremble with uncertainty. “Nothing, Nik, I promise.”

In the blink of an eye, Niklaus was in front of you, his speed making him appear like a shadow, silent and swift. The gift he had been holding now lay discarded on the cold stone floor.

His grip tightened around your arms, painfully firm, causing a pained whisper to escape your lips. His gaze bore into yours, filled with a tempest of betrayal and fury as he hissed, “Do not lie to me, sister.”

The weight of his anger made your heart race, and you winced as tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the sight of his hardened expression.

“I-I just thought Finn had been asleep long enough,” you stammered, your voice trembling, trying to explain while knowing there was no real justification that would soothe him.

His grip only tightened, his eyes flashing with a dangerous intensity. “So you betray me like this?” The raw accusation in his tone stung worse than his hold on you.

“No, Nik, never,” you whimpered, your voice fragile as you shook your head again. “Please, you're hurting me.”

But Niklaus seemed deaf to your plea, his rage drowning out your words. His grip tightened even more, and his voice rose with a venomous edge. “You forget he is daggered because of you! I did this for you!"

“I know, Nik,” you murmured softly, wincing as the pain in your arms deepened, both from his hold and the weight of his words.

“After everything I’ve done for you,” Niklaus bellowed, his frustration clear as his voice echoed through the room, “Why can you not see that Finn would never do the same? He would never go to such lengths to keep you safe!”

Tears spilled freely from your eyes as you turned your gaze away from him, the overwhelming guilt pressing down on your chest. "I’m sorry," you whispered, your voice breaking under the strain of his fury.

His words pierced through you like a dagger, each one sharp with betrayal and hurt. “I’ve protected you,” he continued, his voice cracking with emotion, “I’ve killed for you, sacrificed everything, and still, you go behind my back!”

Sobs overtook you, your entire body trembling as the weight of his anger and your guilt suffocated you. “Niklaus, please,” you begged, your voice barely a whisper, your heart aching with the knowledge of how deeply you had wounded him.

At that moment, his rage faltered, and his piercing gaze locked onto yours. The room seemed to still as his next words fell like a chilling curse, low and filled with a cruel finality. “I should put a dagger in your heart.”

A sob tore from your throat as you shook your head, pleading with silent desperation. Just as you thought his fury would turn violent, the tension snapped.

Niklaus was suddenly knocked aside, and you found yourself enveloped in warm, protective arms. Elijah. His presence was steadying, his voice calm but commanding as he faced his volatile brother. “Niklaus! You are scaring her.”

“She should be scared!" Niklaus roared, pointing an accusing finger toward you, his fury still burning brightly. You buried your face deeper into Elijah's chest, seeking refuge from the storm that was your brother’s wrath. “Does she not understand? If Finn were awake, we’d have been put down by Mikael long ago!”

Tears streamed down your face as you clung to Elijah, your voice breaking under the weight of your guilt. "I'm sorry, Nik. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t—”

Niklaus’ breathing was ragged, his rage simmering just beneath the surface, threatening to explode. But Elijah remained calm, his hold on you firm.

“Niklaus, leave,” Elijah said, his voice quiet yet authoritative, leaving no room for argument.

Niklaus inhaled sharply, his gaze flickering between you and Elijah, his anger barely contained. His voice dropped to a low, dangerous murmur. “You forget yourself, sister.”

His words cut deep, filled with cold warning. “Finn remains daggered for a reason. Do not mistake my love for you as permission to defy me.”

With that, he stormed out, his presence leaving a void as heavy as the tension still lingering in the air. The silence that followed was suffocating, and in its wake, your emotions broke free.

You collapsed into Elijah’s arms, your sobs shaking your body, the words tumbling from your lips in a fevered rush. “I didn’t mean to, Elijah. I swear, I didn’t mean to. Please, don't let him dagger me.”

Elijah held you close, his touch gentle as he caressed your head, whispering soothingly into your ear. “I won't, sweet sister,” he murmured, his voice a balm to your frightened heart. “I give you my word.”

The next morning, you woke with a dull ache in your chest, the familiar weight of sadness pressing down on you like an old wound that never healed.

The grand four-poster bed, with its silk curtains and velvet drapes, felt like a prison—beautiful, but suffocating. You turned over, pulling the heavy covers tighter around yourself, but the pain lingered, gnawing at your heart.

It always ached. That deep, unshakable sorrow had taken root long ago, twisting itself around your soul. You wondered, in those quiet, lonely moments, if you were going mad.

The only thing tethering you to sanity, to something real, was Elijah—his steady presence, his unwavering devotion. Without him, you feared you might fall apart completely.

As you shifted, your gaze caught something on the edge of the bed that made your breath catch in your throat. There, resting on the quilt, was the same gift box Niklaus had held the night before. Slowly, cautiously, you reached out, bringing it onto your lap as if it might break or vanish in your hands.

The lid opened with a soft creak, revealing a small, velvet jewelry case. Your heart stuttered as you lifted the lid, and tears welled in your eyes. Inside was a simple silver pendant, its surface gleaming faintly in the morning light. Encrusted in the center was an ornate "M" for Mikaelson.

Niklaus always did this. After the rage, after the terrifying outbursts, after he screamed at you and made you feel small—he would leave an apology gift, never speaking a word of the pain he caused.

It was his way. He never asked for forgiveness. He just assumed you would give it, time and time again.

And you did.

Every single time.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted the pendant from the case, letting the cool metal slide through your hands. With a resigned sigh, you fastened it around your neck, the chain resting against your skin like a silent promise. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also a reminder of the cycle you could never escape.

As the pendant settled against your chest, you wiped away the tears that threatened to spill over, whispering to yourself, “He did not mean it.” You had said it so many times before, hoping that if you repeated it enough, you might actually believe it.

But deep down, you knew the truth.

Niklaus loved you. In his own broken, twisted way, he loved you and your siblings more than anything. But his love was a storm—wild, uncontrollable, and dangerous. And every time you forgave him, you found yourself standing in the eye of that storm, waiting for it to rage again.

Slowly, you pulled yourself back to the present, forcing Helaena and Aemond from the depths of your memories as you stepped away. Your breath came in ragged gasps, and your trembling hands wiped the dampness from your cheeks. You had lived lifetimes hiding this pain, but tonight it had clawed its way out.

Helaena’s face was pale, her own tears mirroring yours. She trembled, wide-eyed, as if the weight of your confession threatened to break her. And Aemond... Aemond’s single eye bore into you with a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something far more devastating.

He stared at you as if you were a ghost, a shadow of the person he thought he knew. For the first time, it seemed, he truly saw you—broken and damaged in ways that not even centuries could mend.

You forced a tight, bitter smile, the words catching in your throat as you truly introduced yourself, "I am the youngest child of the original witch, Esther Mikaelson. My siblings and I are the first of our kind—vampires born from blood and magic. We are the strongest creatures in this world, and yet..." Your voice wavered, betraying the sorrow that clung to every word, "we are damaged beyond repair."

You looked between them, your eyes hollow, carrying the weight of endless centuries of pain. "We live without hope, but we will never die. We are the definition of 'cursed'."

The room fell silent, a heavy, oppressive stillness that mirrored the truth of your existence. You swallowed hard, repeating the words that had once been a promise but had long since turned to chains, the mantra that bound you and your siblings to each other.

"Always and forever."

Reader's Wardrobe

(she's wearing the middle dress in this chapter)

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

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[oldsoul007]

who’s the cute boy with the white jacket

nicholas chavez x singer!reader

summary: y/n comes out with a hit new single and fans have their suspicions who it’s about…

I had always poured my heart into my music, but this time, it was different. I had written an interesting song that came straight from my soul, every note and lyric echoing my feelings for Nicholas. Who I had an interesting relationship with. The song quickly became a hit, and my fans couldn't help but speculate that it was about him.

Nicholas, being the observant and thoughtful friend he was, started noticing the buzz. One evening, after a long day of filming, he decided he couldn't ignore it any longer. He needed to know the truth. He called me and asked to meet me in at his apartment.

When I sat down, Nicholas didn't waste any time. "Y/n, I need to ask you something, and I want you to be honest with me. The new song you wrote... everyone is saying it's about me. Is it true?"

I felt my heart race as I looked into his eyes. I had never intended for him to find out this way, but there was no turning back now. Taking a deep breath, I nodded. "Yes, Nicholas. The song is about you. Writing that song was my way of expressing what I couldn't say out loud."

Nicholas sat back, absorbing my words. He had always cared deeply for me, but hearing my confession made him realize just how much she meant to him. "Y/n. Now that I know, I can't pretend I don't feel the same way. I've always admired you, not just as a friend, but as someone truly special to me."

The weight of unspoken emotions lifted between them, and for the first time, me and Nicholas faced the possibility of a future together, our bond stronger than ever.

I stepped onto the stage, my heart pounding with anticipation. The lights dimmed, and the audience fell silent, waiting for the first notes of my new album. I was dressed in a stunning vintage outfit, complete with a classic 1950s silhouette that perfectly complemented the retro vibe of my music, with a twist of my personality.

As the first song began, my voice filled the room, rich and emotive. The crowd was instantly captivated, swaying and singing along to the nostalgic melodies. Each song seemed to transport them back in time, and it was clear that I had struck a chord with my audience.

In the middle of my set, Lauren glanced out into the crowd and spotted Nicholas. He was standing near the front, his eyes locked on me, completely mesmerized. His admiration was palpable, and it gave me an extra boost of confidence. I smiled, knowing he was there, supporting my every step of the way.

As the final notes of my last song faded, the audience erupted into applause. People were on their feet, cheering and shouting for more. Y/n took a deep bow, my heart swelling with gratitude and joy.

But the excitement didn't end there. Someone in the crowd recognized Nicholas and pointed him out. A wave of whispers and camera flashes followed, as fans realized that the charming actor was there, completely smitten with the star of the night.

Nicholas didn't shy away; instead, he beamed with pride, clapping and cheering louder than anyone else. The sight of him so obviously in awe of y/n added to the magic of the evening. It was a moment neither of them would forget—a night where y/n talent shone brightly, and Nicholas's love and admiration were on full display for everyone to see.

I decided to have Nicholas Chavez in my music video, me and Nicholas are portrayed as star-crossed lovers in a glamorous, retro setting. The video opens with me singing in an elegant, dimly lit jazz club, my eyes occasionally drifting to Nicholas, who sits at a table, watching me intently.

As the song progresses, the scenes shift to more intimate moments. We share a slow dance under twinkling lights, our bodies close and movements synchronized. The camera captures our stolen glances and subtle touches, creating a palpable tension.

In another scene, we’re in a vintage convertible, driving through a city at night. The wind tousles my hair as Nicholas steals a glance at me, his affection evident. We stop at a secluded spot, where me share a tender moment, leaning in as if to kiss, but pulling back just enough to leave the audience yearning for more.

The video culminates in a dramatic rooftop scene, where we finally give in to their emotions. Under the moonlight, we share a passionate kiss, sealing our connection. The final shot fades out with us holding each other, the city skyline behind us, leaving fans captivated by our undeniable chemistry.

After months of subtle hints and soft launches, the night had finally arrived. Me and Nicholas were about to debut our relationship at a high-profile red carpet event. The air was electric with anticipation as we stepped out of the limousine, the flash of cameras capturing every moment.

I took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves. Nicholas, sensing my unease, gently squeezed my hand. "We've got this," he whispered, his eyes locking onto mine with unwavering support.

As we walked down the red carpet, the crowd's reaction was immediate. Whispers and gasps filled the air as people recognized us together, looking every bit the perfect couple. My stunning dress and Nicholas's sharp suit complemented each other flawlessly, creating a picture-perfect moment.

Reporters eagerly called out our names, asking for comments and photos. Nicholas wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close. "We're here together," he said confidently, his voice steady. "And we couldn't be happier."

I smiled, my heart swelling with a mix of love and pride. I leaned into Nicholas, feeling the warmth of his embrace. The months of soft launches had led to this magical moment, and it was everything she had hoped for and more.

As they posed for photos, Nicholas's admiration for y/n was evident to everyone. His eyes never left her, filled with genuine affection and pride. The red carpet debut was not just a public declaration of their relationship but a testament to the deep connection they had built over time. Y/n, it was the beginning of a new chapter, one filled with love and endless possibilities.

[d-targaryenshoe]

Subtle Admiration - Anthony Bridgerton

Word Count: 1176

Summary: When one admires the person they love, would they not also show the world?

Anthony Bridgerton was a man of impeccable standards and unwavering convictions, known throughout London for his sense of duty and commitment to his family.

As the head of the Bridgerton family, his actions were often scrutinized, and his decisions influenced the lives of his siblings.

Yet, despite his formidable exterior, he harbored a deep, unyielding love for his wife, you, a love that he was determined to showcase to his family.

It was a crisp spring morning, and the Bridgerton household was abuzz with activity.

their late father, Edmund Bridgerton upheldThe family had gathered for breakfast, a tradition upheld by their late father, Edmund Bridgerton.

Anthony, seated at the head of the table, observed his siblings with a mix of affection and amusement.

Each one was unique, yet they shared an unbreakable bond.

As Anthony sipped his coffee, his gaze drifted to you, seated beside him.

You were engaged in a lively conversation with Eloise, your laughter like a melodious tune that brightened the room.

Anthony's heart swelled with pride and adoration.

You had seamlessly woven yourself into the fabric of the family, your warmth and wit endearing you to each of his siblings.

"Anthony, you're staring," Daphne teased, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Do you have something to say?"

Anthony chuckled, setting his cup down. "As a matter of fact, I do." He stood, drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

"I've been thinking a great deal about family lately, about how fortunate I am to have all of you in my life. But there's someone here who has brought me an immeasurable amount of joy and fulfillment, someone who has made our family even more complete."

He reached for your hand, helping you to your feet. "Y/n, you have been a beacon of light in my life, and I want everyone to know just how much you mean to me."

You blushed, your eyes shimmering with love. "Anthony, you're too kind."

"No, my dear," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "I am simply stating the truth. You have shown me what it means to truly love and to be loved. You've brought laughter and happiness into our home, and for that, I am eternally grateful."

Benedict, seated across the table, raised his glass. "To y/n, the heart of our family!"

"To y/n!" the family echoed, lifting their glasses in unison.

Anthony smiled, his heart brimming with contentment.

He had always known that his love for you was profound, but now, standing before his family, he realized that his affection for you was boundless.

He was determined to ensure that everyone saw the depth of his feelings, not just in words but in actions as well.

Later that day, Anthony took you for a stroll, a favorite pastime of yours.

The park was a riot of colors, the flowers in full bloom, and the air filled with the sweet scent of spring.

As you walked hand in hand, Anthony couldn't help but steal glances at you, marveling at your beauty and grace.

"You're unusually quiet today," you remarked, a playful smile on your lips. "What's on your mind?"

Anthony stopped, turning to face you. "You. Always you." He cupped your face in his hands, his eyes searching yours. "I want the world to see how much I adore you, how you've changed my life for the better. You deserve to be celebrated every day."

Your eyes softened, and you leaned into his touch. "Anthony, you do celebrate me, in so many ways. Your love is more than enough."

"But it's not enough for me," he insisted. "I want to do more, to show you off to the world, to our family. They need to see how deeply I cherish you."

You laughed softly. "You have a romantic soul, Anthony Bridgerton. Very well, if it makes you happy, I shall allow you to spoil me."

Anthony grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "It makes me very happy indeed."

True to his word, Anthony set about planning a series of events and gatherings where he could showcase his love for you.

He organized family picnics, soirées, and even a grand ball in your honor.

Each occasion was meticulously planned, with every detail reflecting his admiration for you.

At one such gathering, a garden party held at Aubrey Hall, the Bridgerton estate, Anthony outdid himself.

The gardens were transformed into a magical wonderland, with twinkling fairy lights and fragrant flowers adorning every corner.

Guests mingled and laughed, the air filled with the sounds of music and merriment.

As the sun began to set, Anthony took your hand and led you to the center of the garden, where a string quartet played a soft, romantic melody.

He held you close, swaying gently to the music.

"You've outdone yourself, Anthony," you whispered, your eyes shining with happiness. "This is beautiful."

"Not as beautiful as you," he replied, his voice filled with love. "I wanted everyone to see what I see every day—the incredible woman who has stolen my heart."

You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. "I love you. More than words can say."

"And I love you," he murmured, kissing the top of your head. "More than anything in this world."

As you danced under the stars, surrounded by family and friends, Anthony knew that he had succeeded in his mission.

He had shown everyone just how much you meant to him, and in doing so, he had strengthened the bond of your family even further.

In the days that followed, Anthony continued to find ways to express his love for you, both grand and small.

He would surprise you with handwritten love letters, leave your favorite flowers by your bedside, and steal moments alone with you whenever he could.

Each gesture, no matter how simple, was a testament to his unwavering devotion.

The Bridgerton family, too, embraced you with open arms. They admired Anthony's dedication and the way he openly cherished you.

It brought a new sense of warmth and unity to the gatherings, a reminder of the power of love and the importance of expressing it.

One evening, as you sat by the fireplace in your home, you turned to Anthony with a thoughtful expression.

"Do you know what I love most about you?" you asked.

Anthony raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "What is that?"

"Your heart," you said softly. "Your ability to love so deeply and to show that love so openly. It's a rare and beautiful thing."

He smiled, his heart swelling with pride. "And do you know what I love most about you?"

"What's that?" you asked, your eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Everything," he replied, leaning in to kiss you. "Absolutely everything."

As you sat together, wrapped in each other's arms, Anthony knew that he had found his true soulmate in you.

You were his anchor, his confidante, and the love of his life.

And he was determined to spend every day showing you just how much you meant to him, letting the world see the depth of his affection.

[writtenbyadriana]

One last time!?

Pairing: Dean Winchester x fem!reader

Summary: This is a deeply intimate and heartfelt story about two souls, finding their way back to each other after time pulled them apart. In the quiet warmth of a shared night, they rediscover the depth of their connection - through tender touches, whispered confessions, and lingering glances. As old wounds and unspoken fears come to light, so does the love they never truly let go.

Warnings: smut, explicit sexual content (18+), strong language (in a light way), oral sex (female receiving), vaginal penetration, emotional vulnerability and themes of abandonment, mentions of past separation und inner conflict, mature themes (grief, fear of love, self-worth)

Words: 5776

Note: English isn't my first language.

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The deep hum of the ventilation was the only thing breaking the silence. Dean sat at the kitchen table, an old, battered tome open in front of him, smelling of leather, dust, and centuries-old secrets. His brow was furrowed, eyes fixed on the page, but I knew he hadn't been reading for a while. In front of him stood a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Typical Dean.

I paused in the doorway for a moment. The faint light from the ceiling lamp cast shadows across his angular features, making him look older, tired. But there was also that familiar calm in his presence that I had always admired — maybe more than was good for me.

Quietly, I walked over to him, pulled out the chair across from him, and let myself fall into it. Dean looked up. His eyes scanned my face — briefly, but intensely. Then he looked back down at the table.

“Couldn't sleep?” I asked, grabbing the bottle without asking. The whiskey burned warmly down my throat. “No wonder, with this doomsday vibe,” Dean muttered, then looked at me again. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “And you? Night watch or just craving the company of your grumpy ex?”I raised an eyebrow. “Who says you were the grumpy one in the relationship?” Dean snorted quietly. “Just trying to be charming.” “Nice try,” I said, unable to suppress a smile. I took another sip from the bottle. “So, what's the plan? One last shot at outsmarting God?”

Dean sighed, leaned back in his chair, and looked up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be written there. “No idea. Honestly... I feel empty. I'm flipping through books like there's some damn rescue plan hidden in here, like a comic strip from the damn Marvel universe. But all I see are old spells and dead languages.”

I watched him for a moment. The tiredness in his eyes, the faint shadows beneath them. God, he had changed. We all had. But with Dean... there was this veil only a few could see. I had seen it when we were together, had felt it on the nights he could only sleep when my hand rested on his chest and he knew he wasn't alone.

“You’re doing what you always do,” I said quietly. “You don’t give up.” “Maybe it’d be smarter if I did,” he replied without looking at me. “Everyone we love either dies or disappears. I don’t know how many more times I can go through that.”

His words hit me deeper than I wanted to admit. I set the bottle back on the table, though my fingers still held onto it. “My uncle always said you were the most stubborn person he’d ever met. And that you’d never give up – no matter what.”

Dean finally looked at me again. At the mention of my uncle, something flickered in his eyes. Pain. Memory. Respect. “Nathan was like a brother to me,” he said softly. “And he’d be damn proud of you. Really. You’re better than he ever hoped. And tougher than you sometimes believe.”

I swallowed hard. It was strange hearing my uncle’s name spoken by Dean. Somehow, it healed something in me. And at the same time, it tore old wounds open. “He taught me everything. After what happened to my parents... he was all I had.”Dean nodded. His voice was rough when he said: “I know. He was a good man.”

Silence settled between us. I thought back to our first hunt together. To Dean, covered in blood, grinning because we’d taken out the demon — and how I knew in that moment I was done for. That I had fallen for a man who could save my life but never promised to stay.

“Remember how you stared at me after I saved your ass that first time?” Dean suddenly asked, a trace of mockery in his voice.I grimaced. “I didn’t stare at you.” “Oh, you did. Like a puppy who just saw its first steak.”I let out a short laugh. “It was probably the blood. And the smell of whiskey in the air.” “Sure. Not the sexy leather jacket.”We both chuckled quietly. Just for a moment. Then silence returned.

“I’ve thought about it a lot. About us,” I heard myself say eventually, my voice barely a whisper. “What it could’ve been. Or... what it was.”Dean looked at me for a long time. Then he pushed the thick book aside and rested his arms on the table. “So have I. And you know what? I don’t regret any of it. Even if it was complicated. Even if it was never meant to be easy.”

There was so much I wanted to say to him. That I still loved him. That sometimes I missed his presence so much it physically hurt. That I wondered if there would ever be another person who made me feel so... safe. If we even survived all this crap. But, as always, the right words didn’t escape me. So I just nodded. “I don’t regret anything either.”

Dean reached for the bottle, lifted it. “To Nathan,” he said before taking a long drink. Then he handed it to me across the table. I took it, mimicked his gesture. “To Nathan.”And in that moment, in the dim light of the bunker kitchen, with the world on the edge of collapse, there was a small piece of peace.

Rain hammered endlessly against the windows. Outside, the wind lashed through the trees, howling through the cracks of the half-collapsed cabin. The musty scent of wet wood hung in the air, mixed with the metallic tang of blood — a lot of blood. Dean lay on the old couch, his T-shirt torn, the bandage on his shoulder soaked through. I sat beside him on a stool, the first-aid kit open on the floor. My hands were still trembling, even though the fight was long over.

Sam had driven the Impala back to the motel before the hunt to get some rest and do research. I had offered to stay with Dean. Sam hadn’t said anything, but his look had spoken volumes — and for once, he hadn’t questioned it. No one could have foreseen how dramatically this hunt would end. It all seemed so simple, so harmless — Dean and I tracking a Rugaru. I never would’ve imagined I’d end up dragging him, badly wounded, into this abandoned cabin.

I couldn’t forget the moment I thought Dean was dead. When he’d lain motionless under the shattered window frame, his face pale, his shirt soaked red. My heart had stopped beating in that moment.“You shouldn’t have gone in there alone,” I muttered while carefully changing his bandage.Dean raised an eyebrow. “And miss the chance for you to chew me out later? Never.”I snorted. “You’re a damn idiot, Winchester.” “And you’re beautiful when you’re mad.”His voice was hoarse, but his grin flashed — just before he winced in pain.

I paused, looked at him. That grin, usually so confident, looked fragile. Like a mask worn too often. And beneath it — fear. Not of death. But of being vulnerable. I knew that look well by now. Too well. “You could’ve died,” I whispered. The words slipped out faster than I could stop them.

“Damn it, Dean… you could’ve left me alone.”His gaze met mine. Hard. Honest. Unflinching.“I’m used to being alone,” he said calmly. “But leaving you alone... that’s different.”My heart beat faster. I set the bandage aside and leaned back slightly, trying to suppress the panic that always rose when emotions got too real. We had fought for everything and everyone so many times. But never... for what was between us. Maybe because we were both afraid it would cost us the last thing we had left.

“I thought you were dead,” I said. “And in that moment… I felt it. Everything. How much you mean to me. How much you’ve always meant to me.”Dean lowered his gaze, staring at his hands. They were dirty, scratched, bloodied — hunter’s hands. Hands that had killed to protect. Hands that had held me in the few nights we’d dared to be more than colleagues.

“I felt it too,” he said quietly. “When I was lying there thinking: that’s it. No Sam, no next case, no more apple pie… there was only you. Your face. Your voice. And I knew: this… this is real. And I’ve buried it for so long because I thought I didn’t have the right.”I blinked. The air between us was heavy, charged. I could feel the warmth radiating from his body, feel the pain in his voice, the raw honesty that took my breath away.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?” I asked.Dean looked at me. And in his green eyes — those damn eyes — was everything I’d ever needed to know. “Because I didn’t know how,” he said hoarsely. “Because I didn’t know if I was even allowed to. You’re… you’re so much younger. You’re Nathan’s niece. You’re a fighter. You’re too good for someone like me.”I shook my head, tears burning behind my eyes. “You’re not worth any less, Dean. You were the first person who saw me. Not as some hunter’s kid. Not as Nathan’s little girl. But as me.”

He looked at me, and this time there was no wall. No grin, no sarcasm. Just Dean. Broken. Real. Beautiful. Slowly, I leaned forward, my forehead touched his. Our noses brushed, his breath grazed my lips. “Don’t say it,” I whispered. “Not unless you feel it.”

Dean closed his eyes, his breath trembling. “I feel it. I’ve felt it since the day you stood in front of me and shot that demon off my back.”I laughed softly, a tear slipping down my cheek. “Hell of a shot,” I murmured. “That was the moment I was done for.”

Our lips met. Not a passionate kiss, not some cinematic moment. It was gentle, careful. Full of pain, longing, and a love we had both suppressed for far too long. His hand found the back of my neck, pulled me a little closer, and for one precious moment, everything disappeared — the rain, the pain, the hunt, the death.

Just us. Two broken people who had found a fragment of light in the midst of chaos and darkness.And even though neither of us said “I love you” — it was there. In his gaze. In his touch. In every second of that kiss.And that was more than I had ever dared to hope for.

The clock above the fridge ticked softly, and the memory struck me like lightning — that night I thought Dean would die. The images slid between us, as if the echo of the past had taken a seat at the table. I looked at him as he sat there, slightly hunched over the book again, his brow furrowed, his jaw tense — completely lost in thought; like he had been so often lately. The world was on the brink of collapse, God himself on the kill list, and yet in that moment, he seemed so... calm. Not peaceful. Not carefree. More like someone who had decided long ago not to show how fiercely the storm raged inside.

And in my mind, that scene from back then played over and over like a dream that wouldn't end. But it was more than a dream. It was the moment I finally realized just how much he meant to me.He was alive. He was breathing. He was sitting right in front of me. And yet something felt infinitely far away. I didn’t take my eyes off him. I just looked. For a long time. Without him noticing. And there it was again — that deep familiarity, anchored in my heart. But also that emptiness — not between us, but in me. It burned like cold embers. And at the same time, there was this sudden, almost painful warmth in my chest.

Dean Winchester.

The most beautiful man I’d ever met — and probably ever would. Not beautiful in a classic sense. Not smooth, not perfect. But real. So damn real. The fine lines around his eyes, etched from years of laughter, fighting, mourning. The tired pull around his mouth that still sometimes twisted into a grin that knocked the ground from under my feet. His hands — scarred, strong, full of history – and I knew every single one of them. His eyes, that deep green that said more than he’d ever dare to admit aloud.

I remembered the first time I truly saw him — not as a hero, not as a hunter. But as a man. As a person. After that hunt. After the fight with the rugaru. The man who had taken my heart into his hands without ever demanding it. Who never made big promises, yet every one of his looks had said more than words ever could. And damn it, he still looked just like he did back then. No... better. Deeper. More weathered. Truer.

Dean turned a page, glanced up. Our eyes met, and my heart did that traitorous lurch it always did when he looked at me. How could one man cause so much with just a glance? I didn’t look away. Pretended to be lost in thought. And in truth, all I thought about was him. Us. Everything we had — and everything that had slipped through our fingers like salt through a sieve.

I wondered if this was really it. If this was the end. Not the end of the world. Not the end of Sam, Dean, and me versus Chuck. But our end. Could I really live with that? That I’d never touch him like I did back then. That I’d never be that close again. That I’d never again hear his rough voice whisper low in my ear. That I’d never again feel his presence beside me in bed, the scratch of his stubble on my cheek when he mumbled in his sleep. That I’d never again wake up next to him, his arm draped heavy over my waist, his breathing steadier than anything else in this chaotic world. Never again that feeling of... coming home.

He was still Dean. But no longer my Dean. Not anymore. How had it come to this? How had we let what we had become this vague, unreachable distance? A subtle crack, barely noticeable, growing wider until it became impassable. And no one ever said a word. No one ever spoke the magic three. At no point was there an “I love you.” Maybe out of fear. Maybe out of pride. Maybe because we thought we had more time. And now... time was exactly what we were running out of.

Damn it, I never let myself idealize him. Not in this world. Not with what we did. And still – how could I not? He was what people imagined in stories. Strong, but not invincible. Broken, but not cold. Sometimes lost, but never hopeless.

I reached for the bottle again, slowly, deliberately, and kept my eyes on him. As if looking at him could hold him here — just for this night, this moment. And inside, I quietly, sadly, and more honestly than ever wondered: “Dean... do you miss me as much as I miss you?”

Dean felt my gaze. Finally. I saw the furrow in his brow deepen as he slowly looked up. His eyes met mine — curious, but not defensive. And there it was again: that moment. That one second when everything between us went silent. Just us. No God. No apocalypse. No ghosts. No demons. Just Dean. Just me.

“What?” he asked quietly, a hint of a smile on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes. I forced myself to smile – just a little. Just enough to soften the moment. But inside, everything was tight and knotted.

“I…” I began, but my voice cracked. I took a deep breath. Dean pushed the book aside slightly, as if he understood that this — this — was more important. His gaze remained calm, open, but something tightened in his expression. Like it always did when it came to feelings. When it came to us. I held his gaze — because I had to. I knew: if I looked away now, I’d never say it.

“Why didn’t it work out between us, Dean?” My voice wasn’t accusing — just quiet. Honest. “We had… something. Something real.”He took a long breath, rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes wandered briefly across the table, as if searching for an answer there. “Because it just couldn’t,” he mumbled. “Because the world around us keeps falling apart and we never know if the next day might be our last. And because I… maybe I was scared too.”

I swallowed. Something in his voice broke something in me. Not loudly. Not violently. But deep. “I miss you, Dean.”The words came out without warning. Just like that. And I left them there. No going back.

Dean looked at me again. Intensely. As if he hadn’t expected me to say it. And yet, as if he needed to hear it. I continued, “I miss the way you looked at me. The way you took my hand without me having to ask. The way one look from you said more than words ever could.”I trembled slightly, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m scared, Dean. That I’ll never get that close to you again. Never you and me again. And that this is just… over.”

His face stayed still for a second. Then I saw his jaw tense, his eyes shimmer — not wet, but warmer than usual. More alive. “I never forgot you,” he said hoarsely. Then chuckled briefly. “How could I, when you’re in my face every damn day?”I rolled my eyes, and he responded with a cheeky wink. Then he got serious again. “Kidding aside. I haven’t forgotten a single damn night. I missed you — in every goddamn town, on every goddamn case where you weren’t with me. And yeah — I was scared. Scared I’d end up hurting you more than I could ever stop it.”

Without thinking, I pushed myself back from the table with both palms, my chair scraping across the floor. Dean looked surprised as I stood, took the few steps to him, hesitated, then saw him push the surprise aside. Without a word, he slid his chair back slightly — made space — let it happen. I carefully settled on his lap, my legs draped sideways across his, my heart pounding wildly. He looked at me — this mix of wonder, nostalgia — and something else. Something deeper. Something familiar.

“What… what is this?” he asked, his voice low, almost a growl, rough with held-back emotion.I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I cupped his face with both hands, brushed my thumbs gently over the stubble along his jaw. His skin was warm. I looked at him for a long moment. I wanted to memorize him. In case this really was the last time.

“One last time?” I whispered at last.He understood instantly. No hesitation in his eyes — just that split second where heart and head fought. And I saw him give in. Saw his hand slide to my waist, firm but gentle. He swallowed. “One last time.”

And then I kissed him. Slowly. Full of memories. Full of longing. Full of all the words we’d never spoken, poured into lips and breath and closeness. His hands moved to my back, held me like he’d been missing me for far too long. I felt his heart racing — matching mine, in perfect sync. Dean’s hands gripped my waist tighter, as if to make sure I was real. That this wasn’t some dream slipping away. His lips moved over mine, hot and soft, filled with the past, with longing. It wasn’t rushed. It was like coming home.

I felt his warmth, his breath, his slight trembling under my touch. His right hand slipped under my shirt, fingertips brushing along my waist, careful — like he was rediscovering me. Or remembering how I’d felt under his hands.

He murmured something into the kiss — a low, hoarse “Damn, I missed you…” that was more than just words. It was a confession. I pressed my forehead against his, held him close, breathed him in, let him feel I was still here. That I’d never really left. My heart pounded wildly in my chest. It wasn’t doubt — it was hope. So fragile I barely dared to hold onto it.

Dean kissed me again, deeper this time. His hands trembled slightly, but he held me like there was something in me he couldn’t afford to lose. I felt his thumb trace over my ribs, slowly — like a promise written on skin. Then he paused. His body tensed under me, his breath caught for a second. I opened my eyes, looked into his — and saw that flicker of amused realization that crossed his face.

“Shit”, he muttered, glancing around as if only now realizing where we were. The bunker kitchen’s neon light, the soft ticking of the wall clock, the half-empty whiskey bottle on the table.“ Sam could walk in any second. Probably to make himself some vegan sandwich or brew chamomile tea…”

I laughed softly, breathing against his neck. “Then hurry up.”He shot me a look — sharp, full of heat, and that mischievous glint back in his eyes.

And then he stood. Just like that. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me effortlessly, like I was just another part of him finally returning to where it belonged. I wrapped my arms around his neck, let him carry me, my lips brushing along his throat, his cheek, the edge of his jaw. His hands held me securely — like they knew exactly where I was meant to be.

The door to his room was close. Too close. Not because I didn’t want him — God, I did.But because this moment was so precious, I wanted to make it last longer. Still, Dean was resolute. His eyes fixed ahead, his steps steady, his grip around me sure.

Once inside his room, he kicked the door shut with his heel. The room was dimly lit — only the small desk lamp cast a warm glow over the rumpled bed, the old leather chair, and the half-full glass of water on the nightstand. Dean slowly set me down on the edge of the bed. And for a moment, nothing happened. Just silence. Our eyes locked. His hand still resting on my cheek. My thumb tracing the collar of his shirt.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly. It wasn’t doubt — it was respect. I nodded. “As sure as I was the first time I looked into your eyes and knew I was already lost.”

Dean closed his eyes for a second, breathing in deeply. And when he opened them again, there was nothing but warmth. Desire. He gently pulled me closer, easing me back onto the mattress. So gently, as if I were made of something fragile — though he already knew every part of me. Then he leaned over me, bracing himself with both arms on either side of my head. The flannel of his shirt scratched lightly against my skin, his warm right hand resting heavy on my hip, while the other kept him steady.

His gaze stayed close to mine — deep green, clear, filled with unspoken words that were already written in his eyes. I could see that flicker of hesitation, that last sliver of restraint Dean always carried when it came to closeness. Real closeness. But under my gaze, it melted.

“I forgot what this feels like,” I whispered, pressing my forehead to his, my breath brushing his skin. “How you feel. How we feel.” “I didn’t,” he replied, his voice rough, almost broken. "I tried to bury it. But forget? Not a chance.”

Our kisses deepened, slowed. His lips trailed along my cheek, down my jaw, to my neck — and I lost myself in the feel of his skin on mine, the scent of leather, whiskey, and something that was just Dean. There was no rush, no urgency — just a slow, honest rediscovery between two people who’d always known each other, yet were still learning again.

My hands slid along his back, pulling him closer, wordlessly needing him. I felt his heartbeat pounding against my chest, loud and steady, like it was answering mine.

Dean gently lifted my shirt, his touch reverent, as though he were honoring every inch of skin he uncovered. His hands were firm and tender all at once, as if he were memorizing every breath, every reaction.

I let myself sink into it — all the shivers, every gasp of breath, every glance he gave me like a worshipper at a shrine. Dean wasn’t someone who opened up easily — but here, now, he was doing it with every movement, every kiss, every way he held me.

“I don’t want to lose you again,” I murmured against his shoulder.He lifted my face with two fingers, eyes locked on mine — serious, in a way that carried weight. “Then stay.”

I didn’t answer with words. Instead, I began slipping his open shirt down from his shoulders, over his arms, until it caught at his wrists. He let me help him out of it, then tossed it aside without care. My hands slid under his black T-shirt from behind, pushing it up and over his back and head.

Dean’s breath quickened as I kissed along his skin, from his neck to his chest. Over and over, he whispered my name, barely audible, while his hands gripped my hips, pulling me closer. When he kissed me again — deeper, more hungry — the world around us disappeared.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.” His voice was nothing but a breath laced with need.Dazed, I shook my head. “You’re just right.”

What followed wasn’t haste — it was surrender. Dean explored me with lips, hands, and breath. Every touch intentional, every kiss drawn out like a promise. He took his time, relearning me, worshiping me, letting me feel how much he’d missed this — missed me.

He left a wet trail of kisses over my half-naked upper body, down to the waistband of my jeans. Without breaking our eye contact, he unbuttoned them, sliding the fabric — along with my panties — down my hips and legs until both pieces landed beside his shirt on the floor.

Without hesitation, he kissed my inner thigh, pressing my legs further apart. My breath came shallow, in gasps over my lips as I felt his mouth at my most intimate place. When his tongue finally touched me there — exactly where I wanted it most — a shiver ran through my entire body. I closed my eyes, grasping at the sheets - his movements were almost painfully tender. It felt like he was trying to read every one of my reactions.

Dean tasted me, slowly driving me closer and closer to the edge with every flick of his tongue — only to pull me back after a dizzying climax. I gasped for air, brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead. My head felt wrapped in cotton — still too overwhelmed by all the sensations from the last few minutes — so I only vaguely noticed Dean moving away from me, sliding off the bed. In a flash, he stripped off his jeans and boxers.

His manhood claimed my full attention as he revealed it. Dean caught my gaze and a confident grin spread across his lips. “So, did you miss it?” I closed my eyes briefly, caught off guard, then shook my head with an amused smile. “Come here now, before I change my mind,” I teased him with mock sternness but couldn’t keep the grin off my face. Dean obeyed. Of course he did.

He slipped a condom over his shaft before crawling between my open legs. With an animalistic growl, he fully leaned over me again, gently biting the sensitive skin of my neck, making me giggle. His gaze caught mine. Green met brown. And in that moment, I knew I never wanted to look into another pair of eyes again. In them reflected a mix of fire and prayer at once.

And then, without letting another second pass, he entered me. Deep. Slow. A trembling sound escaped him. I moaned his name as he pressed himself against me, finding his rhythm. I wrapped my legs around his hips, wanting him deeper, closer. Dean moved in a steady pace, demanding but always full of feeling. Our bodies fit perfectly together. “You’re driving me crazy,” he murmured against my lips, and I felt his pelvis harden against mine.

But then he suddenly stopped, pulled out of me — only to roll onto his back and pull me with him. I understood immediately, straddled him, and slowly took him inside me again. This time I set the pace. I moved over him, riding him slowly, in circles, while his hands held my hips — sometimes gently, sometimes firmer, as if to hold on to me.

As if on its own, my hand reached behind my back and unclasped my bra, which I then slid off over my torso and tossed beside the bed. In that moment, I felt beautiful. Wanted. Not just desired — but held, seen. His eyes never left me.

“You’re everything,” he whispered hoarsely. I could only nod; my chest rose, my movements grew faster, more intense. The sounds escaping my throat sounded strange to my ears. Yet they expressed what Dean made me feel. He sat up, wrapped me in his arms, and kissed me while I still felt him inside me — deep, pounding, every movement perfectly rehearsed.

When I came, it was a quiet, trembling eruption. My body shook in his arms, my head fell onto his shoulder. Dean held me, kissed my head softly, whispered something I didn’t quite understand.But he wasn’t done. He slowly pushed me away, laid me down on my stomach on the bed, positioned himself behind me, pulled me closer by my hips, and lifted my ass up. I felt his torso against my back as he entered me again. His hands clasped mine, our fingers intertwined, and as he moved in me again — hard, deep — it felt like I was going to shatter again. I moaned, bit my lip, lost myself completely. It was wild but not rough. It was hot. It was familiar.

Dean’s climax came suddenly — a guttural, deep moan as he pressed fully against me. I felt his body tense, tremble, then go completely still. He stayed like that for a moment. We both gasped for air, trying to return to reality. I felt his heartbeat at my back, my own deep in the pillows beneath my upper body.

Then he slowly pulled out of me, leaving a strange emptiness behind. Dean sank next to me, pulled me close. My head rested on his sweaty chest, his arm warm around me. His fingers stroked almost hypnotically over my shoulder, again and again, as if he needed to convince himself I was still really here.

The silence in the room was like cotton. Everything sounded muffled — my breath, his heartbeat, the soft wind blowing through the air vent above Dean’s room and gently rocking the lamp. It was peaceful, almost surreal. As if the world outside had ceased to exist. Neither of us spoke first. Maybe because we knew words would make everything fragile. Maybe because we tried to hold this moment as long as possible — like a last fleeting ray of sunlight before the day finally slipped into night.

“I missed you,” I said finally. Quietly. As if it were a secret. Dean didn’t answer immediately. He took a deep breath, as if he had to let what I said sink in first. Then I felt him nod slightly. “I know.” His voice was rough from silence. “I missed you too. More than I want to admit.”

I lifted my head, looked at him. His eyes were in semi-darkness, but I recognized the expression nonetheless. Something between pain and peace. His jaw tensed under my gaze. “Why did we break up?” My voice almost broke, barely audible. “Why really? Was it just the hunt? The age difference? Or... was I no longer important enough to you at some point?”

Dean frowned as if hit by an invisible blow. “God... no!” He straightened slightly, making me shift my half-on-him position. “You were... you are important to me. Maybe... too important. And that was exactly the problem.” “What do you mean?” He ran his free hand through his hair, then looked at the ceiling. “I always thought I’d die alone. That I deserve it. But with you…” He swallowed. “...for the first time, I felt like maybe I was someone who could be loved. And that scared me more than any monster we ever hunted.”

I felt tears gather in my eyes. Not because of pain. But because of truth. “I... I lov...” I stopped, just couldn’t get the word out. “I felt so much for you, Dean. I think I... still do.” A heavy moment passed. Then he pressed his forehead to mine, looked deep into my eyes. “Then we’re already two.”My lips trembled. “What do we do now?” Dean closed his eyes, pressed a kiss to my forehead. “Now we save the world. Or at least try.” I laughed softly, though I felt the opposite inside. “And after?” He looked at me, serious, honest, almost gentle. “After... we see if there’s still room for us. For more than just one last time.”

A tingling ran through my body. Hope. An almost forgotten feeling that felt like the first sip of coffee after a sleepless night — bitter, strong, but invigorating. I laid my hand on his cheek, looked at him long. “What if that was it?” “Then it was damn well the most beautiful thing I ever had in this life.”

We said nothing more. We just lay there, his forehead on mine, our fingers entwined. Two hunters, marked by too many battles, too many losses — but in this one moment together again.

Outside in the bunker halls, it was quiet. Sam had caught none of it, seemed to be sleeping deeply. Jack hadn’t been reachable for days; probably working on some master plan. Tomorrow would bring more fights — the fight against Chuck, against fate, against death itself.

But for this moment…

…there was only us.

And the promise that maybe it wasn’t the last time after all.

[ghostlyferrettarot]

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🧜🏻‍♀️♡☽Masterlist🧜🏻‍♀️♡☽ 🧜🏻‍♀️♡☽Masterlist 2🧜🏻‍♀️♡☽

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 1st House: When Sirene is in your 1st House, your presence is magnetic, almost as if you could captivate everyone just by entering a room. The beauty you emanate is not only physical, but also in your way of being: authentic, charismatic and mysterious. People are attracted to you without fully understanding why, as if your aura had an enchanting power.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 2nd House: Here, Sirene gives you a unique way of relating to your values ​​and material things. Your attraction is not only physical, but also in how you present what you have and who you are. People can't help but see the beauty in the way you take care of yourself, whether in your style or in the confidence you convey. This beauty attracts others to your life, and perhaps even prosperity.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 3rd House: With Sirene in the 3rd House, your way of communicating is absolutely seductive. Your voice has a special tone, almost like a soft song that captures the attention of others. Whether through words or writing, what you share has a unique, enveloping beauty. Your way of thinking is bright and harmonious, which makes you even more attractive to those around you.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 4th House: Here, Sirene's beauty lies in your ability to create a warm and welcoming environment. Your home reflects a place where people can relax, feel accepted, and drawn to your energy. There is a peace and harmony in your space that invites others to linger. Your emotional connection to your family and roots also has a touch of grace that makes you unique.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 5th House: With Sirene in the 5th House, your charm in love is irresistible. People feel a natural attraction to you, and romance becomes one of your brightest areas. The creativity you exude is captivating, and people are drawn to your unique style of expression. You are a magnet for those seeking pleasure, fun, and a touch of magic in their lives.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 6th House: Here, your beauty is reflected in the way you handle the everyday. There is a grace in the way you work and take care of yourself, in your daily habits and routines. You are able to make the most mundane tasks seem elegant, and your way of serving or caring for others has a softness and magnetism that attracts those around you.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 7th House: When Sirene is in the 7th House, your relationships are deeply attractive. People are captivated by the way you are in a relationship or in a partnership. You have a gift for attracting those who seek love and harmony, and your ability to connect intensely with others has a pure and natural beauty. There is something ethereal about the way you give of yourself in a relationship that makes others feel special.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 8th House: In the 8th House, Sirene grants you a deep, transformative and captivating beauty on the most intimate levels. Your magnetism is irresistible on the emotional and physical level, and you are able to dazzle others with an intensity that goes beyond the superficial. People feel a powerful attraction to you, and you may have a special ability to touch the souls of those who approach you.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 9th House: With Sirene in the 9th House, your worldview is a form of beauty. Your way of thinking, your philosophy of life, and your way of sharing your beliefs attract those who are looking for something deeper and more meaningful. You have a unique way of inspiring others through your words and your ideas. The beauty of traveling and exploring is part of your essence, and others are drawn to your ability to see the world with bright eyes.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 10th House: Here, your beauty is reflected in your professional life and your ambition. Your public presence is magnetic, and people see you as a figure of power and attractiveness. You have a special ability to impress with your work and achieve your goals, which makes you even more attractive in the social and professional spheres. The beauty of your success is a mix of grace and determination.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 11th House: With Sirene in the 11th House, your beauty is reflected in the way you connect with your community and friends. People are drawn to your vibrant energy, your desire to improve the world, and your unique way of leading groups or collectives. You have a special ability to make others feel comfortable and welcome, and your charisma shines brightly in social circles.

⋅˚₊‧ ଳ ‧₊˚ ⋅🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*Sirene in the 12th House: In the 12th House, Sirene's beauty is hidden in the invisible, the spiritual, and the mysterious. There is something deeply captivating about you that is not easily visible to others, but those who know you deeply can sense it. Your soul has a serene, introspective beauty that draws others to you, even when you are not aware of this power.

[almostwisegalaxy]

An Echo of Melancholy

Ji Chang wook x fem!reader

The reader has a shy personality in this story

..................................................................................

The lights of Seoul sparkled in the darkness like scattered stars, but in the auditorium where y/n's fan meeting was taking place, another kind of light captivated hearts. y/n, a actress and singer, walked gently onto the stage, greeted by applause as warm as it was contrasting to her reserved demeanor.

She wore a simple midnight-blue dress, her braids framing a face of delicate beauty. Her shy smile and measured gestures reflected a modest, almost elusive personality. Yet, whenever she spoke or sang, she captivated everyone, as if her voice touched their souls directly.

Among the crowd, a man observed with disarming intensity. Ji Chang Wook, the renowned 37-year-old South Korean actor, sat silently, hidden among her fans. Accustomed to being the center of attention, he found himself feeling strangely vulnerable in her presence. Ever since he had stumbled upon her melancholic voice by chance, he had been unable to think of anything else.

The event was in full swing, and the fans, united in enthusiasm, begged y/n to perform one of her most iconic songs: Whispered Scars.

y/n hesitated, playing with the microphone in her hands.

— "Wouldn’t you prefer something more cheerful?" she asked with a slightly nervous smile, provoking laughter throughout the room.

But the fans persisted. She finally gave in, a faint sigh escaping her lips.

— "All right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you."

She sat down on a stool, her fingers brushing the microphone as if to steady herself. The first notes of the piano filled the room, and as soon as she began singing, the auditorium fell into complete silence.

The melody was gentle and melancholic, and each word carried a universal pain. Whispered Scars spoke of invisible wounds, silent struggles hidden from the world. y/n's voice, fragile yet powerful, pierced the hearts of everyone present, and soon, tears streamed down many faces.

Ji Chang Wook felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest. It was as if she was revealing a part of herself through the song—a part he wanted to protect at all costs.

After the performance, the emotion in the room was palpable. Fans began sharing their own stories, inspired by y/n's raw sincerity.

A young woman timidly stepped forward, the microphone trembling in her hands.

— "y/n-ssi… I just wanted to say thank you. Your music helped me through a really difficult time. My fiancé left me after eight years together… I didn’t know who I was without him. But your songs made me realize I could survive, even with scars."

y/n looked at the fan, her eyes glistening with emotion.

— "Thank you for sharing that," she said softly. "I don’t have the perfect words to ease that kind of pain, but… sometimes, our scars become our most beautiful stories to tell. You’re stronger than you think."

Another fan spoke up, a young man with tear-streaked eyes.

— "y/n-ssi, have you ever… lost someone you loved? I don’t know how to keep going. I’m so tired."

The question, brutal in its honesty, seemed to freeze time. y/n lowered her gaze for a moment, searching for the right response.

— "Yes," she murmured at last. "I’ve lost someone… not to death, but to betrayal. And it’s a different kind of pain, but just as heavy. I won’t lie to you—it never completely goes away. But one day, you’ll realize you deserve better, and that will be the beginning of healing."

Sensing her words weren’t enough to break the heavy atmosphere, she added with a teasing smile:

— "And if nothing else works, you can always try planting tomatoes. I did that once, and even though they were inedible, it was oddly satisfying!"

The room erupted into laughter, breaking the tension. Even y/n blushed slightly, surprised by her own humor.

Later, a young girl approached shyly with a bouquet of flowers and a small, carefully wrapped package.

— "y/n-ssi, it’s not much, but… I made this gift for you. It’s a bracelet I crafted. I hope you like it."

Visibly touched, y/n stood to accept the flowers and the package. She bowed slightly, a humble smile on her face.

— "Thank you so much, it’s beautiful. But… you know, I’m not that special."

The fan shook her head fervently.

— "To me, you are. Your music gave me hope when I needed it most."

Moved by the declaration, y/n, in a spontaneous gesture, removed the silver bracelet she had been wearing. It was a gift she had received at the start of her career, but at that moment, it felt like it belonged to the young girl.

— "I want you to have this. To remind you that you’re special, too."

The fan burst into tears, overwhelmed by emotion, while y/n gently embraced her.

In the shadows, Ji Chang Wook observed every movement. Her natural kindness, her sincerity, and her way of connecting with her fans captivated him more and more. But beyond admiration, he felt an obsession growing within him.

He promised himself he would meet her. No, not just meet her—he would become a part of her life. No matter the cost.

As for y/n, she felt deeply moved by the evening, entirely unaware that in the crowd, someone was already planning a role in her destiny.

---

A few days after the fan meeting, y/n arrived at a workshop for underprivileged children organized at a community center in Seoul. Although she was often invited to charity events, this one was particularly close to her heart. The cause of struggling youth resonated with memories of her own childhood, marked by personal challenges.

Dressed in simple jeans and a cream sweater, she was almost unrecognizable compared to the star who captivated crowds. But here, she wasn’t a celebrity; she was just y/n, a volunteer ready to offer her time and warmth.

The workshop, centered around painting and music, buzzed with energy and laughter. y/n knelt beside a little girl who was struggling to draw a bird.

— "Do you want me to help?" she asked softly, picking up a pencil.

The child timidly nodded, and together, they began sketching a bird with colorful feathers. Within minutes, the little girl was laughing, opening up to y/n as if they’d known each other forever.

Across the room, Ji Chang Wook entered discreetly, dressed casually with a beanie partially hiding his face. He had learned about y/n’s participation through a contact at the center and couldn’t resist the idea of seeing her in this setting.

At first, he stayed in the background, watching how she interacted with the children. She radiated a natural warmth that seemed to put everyone at ease. This version of y/n—dedicated and kind-hearted—only deepened his desire to get closer to her.

After a while, he approached a boy sitting alone, his hands curled tightly around a paintbrush. The boy seemed hesitant to join the others.

— "Hi," Ji Chang Wook said with a smile. "Want to try something together? I’m not very good, but we could paint something funny."

The boy looked up timidly, intrigued by the warm man, and eventually nodded.

y/n, who had gotten up to fetch some brushes, noticed Ji Chang Wook for the first time. She blinked, surprised. He looked familiar, but she wasn’t sure. Was it really him?

Later in the day, after the activities had slowed down, y/n approached Ji Chang Wook. He was still with the young boy, softly laughing at their creation: a strange mix of a dragon and a cat.

— "You’re good at making kids laugh," she said, a playful smile on her lips.

Ji Chang Wook looked up, his gaze meeting hers. His heart skipped a beat, but he kept his composure.

— "I try. But I think you’re the one with the magic today. The kids adore you."

y/n blushed slightly, feeling shy at the compliment.

— "I’m just doing my best… but you seem very comfortable with them too. Do you come here often?"

Ji Chang Wook hesitated for a moment before answering. He didn’t want to admit he was there only because of her.

— "It’s my first time. I heard about the workshop and wanted to see how I could help."

— "That’s a wonderful initiative," y/n replied. "The kids need role models like you."

He smiled, but deep down, he knew he wanted to be more than just a role model to her.

As the workshop came to an end, Ji Chang Wook found the courage to hold her back for a moment.

— "y/n-ssi, it’s been a pleasure seeing you here. You seem to really love what you do."

— "I do," she answered sincerely. "It’s a way to give back a little of what I’ve received."

— "Maybe we could work together on another project for these kids? I have a few ideas in mind."

Surprised by his suggestion, y/n sensed a warmth in his approach. He didn’t seem to be there to impress, but genuinely engaged.

— "That’s a good idea. Send me your ideas, and we’ll see what we can do."

Ji Chang Wook nodded, pleased with her openness. It was only a small step, but for him, it was the beginning of something he hoped to build with patience.

In the days that followed, they exchanged a few messages about projects for the center. Ji Chang Wook tried to remain professional, although he found every interaction with her deeply captivating.

y/n, on the other hand, appreciated his respectful and thoughtful approach. He wasn’t at all what she might have imagined a celebrity of his stature to be. He seemed humble, almost vulnerable.

Without realizing it, she began to look forward to his messages with a certain anticipation—a feeling she hadn’t experienced in a long time.

In the quiet rhythm of their exchanges, a connection was gently forming, like a subtle melody promising a beautiful harmony to come.

---

A few weeks later, Ji Chang Wook and y/n met at the community center to finalize a project they had co-created: a workshop combining theater and music to help children express their emotions. The concept was simple yet powerful: the kids could act out scenes they created themselves, with improvised songs accompanying their stories.

y/n arrived first, helping to prepare the costumes and props. She was focused, her hands working delicately. Ji Chang Wook joined her shortly after, carrying a large bag filled with quirky wigs and hats.

— "I thought a bit of humor might help them relax," he said with a playful smile.

y/n burst out laughing as she pulled out a huge pink wig from the bag.

— "This is perfect. I’m sure they’ll love it. But… I can’t quite picture you wearing this," she teased, looking at him mischievously.

— "Oh, you underestimate me," he replied, immediately putting on the wig. "So, what do you think?"

y/n laughed even harder, and at that moment, she realized just how much she had grown to enjoy his company. Ji Chang Wook had this rare ability to lighten things up, even when she felt weighed down by her own thoughts.

The workshop was a success. Encouraged by the presence of the two celebrities, the children began to perform with a freedom and joy that even surprised the regular facilitators. y/n guided some of them through simple compositions, while Ji Chang Wook improvised hilarious scenes with the more timid ones.

At one point, a boy named Minho refused to participate. He had withdrawn to a corner of the room, arms crossed. y/n approached him gently.

— "Minho, are you okay? You don’t have to join in, but we’d love to have you with us."

The boy shook his head.

— "I’m no good. The others always make fun of me."

y/n crouched down to his level, looking him in the eyes.

— "I understand. You know, when I was little, I was scared to sing in front of others. But I learned something important: even if your voice shakes, even if you make a mistake, what matters is how you feel and what you share. It’s not easy, but I’m here for you."

Ji Chang Wook, who had been watching from a distance, approached quietly.

— "Minho, would you like me to be your scene partner? I’m terrible at singing, so maybe you could help me out."

The boy hesitated but eventually agreed, won over by the sincerity of the two adults. Together, they improvised a small scene where Minho played a brave hero while Ji Chang Wook dressed up as a clumsy villain. The laughter of the other children filled the room, and for the first time, Minho smiled.

At the end of the day, as the children went home, y/n and Ji Chang Wook stayed behind to help tidy up. A peaceful silence settled between them, each lost in their own thoughts.

Finally, Ji Chang Wook broke the silence.

— "You have a gift, y/n. It’s not just your music or your voice. You have this ability to deeply touch people. Even a boy like Minho… he needed that today."

y/n turned to him, surprised by the intensity of his words. She lowered her gaze, uncomfortable with such sincerity.

— "Thank you," she murmured. "But I think you’re the same. Minho followed you because he sensed you were someone he could trust."

Ji Chang Wook smiled but said nothing more. He knew this wasn’t the right moment to reveal his feelings. He simply appreciated her presence, finding a strange comfort in their shared silence.

As they left the center, Ji Chang Wook suggested, almost without thinking:

— "How about grabbing a drink? You worked hard today; you deserve a coffee or tea."

y/n hesitated for a moment. She wasn’t the type to accept such invitations, especially from someone she still didn’t know well. But something about Ji Chang Wook’s demeanor put her at ease.

— "Alright. But I get to choose the place," she replied with a playful smile.

They ended up at a small, quiet café, far from the bustle of the city. For an hour, they talked about everything and nothing: their childhood memories, their dreams, their fears. y/n found herself sharing things she had never told anyone before, and Ji Chang Wook listened with an attentiveness that deeply moved her.

As they parted ways that evening, they thanked each other for the day. Ji Chang Wook, standing by his car, watched y/n walk away, a warm feeling spreading through him.

He knew it would take time to earn her full trust, but he was willing to wait. To him, y/n wasn’t just a fascinating woman; she was an echo of a part of himself he had never explored.

For her part, y/n felt a strange lightness for the first time in a long while. As if, after years of emotional solitude, she could finally consider opening a small door… gently, at her own pace.

And so, a relationship began to bloom between them, built on patience, respect, and shared moments that only deepened their budding connection.

---

The following days were marked by sporadic but meaningful exchanges between Y/N and Ji Chang Wook. Sometimes, he would send her a message to share a funny anecdote about the kids at the center, while at other times, she would share the lyrics of a new song she was writing. Their connection seemed to grow effortlessly, like a river flowing gently towards the ocean.

One afternoon, while she was rehearsing in a music studio, Y/N received an unexpected message from Ji Chang Wook.

"I'm about to start filming a movie. We're looking for a song for an important scene. Maybe you could think about it? Nothing official, just an idea."

Y/N smiled. She had never considered composing for a movie, but the thought of contributing to a project featuring Ji Chang Wook intrigued her.

"Send me the details, and I'll see what I can do," she replied.

A few days later, Ji Chang Wook invited her to visit the film set. Curious, Y/N accepted, though she was a bit nervous about seeing him in his professional element. When she arrived, she was immediately struck by the intense atmosphere. Technicians were bustling everywhere, and the crew seemed deeply focused.

Ji Chang Wook greeted her warmly, dressed in his character's costume. Despite the makeup and the serious demeanor he wore for the role, he couldn't hide the sparkle in his eyes upon seeing her.

"Welcome to my world," he said with a smile. "It's chaotic, but I love it."

Y/N watched the scenes being filmed with fascination. Between takes, Ji Chang Wook explained the story of the movie and the specific scene for which they were searching for a song.

"It's a pivotal moment," he explained. "The main character realizes he has to let go of someone he loves for their own good. It's painful but necessary."

The words resonated deeply with Y/N. This duality between love and letting go was a theme she understood well.

"I think I can write something," she replied, ideas already swirling in her mind.

That night, Y/N immersed herself in writing. The words flowed almost effortlessly, fueled by her own experiences and the emotions she had observed on set. Within a few hours, a soft and poignant melody had taken shape, accompanied by simple yet powerful lyrics.

The next day, she sent a demo recording to Ji Chang Wook. Shortly after, she received a call.

"Y/N, this is… incredible," he said, visibly moved. "It perfectly captures what we were looking for. You're truly a genius."

She laughed softly, embarrassed by the compliment.

"I'm glad you like it. I hope it fits the scene."

"Not just the scene. It's perfect for the entire movie. You have no idea how much this will touch the audience."

A few weeks passed, and Y/N's song officially became the centerpiece of the movie's soundtrack. To celebrate the collaboration, Y/N, in a burst of pride, invited Ji Chang Wook to dinner. It was more of a subtle kidnapping than an invitation.

---

Ji Chang Wook had just wrapped up a particularly grueling day of filming when he received a message from Y/N:

"You’ve always been the one to reach out, but this time, it’s my turn. I want to celebrate our collaboration. Dinner this Friday—what do you say? No refusals, I insist."

He read the message several times, an incredulous smile spreading across his lips. Y/N, usually so reserved, was taking the initiative. This simple gesture, so unusual coming from her, deeply moved him.

A strange mix of surprise and pleasure washed over him. He was used to being the one to initiate their exchanges, whether to discuss the project or simply to joke around. But this was different. It felt as though she was reaching out to him in return, and it stirred a warmth within him he hadn’t anticipated.

He stretched out on the couch in his dressing room, unable to focus on anything else. His mind wandered, exploring the implications of her gesture. Was it merely a professional acknowledgment, or was there something more?

A feeling he rarely experienced began to surface: he felt wanted. Not in the superficial way he was used to because of his fame, but in an intimate, genuine sense. Y/N, with her shyness and gentle demeanor, had broken an invisible barrier to invite him into her world.

He quickly replied, his tone slightly playful but sincere:

"A subtle kidnapping, really? I’m curious to see what you’ve planned. I’m happy to surrender to this ‘capture.’"

The rest of the week was marked by an unusual anticipation. Ji Chang Wook, an actor accustomed to the spotlight and high expectations, found himself thinking about the dinner more often than he cared to admit.

He wondered what restaurant she would choose, what she would say, how she would act. Would she remain as composed as usual, or would she reveal a more relaxed side of herself?

For him, it wasn’t just a dinner to celebrate a collaboration. Not anymore. It represented an evolution in their relationship, a step forward that he wouldn’t have dared to push for.

He was willing to wait as long as she needed to open up to him, but this initiative made him feel like she was starting to let him in. And that made him feel unexpectedly vulnerable.

Ji Chang Wook realized then that this wasn’t just artistic admiration or a fleeting fascination. His feelings for Y/N were rooted far deeper than he had anticipated.

"I'm doomed," he murmured with a smile as he adjusted his tie for the evening.

When Friday arrived, he was ready. And for once, he wasn’t trying to impress. He just wanted to be there, with her, and see where the evening would lead.

---

Ji Chang Wook arrived at the place indicated by Y/N, a small restaurant tucked away in a quiet alley in Seoul, far from the glitzy venues he was used to. The place exuded a simplicity and authenticity that matched Y/N perfectly.

As he entered, he spotted her immediately. She was sitting by a window, dressed in a white blouse and jeans—casual yet elegant. She was absentmindedly fiddling with a ring on her finger, as if trying to calm her nerves before his arrival.

When she looked up and saw him, her face lit up with a genuine smile.

— "Ah, you're here," she said, a bit nervously. "I was hoping you wouldn’t stand me up."

— "Are you kidding?" he replied, pulling out a chair. "I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Besides, how could I pass up the chance to get kidnapped, right?"

They shared a light laugh, and the initial tension quickly dissipated.

The meal began in a relaxed atmosphere. Y/N had chosen a simple menu, and Ji Chang Wook appreciated the modesty of the place. They started by talking about mundane things: the filming, the kids at the center, the song Y/N had composed.

Then, little by little, the conversation turned more personal.

— "You know," Ji Chang Wook began, idly playing with his glass of water, "you surprised me with this invitation. It almost feels like you're trying to thank me for something I haven’t even done yet."

Y/N blushed slightly and looked down at her plate.

— "Well… you’ve already done a lot. Not just for the song or the movie, but… for me."

He raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— "For you?"

— "Yes," she murmured. "Since we’ve started talking, I feel like… I can just be myself. You don’t see me as just a singer or an actress. You actually listen. And that means a lot."

Her words, simple but heartfelt, struck Ji Chang Wook deeply. He leaned slightly toward her, resting his elbows on the table.

— "Y/N, it’s not hard to listen to you. You have a way of reaching people, not just with your music, but with your presence. You might not see it, but you have a calming effect on those around you. On me, at least."

She looked up, surprised by his confession.

— "On you?"

— "Yes," he replied earnestly. "You remind me that there are simple and genuine things in this world, things worth holding onto. And I’m glad you let me be part of your world."

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward but charged with a gentle, unexpected intensity. Y/N nervously played with a strand of her hair, while Ji Chang Wook, on his side, studied every nuance of her expression.

Then she broke the silence with a small, nervous laugh.

— "It’s funny, I thought I was the one who’d be thanking you tonight, and here we are with the roles reversed."

— "Maybe we should just thank each other," he said with a smile.

Y/N nodded, her smile widening.

— "Alright. Thank you, then."

They continued their dinner, discussing future projects and sharing stories about their lives. As the evening went on, Y/N felt more at ease, and Ji Chang Wook realized he was happier in that moment than at any glamorous party or red carpet event.

As they left the restaurant, Y/N suggested taking a walk. The night air was crisp, and the streets were quiet. They walked side by side, silent at first, simply enjoying each other's presence.

Eventually, Y/N stopped and turned to face him.

— "Ji Chang Wook… thank you for coming tonight. I know I’m not always great at expressing myself, but… this meant a lot to me."

He stepped a little closer, meeting her gaze.

— "Y/N, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I need to say something. I’m glad we started this… collaboration. But for me, it’s more than just a project or a song. I genuinely appreciate the person you are."

She stood still, her cheeks flushing slightly. She opened her mouth to respond, but Ji Chang Wook raised his hand gently.

— "You don’t have to respond right now. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here, no matter what."

Y/N slowly nodded, moved by his sincerity and patience.

They resumed their walk, their steps gradually falling in sync. The night stretched ahead of them, full of promises and possibilities yet to be explored.

---

Ji Chang Wook and Y/N were sharing an impromptu lunch on set. Between bites, he suddenly said:

— "I have an idea."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

— "Oh? Another brilliant idea for the movie, I suppose?"

He smiled, but his tone turned more serious.

— "Not exactly. Listen, you’ve been working so hard lately. You deserve a break. How about taking the weekend off with me? Just the two of us."

Her eyes widened, caught off guard.

— "Go where?"

— "There’s a village in the countryside I love. Quiet, secluded, no one to bother us. We could relax, recharge. And maybe… get to know each other better."

His gaze was intense but devoid of any pressure. Y/N felt her heart race, both unsettled and drawn to his proposal.

— "That’s… spontaneous," she murmured, trying to mask her nerves with a smile.

— "Spontaneity has its perks," he replied. "And sometimes, we need to escape the routine, don’t you think?"

After a long pause, she nodded.

— "Alright. But if it gets weird, I’m making you walk back to Seoul."

He burst out laughing.

— "Deal."

The journey to the village was filled with light-hearted conversations, but every glance they exchanged carried a quiet intensity. When they arrived, Y/N was struck by the serenity of the place. Rolling green hills stretched as far as the eye could see, and a gentle river wound its way through the landscape.

They settled into a quaint guesthouse, where the owners greeted them with warm smiles. After freshening up, Ji Chang Wook invited Y/N for a walk.

They strolled in silence, soaking in the beauty of the setting sun. Then, on a whim, Ji Chang Wook gently took her hand.

— "It’s to keep you from tripping," he said with a mischievous smile.

Y/N felt a shiver run through her but didn’t pull her hand away.

— "You’re so considerate," she replied, feigning a teasing tone to hide her unease.

After dinner, they decided to sit by the stream, where the starry sky seemed infinitely vast. The atmosphere was intimate, almost magical.

— "It’s beautiful here," Y/N whispered, her eyes fixed on the stars.

— "It’s even more beautiful with you here," Ji Chang Wook replied without hesitation.

She turned to him, surprised by the gentleness in his voice.

— "Are you always this straightforward?" she asked, her smile uncertain.

He shrugged, his gaze steady on her.

— "Only when I feel something real."

Their eyes met, and a charged silence filled the space between them. Ji Chang Wook hesitated for a moment before lifting a hand to brush away a strand of hair that had fallen across her face.

— "You’re incredible, Y/N. And I don’t just mean your talent. There’s something about you—this light—that draws me in, captivates me."

Her heart pounded furiously.

— "Ji Chang Wook, I…"

He didn’t let her finish. Slowly, cautiously, he leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that was soft yet brimming with restrained passion.

Y/N didn’t pull away. Instead, she responded with an intensity she didn’t know she possessed. The world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of their own.

When they finally broke apart, slightly breathless, Ji Chang Wook murmured:

— "I’m sorry if that was too sudden. But I couldn’t… wait any longer."

Y/N placed a hand on his cheek, her eyes shining with an emotion she couldn’t hide.

— "It wasn’t too sudden," she said softly. "It was… perfect."

Back at the guesthouse, Ji Chang Wook suggested they sit by the fireplace. They spent hours talking, sharing their fears, dreams, and hopes.

At one point, Y/N rested her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.

— "I don’t know where this will take us," she murmured, her voice heavy with sleep.

— "Neither do I," he replied, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "But I know I don’t want to lose you."

That night, under the stars and the crackling fire, they let their hearts open fully to one another, crossing a boundary they both knew they could never ignore again.

..................................................................................

[winchesterwild78]

The Arrangement pt 5

Part 4

Characters: Jensen x Reader

Warnings: fluff (finally), surprises await them

A/N: Sorry I’ve been away for a while. Been dealing with life, the NJ convention and end of the year craziness. I hope to be back more. I’ve needed to write. This story will be in several parts. It’s just a crazy rollercoaster ride of a story that popped in my head. It’s full of angst and heartbreak, but I think it’s a good one. 

This is not real like and doesn’t depict it. It’s FICTION! No disrespect to Jensen or his family. 

Minors DNI 18+

Months of careful, quiet rebuilding had reshaped the very foundations of our relationship. The house, once a cold stage for our public performance, now held the echoes of shared laughter and hushed confessions. The pretense had dissolved, replaced by a tentative, then growing, genuine affection. Jensen's eyes no longer held distant politeness when they met mine; they held warmth, understanding, and a deepening desire.

One crisp autumn evening, after a long conversation about our childhoods – a topic we'd never dared to touch before – a comfortable silence settled between us. We were in the living room, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls, a half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. He reached for my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. His thumb stroked my skin, a gesture that had become second nature, filled with an easy intimacy.

He turned to me, his gaze intense, vulnerable, and utterly sincere. "I..." he began, his voice low, "I never thought... I never imagined I could feel this with you."

My heart pounded in response, acknowledging the truth in his words, for I felt it too. The air thickened, charged with unspoken emotions that had been building, layer by careful layer, over the past weeks. I leaned in, drawn by an undeniable pull, and he met me halfway.

This kiss was different from others we had shared. It began softly, tentatively, a question and an answer, but quickly deepened into something fervent, urgent, and deeply desired. It was a kiss born of shared history, of pain overcome, and of a profound, blossoming connection. It was filled with need – a need for closeness, for intimacy, for the physical expression of everything that had been painstakingly rebuilt between us. His arms wrapped around me, pulling me flush against him, and I clung to him, pouring all my unspoken feelings into the embrace.

The night unfolded with a tender inevitability. We moved from the living room to his bedroom, the room that had once housed his infidelity, but now felt like a space of profound redemption. Every touch was deliberate, every caress infused with a raw honesty and a reverence for the intimacy we had finally found. There was no rush, only a deep, mutual exploration, a confirmation of the emotional bonds that had formed.

Finally, as dawn painted the sky in soft hues, I drifted off to sleep, my head nestled against his chest, his arm securely wrapped around me. The rhythmic beat of his heart beneath my ear was the most comforting sound I had ever known. We had finally made love, not out of obligation or pretense, but from a place of genuine, burgeoning affection. And as I lay there, safe in his arms, the weight of a lonely marriage finally lifted, I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was irrevocably, truly falling for him.

That night of shared passion was a turning point, a silent agreement to discard the old pretenses and build something real from the shattered pieces. The very next day, I moved my things into Jensen's room. My clothes mingled with his in the closet, my books found a home on his nightstand, and my presence became a comforting constant in his personal space.

Every night became a new discovery. We explored each other's bodies with a tender curiosity, each touch and kiss deepening the profound connection that had blossomed between us. We made love not just with our bodies, but with our souls, whispering confessions and dreams in the quiet intimacy of the darkness. The physical closeness mirrored the emotional vulnerability we had finally found, solidifying the love that had emerged from the ashes of a forced union.

As the weeks stretched into months, our relationship solidified into something beautiful and undeniable. We started venturing out in public together again, but this time, the dynamic was entirely different. We no longer cared about the cameras in the same way; we were simply being ourselves. He’d still flash his famous smile, but now, his eyes would always seek mine, a silent testament to the genuine happiness he found by my side.

Jensen, who had once been so guarded, now delighted in sharing glimpses of our authentic life. His social media, once a carefully curated feed of red carpet events and professional triumphs, began to feature candid photos of us. There were snapshots of me with a messy bun, absorbed in a book on the sofa; us laughing over a burnt dinner in the kitchen; or a tender shot of him kissing the top of my head, or my lips, completely unposed. These weren't PR stunts; they were moments of true bliss, shared freely, without the need for explanation or justification. His fans, initially shocked by the paternity scandal, slowly began to embrace this new, more human Jensen, and by extension, our unconventional love story.

As our first wedding anniversary approached, a date that once symbolized the beginning of my despair now represented a triumphant turning point. Jensen, ever the grand gesture enthusiast, planned something truly significant. "It's not just about a year of being married," he'd said, pulling me into a hug, his eyes shining with a familiar intensity, "it's about the past few months of actually falling in love. And we deserve to celebrate that. Big."

The anticipation buzzed between us. I knew, with every fiber of my being, that whatever he had planned, it would be a celebration of our hard-won happiness, a testament to the real, undeniable love that had blossomed where only loneliness had once resided.

The grand celebration Jensen had planned for our anniversary turned out to be the most intimate gesture of all. He booked a private getaway, a secluded villa nestled on a sun-drenched coast, eerily similar to the Tuscan villa where our loveless honeymoon had unfolded. But this time, everything was different. There were no camera flashes, no forced smiles, just the two of us. It was a deliberate act of reclaiming that painful memory, imbuing it with the burgeoning love we now shared.

We spent our days exploring hidden coves, laughing as we cooked meals together in the sun-drenched kitchen, and simply existing in the blissful quiet of each other's company. The nights were filled with whispered secrets and tender touches, each moment a testament to the journey we had embarked on. This was our real honeymoon, a testament to a love forged in the fires of scandal and personal reckoning.

One morning, a few days into our serene escape, a subtle wave of nausea washed over me. I dismissed it at first, attributing it to the rich food or the change of scenery. But as the days passed, the feeling persisted, accompanied by an unfamiliar fatigue that settled deep in my bones. I started noticing things—a heightened sense of smell, a strange aversion to my favorite coffee, a tenderness I couldn't explain.

A quiet suspicion began to form, growing stronger with each passing hour. My period was late. More than late. My mind reeled, doing quick calculations, connecting the dots between the tender nights we had shared and these unexpected symptoms. It was too soon, too impossible, given the history of our beginning.

My heart began to pound with a frantic, hopeful rhythm. Later that day, while Jensen was out arranging a private boat trip, I slipped away to a small pharmacy in the nearby town. My hands trembled as I bought a pregnancy test, the box feeling impossibly heavy in my palm.

Back at the villa, I locked myself in the bathroom, my breath catching in my throat. I followed the instructions, my eyes fixed on the small window. The wait felt like an eternity.

Then, slowly, almost miraculously, two clear lines appeared.

I was pregnant.

An audible gasp escaped my lips, but this time, it was one of pure, unadulterated shock and overwhelming joy. A wave of emotions crashed over me: disbelief, fear, but most profoundly, an immense, blossoming love. A secret of my own, a tiny, precious life, growing inside me, a true symbol of the real, unexpected love that had blossomed between Jensen and me. This wasn't a PR baby; this was our baby, a testament to a love that had defied all odds.

The little plastic stick with its undeniable two lines lay hidden in my travel bag, a monumental secret pulsing between Jensen and me. I spent the rest of the day in a haze, the beauty of the private villa, the warmth of the sun, and Jensen's easy laughter all magnified by the incredible news. I knew I couldn't keep it from him, not after everything we'd built.

That evening, as twilight painted the sky in soft mauves and oranges, we lay tangled in the crisp sheets of our bed, the quiet stillness of the villa wrapped around us. His arm was draped over me, his hand resting gently on my hip, a familiar weight of comfort and intimacy.

"Jensen?" I whispered, my voice a little shaky.

He hummed, pressing a soft kiss to my hair. "Hm? Everything okay, love?"

I took a deep breath, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. This was it. "I was just thinking," I began, trying to keep my voice casual, though it trembled slightly, "about... about children."

His body tensed imperceptibly against mine. The topic, loaded with the pain of Isabella's false claim, was still a sensitive one. "What about them?" he asked, his voice cautious.

"I mean," I continued, gathering my courage, "do you... do you still want them? Someday? A family?" I turned slightly in his arms, looking up at his face, trying to gauge his reaction in the dim light.

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant, processing the question. Then, his eyes met mine, softening. "After everything with Isabella, it's been hard to even think about it," he admitted, his voice low. "But yeah. Someday, with the right person... more than anything, I want a family. A real one. A family built on truth and love." He paused, his thumb gently caressing my arm. "Why do you ask?"

My breath hitched. This was my moment. The words tumbled out, a mix of fear and overwhelming joy. "Because, Jensen," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes, "that day in the hospital, when you thought you'd lost me... you changed my life. And our love... our love has grown into something so real." My voice broke slightly. "And now... now we're going to have a baby."

He froze. His arm stiffened around me. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, searched my face in the fading light. "A... a baby?" he whispered, the words barely audible.

I nodded, tears now freely flowing down my cheeks, tears of relief and burgeoning happiness. "Yes," I confirmed, a soft, joyful sob escaping me. "Our baby. I'm pregnant."

My whispered confession hung in the stillness of the villa, "I'm pregnant." Jensen's eyes, wide with disbelief, searched my face, trying to reconcile the impossible with the miraculous. He lay motionless for a long moment, his arm still around me, but his body rigid with shock. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves outside and the frantic beat of my own heart.

Then, slowly, a tremor started in his arm. His breath hitched, a soft, disbelieving laugh bubbling from his chest. It wasn't the cynical, public laugh, but a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that deepened into a joyful sob.

"Pregnant?" he whispered again, the word tasting new and sacred on his tongue. He pulled back slightly, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing away the lingering tears on my cheeks. His eyes, though still swimming with surprise, were now alight with overwhelming happiness. "Our baby?"

I nodded, a watery smile spreading across my face.

And then, the dam broke. He pulled me into a fierce, joyous embrace, burying his face in my hair. His entire body shook with silent laughter and profound emotion. "Oh, my God," he murmured against my temple, his voice thick with tears. "Oh, my God, Y/N. This is... this is incredible."

He pulled back again, his hands moving to cup my stomach, a gesture of awe and tenderness. A radiant smile, so genuine and unburdened, stretched across his face, lighting up his eyes. "A baby," he repeated, his voice filled with wonder. "A real family. With you." The joy radiating from him was palpable, a stark contrast to the despair that had once defined our marriage. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet love we had built, a new chapter, one filled with the promise of a truly loving family, began.

Part 6

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[writing-whump]

Hey there

You know it was your account that makes me like " o yeah i love whatever it is"

So i learned about whump and all from you

And my favorite whump scenario?????

You and your migraine fic, they are awesome , godddddd i love them

I really love the kind of father figure both issaia and hector are for our dear arni

And aldo our dear arny is a migrainable-person

So ,pretty please????????

Doesn't matter which older brother , just someone taking care of whimpering miserable arni while being in do much pain and rub their back while throwing up and massage his head and neck

No pressure though

Have a good day and thanx for sharing

BTW english is not my first language so im sorry if there's any mistake

You learned about whump from me?? Omg I'm honored! <3

Migraine Weather

Hector was fed up, and the week wasn't over yet.

First, his grand weekend plans to ask Olive to move in with him got ruined by Isaiah's sudden catastrophe. First time in 100 years that Isaiah needs help, and it had to be that day—during their first year anniversary dinner slash celebration night.

Of fucking course.

Then, for some reason, the most useless of Isaiah’s adopted pups ended up on his doorstep, soaked to the bone and crying.

Hector stared at Dylan’s dripping form and hiccuping explanation the same way he would at a duck that suddenly started talking.

They had a fight with Rip, blablabla, Rip ran off, Dylan got worried, followed him, got lost, realized how useless and weak he was...and ended up at Hector's place.

Not just any place, but at that place.

Hector was known to have safety apartments across the city, stationed at strategic access points around Wolfson territory. This one was closest to Isaiah, large, quiet, remote—perfect for stashing Olive and Arnie out of the pack’s nosy sightlines.

No patrol scents. No packmates nearby. Not supposed to be easy to find.

Dylan just shrugged. "You weren’t at the Wolfson building or at Isaiah’s. I figured you’d be somewhere close by but on your own turf, so I googled places delivery drivers avoid—dead-end streets, no Amazon boxes, nothing near a mall. Then I just walked around until I saw your car."

Just like that. Well. Hector hasn't thought of that.

Before he could come up with a reply, Olive was already rushing Dylan inside, alarmed by the wet clothes and red-rimmed eyes. Hugging him. Offering soup. Handing him Hector’s clothes.

The blond wolf could only grit his teeth in annoyance. His human girlfriend chose that moment to breach all wolf protocol and offer gestures of deep sympathy, hospitality and protection...overriding all of Hector's instincts.

Now he was stuck, arms crossed, back pressed against the wall in the living room while his girlfriend fussed over the foreign pup like he was a prince.

Hector detested Rip, but Dylan wasn't even worth the emotion. A wolf who suppressed his shadow to the point of acting and feeling human—that was the lowest of the low. Maybe still above mad wolves, but not by much. A complete disgrace to his bloodline, instincts, soul. No self-respect.

He was this close to tossing the kid back out into the rain and letting him solve his problems the human way.

Except he couldn't exactly ridicule the kid for being human in front of Olive.

Jesus, this was a mess.

Any other day, he’d have dialed Isaiah and dumped the problem back where it belonged. This was Isaiah's pup. Seline's brother.

Not on Hector’s to-do list.

And the more pitiful Dylan became—sniffling under borrowed blankets, voice breaking with apologies—the more invested Olive got.

An endless, infuriating cycle.

To be honest, now that he was more settled, Hector expected glassy-eyed gratitude or full-blown sobbing. But what he saw instead stopped him for a beat—Dylan staring past the wall, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the blanket. Not grief. Not shame. Something tighter. Something that looked a lot like intent.

Then his soft brown eyes met Hector's. Etiquette or not, that look made the older wolf freeze for a second.

Whatever the kid was here for, it wasn’t just shelter. Not if he looked at Hector like that.

A sudden tug on his sleeve broke the moment.

Arnie pulled him toward the kitchen, already muttering, "You can’t send Dylan back now. Isaiah is over his head as it is, Gray wolves are crawling everywhere, the city’s in emergency mode… you kick him out, something happens to him—Isaiah’s pack is as good as dead."

"It's just one boy."

"One important boy. Stop acting oblivious," Arnie said with a frown, rubbing his temples. "I can't believe we are even discussing if we are helping Isaiah or not."

Hector flinched, closing the kitchen door. "Of course, we are helping."

Arnie gave him a seething look, his eyes concerningly green like Isaiah's. "You didn't sound so sure in front of Isaiah and Oscar when we talked. There can't be any doubt where you stand. Isaiah needs you like salt."

Hector gestured towards the living room. "How is that helping?"

"One distraught wolf less on Isaiah's shoulders in this situation is plenty," Arnie said flatly.

It was hard to argue when Arnie got like this. He always acted like Hector’s conscience—dragging out the best parts when Hector wanted to lean on the hard edges.

How could he let the kid go?

They had put the dorm idea on pause during the Italy trip, but now Hector had the solution. He’d live with Olive here, in this off-the-grid safety apartment. Arnie would stay next door. Separate space, same location.

A sense of independence—but no distance.

Arnie leaned against the counter again, rubbing a slow circle into his temple with the heel of his palm. His eyes had narrowed to thin slits, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his upper lip.

"You win," Hector said with a sigh. “You can stop with the sulking."

No snappy response.

Hector cocked an eyebrow. "You good?"

"Fine," Arnie muttered. His jaw was tight. Too tight. The word came out warped.

Hector’s eyes narrowed. "You’re not."

"Don’t make this about my nerves," Arnie snapped. "It’s just the air pressure. From the storm. I can feel it behind my eyes."

Hector watched him. That wasn’t how Arnie looked under stress. This was physical. His shoulders were locked too high, his fingers twitching against the edge of the sink like he needed an anchor.

"You’re getting a migraine."

Arnie blinked hard like he could blink the pain away. "I always get them when the weather turns like this—when it’s heavy, wet, and hot."

He pressed both hands to the back of his neck now, as if trying to hold his head up from the base. Hector could see the tension in his arms. The slow, deliberate breathing. The way he kept swallowing, like his stomach was starting to lurch in protest.

"You need to lie down," Hector said, already stepping closer.

"No, I—I want to stay upright. It’s worse if I lie down too fast. My head’s pulsing."

And it was—his voice was trembling around the edges now, like the rhythm of it was off. Not from panic, but pain.

Then his posture shifted. One arm darted out, catching the counter just in time as his knees buckled slightly.

"Arnie—"

"I’m fine," he choked, but the word was a lie and they both knew it.

"You’re going to be sick."

"I’m not—" He gasped and turned away, the rest of the protest disappearing as he bolted from the room.

Hector was already moving.

He found Arnie hunched over the toilet in the small hallway bathroom, one hand gripping the edge, the other pressed over his eyes as he breathed in shallow, pained bursts.

Not throwing up yet. But on the edge.

Hector crouched behind him, placed a hand lightly on his back. Arnie twitched but didn’t push him away.

"I said I’m fine," he whispered hoarsely.

"You’re not," Hector said gently, fingers ghosting up to the base of his skull. "You’re clenching so hard you’re shaking. When did it start?"

"Since before dinner. It got bad when the thunder started. My vision’s tight—I can’t focus on anything too bright."

"You should’ve said something."

"You were too busy hating Dylan to notice," Arnie chuckled, then winced at the sound. His voice cracked like it hit a spike of pain.

Another sharp breath. Then a spasm in his shoulders. He doubled forward and gagged once, dry and sudden.

"Okay," Hector murmured, steadying him by the ribs. "Okay, just breathe through it."

The second time was worse—his body folded into the sink, and the sound that came out of him was raw and painful. Hector didn’t flinch. Just knelt down, braced Arnie with one arm and began rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with the other.

"It’s not from stress," Arnie managed between breaths, like it was very important that Hector understood that part. "It always happens when the air feels like this. I just didn’t expect it to hit now."

"It’s okay,” Hector said softly. Likely that it was both, the emergency and the storm combined. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve kicked everyone out."

"How? You want to start living with her, you can't kick her out."

Hector patted his back a little harder. It coaxed out a burp and a groan. "Shut up."

The nausea came in waves. It wasn’t violent now—just drawn-out and miserable. Arnie’s body trembled with each breath, like it didn’t know if it wanted to collapse or fight.

Hector rubbed his back until the spasms eased, until Arnie was just panting over the toilet bowl, eyes wet and face pale.

"You're alright. Breathe. It will pass soon."

Arnie didn’t answer. He just leaned back slightly, shifting into the touch like he couldn’t stop himself, too wrung out to pretend anymore.

Hector stayed there, solid and quiet, one arm bracing Arnie’s side, the other still working knots from his shoulders. The bathroom smelled like Olive's rose soap and bile. The storm was starting to rattle the shutters, the humid air coming through the cracked window.

"Mint tea and ibuprofen?" Hector offered, quietly.

"Yeah,” Arnie whispered. "I’ll come out in a minute."

Hector rolled his eyes and didn’t move. These independence moods were so annoying.

He just kept one hand on the back of Arnie’s neck and waited until the tremors stopped.

[brainmaggotzzzz]

☆Little AK47☆ Hwang Inho x fem! reader

story masterlist:

part 9.

cw: trauma, death, squidgame stuff

For a while, you and Youngil just lay there, limbs and lips lazily intertwined. The drug slowly wore off, and the gnawing doom and hopelessness began to seep in, drop by drop, pooling in your gut. You felt like a part of you had died-an extension of yourself, possibly a limb, had been brutally torn from both your body and soul.

All the moments you and your brother had shared together. All the moments you were supposed to spend together. The plans the two of you had-taking a cheap seaside vacation, living together, working and complaining about life, maybe one day introducing your kids to each other, separating them from cousin fights-they were all gone.

He was gone.

There was no coming back from this.

And why?

Because of that man who had pushed him to his doom. Because of the existence of this twisted organization. Because of your greed. Because of you.

If he hadn't prioritized your safety, he'd still be here. Cracking stupid jokes amidst all the chaos.

"Y/N," Youngil murmured, his forehead resting against yours, his calloused fingers tracing soft, nonsensical patterns over your bloodied knuckles. The gesture felt so intimate, so comforting. Maybe it was just trauma bonding. Maybe you were latching onto him like a hurt puppy, desperate for solace. But you didn't care.

You just needed him. Right now. Right here.

You lifted your gaze, eyes still hazy from the drug that Thanos had so generously provided-or rather, the one you had snatched from his unsure grip.

"What's going through your mind?" Youngil asked, his voice low as his fingers massaged yours with quiet care.

"I will kill him," you murmured, your voice a whisper of steel. Your eyes locked onto his, dark with unspoken fury.

Youngil's expression remained unreadable. He sighed with understanding.

"The man who locked the door?" he inquired.

"Him too," you replied, jaw clenched.

"Too?"

"The person running this place. I'll kill him with my bare hands if I have to."

For a split second, Youngil's hands stilled against your knuckles before resuming their gentle movement.

"Is that so?" he murmured. "Do you think that's what your brother would want? Or is this a desire driven by your grief?" His voice was calm, but his eyes were searching, watching you carefully.

"All my brother ever wanted for me was to be healthy, happy, and safe," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

"And do you think that killing the person in charge will grant you that? Do you think he'd want you to become cold in the process?" Youngil's voice was softer now, like he was trying to anchor you to reason. "Grief can drive a person to... astonishing lengths," he added, a flicker of understanding passing through his dark eyes. Something in his gaze told you that he didn't want you to lose your innocence, your warmth, your belief in humanity. All the things he had already lost.

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, Jungbae sprinted toward your designated corner, panting for breath.

Youngil was quick to pull himself up, subtly putting distance between the two of you, ensuring that your teammates wouldn't catch you tangled up together.

"We have 44 people on our side," Jungbae gasped out, hands braced against his knees. "So we're outnumbered by 12."

"Are you sure?" Gihun asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

"I counted twice," Jungbae affirmed.

Youngil leaned in closer to the conversation. "It may seem like a big difference, but if six of them change their minds, it'll be 50/50-tied. If seven change their minds, we win."

You listened carefully, still lying on your bunk, staring at the ceiling.

"But the ones who pressed X might change their minds, too," you said flatly.

"They wanted to quit even when the prize was smaller. Now, they can leave with even more money. They wouldn't risk their lives playing another game," Gihun argued, his gaze shifting to you, Youngil noticed his gaze directed at you. His eyes darkened.

"Some of us have nothing to lose now" you replied, your voice devoid of emotion.

Your teammates exchanged looks, their expressions hardening.

"Y/N."

Gihun walked up to you, his hand landing gently on your shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

"I know what you're going through. I also lost people here. You can't let your pain cloud your logic."

You let out a bitter chuckle, finally shifting your gaze to meet his.

"You don't know what I'm going through, uncle."

His face tensed at the nickname.

You shrugged off his hand.

"Don't look at me like that," you added. You hated the pity in their collective gazes.

Taking a deep breath, you continued, voice calmer but no less firm.

"Out of respect, I'm not going to press O. If that's what you're worried about."

A blaring alarm sounded through the dormitory, followed by the clunk of steel doors unlocking. A group of masked figures entered, their boots echoing against the cold floor. Some of them wore triangular masks. One had a square mask.

A triangle.

You remembered the way a triangle-masked guard had gunned down your brother without hesitation.

Maybe one of those cockroaches was the one who pulled the trigger.

Fury boiled in your veins, the grief that had suffocated you moments ago replaced by something hotter, something dangerous.

You were about to push yourself off the bunk, to move toward the platform where the guards stood.

But a firm grip stopped you.

Youngil.

His hand clamped around your wrist, his dark eyes meeting yours. Your pupils were still slightly dilated, hazy from the drug. Slowly, he shook his head. A silent warning.

Stay in place. Don't cause a scene. Don't get yourself killed.

A voice crackled through the speakers.

"Congratulations to all of you for making it through the third game. Now, here are the results."

The masked manager lifted a remote and clicked a button.

On the massive digital screen, the number of eliminated players appeared. The prize money increased.

The word "Congratulations" felt like a slap to the face.

Suddenly, Player 100 shot to his feet.

"Only that many died?! Recount it!" he screamed, his face red with fury.

Something inside you snapped.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you were moving. You wrenched yourself free from Youngil's grasp and strode toward Player 100, the dormitory and its occupants melting away around you.

The anger that had been simmering in your gut found a target.

The man who kept urging everyone to continue playing. The greedy, disgusting excuse for a human being.

Before he could register your presence, you swung your fist, landing a devastating punch squarely on his nose.

A sickening crunch.

He stumbled back, clutching his bloodied face, eyes wide with shock. "Do you want to die?! Huh?!" he screeched. "Circles! Did you see that?! That X just attacked me!"

The O players circled around you, tension crackling in the air.

You didn't care.

You swung again. This time, your fist collided with his eye.

You were winding up for another blow when-

A sharp yank.

Pain shot through your scalp as someone grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back. A moment later, a hand smacked across your face, hard enough to make your ears ring. What you didn't know, Youngil gave a look to the guards.

"Pacify"

Before you could react, a gunshot cracked through the air.

Then another.

Then another.

The guards fired into the ceiling.

Silence fell.

Youngil pushed his way through the crowd, grabbing you and pulling you away from the chaos.

"Please remember," the square-masked guard droned, "any disobedience during announcements will not be tolerated." The square guard says.

"The vote will once again be conducted in reverse order of your player numbers. Player 456, please cast your vote."

Gi-hun walked briskly to the station and quickly, decisively, pressed X.

"To ensure fair and democratic voting, we will not tolerate any disruptions from this point onward. Please bear that in mind,"

The votes came in quickly. Your team had a good shot at winning. But honestly? You didn't care anymore. Whether you won or lost, it made no difference. It wasn't like you had something to go back to-nothing to look forward to. You might just die here, anyway.

"Player 111," the guard called.

You made your way to the station lazily, your body screaming in pain with every step. Limping slightly, you wiped your bloodied hands on your tracksuit and stood in front of the two buttons, staring at them blankly. X and O.

"That's that crazy bitch!" someone yelled.

You turned your head, scanning the sea of faces. Your eyes locked onto Young-il's briefly before another player shouted.

"Just press it already, you stupid bitch!"

Your jaw tensed. Your gaze dropped back down to the buttons. X. O. You lingered, your team watching you intently, their silent pleas weighing on your shoulders.

With a sharp inhale, you slammed your fist onto X.

Screams erupted-some in celebration, others in rage. You barely registered any of it as you walked over to the X zone.

"Well done, Y/N. Well done," Gi-hun patted your back, his face visibly relieved.

The O voters still had a small advantage, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The atmosphere in the dormitory was thick with tension, anger, and exhaustion. You just stood there, shoulders slumped, detached from everything happening around you.

"Player 001," the manager announced.

You watched as Young-il made his way to the station, his steps slow but deliberate, his expression unreadable. He was the deciding vote-again-balancing on the edge of continuation and escape.

He pressed X.

Cheers erupted. Some players jumped in celebration, others cursed in frustration. But you? You just stood there. Empty.

"Let's go home!" the X voters cheered.

"Wait, it's a tie. What happens now?" a player asked.

"In the case of a tie, players will vote again," the voice responded.

"So when are we going to vote again?"

"To give you some time to think, the vote will be conducted tomorrow. Until then, please think carefully about your future."

◇

You sat with your team in your designated spot, their voices buzzing around you. They were thanking Young-il and you, expressing how worried they were that you might have chosen O again. Young-il, ever the humble man, downplayed every word of gratitude.

As they talked and picked at their dry gimbap, you sat in silence, tracing your fingers along the metal of the fork in your hand. Something felt off. Gimbap isn't usually eaten with a fork. And we didn't get a glass bottle before.

The realization hit.

"They want us to kill each other," you said bluntly, your analytical gaze still focused on the utensil.

Jung-bae furrowed his brows. "Well, isn't that a little far-fetched? Y/N, you should get some rest. You've been through a lot."

"She's correct," Gi-hun said, his voice grave. "The fork and the glass bottle aren't a coincidence." His expression darkened. "Last time I was here, those bastards did the same thing."

◇

"Are you sure you can stay here alone?" Young-il asked. Gi-hun and Jung-bae stood nearby, watching you with thinly veiled concern.

You hated that look. That pity.

The group was heading to the bathroom, leaving you behind for a moment. You forced a tight smile and nodded.

"You made enemies here," Gi-hun warned. "Someone should stay with you to protect you."

Dae-ho grinned, stepping in. "I'll protect you, miss. You gentlemen go ahead," he said with a polite yet genuine smile.

Young-il's gaze darkened for just a second, but to avoid suspicion, he remained silent and nodded. The group finally disappeared from view.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Ewan, Y/N," Dae-ho said. He didn't reach out to comfort you, didn't try to force anything. He just let you be.

"Me too," you whispered, your voice strained.

"He would've been proud seeing you punch Player 100 like that! Seriously! Are you some kind of secret ninja or something? That was impressive!"

A genuine chuckle left your cracked lips.

"I think ninjas are more subtle and precise. Like a scalpel." You smirked faintly. "I'm more of a hammer. No bullshit, just bah!"

The warmth in Dae-ho's eyes didn't go unnoticed-not by you, and definitely not by Young-il when the group returned. Young-il took his usual spot next to you, but this time, he subtly draped an arm around your lower back, his thumb drawing slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of your clothes.

The robotic voice echoed through the dormitory, followed by the sound of coins pouring into the piggy bank above.

"Following players have been eliminated. Players 230, 268, 299, 331, and 401. End of the list."

Your eyes widened.

A fight. There must have been a fight in the bathroom.

A group of bloodied players staggered back into the dormitory, their voices raised in fury. Your team stayed silent, watching as the chaos unfolded.

"Listen, Team O! When we were in the bathroom, those fucking bastards tried to kill us! They killed some of us-including my friend..." The speaker was a familiar O player-Thanos's friend. The one who laughed when the purple-haired idiot made that disgusting bee joke about you. The memory alone made disgust curl in your stomach.

"Bullshit," an X player snapped. "You started it! You threatened one of our guys, then attacked us to tip the second vote!"

◇

"Those bastards are acting suspicious," Gi-hun muttered, his sharp gaze fixed on the O players gathered on the other side of the dormitory.

Jung-bae scoffed. "Whatever they do, once we win tomorrow, it'll all be over."

"But will we be okay?" Dae-ho asked hesitantly. His eyes lingered on the O players. "People say things got really crazy in the bathroom earlier."

"Once the lights go out, they'll attack us," Gi-hun said grimly. "If they kill enough of us, they'll win the vote-and the prize pool will increase."

"So what do we do?" Jung-bae asked.

You turned to look at them. "We should attack first."

Young-il nodded. "That's right." "We have more women and elderly on our side. If we get attacked, we'll be at a disadvantage. Attacking first gives us a better chance."

"We can't do that," Gi-hun countered.

"But we have to get out of here," Jung-bae pressed.

"That doesn't mean we should kill each other. That's exactly what they want," Gi-hun said firmly.

"They?" you echoed.

"The ones controlling this game. The ones watching. If we're going to fight someone, it should be them."

Do we... stand a chance?" Dae-ho asked hesitantly.

Gi-hun nodded. "We do. If we catch them off guard."

"Lights out in five minutes," the voice announced.

Before you knew it, you were hiding under the bunk beds, gripping Young-il's sleeve. The dormitory descended into chaos. Screams of fury. The sickening crunch of bones. The scent of blood flooding the air.

A woman from your side collapsed onto the floor in front of you, her attacker on top of her, beating her mercilessly.

Your eyes locked.

She mouthed something-help me-before the light in her eyes faded. You tried to move. Young-il's grip tightened, pressing you against him. He slowly tilted your chin up, forcing you to look at him instead.

◇

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