#when did everything go back to being shitty

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader

masterlist | prev | next

word count: 9.8k

series summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

chapter summary: in which daniela comes to terms with her feelings after sophia gives the latina a little push. meanwhile, you ruin yourself in order to make a new version of you, a version of you that doesn't lover her. you fail, miserably.

authors note: i'm so sorry.

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, HEAVY (?) angst, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), no use of y/n, idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works, miscommunication, sapphic denial, shitty writing, blood, workaholic!reader, unhealthy coping mechanism

Sophia upped her game. Because of course, she did.

Daniela told herself she wasn’t going to notice. She wasn’t going to care. She wasn’t going to keep looking at you like some lovesick idiot every time you laughed too hard or smiled too soft. But Sophia made it impossible.

Because now? Now you were never alone.

Whenever Daniela looked, you were there; a magnetic, frustrating presence always surrounded by someone. Your own members, with their chaotic, clingy energy. Or worse, Sophia, who hovered like a smug little shadow, always draping herself over you like she had the right.

And the others… oh, the others were no better.

She spotted you during a break at the joint practice room one afternoon. You were sitting on the floor with your back to the mirror, sweat-slicked and breathless, the curve of your mouth still pink from laughing at something Cami had said. And Lara, of course it was Lara, was hovering above you like a damn Greek Goddess in Adidas track pants. She was leaning one hand against the mirror, her other hand gently tucking a strand of damp hair behind your ear as she bent low, whispering something that made your brows lift and your lips part like she’d short-circuited your brain. It was intimate. Too intimate. The kind of proximity that would've made anyone flush, and yeah, maybe Daniela was hallucinating from dehydration, but she swore she saw your throat bob with a nervous swallow. Like you were folding. Like Lara was winning. Like the thought of kissing Lara crossed your mind.

And then, God… there was that time Lara playfully sank into your lap like she’d always belonged there. Her legs stretched lazily across yours, her head falling back with a dramatic sigh, draping herself over you like silk. Your arms instinctively wrapped around her waist as if to steady her, but when you glanced up with that baffled, helpless laugh, Daniela’s stomach clenched. And then to add insult to injury, you picked Lara up in a bridal carry like she weighed nothing at all. Lara squealed, clinging to your neck like she’d just been proposed to. You didn’t even look flustered. You looked charmed. You were laughing. That was worse.

But then it wasn’t just Lara.

Manon had adopted this new persona lately; flirty, mischievous, infuriating. Daniela would catch her sidling up next to you during breaks, casually plucking food from your plate and leaning her chin on your shoulder like it was normal. Like she belonged there. She’d tease you in German, and you would actually giggle and say:

“I don’t know what that means, but I feel like I should be blushing.” 

Daniela wanted to scream.

Manon would respond with a knowing smile, her fingers brushing your forearm like it was all just a joke. Just an act. Just a game. But Daniela could see it. The tension. The way your gaze lingered a second too long before darting away. The way you bit your lip like you were trying not to react. And the worst part? You always did. You always smiled.

Daniela hated how easy that smile came.

And then there was Megan. God, Megan.

Megan didn’t even try to be flirty, she didn’t need to. The two of you had this... quiet thing. An understanding, easy and unspoken, like two weird little souls had somehow found each other in the chaos. You bonded over late-night anime and obscure sci-fi trivia, your heads often bent together over a phone screen or sketchpad like the rest of the world didn’t exist. Daniela once walked into the living room of their own house and spotted you two tucked away at the corner sofa, giggling like conspirators over some manga panel only you two understood. You were even sharing earphones. The sight made Daniela grip her drink so tight the plastic crinkled under her fingers.

It got worse. That TikTok dance. That damn TikTok dance she knew wasn’t currently trending.

Megan had dragged you into it without warning, her voice excited and bright as she clumsily walked you through the moves. It was messy, barely choreographed, and at one point you both collapsed on the couch laughing after hitting each other mid-spin. Daniela watched from the hallway, jaw tight, her reflection in the practice room mirror looking as stormy as she felt. You were supposed to be the cool one, the untouchable mysterious one. But with Megan? You were just this soft, easy version of yourself. The version that let your walls fall.

And Yoonchae, oh god, sweet, innocent Yoonchae.

Daniela had always adored her. She was their maknae, their sunshine. But lately, she was starting to feel like Yoonchae was stealing you.

Every time she looked, you were with her. Helping her open snacks. Ruffling her hair. Bending down to tie her shoe or wipe chocolate from her cheek. Something that you once did to her, you’re now doing to someone else. Daniela had watched in silence as Yoonchae tugged you by the sleeve like a child with her favorite toy, dragging you into her room to play Roblox or practice English. And you went. Happily. Patiently. You sat cross-legged beside her, your voice warm as you repeated Tagalog words until she got it right, your laughter bubbling out when she shouted them with too much gusto.

It wasn’t even romantic, no, it was worse. It was tender. Domestic. Safe. You let them all get comfortable with you. You let them do what she wanted herself to do to you. 

And Sophia? Don’t even start.

She was everywhere now. Practically glued to your side. Daniela couldn’t open Instagram without being assaulted by Sophia’s stories.

There you were, again, your face half-tucked under Sophia’s arm, eyes squinting in laughter, lips curled in that lazy smile you rarely gave to cameras. In one video, Sophia panned to you mid-yawn and cackled like it was the cutest thing she’d ever seen. Another post showed you asleep, head slumped on Sophia’s shoulder, your hoodie sleeves swallowed up by the oversized varsity jacket Sophia always wore and now apparently you did, too. 

The caption: “she steals my clothes and my heart. ♡ (only staying for her sinigang)”

The worst part? You liked it. Heart emoji and all.

There were moments when Daniela told herself it was just Sophia being Sophia: loud, playful, clingy. It was her brand, after all. The shameless flirting. The camera-hogging. The territorial captions. Sophia flirted with everyone. But with you… It felt different. She lingered longer. Looked at you like you hung constellations. Called you “baby” like it meant something.

Daniela had caught one of those moments backstage, just a second, but it was enough. That moment looped in her head like a curse.

You were sitting on the armrest of Sophia’s chair, flipping through her notes. And Sophia just looked at you. Not laughing. Not joking. Just… watching you, like she was memorizing your shape in that light. Like she wanted to reach out and tuck your hair behind your ear but didn’t need to, because you already let her do things like that all the time. Daniela turned on her heel before she could see any more. 

It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t even rational. But it burned. Burned in her throat like a swallowed scream. Burned behind her ribs, tight and steady. Because you no longer look at her that way. Not anymore. Not while you were too busy letting everyone else claim little pieces of you.

And still, she stayed quiet. Because what right did she have to speak?

It was becoming a problem. An itch beneath her skin. She’d always been good at keeping her cool. She’s always been silent, watchful, detached but every time she saw one of them touch you like that, get a laugh from you like that, something sharp twisted in her chest. She’d spent years cultivating poise and distance, and now? Now she found herself gripping her water bottle like it might break, or worse, like it might keep her grounded. Like an anchor… Fuck Sophia.

And she didn’t know what was worse: the way her jealousy gnawed at her, or the fact that she was starting to admit what it meant. You were slipping out of her control, and she had no one to blame but herself. She was falling. And she was starting to realize she never really had a choice.

Daniela watched you now, from across the studio. You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, tuning your guitar while Amara leaned against your shoulder, scrolling through her phone. Cami had taken the seat behind you, braiding a small section of your hair while Rina sprawled out like a cat on the couch, humming lazily along to some melody you’d been strumming earlier.

And you? You looked like you belonged there. You looked like you’d carved out your own little universe with them, a place she couldn’t reach. She hated it. No. She hated herself for hating it. Because the truth she’d been trying to ignore was starting to crystallize in the pit of her chest. Every time you smiled at someone else, every time you let them in, every time you handed over some small piece of yourself; your voice, your laugh, your warmth, something inside Daniela twisted, sharp and ugly. They were hers, you were hers.

It wasn’t just jealousy anymore. It was fear. Fear that she was too late.

Daniela’s gaze drifted to Sophia, who had just walked in with that same infuriating confidence. She didn’t even ask, she just plopped down next to you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and whispering something that made you snort into your sleeve.

Daniela’s jaw clenched. Her chest ached. Her thoughts turned cruel.

She’s not your sister. 

The words were bitter, clawing at the back of her throat. Sophia acted like she owned you. Like she had every right to laugh with you, to hold you close, to post those stupid pictures that had everyone speculating. But maybe she wasn’t wrong. Maybe Sophia did know you better. Maybe she’d been there longer.

And Daniela? What did she have? A few stolen glances? A dance to the beat of Paramore under the dim glow of a studio mirror? A heartbeat that wouldn’t calm down whenever you looked at her?

She swallowed hard, fingers curling into her lap. The more she tried to deny it, the heavier it became. She was falling. Falling for you in a way that terrified her. Because you weren’t supposed to be hers. You weren’t supposed to matter this much. And yet,  there was something about you that pulled her in like gravity. The way you smiled like you didn’t know you were beautiful. The way your voice cracked slightly when you got passionate about a song. The way you looked at the world like you were still figuring out how to live in it.

She wanted to be the reason you smiled like that. She wanted to be the first one you sent your late-night demos to. She wanted to be the one sitting on your lap. She wanted to be the arm you tucked yourself into  She wanted to claim you. No. She didn’t want to “claim” you.

She just… wanted you.

It started small, but you noticed it.

A hand on your waist when someone passed behind you. A wink from Lara that lasted a second too long. Manon handing you her mic and calling you “gorgeous” like it was your name. Even Yoonchae, who used to just blink at you in shy awe, now resting her head on your shoulder during dance breaks like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t even surprised, really. Just suspicious.

Because Sophia had been smiling too much lately. That sly, smug kind of smile she got when she was up to something. Like she’d lit a fuse and was just waiting for the explosion.

So when you found yourself tangled up in a blanket in Sophia’s room, curled up against her side while her fairy lights glowed that warm tint like a sunset dipping in the horizon, you knew this was your chance.

Her room was always a little cold, the kind of chill that made you want to tuck yourself under her arm, which you had. Her hoodie draped over your legs. Her perfume is soft on her skin. She was scrolling TikTok with the sound off, like a psychopath, and humming tunelessly.

You shifted your head on her shoulder, voice light. “Ate?”

“Mm?”

“You do something?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. I do a lot of things. Most of them iconic.” She snorted. 

You rolled your eyes but didn’t smile. “I’m serious.”

That caught her attention. She tilted her head slightly toward you, phone lowering.

“Okay. What did I allegedly do?”

You turned to look at her.

“Everyone’s been… weird.”

“Weird how?”

“Flirty. Constant. Like they’re all trying to… I don’t know. Circle me like I’m bait.”

Sophia didn’t answer right away. But she grinned. Which told you everything.

“You did this.” You groaned.

“Define ‘did’” she said innocently.

“Ate Sophia.”

“Fine.” She flopped onto her back, one arm still around you.

“I may have… gently suggested to the girls that you should never be left alone. Y’know. Ever. Like a VIP who needs protection. From herself. Or from Daniela’s fear of catching feelings.”

You stared at her, half-flabbergasted, half-fond before you let out a laugh tinged with disbelief

“So your solution was to smother me in affection?”

She stretched like a cat. “Not just affection. Strategic affection. Proximity. Physical touch. Eye contact. Gay stuff. Like teh, pahabol ka naman kahit konti. Hard to get ba, ganon.” [like girl, let her chase you even a little. Play hard to get.]

“Ate-”

“Look,” she said, tone softening just slightly, “she’s in love with you. She just doesn’t know how to look it in the face yet. But if she sees everyone else looking at you like they see it, like they want you, then maybe she’ll finally admit that she does too. And then maybe, just maybe, you know, magconfess sya sayo…yiiiieee” [she might confess to you... yiiiieeee]

You were quiet for a long beat, heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to crawl closer to her words. Not because you didn’t know. But because hearing it aloud made it real.

“You think it’ll work?”

Sophia turned her head and met your eyes. No smirk. Just truth.

“It already is. I'm just waiting for the time you'll tell me 'oh ate thank you so much for your help, you're such a good unnie, our savior.'”

"okay now you're doing too much." you scoffed at her

But maybe she was right, because lately, Daniela’s gaze had started to linger a little longer. Her silences thicker. Her exits slower. Her gaze heavier. Like she was afraid of what would happen if she stayed.

Or what would happen if she didn’t.

The rooftop was quiet, just the buzz of city lights below and the muffled beat of a bassline thrumming from the studio floors beneath. The kind of quiet that scraped against your nerves rather than soothed them. Daniela leaned against the railing, hoodie sleeves tugged over her fists, jaw set tight. She didn’t need to check her phone. She’d seen your bike peel away just minutes ago, your silhouette clinging onto Sophia’s clothes like you belonged in them now. Like she had lost you already, slowly, and in pieces.

She didn’t turn when she heard footsteps. But Sophia didn’t wait for her to. She rarely did.

“You need to stand the fuck up.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Daniela’s lip twitched, sharp and bitter. 

“I’m not here for pleasantries.”

“You never are.”

Sophia stepped closer, her boots crunching faintly against gravel. “Dani.”

That single word sounded tired, urgent and it landed heavier than it should’ve.

“You’re in love with her.”

Daniela didn’t flinch this time. She kept her eyes trained on the skyline, fingers flexing against the cold metal. 

“I know.”

Sophia paused, genuinely taken aback. 

“You know?”

“I’ve known,” Daniela said, voice low. “I’ve known since before all of this turned into whatever it is now.”

Sophia crossed her arms, guarded but probing. “Then what the hell are you doing?”

Daniela let out a slow, humorless breath. “Trying not to ruin it.”

“By freezing her out?”

“It’s safer that way.”

“For who?” Sophia demanded. 

“Certainly not for her. She’s not just confused, Dani… she’s hurt. She thinks she made all of it up. That every moment meant more to her than it did to you.”

Daniela finally turned to look at her, something raw flickering in her eyes. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“I know you didn’t,” Sophia said, the edge softening just slightly. 

“But you are. And you’re not just hurting her. You’re hurting the rest of us too. You’re pushing all of us away.”

“That’s not fair.” Daniela’s expression hardened again. 

“Oh, it’s absolutely fair,” Sophia snapped. 

“You glare every time Lara touches her. You sulk when Megan makes her laugh. You physically dragged Yoonchae off her last week for existing on her shoulder.”

“She was lying on her! Like a pillow!”

“She was napping, Daniela. Napping. And you nearly combusted.” Sophia took a step forward, anger sparking. 

“You want her all to yourself, but you won’t do anything about it. You won’t claim her.”

“I don’t know how,” she said finally, voice cracking more than she wanted it to. 

“I’ve never done this before.” Daniela’s hands curled tighter into the cuffs of her sleeves. 

“I know,” Sophia said, quieter now.

“But you need to start figuring it out. Because she’s not going to sit around forever waiting for you to grow the courage to try.”

“Is she… seeing someone?” Daniela looked away, the thought of you being with anyone else making her stomach twist. 

“No,” Sophia said. 

“But people are not blind, Dani. They see her. They’re going to come for her eventually. If you keep pretending you don’t want her, someone else will.”

That thought cut sharper than any accusation. Daniela said nothing.

“I’m not trying to fight with you.” Sophia sighed, the heat slowly draining from her tone. 

Daniela closed her eyes. Her shoulders sank. “I don’t like fighting with you.”

“Me neither.” Sophia’s voice was gentler now, a strange ache beneath it. 

“But I’m not going to stop being there for her. I love her. Just… differently.”

“I know,” Daniela whispered.

Sophia reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a black lanyard. The badge gleamed in the city light.

SIREN5: FIRST SOLO CONCERT – ALL ACCESS.

She held it out, fingers steady.

“I want you there,” she said. 

“Because she’ll look for you. No matter how mad, how tired, how heartbroken she is, she will always look for you in the crowd.”

Daniela stared at the badge like it burned.

Sophia tucked it into her hoodie pocket and turned toward the door. “You don’t have to say anything. Just show up.”

The door clicked shut behind her. And Daniela stayed.

The night presses in on her, thick with the kind of stillness that only happens after someone’s left you behind with your own thoughts. City lights flicker below, and for once, they don’t distract her.

She leans forward on the railing, lets the cold seep into her skin.

She’s never been in love with a girl before. Not like this.

There were girls, sure. Kisses like experiments. Hands that never lingered too long. Curiosities she buried under the excuse of youth, rebellion, art. But this, you…you are not a curiosity. You are a goddamn galaxy she keeps trying not to orbit, and failing. Failing so miserably it aches.

She knows how to love men. She’s fluent in their language. She knows how to compliment without outshining, how to bend her needs without seeming weak, how to make herself small and palatable without ever disappearing.

But you. You do not ask her to shrink. You confuse her. Terrify her. Not with how bright you are, no, it’s the softness that kills her. The way you let people in. The way you hold space for everyone. How you look at her when no one’s watching, like you’re memorizing the sharp edges of her soul and calling them beautiful.

And now you’re not just hers. You were never hers. But God, the illusion was nice.

Now, Megan makes you laugh in that private, inside-joke way. Yoonchae steals hours of your time just to listen to you rant about mythology or watch you beat her in Pokémon. Manon brings you custom playlists. Lara walks with you to vocal practice. And Sophia, Sophia is always goddamn there. Arms wrapped around your waist. Her chin resting on your shoulder like she belongs there.

And you let her. You let all of them in. Because the wall is going up. Slowly. Deliberately. You’ve stopped trying to close the space between you. You’ve stopped reaching out. You’re slipping away. And it’s her fault.

Daniela closes her eyes, fists clenched against the railing. Her chest feels too tight, like there’s something inside it trying to claw its way out. Guilt, probably. Regret. Something uglier. Something sharp. But underneath all that, curling like smoke in her lungs, is the unbearable, impossible truth:

She’s in love with you.

And that love? It's loud. It's wild. It's tender. And it doesn't want to be buried anymore.

She pressed her forehead to the cold metal of the railing and whispered to no one: “I don’t want to lose her.”

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

Sophia: No pressure. But I know you’re not gonna let her go without trying. Stand. The Fuck. Up.

She laughed once, dry and aching, and wiped her face before anything could fall. Then she stood. And turned toward the door.

She was going. God help her, she was finally going.

She barely remembers getting back to her room.

The door slams. Her coat misses the rack. Her shoes scatter across the floor. She only had a few minutes, maybe an hour. She starts pacing; tight, frantic circles that wear a groove into the carpet and send her stomach twisting. The mirror catches her eye. And for a second, it isn't her reflection staring back.

It’s you.

You, collapsed in laughter backstage. You with tears in your eyes and her hoodie wrapped around your shoulders. You, grinning in your group’s debut livestream, saying “She’s just… someone I adore.”

Her chest caves. 

God, how did she let this happen? She doesn't want you to forgive her. Not really. She doesn’t want to be consoled or excused.

She just wants you back.

She wants your sarcasm over text at 3 a.m. Your fingers brushing hers beneath the table during press cons. Your head on her shoulder during van rides, the little sigh you always made when you finally let yourself rest. Your arm around her waist. Your fingers laced with hers. Your smile.  She wants to be the one you come back to when the world gets too loud.

God help her, she wants to know how your lips would taste like.

She tears through her closet like it personally wronged her. Satin dresses. Cropped jackets. Outfits planned by stylists she hasn’t spoken to in months.

Nothing feels right. Too polished. Too safe. Too straight. Too “KATSEYE’s Daniela”

She debates if wearing a carabiner would make her…gayer.

She throws on a black leather jacket she hasn’t touched since last winter. A ribbed tank that hugs a little too tight. Her hair’s barely done. Lip tint smudged. She looks like someone who’s about to make a mess of her own pride.

She looks like herself.

Her phone buzzes again.

Sophia: I’ll meet you out front. 20 mins. Wear something hot but tragic. For the angst. For the plot.

Daniela exhales a laugh that sounds suspiciously like a sob.

Daniela: Already there.

The drive is a blur. She doesn’t know what song’s playing. Doesn’t care. She drives carefully yet frantically, her eyes focused on the road yet her mind replays thoughts of you. Her hands grip the wheel too tightly, they yank at the gear shift too roughly. Her shoulder is tight with tension she doesn’t know if she’ll be able to let go soon.

Outside the venue, the crowd is already electric. Cameras flash. Fans scream. For once, she doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. She scans.

There, Sophia, waiting by the entrance like a funeral bride. Black dress, black boots, black eyeliner smudged with dangerous intent. She doesn’t say anything, just grabs Daniela’s hand, interlacing their fingers and pulls.

Back hallways. Service stairs. Staff part like the sea. And then sound. Deafening, euphoric, alive. 

They’ve reached the edge of the arena. It’s a war zone of lights and screams. Daniela stops breathing. Stops thinking. The floor trembles beneath her boots.

She turns to Sophia, half-wild. Sophia only grins. Whispers past the roar:

“You’re not too late. Watch.”

The lights cut. A moment of hush, then:

Explosion.

The stage ignites. Smoke, spotlights, the rumble of bass like thunder. And from the center of it all, you rise. Poised. Powerful. Everything she’s ever wanted and tried so hard not to.Her chest caves again, but this time, it’s not from pain. It’s from hope.

For the first time in months…

Daniela breathes.

She sees your eyes dart over the audience before landing at hers.

Your breath stilled the moment you saw her.

You weren’t expecting it, Daniela. The others had greeted you earlier backstage with warm hugs and chaotic energy, their excitement palpable. But she wasn’t with them, and when you realized that, something in you folded inward, quietly and cruelly, like paper set aflame.

And yet… here she was.

Standing by the barricade, bathed in concert lighting, haloed in gold and smoke. She looked effortless. Ethereal. Like a dream that had chased you across sleepless nights just to materialize now, when you were already unraveling.

A smile cracked across your face before you could stop it, bright and unfiltered. But it faltered quickly, your performer’s instinct snapping the mask back in place just as the first notes of “Your Idol” pulsed through the speakers.

Stage face. Stage posture. Stage composure.

Your body moved like second nature, like you'd rehearsed this in your bones, not just your limbs. Every breath, every shift of your hip, every tilt of your head, perfection born from pain. You’d done this so many times it felt like breathing. And yet none of it mattered, not really, not when your eyes kept slipping back to her.

To Daniela.

You hated how easy it was for her to break through. How quickly your heart sprinted toward her again the moment she looked up and met your gaze. It made you internally chuckle how easy it is for her to break you down, especially with the way your eyes keep flitting back to her. It was so easy for your heart to forgive her and go back to yearning, especially when she looks up at you with those sparkling eyes of hers, when she makes you feel like she’s the only one watching, like you’re performing just for her.

And God, she looked at you like she meant it this time. Like something had shifted, like something in her saw you not the performance, not the mask. You.

She truly is your muse, no matter what you do, no matter who you interact with, no matter who touches you, it’s always her. It’s always been her.

You almost missed your cue. But you didn’t, because you’re a professional. Because this is what you were made for.

Still, that one look from her was enough to burn through every wall you’d built to forget her. You’d tried so hard, throat hoarse from vocal runs, muscles bruised from choreography, fingers torn from hours spent strumming your guitar strings until the skin split open. Rina had bandaged you in silence more times than you could count. Hana had screamed at you, cried over you, begged you to stop before you broke something that couldn’t be fixed.

And Sophia... Sophia watched you retreat inward, watched you pretend that soft laughter and gentle teasing were signs of balance, of healing. They all did. They all knew. They just didn’t say it out loud.

Because what else could you do?

If you stopped moving, you’d see her. If you slowed down, just for a second, you’d feel her. You’d feel the echo of a touch that never came, the ache of lips that never kissed you, the weight of love unspoken but always present. She was everywhere, even in absence. She haunted your satin sheets, your silent rehearsals, the spaces between breath and breakdown.

You had told yourself this performance would be different. That this stage, your first ever solo concert, would be the exorcism. That you’d sing loud enough, sweat hard enough, bleed long enough to push her out of you. Then maybe, just maybe, you could love someone who can love you back.

But there she was. Looking at you like maybe, just maybe, she regretted not trying. And for one fragile, fleeting moment… you let yourself believe it.

It was almost enough to ruin you.

Almost. Maybe. 

You feel something land on your lips. Maybe sweat. Maybe the stage rigging is leaking. It’s hot under the lights, your heart is pounding from the third song, and there’s no time to think. You wipe it away, quick and thoughtless, because you have to hit the next move.

But it’s wrong. It’s thicker than water, stickier than sweat. It’s warm. Coppery. Your fingers come away dark and wet.

Blood.

You falter for the first time, not enough for most to notice, just the smallest hitch in your timing. But this is SIREN5. Your girls notice. Of course they do. You press your hand into a fist like that might somehow contain it. Keep the pain in, keep the blood in, keep the show going. You push through. You always push through. But suddenly, your body doesn't feel like your own.

Your legs are slower. Your turns drag. The corners of your vision blur like the lens of a camera left to fog. Every light feels too bright. Every beat of the bassline hits your skull like a strike. The screams of the crowd melt into a white noise buzz. You turn, and stumble.

Only for a moment. Barely a slip. But Hana sees it. She reaches out mid-spin, fingers brushing your arm, her smile practiced, voice barely audible:

“You okay?”

You nod. But your mouth doesn’t move. You’re not even sure if you nodded or just wanted to. And then the fourth song starts. 

It hits you all at once. The strobe flashes. The music crashes. Your chest clenches as another drop hits your lip. Then another. And another. You wipe your face again, and this time you know the truth before you see it. Your hand comes away streaked in red. It’s all over you: your face, your mic, your costume. Blood, bright and unreal in the lights.

The crowd cheers. They think it’s part of the concept. Sirens and fake blood. It’s a really entertaining thought. Maybe you should note it for a later concept. 

Your knees buckle. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

Rina gasps, sharp and audible through her mic.

Cami’s IEM clatters as she rips it out and drops her mic.

Amara shoves herself in front of you, like instinct.

And Hana, her voice cuts through the backing track like a scream:

“Stop the music.”

Everything drops. The sound fades out mid-beat. The crowd is confused, then concerned, then panicked as they realize. You hear it swell in real time. Confused muttering gives way to shouts, to phones raised, to your name being screamed from the barricades. You can’t even lift your head. The lights are a brand now, searing behind your eyes. Your body feels like glass, every muscle trembling. But you don’t fall. You don’t collapse. You just stand there; shaking, bleeding, trying not to cry. You just standing there, frustrated and screaming at your body to move. Just fucking move. 

MOVE GODDAMNIT

Hana’s hands are on your waist, grounding you. She’s speaking into her mic, calm, like a prayer.

“Just a moment, everyone. Just a little dizzy spell, she’s alright. Please, no pushing, stay calm. We’ll resume in a few minutes.”

“She’s bleeding,” someone yells. “Oh my God, she’s bleeding”

It echoes. A single word. Over and over. Bleeding. Bleeding.

Cami is shaking as she shrugs off her jacket and wraps it around you like a shield. Rina’s gripping your mic like she wants to break it. Amara is shouting for medics into her earpiece, her voice tight, unfamiliar.

And you? You can barely keep your eyes open. You lean in to Hana, hiding your face from the crowd. Your voice cracks around the whisper:

“Don’t let them see.”

“Why won’t it stop-” Cami chokes out, her fingers stained with your blood. No one answers.

The seconds stretch. You are still standing, but everything inside you has caved in. You feel your body spiraling, anchored only by their hands, their panic, their love. And just before your knees go again, you glance up. Through the fog. Past the lights. You see her. Daniela. In the crowd. Eyes wide. Hands over her mouth.

Tears already falling.

And that. That hurts more than anything else.

Because she wasn't supposed to see this. She wasn’t supposed to know. No one was. You told yourself if you just kept smiling, singing, dancing, they’d never know how bad it’s gotten. You want her to forget this happened. You want her to forget. But you knew she never would. And neither can the rest of the world.

The backstage is chaos. Staff yelling into walkies. Crew whispering updates. Someone grabs a towel. Someone else brings ice. Lights flicker on and off. Your name is shouted a dozen times but it feels like it belongs to someone else.

You’re lying down now, jacket still clutched to your chest like armor, with Cami kneeling beside you, her mascara running. She hasn’t let go of your hand. Neither has Rina.

They haven’t stopped touching you, as if making sure you’re still here.

“I told you this would happen,” Hana’s voice finally cracks through the haze, rough and shaking. She’s standing, hands on her hips, but her face, God, her face looks like it’s already grieving. 

“I told you. You’ll never stop until you end up in a coma, won’t you?”

Cami’s crying quietly now. Amara’s pacing. You blink slowly, trying to speak, but it’s like your mouth forgot how to form words.

Your vision swims. The lights overhead pulse too bright, then too dark. You feel weightless and heavy all at once.

“I’m okay,” you croak out, barely audible.

“You’re not,” Hana snaps. Her voice shatters again, brittle with rage and fear. 

“You haven’t been okay for months. And we let you. We watched you do this to yourself. We didn’t stop you. And now, now you broke, and we’re just supposed to sit here and-”

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Let me perform. Hana, please. The fans… They paid for this. It’s not too late- I can still-” Your voice trembles. You sound like you’re begging.

Because you are.

“I don’t want to disappoint them. I can’t disappoint them. Please.”

Hana’s face hardens. “No.”

You try to sit up, but the weight of their hands keeps you down. You open your mouth again, desperate to argue. And then smack.

Rina’s hand lands sharp against your cheek. It isn’t hard enough to hurt. But the sting of it silences everything. You blink at her. Stunned. Not from the slap, but from Rina. Sweet, soft-spoken Rina. Who’s crying now, her voice raw:

“Stop. Just stop. Are you going to keep going until you drop dead on stage? Is that what it’s gonna take for you to finally think you’ve done enough?”

You can’t answer. You can barely look at her.

“You’ve been tearing yourself apart and we’ve just been standing there, watching it happen! Like cowards! We told ourselves you were strong enough. But you’re not supposed to be this strong.” She sobs. 

“Don’t you dare leave us like this. Don’t you dare make me miss your dumb commentary during movie night. I still need you to hold my hand when I’m scared of the ghost parts. I still need you.”

There’s a beat. Then a new voice cuts through.

“Let’s not slap her while her nose is bleeding, hm?”

The medic’s voice cuts through the chaos; firm, controlled, but the moment her eyes land on you, all clinical detachment falters. She kneels by your side, her coat brushing the stage, the scent of antiseptic and lavender lotion surrounding you. Her hands are practiced, steady, but gentle. As she dabs at the blood trailing down your face, your members stand stiff around you: silent, breathless, scared, wrecked.

“There’s no serious injury,” she announces, glancing up at them. 

“Vitals are stable. But if she keeps pushing like this—if the overwork, the stress, the adrenaline doesn’t stop? I guarantee it won’t stay that way.”

Her words are sharp. Final. She opens her kit, clicks open a syringe with a soft hiss of plastic and metal, but hesitates.

“These painkillers will help, but they might make her a little loopy,” she adds, softer now. 

“She won’t be able to perform.”

And still, you try. Just one more time.

“I- I can still sing,” you rasp, voice barely a whisper. 

“Just one more song. Please. They paid for this. Please, let me-”

“No.”

It hits like a gunshot.

From all four of them. In unison. Cold. Immediate. Final.

No.

You look up at them, dizzy and unraveling, but their expressions aren’t soft anymore.

Hana’s glare is sharp enough to cut. Rina’s jaw is clenched so tightly it trembles. Amara’s eyes are glassy, but furious. And Cami, sweet, warm Cami is biting her trembling lip so hard it’s bleeding, almost like she’s punishing herself.

You’ve never seen them like this.

“You’re not setting foot back on that stage,” Hana says, low and livid. 

“Not tonight. Not if I have to physically drag you off it.”

“Rest,” Rina says, kneeling to swipe the hair from your soaked forehead with shaking fingers.

“Breathe,” Cami whispers, a kiss pressed against the back of your hand. Her voice is breaking. So is she.

“You don’t have to prove anything anymore, not to them, not to her. The Sailors will understand.” Amara says, staring at you like she’s trying to memorize your face. Her anger’s still there—but it’s trembling beneath the weight of grief. 

“You already gave more than enough.”

And then Hana crouches. Her hands are freezing as she takes yours and presses it flat over her heart.

“We’re not losing you to this stage,” she says, voice cracking as tears finally spill down her cheeks. 

“I don’t care if we have to burn the whole goddamn industry to keep you alive.”

Your vision is swimming again, fading into soft focus, sound muffled like you’re underwater. But the weight of their hands grounds you. The desperation in their voices. For the first time in weeks, your heartbeat begins to slow. Not from peace, but from surrender.

You begin to close your eyes. But then you hear something.

A crash.

A door slams open somewhere behind the lights, loud enough to shake the air.

“Sophia, wait-”

Footsteps. Quick. Uncontrolled. Heavy with fear. You turn your head, sluggish, dazed. Everything tilts sideways. And there they are.

Sophia, storm-eyed and trembling, hair falling from her ponytail, face wet with tears she doesn’t even bother to wipe away. She shoves past a medic like she doesn’t see anyone but you. Daniela right behind her.

She stumbles to a halt at the sight of you, her whole body recoiling, as if the image of you crumpled on the floor knocks the air from her lungs. Her hands fly to her mouth. Her knees nearly give.

They're both crying. You don't remember the last time you saw either of them cry.

Sophia’s voice cracks into something raw. “No, no, no. What happened? What did you do? What’s wrong with her?” 

You vaguely see Hana replying, her hands gesturing but their voices sound muddy.

Daniela drops to her knees beside you. Her eyes are like glass. Her lips tremble like she’s begging without words.

You reach out to her, your arm trembling, the motion slow and heavy like you're underwater. Your fingers barely respond, curling in the air with a mind of their own. Everything burns. Your body. Your chest. Your eyes. Even breathing feels distant now, like something you used to know how to do.

But still, you reach for her.

“...Dani-”

Her name leaves your lips in a breathless slur. Half-air, half-heart. Not loud enough to hear over the chaos, but she hears it. She feels it. And just before the dark overtakes you, you feel her. Her hand catches yours; fast and sure, as if she’s been waiting for it. Like instinct. Her fingers wrap tight around yours, trembling, firm, desperate. It’s not gentle. It’s terrified.

And still, it’s the only thing that feels real. Warmth. Pressure. Presence. She holds your hand like she’s trying to keep your soul from slipping through her fingers. Like if she holds you tight enough, she can make the world rewind. You remember that, just that feeling of her hands on yours as your vision fades to black.

You're not sure how much time has passed. Seconds? Hours? A whole life?

Your head lolls to the side, the world swimming back in disjointed pieces. Fluorescent lights. Murmured voices. The rhythmic bump of tires against uneven pavement.

You’re being moved. Loaded into a van?

Your limbs feel like they don’t belong to you, but they’re warm. Held. Cushioned.

You crack open one eye. The world doubles. In the blurry haze, you see Hana at the wheel; jaw clenched, focused, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel like she’s holding herself together by force. You’re lying across a bench seat in the back. Nestled. Sandwiched between two bodies. One at your head, cradling you gently. Another curled protectively at your side.

Sophia. Her hand is combing through your hair, murmuring something soft, something desperate, but you can’t make out the words.

And then, Daniela. She’s right there. So close, you can see the dried tear tracks on her cheeks. So beautiful, it hurts. You must be dreaming.

She’s staring at you like you’re made of glass and she’s already broken you. You blink up at her, eyelids fluttering like heavy curtains, and whisper with a dazed, drugged smile, “You’re so pretty… My latina mami”

Daniela’s breath catches, lips parting like she’s about to say your name. But you’re already sinking again.

You don’t even hear yourself slur the next part, barely audible through the haze:

“I wish you were mine.”

And then darkness again.

But you swear, just before it takes you, you feel her hand squeeze yours tighter. Like an answer. Like a promise.

Even if you won’t remember it when you wake.

Daniela stares down at you, lips parted, frozen. You’re asleep now, head lolled slightly to the side, face pale but soft. Peaceful.

She looks wrecked. Like the confession cracked something in her chest wide open.

Sophia, sitting beside her, breaks the silence with a grin. “That enough of a confession for you, Dani?”

Daniela doesn’t respond. Not with words. She just looks at you, eyes unreadable. As if trying to figure out when exactly she started to fall too.

The van slows to a stop outside the SIREN5 dorm.

Hana, still in the driver’s seat, doesn’t even glance back. 

“Take care of her. We’ll handle damage control.” She simply says her voice quiet and firm

Sophia shoulders the bag of your things and digs through for your keys. Daniela, still shell-shocked, carries you gently in her arms. You’re barely conscious, your face pressed to her neck, murmuring nonsense against her collarbone.

She’s never held you like this before. Not like you were something fragile.

Inside your room, Daniela lays you down as carefully as she can on the bed. She tries to pull away, but your arms are suddenly around her.

Tugging. Clinging. Her balance tips, and she lands on top of you with a startled breath.

“Stay,” you whisper, barely audible.

“What?” She blinks. 

You shift, nuzzling into her, half-asleep. Somehow you’ve flipped the two of you over, now draped across her body like she’s your favorite blanket.

“Warm. Comfy,” you mumble. “Stay. Please.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Sophia, standing in the doorway, snickers. 

“I’ll tell the girls we’re staying over.”

Daniela opens her mouth to protest, but stops. Because your breath is steady against her neck. Because your fingers are tangled in her shirt. Because the ache in her chest has softened into something dangerous.

She exhales, her hand rising to brush your hair back from your face.

“…Just for tonight,” she murmurs. More to herself than anyone else.

But even then, she knows she’s lying.

You wake to warmth.

Too much of it, actually.

The kind that sticks to your skin and weighs down your limbs, not uncomfortable, but heavy. Like a thick blanket you can’t quite throw off. You shift, groggy and confused, trying to move your arm only to find it pinned.

That’s when you realize you’re not alone. There’s a hand resting low on your waist. Another tangled with yours. Someone’s legs are hooked with yours, another breath ghosting the back of your neck.

You blink hard, eyes adjusting to the dim light leaking through your curtains.

Sophia’s face is the first thing you see. She’s curled up toward you, cheek squished into your pillow, breathing steady and soft. Her arm is slung over your torso like she belongs there.

And then you twist your neck slightly and see Daniela. Her features are still and serene, but her brows are faintly drawn, even in sleep. Her hand is the one holding yours, her fingers wrapped securely around yours like she’s afraid you’ll slip away.

You’re the filling in a very confusing, very beautiful, very sexy, very dreamy sandwich.

“What the hell.” you whisper, voice hoarse.

The last thing you remember is the car ride. Maybe murmuring something embarrassing. Definitely feeling like you were floating.

Now you’re here. Warm. Held. Safe. It doesn’t make sense, and yet, something about it feels painfully right. You try to shift again, not to escape, but just to breathe. Sophia grumbles in her sleep and tightens her grip like a koala. Daniela stirs.

Her eyes flutter open slowly, then land on you. There’s a moment where she clearly forgets where she is, who she’s with. Then her gaze softens.

“Hey,” she says, barely above a breath. 

“You okay?”

You stare at her for a beat too long, overwhelmed by the quiet intimacy. By the fact that she stayed. That Sophia did too.

“Yeah,” you say, voice cracking slightly. 

“Just... didn’t expect this.”

Daniela’s smile is faint. Tired. A little nervous. But real.

“Me neither.”

Sophia mumbles something unintelligible and burrows into your side. You let out a quiet laugh and give in, your head sinking back onto the pillow. Daniela doesn’t look away. She squeezes your hand once, like she did in the van.

You don’t say anything else.

But your thumb brushes hers. And it’s enough. And then you fell asleep again. 

The second time you wake, it’s to a strange mix of sensations. Your legs are cold, bare, tangled in your sheets, one foot dangling off the bed. But your upper body feels warm. Comfortably so.

You blink blearily at the ceiling before glancing down.

Daniela’s hoodie is draped over you, zipped halfway up your torso like someone had taken the time to tuck you in. The sleeves are too long and the collar still carries the faintest trace of her, like sun-warmed skin and that perfume she always pretends she doesn’t wear. You bury your nose into it briefly, letting the scent ground you before peeling yourself from the mattress.

Your body aches a little, like it remembers more than your mind does. But you push that aside as you shuffle into the hallway and toward the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes.

You don’t expect to see Sophia perched casually on the counter, swinging her legs and nursing a mug of coffee like she lives there.

You definitely don’t expect to see Daniela, sleeves rolled up and hair tied into a lazy bun, standing in front of the stove with an expression of absolute despair.

“I swear to God,” Daniela grits out, “Filipino cuisine is unnecessarily difficult.”

Sophia grins over her cup. “Don’t blame our culture just because you can’t figure out tinola.”

“I’m not blaming the culture,” Daniela replies with mock severity. 

“I’m blaming my ancestors for colonizing yours. This is clearly karma.”

“What?” You blink. 

“That’s such a crazy thing to say,” Sophia laughs. 

“You’re literally just making tinola.”

Daniela throws her hands up, nearly knocking the lid off the pot. “Exactly! Why does chicken soup need ginger, green papaya, and malunggay? What happened to salt and vibes?”

You snort so suddenly it startles both of them. The sound is unfiltered, bright, real.

Sophia turns toward you with a raised brow. “Look who’s up.”

Daniela freezes for a second, then softens when she sees you. “Hey.”

You wave groggily, reaching for a bottle of water from the fridge, grateful for the normalcy, the banter, the hoodie still clinging to your frame like a second skin.

And then you feel it. The low buzz of your phone on the counter. One buzz. Two. Three. Then it starts rattling.

Sophia glances at it, eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t check that. It’s not worth it.”

Which, of course, is the exact thing that makes you check. You unlock it with a slow exhale, and immediately, your screen floods.

Notifications. Hundreds of them. Fans flooding your DMs with get well soons, edited clips of your bleeding nose the night before, soft pictures of you slumped against Daniela in the van, captioned with concern and speculation. But mixed in are the other messages. Cold and sharp. Accusations. Hate. Headlines screaming about your “scandal.” Outrage directed at your label. Calls for statements, apologies, explanations. Your hand trembles slightly as you scroll.

Daniela’s voice cuts through the silence. “Hey. Put that down.”

You don’t. Not yet. You scroll down, and you see the response your label responded with.

[OFFICIAL STATEMENT FROM GEFFEN RECORDS] We are issuing this statement in light of the events that transpired during SIREN5’s live performance on July 29. During the performance, SYRE experienced a medical emergency resulting from extreme physical exhaustion and mental stress. She was immediately attended to by medical personnel and is now in stable condition, recovering in a safe and supportive environment. After careful discussion with SYRE, the members of SIREN5, and their management team, we have made the decision to place SIREN5 on a temporary hiatus. This was not an easy decision, but it is a necessary one. The health, safety, and emotional well-being of our artists will always come first. All remaining promotional activities, appearances, and scheduled performances will be postponed until further notice. We ask for compassion and patience from the public as SYRE focuses on her recovery and the group takes the time they need to rest and regroup. Thank you to everyone who has shown kindness, concern, and unwavering support for SIREN5. Your words and actions have not gone unnoticed, and they mean the world to both the members and our team. We will return when the time is right; with full hearts, stronger spirits, and the same siren call that brought us all together in the first place. — Geffen Records Public Relations Division

Sophia hops off the counter and walks toward you, taking the phone gently from your hand without asking. She doesn’t even look at it. She just sets it face down on the table.

“I said it’s not worth it,” she murmurs.

And for a moment, the air feels thick again. Not heavy like last night, but tight. Like the calm before something else breaks.

“You okay?” Daniela reaches out, brushing her thumb gently against your wrist. 

You don’t answer right away. You just stare at the tinola simmering in the pot, the smell of ginger and garlic filling the air. Your legs are still cold. But your chest, still wrapped in her hoodie, feels warm.

“I think I’m hungry,” you say.

And just like that, Sophia claps her hands once. 

“Perfect. Because Chef Colonizer here insists she’s gonna redeem herself.”

“I literally offered to order Jollibee, and you said no.” Daniela groans.

You smile. It doesn’t reach your eyes. Not yet. But it’s a start.

It turns out, begging for Sophia and Daniela to stay was utterly ineffective.

Especially when it comes to your fuming members.

The door doesn’t slam open like usual, it swings, slowly, intentionally, like the opening of a final act you’re not ready for. There’s no shouting. No footsteps pounding. Just silence. But it’s the kind that weighs heavy in your chest, thick with everything unsaid.

Hana walks in first, still wearing her blazer from the emergency meeting with management, heels clicking against the floor like a countdown. Her earrings are gone. Her lipstick smudged. But her face is set in calm, unreadable lines. Too calm. That’s what makes your stomach drop. Rina follows, storm brewing in her eyes, her usually neat bun now haphazard, curls falling out like she ran a hand through it a hundred times. Amara comes next, her fists shoved into the sleeves of her coat, jaw tight, lips bloodless from being pressed too hard together. And then there’s Cami. Her mascara’s ruined, her cheeks blotchy, but it’s the look in her eyes, vacant and too wide, that makes your heart twist.

You open your mouth. You don’t even get a word out.

“Leave,” Hana says flatly, not even looking at you yet. Her gaze is on Sophia and Daniela, sharp as a scalpel. 

“We need to talk to her. Alone.”

Sophia shoots you a last look, her expression full of unspoken things: fear, protectiveness, sorrow. But she nods. She knows this isn’t her moment.

She gently tugs on Daniela’s wrist. “Come on, Dani.”

Daniela lingers. Her fingers graze your knee, slow, reluctant, eyes searching yours for any sign of protest. You don’t give one. You can’t.

“Call me if you need anything, okay?” she whispers. Her voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it.

You nod weakly. And the door clicks shut behind them. The moment it does… The air turns electric.

Amara is the first to speak. Or rather, explode.

“What the fuck?!”

Your name cuts like a slap, more hurt than rage behind it. Her voice cracks, loud and wild, because she’s never been good at hiding how much she cares.

“You collapsed in front of a thousand people,” Rina snaps, her arms folded so tightly across her chest it looks painful. 

“We all saw you bleeding. And you kept dancing like it was fine. Like you were fine.”

“Do you even know what it looked like?” Cami’s voice is quieter, but no less sharp. Her hands tremble at her sides. 

“Your legs gave out. Your head rolled back. I thought you were seizing. I thought-” She swallows hard. 

“I thought you were gone.”

“I couldn’t move,” Rina mutters, her voice hitching. “I was right next to you and I… I froze. I couldn’t do anything.”

You’re sitting small on the couch. Still wearing Daniela’s oversized hoodie. It swallows you whole, just like the shame. Just like the guilt.

“I’m sorry,” you croak. It’s barely a whisper. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t mean to ruin it”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t fix this,” Amara spits, tears finally spilling over. 

“I had to keep smiling while they escorted you off-stage. Do you know how fucked up that was? I couldn’t even cry for you until we were backstage.”

Still, Hana says nothing. She hasn’t moved. But her eyes never left you. You can’t look away from her anymore. You lift your gaze, trembling.

“I didn’t mean to...” you begin.

“That’s the problem,” she says, quiet, low. But this time it lands with the weight of a world. “You didn’t mean to. But you didn’t tell us. You were drowning, and instead of reaching for us, you hid. Like we were something you had to protect from you. We tried waiting for you to tell us, baby. We trusted you.”

No one speaks.

You curl your knees up, arms wrapped around them, like you can fold yourself into nothing. Like if you were small enough, maybe none of this would’ve happened.

“I didn’t want to let you down,” you whisper. 

“Not after everything we’ve worked for. Not with the comeback. Not with the solo concert. I didn’t want to be the one who couldn’t handle it.”

“You think bleeding out on stage is what we’re mad about?” Cami says, kneeling beside you now. 

“It’s not the collapse. It’s the silence. It’s you pretending everything was okay when we could’ve, would’ve, carried you. We’d do anything for you. When will you get that through your thick skull?”

Finally, the dam breaks. Your body shakes. Your chest heaves. The sob escapes before you can stop it; wet, cracked, and aching from the inside out.

“I’m so tired,” you sob. “I was just trying to be good enough. I thought if I just made it to the end of the show, if I just got through one more night, then maybe-” you sobbed harder

Stillness. And then Hana kneels. She doesn’t say a word. She just pulls you into her arms. And it all comes undone. Rina collapses to her knees beside you, clutching your sleeve like a lifeline. Cami presses her forehead to your shoulder, crying silently. Amara sinks onto the floor and wraps her arms around your legs.

“We’re mad because we love you,” Rina says through clenched teeth, crying as she speaks. “Because we were terrified.”

“Because you’re not just our center,” Cami says softly. “You’re our sister.”

“I can’t lose you,” Amara chokes. “Not for a stage. Not for a song. Not for anything.”

And they stay. They stay through the sobbing. Through the shaking. Through the slow, ugly, gasping breaths as you try to put yourself back together. Just like before. Just like training.

When it quiets, when you’re just a pile of limbs and shared warmth, and your sobs turn into sniffles, Hana pulls back just enough to cup your face in both hands.

“You don’t get to hurt alone anymore,” she says. “We’re not letting you disappear like that again.”

“I won’t,” you whisper. “I promise.”

And maybe they don’t fully believe you yet. But they nod. They stay. And just as you begin to settle into the silence, Hana lifts her phone, looks at you, and says with maddening calm:

“I called your mother, by the way.”

You jerk upright, eyes wide.

“What?!”

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader, @kianthegirlkisser, @teenybean, @skittledemon66, @hydrardz, @hotluvlet, @skriri, @ssamachiii, @iamconfusedrightnow, @pizzachicken, @aelien1, @yjiminswallet, @kathleenmikaelson, @gay-panic-at-all-times, @wandaromamoff69, @amishreyac

[hangmanwrites]

your personal kryptonite ━ clark kent

dedicated to ━ @frivolousimagination because she’s the one who convinced me to post this ridiculous filthy mess even though i was being a coward about it, love u bestie, this one’s for you!! word count ━ 3.4k words pairing ━ clark kent x fem!reader content warnings ━ smut, mdni, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it irl unless you’re also dating superman), soft dom clark, praise, overstimulation, crying during sex (in a hot way), emotional support himbo vibes, aftercare, romantic filth, gentle but devastating author's note ━ this is only my second time writing smut so please be kind to my fragile little writer brain, i’m still figuring it out one emotionally unhinged paragraph at a time, but i really hope you enjoy it anyway and fall a bit in love with soft filthy clark, too. masterlist read here ━ we have a little discord server if you want to talk about david corenswet, clark kent, or anything in between. it’s a cosy community where we spiral together, share ideas, and help each other out with fic writing too. everyone’s welcome to join as long as you’re over 18. minors are not allowed, sorry loves!! 🩵

Today was a shitty day.

Work treated you like you were some sort of animal, not even a real person, just this empty thing people could toss problems at and expect answers from, like your brain was some kind of machine that didn’t glitch or ache or hit its limit after hours of passive aggression and sugarcoated threats and stupid bloody spreadsheets that kept crashing for no reason. 

You’d barely managed to get through lunch without biting someone’s head off, and you did snap at a printer, which definitely made at least one intern scared of you forever, but honestly, at this point, let them be scared. 

Let them think you’re heartless, because you can’t keep doing this, you can’t keep pretending it’s fine, that you’re fine, not when the train made you late and the rain soaked your socks and some stranger told you to “smile more” like that was going to fix your entire nervous system spiralling into self-destruct mode.

You almost didn’t come, almost got off at your usual stop and went home to cry into the same pillow that’s soaked up too much already this month, but the thought of being alone felt unbearable, like your body might shut down if you didn’t see him.

So now you’re outside his flat, fingers aching from gripping your keys too tight, throat thick with everything you can’t name, and the second he opens the door—

It’s over.

Your whole posture collapses like your spine forgot what holding you up looks like, like his face was the final straw, and suddenly he’s right there, stepping forward like you’re made of something delicate, like he knew before you said a single word that something was wrong, and he doesn’t hesitate and just pulls you into his chest with both arms, firm and warm and steady, and it ruins you completely.

You don’t even get a chance to apologise, because he’s already holding you like you’re not a burden at all, just tired, just human, and your fists are already curling into the front of his jumper like it’s the only thing keeping you standing upright.

And you can feel your breathing hitch against him, feel that awful stutter in your chest like a sob is waiting to break free and you hate it, you hate it so much, but he just keeps whispering, quiet and careful and close to your ear, It’s alright, I’ve got you, love, I’ve got you.

And he does, one arm wrapped firm around your back as though he’s trying to hold you together by force, the other hand steady at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair in slow, soothing motions as though he knows exactly where the panic lives and how to quiet it without being told. 

He sways with you gently, barely a movement but enough to keep you present, enough to remind your body that time is still passing, that you’re still here, still held, still safe in his arms even if the rest of the world spent the entire day trying to convince you otherwise.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or question or try to coax anything out of you, he just stays there with you. He’d done this before, he’d memorised the shape of your silence and knows how to sit inside it without making it about him. 

When you finally manage a full breath, not the shallow, uneven things you’d been taking all day but an actual proper inhale that lifts your chest and makes your shoulders fall, his hand presses gently against your back as if to say I felt that, I see it, you’re doing so well.

“Come here,” he says, soft and certain, and you follow him instantly, still clutching his sleeve, still a little folded into yourself, but he doesn’t seem to mind, just guides you through the flat with both hands at your waist as though you might vanish if he lets go.

He sits you on the edge of the bed and crouches in front of you without hesitation, his hands on your knees, thumbs brushing slowly over your tights in a way that doesn’t ask for anything, and when he looks up, his eyes are so impossibly kind it nearly undoes you again, not because he pities you, but because he doesn’t, because he’s really looking at you.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, gently, carefully, as if the question is something he’s laying at your feet rather than pressing into your hands, “Or do you just want quiet?”

You shake your head, not sure which one you’re saying no to, not sure it even matters, because he nods anyway, as though a quiet understanding in the way he leans forward and presses a kiss to your knee, soft and lingering.

Then he kisses you again, a little higher, just above the edge of your skirt, and his hands slide to your hips, not in a greedy way, not in a way that demands anything, just a presence, just a reassurance, just him reminding you that he’s here.

“Alright,” he murmurs, voice lower now, gentler, as though you might fall apart if he speaks too loud, “Then we’ll just sit. You and me.”

You nod, barely, just once, and maybe he thinks that’s it, that you’ll stay still and let the quiet carry you, but your hands are already reaching for him, moving like they’ve been waiting all day for permission, and the second your fingers thread through his hair, your whole chest twists, as though something in you finally dares to ache now that he’s here to hold it.

He doesn’t pull away, just lets you tug him into the space between your legs where you’re still curled on the bed, and your mouth finds his before you’ve even had time to think, messy and eager and a little too much, as though your body’s just trying to survive through contact.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting for it, like this is exactly what he hoped would happen the second you walked through the door, and it’s slow at first, careful, as though he doesn’t want to take anything from you that you’re not ready to give, but the way you’re pulling at him makes it impossible to keep it gentle.

You know he feels it too, the way the air thickens around you the second you tilt your head and open your mouth for him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as though he needs something to hold or else he might break apart entirely.

It’s not perfect, not neat or delicate or slow-burn cinematic, it’s messy and damp and hungry, and the exhaustion still clings to your limbs, the rawness of the day still presses at your skin, but none of it matters, not with his mouth on yours like it’s the only place he wants to be, not with that heat building low in your belly every time his thumb finds your waist or his tongue brushes yours just right.

You’re not trying to start anything, but the way he groans when your nails scrape the back of his neck pulls something up from deep in your chest that has nothing to do with sadness and everything to do with want.

You press in closer, tighter, chest flush to his, legs drawing him in, and you don’t stop kissing him because you don’t know how else to ask for more.

“Wait,” he breathes, voice rough now, ragged around the edges like he’s barely holding onto restraint, forehead pressed to yours, “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage, I—”

“Please,” you whisper, too fast, too breathless, too much, but you don’t care, you’re already chasing his mouth again before he can finish the sentence, already wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him in, and he lets you, because it’s Clark and he always does, and his lips are back on yours before either of you can think.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push or take more than you’re ready to give, just kisses you with that quiet, steady focus that makes your whole chest tighten, his mouth slow against yours, his hands firm and careful even when they slide under your thighs to lift you into his lap, holding you close like it’s second nature.

You shift slightly, just enough to feel the heat of him pressed between your legs, and the sound he makes is low and helpless, his hands gripping at your hips like he’s trying to keep control, and for a second he pulls back, just enough to look at you again, and there’s no rush in it only that same quiet awe in his expression.

When he leans in again, he doesn’t go for your mouth, not yet, just presses a kiss to your jaw, then your throat, then just under your ear, each one slow and unbearably tender, and when he whispers, “You’ve had such a hard day.”

You don’t get a chance to respond before he kisses you again, quiet and steady, as if he knows you’ll try to brush it off and doesn’t want to let you.

His hands move lower, sure and careful, fingers sliding beneath your underwear like he’s done it a hundred times, not from habit but because he knows you now, knows how to move without asking for more than you’re ready to give, and when he pulls the fabric down your legs, you lift your hips for him without needing to be told.

And when he sees you, really sees you, he exhales like it knocks the breath out of him, low and quiet and almost reverent, like he still can’t believe you’re letting him in.

“God,” he murmurs, barely louder than a breath, hands sliding up your thighs to part them, not rough, not rushed, just steady, grounding, and when he sees how wet you already are, he doesn’t say anything else just leans in and licks into you like it’s all he’s needed all day.

It’s filthy, right from the first slow pass of his tongue, so deliberate it pulls a whimper straight from your throat before you can even think, and you can’t hold it in, not when it’s not just his mouth.

Your thighs twitch, your hips shift, and you’re gripping the duvet in tight fists just to stay grounded, but he just keeps licking into you, slow and deep and steady, as though this is the only thing that matters.

And when you moan his name, helpless and breathless and wrecked, he groans back into you, fingers digging in just a little harder, and it’s not for show, it’s him, it’s real, it’s yes, that’s it, let me have it without saying a word.

Then his hand slides back down, his fingers warm and slick when he pushes two of them inside you, slow but sure, like he’s done this in his head a hundred times, and the stretch is so good it knocks the breath from your lungs, makes your hips jolt into his mouth, and he groans low and keeps going, his fingers working you open as his mouth stays right there.

And you can feel your climax building already, hot and unbearable and close, because it’s him, Clark, on his knees, giving everything, and you’ve never felt more wanted in your life.

You say his name again and it’s not a choice, it just happens, your mouth moving before your brain can catch up, because everything’s gone fuzzy, because your body is too full to hold anything else, and he hums in response, pleased and steady and so full of love it makes your chest ache all over again.

His palm presses firm to your lower stomach, and his voice comes soft and ruined against your cunt as he says, “Let go for me, baby, I’ve got you, it’s okay, just let me have it, come on.”

And you do, God, you do, it hits you hard and fast and so deep you don’t even realise you’ve stopped breathing until it all rushes back at once, and your body’s jolting up into him without warning, a helpless thing. Every muscle snapping tight and letting go all at once, and your thighs are shaking around his shoulders and your fingers are pulling hard in his hair and he just groans, low and hoarse and wrecked.

He slows down, keeps his tongue soft and steady and lets you fall apart in his mouth, lets you ride it out with his hands holding you still, one on your thigh and the other pressing down gently on your stomach.

You’re shaking, breathless, too far gone to speak, not a single thought in your head beyond the crashing release still flooding your chest and hips and thighs, and your hands are still in his hair, and when he finally lifts his head it’s slow.

His mouth is red, his eyes unbearably soft, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room that matters. He’s flushed and wrecked and breathing hard, but he still smiles when he sees you staring at the ceiling like your mind hasn’t caught up yet, and he reaches up with a trembling hand to brush your hair back, voice low and hoarse when he asks, “Are you alright?”

You nod, or something close to it, and he seems to understand. Then he leans down, kisses your hip, your stomach, the centre of your chest, soft and slow and steady, like he’s still trying to take care of you even now. 

Your throat tightens all over again, because it’s him, and he’s still looking at you like you’re a miracle.

His mouth moves higher, kissing along your collarbone and neck, and his hands slide back up your thighs, hot and unshaking, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. 

You can feel it in the way he breathes, in the way his body holds still like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

You feel him now, still hard, still clothed, the shape of him pressed to your thigh, and you can’t help it. Your hips roll, slow and greedy, your body answering before your head can catch up. 

He groans into your skin, low and deep, and you feel him falter, feel him fight not to lose it.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, quiet and hoarse and almost dazed, and it’s not a complaint, it’s reverent, it’s full of disbelief that he gets to have you like this, that he gets to stay here, and then he’s sitting up just enough to tug off his shirt and undo his belt, one handed.

And you watch him, still flushed and sensitive, still sore in the best way, but your legs spread for him automatically because your body wants this, wants him, wants to feel him everywhere, and when his trousers hit the floor and you finally get to see the full, desperate shape of him, flushed and thick and twitching with how hard he is. 

You swear under your breath because it’s obscene, it’s not fair, he’s so beautiful, and he just kneels between your legs like he belongs there.

He leans down to kiss you again, mouth still messy from everything he did to you, and you moan into it, half from the taste of yourself on his tongue and half from the way his cock presses right up against you, not pushing in yet, but it’s hot and heavy against your overstimulated cunt.

Your body jolts with it, and you hear yourself whimper, and he shushes you softly, forehead pressed to yours.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, not because he doesn’t know, but because he needs to hear it, needs to be sure, always so careful even when he’s wrecked and seconds from losing it completely.

You nod again, this time more definite, more desperate, and you whisper, “Please,” and that’s all it takes.

He pushes in so slowly you can feel every inch of it, feel every thick, aching stretch of him as he fills you, deeper than you thought anyone ever could, thick and hot and perfect, and you’re already gasping before he’s fully seated, already clutching at his back with both hands as your body adjusts, 

“You feel—” he starts, and then cuts himself off with a soft, broken noise, and presses a kiss to your throat as his hips roll forward, just enough to make you whimper, and he whispers, “So warm, sweetheart, so soft, you feel incredible.”

And then he moves for real, pulls back just enough to drag the whole length of himself out of you before sliding in again slow and deep, and your mouth falls open because it’s filthy, the sound of it, the slick, obscene drag of his cock inside you, your body taking him like it’s what it was made for, and Clark’s still breathing like he’s trying to survive it.

Clark sets a rhythm, gentle but full, grinding deep into you with every stroke, his hips tilting just right to press against that spot inside you that makes your thighs twitch and your stomach clench.

And every time he finds it again, again, he murmurs something soft into your skin, “There you go, That’s it, I’ve got you,” as though he’s guiding you somewhere, as if your body is answering him and he’s proud of it.

And it is so much, the stretch of him, the wet slide of your bodies moving together, the way your slick is dripping down your thighs now, messy and shameless, and Clark can feel it, can hear it, and instead of shying away from it he groans softly into your neck, presses his hand flat against your lower back to keep you right where he wants you, and says, breathless and stunned, “You’re so beautiful like this, I don’t think I’m ever going to forget how this feels.”

His voice is wrecked, soft and rough as he shudders above you, fingers finding your clit with slow, careful circles that make your whole body jerk beneath him. He doesn’t speed up, just keeps fucking you deep and steady, every thrust dragging right through you, and your legs are shaking, your hands clutching at him just to stay grounded.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs into your mouth, kissing you slow, “I’ve got you, I promise, just let go for me, sweetheart, please—”

And you do. It hits hard and hot, your body locking tight around him as everything breaks open, and you cry out without words, just Clark, just need, and he holds you through all of it, kissing your face, whispering soft things you can’t even process through the pleasure.

And he’s still inside you when it fades, still thick and hard and throbbing, just watching your face with the kind of awe that makes you ache all over again, and when you finally open your eyes, blinking up at him with wet lashes and parted lips, he leans down and kisses you one more time, deep and slow and full of everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You’re alright?” he asks, and he’s flushed and wrecked and still holding back, and you nod, still breathless, still clenching around him, and his whole body shudders again.

“I’m not gonna last much longer,” he admits, so softly it makes your heart twist, “You feel too good, I can’t— I don’t want to hurt you—”

But you’re already pulling him closer, because he needs it, because he’s holding himself so carefully, still buried in you and barely moving, arms shaking and jaw tight like it’s taking everything not to fall apart.

You press your hands to his face, tilting his head until he looks at you, and the second his eyes meet yours, something in you snaps again, because he’s beautiful and he’s yours and he’s waiting.

You don’t have to speak. He sees it in the way you nod, in the way your hands cradle him, in the way your thighs pull him in.

And he exhales, shaky and wrecked, and leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for it, and he presses his forehead to yours and whispers, barely audible, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you say, and it’s not breathless anymore, not messy or chaotic, it’s just soft, steady, honest, because you mean it, because you know him, and you know he never could.

He starts to move again, slow and deep and careful, as if he’s trying to memorise how you feel now that he’s allowed to. It’s not rushed anymore, just warm, just full of that unbearable closeness that only he ever gives you, and when your body clenches around him he groans, low and reverent.

Clark kisses you again and again, mouth soft on yours, whispering between breaths, “So good, I’ve got you, I’m right here,” and it’s never really about him, not even now, not even with his hips starting to stutter and his hands gripping tighter like he needs to hold on to something real.

And when it happens, when he finally lets go, you feel all of it; the shake in his thighs, the rough sound in his throat, the way his mouth drops open against your cheek and you hold him through it, hands in his hair, whispering his name just to let him know you’re here.

He groans your name like it’s the only word he knows, and he spills into you with his face tucked into your neck, his entire body trembling as though he’s never felt anything like this before, as though this moment, this warmth, this love, is undoing something in him he never thought could be undone.

When it’s over, his hips still and his breath evens out, and he doesn’t move. He stays close, chest to chest, mouth pressed to your skin like he’s not ready to let go, and you lie there with him in the quiet, holding each other, breathing slow and steady, hearts still racing in sync, and you know you’ve never been loved like this before.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, tangled and quiet, your legs still around his hips, his arms still tight around you like he’s afraid to let go. And maybe he’s right. Maybe you would fall apart if he stopped holding you like this, so gently, so steady, like he’s keeping you from breaking again.

When you finally shift, just enough to breathe deeper, he follows without question, tucks his face into your neck and sighs. Quiet and warm and full of peace, as if something inside him has finally gone still.

It’s a mess, all of it, your bodies sticky, your thighs still shaking, your heart beating too fast to keep up with your thoughts, but you don’t care. Not when his hand keeps stroking slow across your back like he’s soothing something deeper than skin, not when his mouth keeps finding your shoulder in soft kisses that feel more like promises than habit.

You should say something, maybe thank him or laugh or breathe properly, but all you can do is hold him tighter and hope he gets it. Hope he hears it in the way your fingers stay in his hair, in the way your forehead presses into his cheek, in the way your breathing finally begins to settle, not calm, but easier. 

And the thought hits you, not all at once but slowly, creeping in through the quiet like a truth you’d been ignoring until now;

Kryptonite could kill him, sure, it’s the one thing strong enough to bring him down, the one weakness he can’t hide, but Clark Kent on his knees, hands steady and tongue slow and eyes so full of love it breaks you, that might just kill you first.

[simply-wlw-kpopstan]

13. The first crack

Weeks pass with no contact. No dirty looks, no words, no insults, no banter, nothing. Sophia hates to admit it but she misses it, she misses you. Of course she wouldn't admit that out loud, she'd look weak and that's something she'll never allow to be seen. No, she'll never admit to missing you. Yet she finds herself in front of your apartment door, contemplating whether to knock.

She raised her hand more times than she would like to admit, almost knocking on the door but never committing to it. Only when a neighbor came out of their apartment did she knock, the sound echoing through the hallway as the stranger eyed her suspiciously. The door swings open but she's not ready to face you. You're standing in front of her, a confused expression on your face. "What are you doing here?

"I don't know." It's out of her mouth before she realizes it, "I mean.... I... I don't know what to do. I've apologized in a very Shitty way and I'm sorry for that. I've tried to act like it doesn't bother me but.... you just shut me out so easily and it's painful. I get that you're mad but what will it take for you to accept my apologies? What do you want me to do?"

"I was clear about what would happen, Sophia. I told you in the library, I won't be entertaining you anymore."

"Please just..... Can I come in? Can you invite me in? I really want to talk about this." She looks down the hallway where your neighbor dwells at the stairs, glancing at the two of you.

"No. I'm not letting a vampire in my home. I'm not going to give you that invitation to then abuse it to your convenience."

"For God's sake," she rubs her forehead in annoyance, "fine, then let's go to my place. We need to talk."

"The vampire estate? Kill me on the spot why don't you?"

"You're a guest, I invited you. You're under my protection as long as you're there."

"point in case. Why would I put my life in your hands?"

"Then where?!" Sophia throws her hands up in frustration, "Where is neutral enough for us to talk?"

'' I'm not interested in talking to you. So just take your ass back home and leave me alone." You take a step back to close the door, but Sophia stops you by holding it open.

" I've made a mistake but I won't be ignored. I tried to hurt you and it backfired, but how was I supposed to know you'd turn into a train wreck over a damn dog whistle?! I thought you'd just get a high pitch in your ears and some ringing! You just went off the deep end, shut your friends out, and decided that I suddenly don't exist anymore! That's not on me! I own up to being the catalyst of it but you can't blame me for you shutting down!"

"What I do is none of your business." Your eyes flash in anger as she brings up the sore subject of the past few weeks. She's right about it, she didn't know and wasn't the one making you shut everyone out. She brought those memories back but it was you who ignored everyone around you.

"You're being irrational! It's a dumb whistle! I didn't know! I didn't know it would cause you to break down like that! So just drop the stupid thing and let me apologize for it! ''

''Not everything is about you, Sophia!" you snarl and step out of your apartment, stalking closer to the vampire in question." I couldn't care less about you and your pathetic little apologies. I don't care about you or what your intentions were that day. You opened a box that I kept closed for many years with that little stunt and now I have to pay the price. So sorry if I'm not acting the way you want. I've got bigger problems than entertaining a dumb feud between us."

Sophia steps back with every step you take forward until she's pressed against the wall behind her. For the first time in her life, she's not confident in herself, scared by the look in your eyes. Usually, there's anger, frustration, hatred, and annoyance visible when your eyes are on her, but now they're void of everything. They feel empty to her, and it's an unsettling feeling. "Everybody has their baggage. It's not my fault you can't deal with yours."

"Can you, for once, just shut up? Why do you always feel the need to say something? Why do you need to have the last word? Accept that you didn't get what you want and leave me alone."

"No."

"You're really pushing me right now Sophia."

"I don't care. I'm not leaving until we've settled this. I'm not expecting rainbows and sunshine here, I don't expect us to be friends. I'm trying to be a grown-up about it and apologize for my mistake." Her eyes trail down to your lips for only a second, but it's enough for her to slip. "I can't stand being ignored by you, okay?"

"Actions have consequences. You're apologizing, but I don't believe you truly understand what you're sorry for. The day you apologize with the right words, when you understand what you did then I'll accept them. For now, get out of my face because you clearly don't understand it now"

"I told you. I'm not leaving." She takes a step forward, looking you straight in the eye and getting so close that you're chest to chest. "I'm gonna be a thorn in your side whether you want me to or not. You could just explain to me what I did wrong, what the thing is that you claim I don't understand."

"I don't have to explain a thing to you." You look down at her, her dark brown eyes truly mesmerizing from up close. You always thought they were black, having the looks of Boba but now you can see a distinct difference between her iris and her pupil. It's light but it's there. "You infuriate me"

"That makes two of us. From the second you came into this town, you acted so closed off like you were better than everyone else. You were so cold and then suddenly you're nice out of nowhere? Acting like you weren't a bitch when you first arrived. You were rude to me, and I tried to be nice, but I can only take so much. So don't act all high and mighty because you're the one who started this whole mess in the first place." Her breathing gets labored as she remembers that time clearly." You were the mean one"

She remembers the day when she heard about a young lone wolf girl arriving. 2 years older than her, and she got excited. Sophia thought she would finally have a friend in this town, but then you turned out to be rude. Always glaring at everything, never responding. She tried to be nice to you, but you just didn't want to be her friend, so she stopped. Then more supernatural kids came to town, and she saw how nice you were to them, and it made her jealous. Why weren't you like that to her? What did she do wrong? Why didn't you like her?

"What? You really held what I did as a kid against me? I was new! I was going through a lot and processing everything I went through! You were always bugging me! Appearing out of nowhere and annoying me with your dumb questions when I just wanted to be alone!"

"I was trying to be your friend!" She raises her voice, "I wanted a friend! I was lonely, and then you showed up and you didn't want me, and that hurt! I tried for so long, and when I gave up, you went and made friends with the new kids in town. Other supernaturals, Non-vampire kids! I was hurt! I was angry!"

"Am I supposed to feel sorry for you now?" you match her tone, "boohoo little Sophia didn't get attention. Once again the world doesn't revolve around you!"

"I hate you! You're such a bitch! You've always been mean and nobody sees it! I'm the bad one because I'm the vampire right?! "

"I was a kid!"

"And what's your excuse now!? You were mean to me back then and I just started to treat you like you treated me for all those weeks. Not once did you try to sort things out with me. Not once did you tell the others how you treated me. They all just think I'm a bitch to you for no reason. who'd even believe me if I told them about it? Nobody. I'm the bad guy, I always have been. "

" You got one hell of a victim complex"

"Fuck you! Everybody tells me to apologize but where's your apology from all those years ago? Do you have any idea how much it hurt? All those years as a kid I thought it was because I was a vampire. That you hated me because of what I was."

"How many times do I have to tell you I was a kid?!"

"Just apologize to me!"

"No! I don't have anything to apologize for! It's not my fault you're sensitive! Rejection is a part of life, and you learned that at an early age, so you're welcome to that life lesson."

"You-you.... Ughh! Screw you! If you don't want anything to do with me then fine! I'm done trying with you! I'm done trying to get your attention and waiting for you to even realize why I'm acting this way!" The tension is at an all-time high, both of you breathing heavily when Sophia throws caution to wind and kisses you. Her lips smash against yours rather harshly, and her hands grab your face, holding you close. "I hate you" she mutters against your lips.

"Just shut up," you mutter back and wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her even closer if possible. Neither of you were anywhere near ready to call it what it was, and you both knew it, so you settled. With a swift motion, you pick her up from the ground and carry her into your apartment. Sophia's lips trail from yours down to your neck. "Don't even think about biting me."

"You wish" she fires back as her tongue gets a taste of your skin. She can smell your pulsing blood, feel the stream beneath her tongue and she can hear your heartbeat. "I don't bite unless I want to mark it as mine. It's an honor, a privilege to get bitten by me and you're nowhere near that quota." You roll your eyes as you move to lay her down on the couch, but she nips at the hollow of your throat, "Don't you dare. I'm a woman of standards. Bedroom wolfie or else you're not getting any."

"High maintenance, why am I not surprised?" you tease as you move to your bedroom, " like you'd actually be able to stop this if I did put you down on that couch. We both know you want this."

"Shut up. You want it too or else we wouldn't be like this in the first place. Now shut up, you're annoying me when I'm trying to get things going here." without another word she drops her hands from your face and tears at your shirt, ripping the fabric till it's nothing more then a rag on your body. "at least the packaging is good, makes up for your smug face."

"And yet you won't complain when this face is between your legs in a few minutes." You enter your bedroom and drop her onto your bed. Sophia bounces a little when she falls, and she glares up at you but doesn't say anything., "What?" you smirk as you take off the ripped shirt., "You owe me a shirt now by the way. "

"I'll give you a whole new wardrobe if you manage to make me feel good. God knows you need it with your sense of fashion." She kicks off her shoes before scooting herself up the bed and lies down with her head on a pillow, "You realize I now have access to your apartment whenever I want?"

"You won't be able to enter if I ask Manon for a barrier spell, or perhaps I'll add vervain to the water when I clean the place." You eye her body from top to bottom before climbing over her.

"try it and I'll stuff wolfsbane in your food." she narrows her eyes as you hover over her, " now shut up and put that mouth to better use" She had you pinned down in a blur of a second, grinning cockily down at you as her nails trail down your bra clad chest, " too slow" her eyes are hooded as she gazes down at you. Your gaze is stuck on her mouth as her tongue drifts over the soft and plump lips. "Tell me you want me." She leans down slightly, her breath hits your lips as her eyes bore into yours.

"You can't compel me. Werewolf 101 when living close to vampires, take your daily dose of vervain." You stare back at her, your eyes are a clear statement that you're not afraid of her.

"I'm not trying to compel you. You would know the difference if I did. This is me telling you to say you want me." She moves her head to the side, and her breath hits your ear. "Tell me you want me. We'll go back to hating each other tomorrow, just tell me you want me for tonight."

You turn your head to meet her eyes, there's desire and lust but also a hint of pleading and vulnerability. Sure, her request was sexual, but you couldn't help but see the underlying tone. Her desire to be wanted. To heal that little girl inside of her who was rejected by you when you were little. Your eyes flicker from hers to her lips and you nod slightly. With a gentle hand to her cheek, you lean into her, pressing your forehead against hers, "I want you, Sophia."

You can hear the moment her breath hitches, a small quiver that she doesn't allow to leave. "Again.... Please say it again"

"I want you. I really, really want you." With a second to let it set in, you close the distance again, and the kiss is different. Before, it was heat, desire, lust but now it's vulnerable, a way of easing her mind.

"Just for tonight," she whispers.

"Just for tonight," you repeat quietly, like any sudden loud noise could pop this intimate bubble that you created.

"This doesn't mean anything," her voice comes out shaky, her eyes cold but bearing a certain vulnerability she wasn't ready to address. She had to keep her distance somehow, reduce this to nothing before she clings onto it. Clings onto you.

"agreed" your hands find their way to her lower back, fingers slipping under fabric and tracing her soft cold skin. While you know she'll be back to her old self tomorrow morning you can't help but notice the shift in her demeanor. "Sophia-"

"Don't......Don't ruin it. Don't complicate this. It's just lust, a quick fix. Nothing more" she moves back, her knees on either side of your hips as she pulls her shirt over her head. Her body holds no marks, a clear canvas for you to ruin and then she leans back on top of you again. Her lips against yours once more.

masterlist | next

[darklinaforever]

No, but I'm dying of laughter ?! The scene of Jere and Belly on the inflatable couch in the pool laughing with Conrad who see them... Well actually... in this scene... Belly and Jere make fun of Conrad and his reaction to their marriage by repeating over and over his "When you think about it it's ridiculous" (which Conrad said to Jere when he and Jere were surfing together about Jelly wedding). Am I dying of laughter ?! 😂😭

And there still hasn't been a big moment between Conrad and Belly, by the way... Belly actually made fun of him a bit a lot in this episode ? In the end, Conrad finally decides to support Belly and Jere because he can see that 0 support hurts Belly a lot when he hears her crying in her room (so not for his own brother...). OH AND, by the way... that scene of Belly in her bed in the trailer that cut to her and Conrad lying on the floor (during Christmas) saying "he comes to me in a flashback" of the song Red. So we thought she would probably think of Conrad in that scene in her bed ? Well... no. She was thinking of Susannah and her mother...

And at the end there's a hug from Bonrad but nothing very romantic ? Belly learns that Conrad cooks and he made cupcakes for her birthday and she thanks him with a hug and the episode ends with Conrad saying in his head : "What did I do ?!" And I confirm... damn you should have gone back to California you're going to screw things up man.

He had his ticket ready to go and everything. And he stayed...

I'm sure Team Conrad will still be putting Jere down by saying, you see Conrad was able to make her the cakes she likes ! Jere isn't even capable of that ! He brought her a ridiculous ready-made cake !!! Misery... Yes, a ready-made Oreo cake, her favorite with the second gift being the keys to the vacation home and it's just awesome too ?!

Now I can see all their shitty arguments coming. Since the beginning of season 3 I've been having fun predicting them and they're turning out to be spot on.

Also, the first scene where Belly sees Conrad again in this episode... at the vacation home... Like she's sleeping on the couch, Jere between her legs, with him sleeping on top of her (so cute), she wakes up, looks up and surprising sees Conrad. And... she thinks about Christmas when he says her name and she says his in question mode. She doesn't have a particular expression when she sees him though ? Very neutral (at the same time the first time she's seen him in a while was in the previous episode, so the big surprise is a bit over now) ? Again, when I say that she seems more disturbed by the last time she saw him that she's keeping secret more than anything else...

She sees Conrad, at his cousin's house where she and Jere are taking refuge, while he is supposed to be back in California and he has been ignoring Jere's messages and calls all this time ?! Even Jere when he wakes up from Belly (Conrad's expression is hilarious when he sees Jere pop up from the couch and therefore understands that he was lying on Belly) and when he sees Conrad he says "What the fuck ?! You were there all this time?!" No but I swear that Conrad and communication are still as much shit...

Basically I still see nothing extraordinary on Belly's face when she sees Conrad again ? She wakes up, sees him among the living room decor from the couch, wonders what and says his name because he's not supposed to be there and she's disturbed because technically their last meeting was in this house ? But nothing crazy.

Not evidence of romantic love still existing in the actuality / present for me either ?

And again, she makes fun of Conrad quite a bit in this episode, in reality ? Especially when Jere tells her that he doesn't approve of the marriage either during the day. She does an impression of Conrad who sees them as little kids, and she makes a joke about it again when she and Jere are on the inflatable sofa in the pool the night and they laugh like crazy with Conrad hearing everything... 😅

The only thing I remember about Belly seeing Conrad for the first time in this episode is that Jere was sleeping on Belly and she was holding him tenderly. Literally that's all I care about in this scene. 😂 Also, when Jere tells Belly that Conrad doesn't approve either, Jere comes back from the beach where he surfed with Conrad, and Belly is in the pool, when Jere tells her Conrad's reaction, she immediately gets out and he automatically takes Belly's towel that he hands her as soon as she's out of the water ?! Is that so cute ?!

@vanillawildflower

[grunklesmut]

Sex work - dubious consent - rough treatment - dead dove-y

Ao3 if you prefer

Another miserable day had faded into another lonely night. The rain was heavy, the constant tap, tap, tap was magnified on the metal roof, echoing all around him. He took a breath and sighed, slumping in his seat and watching the rain stream down the windshield, watching the blobs of water race down the glass.

Stan gripped the scratch card in his hand, clutching it in his fist as he sucked in air through his teeth, holding it, trying to count to ten, trying to keep himself grounded when he really wanted to kick something, but his temper was what got him in this mess in the first place.

It was late and the streetlights had flickered on further down the road. He'd parked just outside a dirty alley, not wanting to bring attention to himself. He barely had the gas to drive around if he was moved on, again. 

How did it get this bad?  

He could have lamented for hours, days, weeks about how it had gotten like this. He'd spent too many nights fighting back tears, thinking about how it was all his fault. 

Just like always.

He dropped the scratch card and cupped his face in his hands and let out a disgruntled, muffled shout into his palms. He needed the pain out of his chest somehow. Just a brief reprieve from the swirling thoughts that made his heart heavy.

What was he going to do? He couldn't even get out of town on the gas he had. Last night had been his last at the shitty motel. He looked at the postcard pinned to his dashboard. 

'Gravity Falls' 

Stanford was waiting for him, needed him. This could be his chance to win back his brother. Being there for Stanford in his time of need would surely mean everything in the past would be forgiven! Right? 

He just needed to peddle out a few last-minute schemes to wrangle gas money and something to eat. His stomach growled at that thought, and he mumbled, patting his belly. "Guess it wouldn't hurt to lose a few pounds.." he laughed to himself.

Lost in his own swirling thoughts, he didn't notice the shadowy figure next to his window until the rapping on the glass made him jump, hitting his head on the roof, he cursed in pain.

He glared at the window as he wound it down, expecting a cop to tell him he couldn't park here. Instead, it was an older man in a heavy coat holding an umbrella.

"What do ya want?" Stan snapped, rubbing his head and shooting the stranger a filthy look.

"Depends,  how much is your time worth?"

Wait, what? Stan rubbed his bump and squinted, trying to process just what the stranger with the audacity to hang on his window had meant.

"Oh, buddy. I ain't that kinda person, I'd fuck off if I was you cus I'm pretty sure I can put my foot up your ass," Stan threatened, about to open the door. 

The man stood there, peering into the window, how obvious it was from the mess and how unkept Stan’s appearance was. It was obvious that he was in trouble. And when people were at rock bottom, they’d do just about anything to scrabble out of that hole.

"I'll give you $30," Stans grip on the door handle faltered at the offer.

That would be enough for a full tank of gas.... The postcard seemed to wiggle in the breeze of the open window as if taunting him, egging him on.

"For what?" 

The stranger seemed to grin. "Just a blow job,"

Had Stan sunk this low? He caught sight of all his failed projects in the back seat.... Could feel how dirty the clothes he was wearing felt against his skin. Things would be better in Gravity Falls with his brother.

It was just a blow job, right? He'd been on the receiving end of enough of those to know what felt good. He'd never really paused to think about his own sexuality either.

But money was money and needs were needs 

"Alright,"

Shame and dignity weren't things Stan could afford. He got out of his car, locking the door before he followed the shifty man into the alley, deeper and darker away from prying eyes.

Stan shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he shivered. The rain was hitting his face and slipping down his loose-fitting clothes, causing a shiver. He could feel the reassuring cold metal of his knuckle dusters in his pocket, just in case.

The man paused at the end of the alley and leaned against the wall, nodding to the floor in front of him. Stan rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Come on! This is easy money!' he tried to remind himself as he knelt on the floor. The damp from the rain seeping into his jeans and soaking his knees. The man kept his umbrella up enough that Stan wouldn't get absolutely soaked but the bitter cold snapping at his flesh as he knelt was going to be hard to ignore.

"Come on then," the man barked, impatient at Stans lack of movement. Stan huffed his bangs out of his face and gave a glare. "Believe it or not, I ain't ever sucked someone's dick before!"

The stranger muttered something under his breath that Stan didn't quite catch. He glanced away when the man undid his pants and pulled out his cock.

"There, got the hard part done for you."

Stan grimaced at the sight, the nagging feeling of something crept down his spine and into the pit of his stomach. The long forgotten sensation of shame with an unhelpful tinge of nausea. 

"Come on, don't just stare at it, stupid."

He bit his lip, conflicted feelings of wanting to punch the guy in his semi-flaccid dick and the needle pricks in his heart from the times he'd been called stupid.

"Alright, alright, " Stan grunted and shuffled forward. He took a breath and reminded himself it was just a blow job between him and getting away from here.

Stan could tell the man was losing his patience and he didn't need another onslaught of degradation. He didn't need to be reminded of how his father spoke to him while he had someone's dick in his mouth. He had a lot of daddy issues but he drew the line at that particular flavour. 

He reached forward, hand around the base, working the semi up into a full erection. He breathed through his nose, bracing himself as he accepted the cock into his mouth. 

To say he had no idea was an understatement. "Come on, kid, you can do better. Just think what you like to have done."

Being called kid' when he was a full-grown adult caused his eyebrow to twitch in annoyance. But the advice wasn't half bad. Stan thought back to what he enjoyed... He started to lick the underside of the cock in his mouth as he took it deeper. His tongue rolling over the slit, teasing before he started to move his head, slowly bobbing his head up and down the length.

This wasn't 'so bad', certainly worth $30. Stan was suddenly taken aback when a hand roughly grabbed his hair and yanked him closer. He choked as the cock in his mouth hit the back of his throat. He slapped at the man's thighs and gagged around the cock. Choking and gasping, feeling tears prick his eyes.

"Breath through your nose and you'll be fine!" The man snapped, dropping the umbrella in favour of grabbing another handful of Stans hair, rising his hips to meet each time Stan was pulled down on him 

Stan briefly panicked wondering if this was how he was going to die. The shit his family would say flashed before his eyes before he tried to calm down, taking deep breaths through his nose as he used the man's thighs to brace himself and get into the rhythm. His scalp burned from the harsh contact but it helped to keep him motivated. Unable to move off the cock down his throat.

He flattened his tongue so the stranger's dick could glide over the wet warmth as he sucked and adjusted to the throat pounding.

"Fuck.. that's good..m I'm going to cum.... Jesus...." He pulled Stans hair harder, using the tangled brown locks to rut harder.

"I'm cumming...fuck..."

Stans eyes widened as he tried to pull away, the hands in his hair didn't let go, keeping him in place as the sudden bitter taste splashed over his tongue and down his throat.

The man let go of his hair and watched with amusement as Stan coughed and spluttered, desperately trying to catch his breath. Drool and cum dribbling from the corners of his swollen lips, he whipped the mess away on his sleeve. His chest still heaving as he glared at the man.

He could feel the wet ground on his ass, soaking his only good pair of pants. The cold was sobering to his flushed skin. An angry blush of shame and embarrassment coloured his cheeks.

"I thought you'd be awful but .. you must have a natural gift for sucking dick .. here." 

Stan watched as the man pulled out two crumpled $20 bills. "A tip," the man informed as he picked up his umbrella and handed him the money, ruffling his hair out of spite before he vanished.

Stan looked at the money, grasping it tightly as he felt tears welling up. This was it!

Gas money!

Onwards to Gravity Falls! He'd get to be with Ford again!

The extra ten could go on food. Though as he looked around the alley, the reminder of what he'd done.

He didn't have an appetite anymore.

[sleepyvib-es]

rick bringing percy and annabeth back in cameos just to consistently shit on their characters is enough to ruin my mood for at least a week

[keebwee]

no one will evr understand them like i do .... nobdoy will ever write them ciorrectly .. because they should nto be together at all they hate each other and would be horrible in a relationship but something deep and twisted inside me says they must for the plot. and i simply must consume ..... but no one does it right except 1 guy ive read.

[moreaujeans]

semi came out to someone for the first time last night

[im2tired4usernames]

Ugh I was excited for today until I found out I'd have to spend it with people that actively make me hate being alive hate the future and drain me off all energy physically mentally spiritually like a vampire I can't stand to be around her she is the definition of stupidity and even then that's generous as fuck this bitch has filled her brain with so much garbage I watch her brain cells die at alarming rates every single time she uses her vocal cords her giggles make me want to jam a sewing needle into my ear repeatedly so I can never have to hear it again its a friendly reminder that my parents decisions this time my dad's constantly makes me want to die

[eyekoninurarea]

Your Idol

→ daniela avanzini x fem!idol!masc!reader x sophia laforteza

masterlist | prev | next

word count: 10.1k

series summary: in which a struggling girl group was suddenly brought into light when their debut came out of nowhere. everyone thought SIREN5 was just hype; a chaotic rookie group with a pretty concept and no substance. even KATSEYE wasn’t expecting much when they were assigned to mentor them before debut. but the moment the music hit, everything changed.

chapter summary: in which after a traitor called your mother who promptly demanded you come home for a month to recuperate, the katseye girls suddenly found themselves caught in a whirlwind of luxury.

authors note: this is part two of chapter 6! because if I put all of it in one chapter it would've been 20k+ words and honestly that's a lot. also, this is the fluff apology for the first part <33 i love you guys so much, thank you for reading this fic <33

The characterization in this fic does not, in any way, reflect that of the real people portrayed in this fic.

tag(s): fluff, suggestive content, nsfw, mdni (pls i beg), no use of y/n, idol!reader being a loser trapped in a hot body, masc reader, reader having she/her pronouns, rough transitions, shitty characterization, messy, sex jokes, the author doesn't know how the music industry works, miscommunication, sapphic denial, shitty writing, mentions of blood, workaholic!reader, unhealthy coping mechanism, daniela confesses...kinda.

“I called your mother, by the way.”

You jerk upright, eyes wide.

“What?!”

“No, because why would you do that?” you whine, scrambling for your phone like it’s a ticking bomb. “She’s gonna-”

As if on cue it starts ringing. Of course.

You stare at the screen glowing with “Mother 👑👑👑” for a beat too long before answering with a resigned sigh.

“Hi, Mom. I’m okay, there’s nothing to worry about. It’s just overfatigue-”

“Good morning to you too, anak,” her voice is crisp, elegant, and already laced with disapproval.

“First of all, you know I don’t trust any doctor who wasn’t trained under Dr. Garcia or someone who doesn’t share our blood. Secondly, only Dr. Garcia is permitted to diagnose you. That is final. You’ll be seeing her within 48 hours.”

You flop back onto the pillows, defeated. “So… she’s flying over?”

“Who says?” another voice cuts in: deep, calm, unmistakably your father’s.

You sit up straighter, panic blooming in your chest. “Dad. Hi. No…wait. Don’t tell me-”

“Rina’s birthday is in three weeks. We always celebrate it here. You’re coming home.”

“Okay, yes, but I’m in a hiatus. We still need to train and prepare and stuff. We can’t just vanish off the face of the planet-”

“Again. Who says? Who asked for your hiatus in the first place?”

“…You didn’t.”

“We did. If you’re going to act like a teenager who collapses in public and keeps secrets from us, then you’re going to be treated like one. You’re staying home until further notice.”

“But the girls-”

“Bring them,” your mother says smoothly. “Their wing is being redecorated as we speak. Soundproofing, private bathrooms, room service, the works. We know how you idols need your privacy.”

“…You’re not serious.”

“Oh, and bring that Laforteza girl too,” your dad adds. “You’re dating her, right?”

“NO?! I am not dating anyone.”

There’s a beat of silence. A shared sigh.

“So who are you in love with?” they ask in unison.

“Why is that any of your business?”

“You are our daughter,” your mom says, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “Tell us before we find out ourselves.”

“You two are insane.”

“We’re efficient,” your father replies dryly. “We’ll send the Gulfstream. The one with 11 seats. Should be enough.”

“No, business class tickets would suffice please, I am begging, don’t make a spectacle-”

“Anak,” your mom says, tone flattening into disbelief

“You have three companies under your name, own two private jets, a real estate portfolio that makes your cousin cry, and a dedicated charity manager because your donations are too many for your actual assistants. You’re in a girl group watched by millions. Bragging isn’t even optional at this point, it’s logic.”

“…What’s your point.”

“We’re sending the jet.”

“But the smallest one, right?”

“Sure,” your dad says too quickly.

“…Okay. But Katseye has schedules and stuff, and I doubt-”

“Their schedule has been cleared. For a month.”

You freeze. “What.”

“What?” your mom echoes, tone perfectly innocent.

“You can’t just buy them!”

“Didn’t have to,” your dad replies. “Their label was very cooperative. See you at home, iha.”

The call ends.

You stare at the ceiling like it personally offended you, then slowly let your head fall back onto the pillow.

You’re going home. With your entire girl group. And Daniela too. And her girl group. And the only thing more terrifying than facing your members after what happened... is facing your parents with them.

God help you.

Daniela ran through the possibilities.

Who the hell had the kind of money to clear their schedule in a blink?

A month’s worth of appearances, shoots, and recordings gone. Wiped clean. Just like that.

She thought of billionaires. Politicians. Maybe some secret CEO of a conglomerate. A crime syndicate, even? A mafia princess?

Or, as Manon so helpfully offered over breakfast, “What if she’s secretly a vampire? Like, an immortal heiress who’s lived through centuries and just… collects empires.”

And then came the final blow.

“Katseye, right?”

A man in a perfectly tailored coat and tie greeted them at the airport entrance, clipboard in hand, earpiece gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

“We sincerely apologize for the delay. If you’d kindly step to the side, your chauffeur is ready.”

“…What chauffeur?” Megan blinked.

Their jaws dropped in unison.

Parked at the curb was not just a van, it was a luxury masterpiece, sleek and black, the kind of thing that looked bulletproof and kissed by royalty. Tinted windows, polished to a mirror shine, and doors that glided open like a cinematic dream.

“I’m afraid it’s still quite a drive to the private hangar,” the man continued. “Please have a little patience.”

Private hangar.

Daniela was expecting a budget red-eye flight, maybe a cramped business class upgrade if they were lucky. She wasn’t expecting this. She wasn’t expecting velvet seats and soft jazz humming from inside the vehicle. She definitely wasn’t expecting-

“Okay, is she just…royalty?” Lara said, mouth agape, spotting the champagne fridge tucked under a glowing shelf lined with six crystal flutes.

“I feel poor,” Manon whispered like she’d just seen God and He was made of diamonds.

“I’m scared to breathe in here,” Megan hissed, sitting on the edge of her seat like any wrong movement might trigger an alarm or a debt.

Yoonchae said nothing, but Daniela clocked the way her shoulders were squared, spine stiff like she was bracing for impact.

Sophia looked oddly composed; like maybe this wasn’t her first brush with wealth but even she couldn’t hide the slight twitch in her brow, like this wasn’t the kind of rich she was used to.

And Daniela? She sat motionless, wide-eyed, sinking slowly into buttery leather that probably cost more than anything she’s ever had in her life combined.

She hadn’t even touched the complimentary bottled water. The label was gold-foiled.

She glanced out the tinted window, brain short-circuiting.

Who the hell were you? And why the hell did you have a private hangar… with its own designated lounge?

More importantly, why were your members just lounging around like this was normal?

The moment KATSEYE stiffly stepped out of the black luxury van, they were ushered into a sleek, unfamiliar building. The cold air-conditioning hit their faces, and so did the overwhelming sight of very, very comfortable sirens.

Amara and Rina were sitting cross-legged on the floor, yelling at each other over Mario Kart displayed on a way-too-large flatscreen.

Cami was reclined on a massage chair, face mask on, cucumbers covering her eyes like she was in the middle of a skincare commercial.

Hana, in full glam, was sipping wine while scrolling Netflix on yet another huge TV.

They blinked.

“Are we hallucinating?” Megan whispered.

Hana turned toward them, smiling as if she were welcoming guests into her vacation home.

“Oh, you’re here! If you haven’t had breakfast yet, there’s a buffet just over there,” she said, gesturing casually to a corner of the lounge where actual chefs were plating smoked salmon. 

“The princess’s parents sent gift bags for each of you. Yours should be on the table by the mirror. And uh, basically, you can do whatever you want. The jet’s still being refueled and double-checked.”

Jet?

Before anyone could respond, Cami shrieked and ripped the cucumbers off her eyes.

“HI! You guys have to open your gift bags right now. I need to see your faces.”

Still stunned, staff members handed KATSEYE their respective bags; plush, black leather, and impossibly heavy. Inside, they found embroidered silk robes, fluffy slippers stitched with their names, full-sized luxury skincare, matching toothbrush kits, power banks, and what made all of them freeze, an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Cash.

“What…?” Lara breathed.

“For spending money, so that you don't have to convert to pesos” came a tired voice beside them.

Daniela turned and nearly jumped. You stood next to them, looking like you'd aged a century in a day. Stress clung to you like smoke.

“I swear, I didn’t know they were going to do this,” you muttered, rubbing your temple. 

“I tried to rein my family in. I begged them not to be... obnoxious. But apparently my voice means nothing when they get in their moods.”

As if on cue, a woman in a pristine suit entered from a side door, her heels clicking across the marble.

“It’s insulting to assume our family would settle for anything less than perfection for you,” she said crisply.

You sighed. “Everyone, this is my cousin-in-law. Josephine. Just call her Phine.”

The woman gave them a polite, practiced nod. “Pleasure. I’m also one of the many secretaries this princess has right now.”

“Don’t call me that,” you muttered.

Phine didn’t blink. “I’ll call you whatever I like.”

They hadn’t even fully recovered from the gift bags when the lounge staff politely approached and announced, “The jet is ready for boarding.”

Jet.

They were led through a glass corridor where sunlight spilled onto the tarmac, and that’s when they saw it.

A sleek, matte black jet glinted under the morning light, accented with sharp white paneling and soft gold detailing that shimmered like jewelry. It looked like something out of a dystopian sci-fi film: dangerous, beautiful, absurdly luxurious. The kind of vehicle that doesn’t just fly; it dominates the sky.

Manon was the first to speak. “That’s not a jet. That’s a Bond villain lair.”

“No, like…are we being recruited into a private army? A cult?” Megan whispered, her hand gripping her passport a little too tightly.

Daniela couldn’t even bring herself to respond. Her legs moved on their own, eyes wide, trying to memorize every line, every shadow, as if it might vanish if she blinked.

They ascended the private steps into a climate-controlled cabin that didn’t just feel expensive, it felt surreal. The door opened to a long, open space that stretched far beyond what any commercial airline had trained them to expect. A marble-accented dining table sat in the center, lined with twelve plush seats upholstered in soft cream leather. Further down, six more reclining chairs circled a sunken lounge space with a built-in entertainment system that made IMAX look modest.

To the right, a hallway led past an elegant kitchenette, no, kitchen, stocked with actual appliances and a wine fridge. Beyond that were rooms: a full-functioning bathroom with a rainfall shower, a suite with bunkbeds wrapped in silk curtains, and at the very end... a master bedroom.

An actual, honest-to-god master bedroom.

“This isn’t a jet,” Lara finally muttered. “It’s a flying hotel suite. No, a flying palace.”

Yoonchae silently wandered toward the window, lips slightly parted, like she wasn’t sure if this was a dream.

Sophia raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She was visibly rattled, though as always, she wore it well.

Just then, your assistant Phine reappeared with an iPad in hand and a clipped, cheerful voice. “You may sit wherever you’d like, please. Oh and if you can, kindly choose your dinner now so the chefs can get a head start on preparation.”

Chefs? Plural?

Daniela’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. She glanced at Sophia, who finally looked back at her, and in that rare moment, their eyes met in mutual, wordless horror.

They weren’t on a flight anymore. They were on your turf. And it was so wildly, recklessly lavish… it made them wonder just who you’d been this whole time. And what else you’d been hiding.

Before either of them could speak, Amara clapped a hand on their shoulder. “Don’t worry. You get used to it eventually.”

“Oh yeah,” Rina added from her reclined spot near the window, “remember when Cami got harassed at that bar downtown? Miss Princess over here bought the bar. Fired everyone. Turned it into a lesbian lounge with themed trivia nights and an open mic.”

“She renovated it within the week,” Amara confirmed with a grin. “It’s one of our go-to hangouts now.”

Daniela blinked. “Wait, she bought a bar…just like that?”

“Oh yeah. She has a spreadsheet for spontaneous moral vengeance. It’s color-coded,” Cami said, flopping into a seat with a dramatic sigh.

A voice groaned from the top of the stairs.

“Please. For the love of everything holy, stop calling me ‘princess.’” You appeared at the entrance, face buried in your hands. “It was one spreadsheet, and I was very mad that night.”

“Yeah, but you still kept the bar, and you asked me if the spreadsheet passed my standards.” Hana said, deadpan. You winced.

It wasn’t that you flaunted your wealth. In fact, you spent most of your teenage years trying to outrun it. Every summer, your parents would send you to different provinces in the Philippines: Tagaytay, Palawan, Bacolod, Bohol, just to make sure you didn’t grow up detached from the real world. You helped at markets. Learned to commute. Ate on banana leaves with your hands and walked home barefoot more than once.

And it worked, sort of. You never liked spending money on yourself. But you’d empty your wallet in seconds if it meant your friends were safe. Or smiling. Or not crying over something you had the power to fix. 

Still, it didn’t change the fact that you were, in many ways, deeply unfamiliar with normal life. You once asked if minimum wage workers had health insurance because you genuinely thought all jobs came with one. You’d cried when Amara lost her voice and she was rationing food just to get checked up. (You paid for everything in her life that month, especially the medical bills) You had no idea that a whole family could live on what your mom used to spend on throw pillows.

So, yeah. Sometimes you were out of touch. You were working on it.

Cami then turned to the others with a grin. “Did I ever tell you guys about the time we ran out of kimchi at the dorm and she had five kinds delivered from Korea overnight because she thought I looked sad?”

“Or! or when she ‘accidentally’ bid on a painting for a charity auction we went to and then found out it was worth more than our entire dorm lease?” Amara added, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“That wasn’t an accident, she hated the guy bidding against her,” Hana said knowingly.

“He had a pretty girl on his arm and still had the guts to flirt with another??? The greed is incomparable.” You huffed, settling down on another reclining chair as the pilot announced take off.

“Cousin dearest. Reminder that you’re obligated to wear a suit before you step off the plane.” Phine suddenly popped into view, swiveling her reclining seat to face yours. She pulled out a hidden table from the floor like this was a perfectly normal mid-air routine.

You groaned, dropping your head back. “Oh my god. Still? I didn’t bring one.”

“I know. That’s why I brought one. You can change when we’re an hour out. Just precaution, paparazzi might sneak in, though your cars will be waiting on the tarmac.”

“What about the Lafortezas?” you asked casually, throwing a sly smile at Sophia, who visibly gawked at the name.

“They’ve already been contacted. They’ll be on the tarmac too.”

You nodded, sighing. “Okay. What else?”

Phine pulled up her notes like a war general. “Your board of directors is requesting a meeting sometime this month.”

You groaned again. “What part of rest and vacation do they not understand?”

“Apparently, Zoom calls are insufficient,” she deadpanned. “Oh, and Stephanie wants to schedule a photoshoot with you.”

You blinked. “Stephanie? Our cousin Stephanie?”

“Yep.”

“She sells boxers. And sex toys.”

“Yep.”

“What? does she want me to wear a strap-on for the shoot?”

“She’s launching a line designed for women.”

Your eye twitched. “Okay, and what is she offering in return?”

Phine hesitated.

You narrowed your eyes. “She expects me to do it for free?”

“Well… she did say she’ll volunteer to babysit the kids tonight so you don’t have to deal with them.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

“Thought so.”

“Anything else?”

Phine nodded, already tapping on her tablet. “Yes. I need your itinerary so I can finalize the scheduling. Also, dietary restrictions and preferences for tonight’s party.”

You glanced across the cabin; your members were chatting, playing games, or lounging with mocktails in hand. Sophia looked like she hadn’t blinked since she stepped foot on the plane.

You sighed. “Okay. Schedule the charity visits for next week. And send me a list of safe tourist spots, make sure they’re scenic, but low-traffic.”

Phine nodded as she typed.

“Now for dinner… Sophia’s Filipino too, so make sure there’s a lot of Filipino food: sinigang, balut, isaw, kwek-kwek, and mangoes. She loves mangoes. Get guyabano juice too.”

You spotted Sophia glancing over, eyes wide in wonder and soft disbelief. She was definitely not used to being spoken about like a guest of honor.

“Manon is allergic to strawberries,” you continued, “so remove anything with strawberries from the menu entirely. Daniela likes spicy food, so make sure there’s some good Latin cuisine. Same for Lara, she’d kill for proper Indian food. Yoonchae’s Korean, so you better have kimchi, and fish cakes, and ramyeon. Megan’s allergic to cinnamon. Don’t let it near her. She likes longan and Hainanese chicken rice, so add that too. And keep all of this in mind for the rest of our stay, not just tonight.” You exhaled, finally sinking into your seat.

“You’re already tired? This isn’t even half of the work you leave me to do. Honestly, what would you do without me?” Phine gave you a smug look.

“Die.”

“Undoubtedly.”

The rest of the plane ride slipped into a comfortable hush. Josephine had long since claimed the master bedroom and locked it behind her for privacy. Typical. She never acted like your other secretaries; more efficient, more capable but also never hesitated to shut you down when you said or did something idiotic. Which, really, was exactly why she was your head secretary. That, and the fact that she’s married to your cousin.

“Hey.”

Daniela’s voice tugged you gently out of your thoughts. You looked up and saw her, bathed in the dim amber glow of the cabin lights, dressed in the silky sleepwear your mother had included in their gift bags. You blinked, honestly stunned for a moment, because she looked unreal, like something out of a dream you weren’t supposed to touch.

“Hey,” you murmured back, soft and almost unsure, like your voice might break if you spoke any louder. You gestured clumsily to the seat beside you, trying not to let your heartbeat leap into your throat.

She sat with quiet ease, tucking her legs beneath her like she belonged there, which made your stomach flip, because maybe she did.

You glanced around. Everyone else was asleep.

Amara and Lara were curled together beneath the same blanket, despite the obscene number of high-end blankets on this jet, and your brow lifted at the sight. Manon had claimed the couch, hood up, one of Rina’s plushies tucked under her chin. Rina was somehow curled around her giant teddy bear on a recliner, fetal and cozy. Yoonchae was by the window, headphones on, eyes fixed outward like she was watching the stars drift past. Cami and Megan were tangled on the other couch, and Sophia had fallen asleep with her headphones still in, her mouth slightly open in a way that made you smile.

It was soft. All of it. So much softer than you ever thought you’d have. You looked back at Daniela, who hadn’t taken her eyes off you.

“Everything okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, lower, like she didn’t want to disturb whatever fragile peace had formed between you.

You nodded faintly. “Yeah. Just… grateful.”

Her brow arched slightly. “Grateful?”

“For this. For all of you,” you said. Then, quieter, “For you.”

A flicker crossed her face, like she wanted to look away, but couldn’t. And then she leaned her head onto your shoulder, and you forgot how to breathe for a second. The weight of her there, the trust in it, nearly undid you.

For a while, neither of you said anything. You just sat in the hum of the jet, her hair brushing your cheek, her breathing syncing slowly with yours. You didn’t dare move.

Then, barely audible: “I’m grateful for you too,” she whispered.

Your heart squeezed.

“I’m…” Her voice cracked slightly. She twisted the hem of her sleeve around her finger. 

“I’m still figuring it out. What this is. What I’m feeling. What we are.”

You turned your head a little, careful not to startle her, but she kept her gaze down, lashes casting shadows over her cheeks.

“I’ve been scared,” she said, quieter still. 

“Not just of... this. But of me. Of how different it feels. Falling for someone who isn’t a guy. Falling for you. It’s like…I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know if I’m allowed.”

You didn’t speak. Not yet. You let her say it, let her get it all out.

“I see how everyone’s around you. Clinging to you. I barely get time with you anymore. It’s like they know you’ll slip away before I even figure out how to hold on.”

She gave a breathless laugh, hollow and soft. “Maybe they do.”

You reached for her hand. Not boldly, not confidently, just... hoping. Wanting. Pathetically, honestly. Your fingers found hers and froze for a second, until she softened, slowly, carefully letting her hand relax into yours.

“We don’t have to rush,” you said, your voice cracking on the first word. “I mean, unless you want to- wait no, not like that- I mean, like, emotionally? Not…ugh. Sorry. What I meant is… we can take it slow. Like, really slow. Like moss slow. Like... glacial... slow. Like…rising yeast bread slow.”

You shut your eyes in mortification. “God. I can’t believe I just compared our relationship to moss.”

Daniela blinked. And then she gave you a tiny, tiny smile. “Moss?”

“I panicked,” you muttered, staring at your lap. “I was trying to be soft and supportive and... romantic? And then the ecosystem happened.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, warm fingers squeezed yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her voice wasn’t mocking. It was fond. A little broken. Like she didn’t know how to hold the tenderness you were offering her, but she was trying anyway.

“I know,” you said with a nervous laugh. “But I mean it. We don’t have to have answers yet. We can just... exist. Moss-style. Or…or seaweed if you prefer. I’m very flexible.”

Finally, finally, she looked at you. Really looked. And it was like something had cracked open in her gaze, raw, glassy, aching.

“You promise?”

“I swear,” you said instantly. “On…on everything. On the moss. On my dumb metaphors. On the fact that I’m currently melting into my chair because you’re leaning on me and I don’t know how to function.”

She exhaled a laugh, watery and choked. “God, you’re so-”

“I know. I regret opening my mouth.”

She leaned into you more fully then, her head slipping to rest properly against your neck this time. Like she was letting herself be held. Like she was finally giving herself permission to rest.

“I always thought you were out of reach,” she murmured. “Too good. Too bright. Too... everything. And then I hated myself for wanting you anyway.”

Your heart splintered in a hundred different directions.

“Daniela. You’re…you’re you. You’re like, global superstar, core strength goddess, dance legend. People cry when you breathe on camera. I literally wrote fake letters to God as a joke asking if I could stand near you once. You’re the one who’s out of reach.”

She snorted. And then buried her face in your shoulder, muffling the next part 

“Don’t make me fall harder.”

“Too late? Maybe? I don’t know. I’ve been making a fool of myself over you for months. Like, full-blown idiot. Cinematic idiot. Daydreaming, pining, ‘accidentally stared at your abs and ass during rehearsal’ idiot.” You laughed, awkward and a little panicked. 

She tilted her head up. “You mean that?”

“Daniela, I like like you. Not in a ‘you’re cool bro’ way. In a ‘I’m genuinely concerned I’ll die if you look at me too long’ kind of way.”

Her lips curled into something sweet and sad and deeply amused.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Slow. Scared. Moss-growing kind of love.”

“Exactly,” you said, voice cracking with a grin you couldn’t hide. “We’ll be the most anxious, slow-burning moss of all time.”

And in the hush of the plane, with her head on your shoulder and her hand in yours, she let herself believe it, just enough for tonight.

The jet wheels touched the runway with a gentle thud, and before the cabin lights even flickered back to full brightness, your eyes squinted through the oval window.

Four black limousines. Driving straight onto the tarmac.

You groaned. Loudly.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand over your face. “They sent four.”

Daniela, still leaning against your side in a half-asleep daze, blinked and followed your gaze out the window. “Are those… limos?”

You slumped deeper into your seat. “Yes. And I guarantee you one of them is just for your bags.”

Sure enough, as the plane rolled to a stop and the door unlocked with a hiss, you saw uniformed staff lining up with umbrellas and trays of bottled water, on the tarmac. One of them had a bouquet. A full bouquet. And a fucking welcome back banner.

The moment you stepped off the jet, a wave of sticky Manila air hit you square in the face…along with your mother’s voice.

“There’s my baby!”

You barely had time to brace before she barreled into you, arms thrown wide like you hadn’t just landed in a private jet with your name stitched into the headrests. You felt your muscles flex as you barely caught her in your arms

“Mama,” you warned, but she was already wrapping you in a dramatic hug, patting your hair like you’d just returned from war.

“You’ve lost weight! You’re thinner than your last livestream. Have you been eating enough? You didn’t faint again, right? Josephine was supposed to-”

“I’m fine, Mama,” you groaned, wriggling free just as your father swooped in from the side, armed with a handheld fan and indoor sunglasses.

“You’re sweating,” he said with a frown, angling the fan over your face like you were some fainting Victorian heiress. 

“We should’ve sent the air-conditioned SUV straight onto the tarmac.”

He shot Josephine with a disappointed look, like she’d failed a classified mission.

“They landed at sunset, Uncle,” Josephine replied, unfazed, adjusting her glasses. “No heatstroke. Yet.”

“And that,” your mother cut in with flair, gesturing toward one of the four limos like she was revealing a prize on a game show, “is why you and Josephine are riding with us straight to Dr. Garcia. Your check-up is at 7:30.”

You let out a groan loud enough that half the girls behind you laughed.

“Ma, seriously? I just landed!”

“She’s the only doctor I trust with your immune system,” your mom said with finality. “And you haven’t had blood work done since February!”

“I’m twenty-two!”

“And still my baby,” she said, cupping your face as if that settled everything.

“She’ll be fine, Tita,” Amara called from behind you, slinging her arms around Lara’s shoulders.

“She looks fine now,” your dad muttered darkly. “But none of you saw her in fifth grade when she passed out in choir because she skipped breakfast.”

“That was one time!”

“That was traumatic.”

Josephine was already in the limo, scrolling through her iPad like none of this concerned her. “I’ve sent your updated charts. You’re due for an iron infusion and a thyroid scan. Get in.”

You looked back at the girls, SIREN5 and KATSEYE both, who were valiantly trying not to burst out laughing. Lara had even raised her phone.

“Don’t you dare film this,” you hissed.

Daniela blew you a kiss. “See you at your house, mama’s girl.”

You rolled your eyes and climbed into the limo like a prisoner of war. The door shut with a soft click. Your father immediately presented you with a ginger shot on a silver tray.

You stared at it. Then at him. “Papa. Please.”

“It’s good for circulation and also very good for your throat.”

“Mama, Papa, I love you both but you’re actually unwell. Insane actually.”

Your mother gave you a beatific smile. “It’s called parenting.”

“I thought the LaFortezas would be here?”

“Oh, they’re already at the house.”

You paused. “...Mama, Papa. Did you take down the family photos?”

They exchanged a look.

“No,” your mom said, a little too proudly.

“Mama. There’s a framed picture of me hanging from the second-floor railings in nothing but a diaper. I’m three.”

“Exactly! So cute.”

“Mama-”

“It captures your essence!”

You slumped back in the leather seat and covered your face with your hands. “I’m going to change my name and vanish into the earth.”

“You can afford to,” your dad said brightly.

You were barely seated in the pristine white consultation room before Dr. Garcia pushed up her glasses and let out a sigh that could’ve powered an entire hospital.

“I watched the footage,” she said, scrolling through her tablet like it personally offended her. “You kept performing. With a nosebleed.”

Your mother made a distressed sound beside you while your father muttered something in Tagalog that roughly translated to, “Stubborn just like her mother.”

“I dabbed it with my sleeve!” you argued, weakly.

“You’re not supposed to dab your own blood during a live performance,” Dr. Garcia snapped. “You’re supposed to stop and sit down, maybe tell someone you’re hemorrhaging out your face.”

“It wasn’t hemorrhaging,” you mumbled. “Just a little-”

“It streaked down your chin,” Josephine chimed in helpfully from the corner. “Was very metal. Fans were screaming. If I was there, I would offer you 2 tampons.”

You shot her a glare.

Dr. Garcia turned her screen toward you. “You’re lucky this wasn’t something more serious. It’s likely due to a combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and the fact that your iron levels are flirting with rock bottom. You’re overworked.”

“She always overdoes it,” your mom said, wringing her hands. “We told her not to push so hard-”

“Oh, and the rest of your body agrees,” the doctor continued, gently taking your wrist. “Bruising along the knees and thighs? Definitely impact bruises from choreography. Mild swelling in your ankles, strain in your left wrist. And these?” [a/n: oh yes definitely choreography…]

She held up your hand. Your fingertips were red and raw, tiny cuts breaking the skin like angry reminders.

“From guitar practice,” Dr. Garcia said, unimpressed. “Four to five hours a day, you said?”

“…Yes,” you muttered.

“Without callus rest days? You’re lucky they didn’t blister and split open. You’re playing like you’re auditioning for a Fingerstyle Death Match.”

Your father grimaced. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Josephine shrugged.

Dr. Garcia straightened. “You are not to exert yourself like this again, do you understand? Your body is giving you warning signs, and you keep slapping a sticker over the check engine light and pretending it’s fine.”

“I can rest,” you said, then immediately added, “after someone lifts my hiatus.” you shot a look to your mother

Your mom let out a horrified gasp.

“Absolutely not!” Dr. Garcia said. “You are taking at least one week off now. Minimum. No physical rehearsals. No performances. No late-night guitar battles with your inner demons.”

You sulked. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Here’s what we’re doing,” she continued, ticking items off her fingers. “Sleep: eight hours, non-negotiable. Water: at least three liters a day. Diet: high iron, low caffeine, no alcohol, and none of those vitamin gummies you keep calling dinner. You’ll ice your joints, take anti-inflammatories, disinfect those cuts daily, and sit down. Preferably somewhere soft.”

“She can stay in her room,” your mom added quickly. “We already prepared it. Blackout curtains, air purifier, no noise, no screens past ten PM.”

Dr. Garcia beamed. “Excellent. That’ll help her recover faster.”

Your father crossed his arms. “What about phone use?”

“Supervised,” Dr. Garcia smirked. “If she gets too fidgety, you can give her a fidget toy. Or let her knit.”

“I don’t knit,” you groaned. “I’m not eighty.”

“Well, you’re acting like you’re invincible,” she said, softening just slightly. “But you’re still human, sweetheart. And you need to take care of this body like it’s the only one you have. Because it is.”

You shifted under the weight of all their eyes. “...I get it.”

Dr. Garcia smiled gently. “Good. Now go rest. Or I swear, I’ll drag you back here and hook you up to an IV drip in public. I guarantee your fans will see it.”

You shivered. “You are so scary for a family doctor.”

“And you’re lucky I care enough to be,” she said, patting your shoulder with a firm squeeze. “Now go. Your room’s waiting. And no guitar. Not even to tune it.”

As you stepped out of her office, your mom immediately looped her arm through yours, like she’d been waiting to rescue you from the world itself.

“I already cooked your favorites,” she announced with pride.

“And we’ll pardon your no-alcohol rule just for tonight,” your father added with a mischievous wink, earning a swift, scandalized slap on the arm from your mom.

“Antonio!”

“Elenore!” your father sang back with theatrical flair.

You rolled your eyes. “Yes, these two are the richest people in the Philippines. Ranked nine in the world. Lord, help me.”

They continued their playful bickering as the staff opened the grand hospital doors for you. Your private driver held the car door open and you slid into the familiar buttery leather seats of the family limo. Josephine was already inside, nose buried in her tablet, fingers flying across the screen as she quietly updated your schedule.

The drive home was peaceful, at least, by your standards. Your father took a few business calls in Spanish, your mother dictated a PR statement in French, and Josephine, ever the multitasker, quietly handled your team and label’s concerns while occasionally sliding documents across your lap for approval. You idly flipped through a printed itinerary and blinked. She’d organized everything for the next two weeks, doctor’s appointments, rest days, spa sessions, gentle rehearsals, even wardrobe fittings for casual housewear.

“How the hell did you get this printed and bound?” you muttered, flipping through the pages in awe.

Josephine didn’t look up. “Priorities.”

Before you could ask her what printer she used and how you could weaponize it, the limo passed through the final checkpoint of your family estate and you heard the telltale hum of the metal gates parting.

Home.

Your shoulders finally eased, the tension slipping off as you took in the view that never failed to ground you.

The circular driveway curved around a marble fountain at its heart; an intricately sculpted siren perched on a jagged rock, her eyes cast upward, water spilling gracefully from the conch shell she held to her lips. You remembered the day it was installed, your eighth birthday, the year you'd whispered wishes into its waters, tossing coins and praying you’d become a star.

The main house stood ahead like a palace remembering its roots. Three stories of warm sandstone imported from Spain, offset with gold-trimmed windows and balconies wrapped in bougainvillea vines. The hedges were freshly clipped, the lamps glowing soft amber under the dusk light. You could already hear the low hum of violins from the garden sound system, blending with the faint buzz of cicadas. The automatic wrought iron gates had barely shut behind your car before the massive mahogany doors creaked open, revealing a line of house staff bowing in practiced unison.

From the foyer, your childhood nanny waved at you with both hands, beaming. The floors gleamed: marble, veined with rose gold. The chandelier, a new addition, had been flown in from Prague. The whole house smelled like jasmine, eucalyptus, and something distinctly garlicky.

"Is that garlic rice?" you asked aloud, nose twitching.

"Your mom’s adobo," Josephine confirmed, not looking up from her tablet. “She made the kitchen do five kinds. Including the one you pretend not to like but always finish.”

You stepped out, rolling your shoulders. “So, which wing did KATSEYE get?”

“South wing,” Josephine replied crisply, tapping something on her screen. “Best view of the orchard and private pool. Plus, they’ll be far enough not to hear your 7 a.m. vocal drills. You’re welcome.”

“And east wing is still SIREN5 territory?” you asked. “The beanbags? The pink lighting? The 100-inch projector screen? The gaming wall?”

“Intact,” she said. Then glanced up. “Though I did remove the vintage vodka you and Cami hid inside the PS5 box.”

You gasped. “That was for emergencies!”

“It was cheap and expired,” she said flatly. “You’re lucky it didn’t melt the casing.”

You squinted. “Fine. South wing for KATSEYE. A or B?”

“B,” she said. “A is reserved for your titas and titos. They flew in early for tonight’s dinner.” [aunts and uncles]

You groaned audibly as you stepped into the foyer, the scent of eucalyptus and polished wood invading your senses.

“Don’t tell me the dinner’s still happening.”

Josephine didn’t miss a beat. She handed you another stapled packet with the crisp efficiency of someone who’d been running your life for years.

“Page twelve. Seating chart. You’re between two CEOs and your senator uncle. No backing out.”

You peeled the page open with the same energy as someone opening an envelope from the IRS.

“Great. Can’t wait to get grilled about crypto, GDP projections, and marriage.”

“You are your family’s golden girl,” she replied with a too-sweet smile. “You bleed on stage once, and suddenly you're everyone’s cautionary tale and investment.”

You gave her a deadpan stare. “You are my biggest blessing and my worst curse.”

She tucked the itinerary back into her tablet sleeve. “That’s why you pay me millies.”

You exhaled through your nose, already mentally bracing for what the evening would bring. You could picture it now; your extended family draped in designer formalwear, each one dripping in old money and old expectations. The long mahogany dining table would be flanked by velvet chairs and lined with imported candelabras, the flickering light bouncing off crystal wine glasses and bone china no one ever used unless there were guests or godparents around. But tonight? No outsiders. No managers. No label reps. 

Just family. And KATSEYE Which, of course, made it so much worse.

The house staff had been prepping for days, you heard the whispers on the flight back. Three imported flower arrangements were flown in just for the centerpieces. The chef had been rehearsing the same seven-course menu all week under your mom’s eagle eye. And your father had apparently re-written his toast four times already. Something about “artistry being a family trait.”

You adjusted your tie like armor. “Remind me to sneak vodka into my water glass.”

“I already arranged for a wine decanter to be placed next to your setting,” Josephine deadpanned. “Chateau Margaux. 1998. Just… at least pretend to behave until the bishop leaves.”

You almost smiled at that. “You are too good to me.”

“No, I’m just good at my job.”

You glanced up again at your childhood home. The warm stone walls looked like honey in the golden hour light, framed by bougainvillea that climbed the balcony railings like they had a mind of their own. Every arch, every antique sconce, every ridiculous gilded detail was etched into your memory. It was a palace you’d grown up in, and sometimes felt trapped in.

And now you were back. Bandaged fingers, bruised knees, blood-stained performance memories and all. Facing the people who made you. And expecting you to still be the prodigy they raised you to be.

“Let’s get this over with,” you muttered.

“Dinner or healing?” Josephine asked without looking up from her tablet.

You didn’t answer.

Both, probably.

“Also,” she added smoothly, “you still have a fitting for the dinner.”

Your jaw tightened. “When?”

“Right now.”

You turned your head slowly. “Josephine. Do not put me in a dress.”

She arched a brow. “We all know your preferences. Custom tux. Velvet lapels. Midnight blue. Matching shoes. It’s already in the east wing closet.”

You blinked. “…Did you get the boots?”

“The ones with the silver buckle. Yes. I also had the soles reinforced. You walk like a demon, dragging your feet and shit.”

You bit back your smile. “I love you.”

She didn’t flinch. “You owe me a raise.”

You had warned them the house was big. But no one was prepared for this.

“Are we… inside a museum?” Manon whispered, brushing a gloved hand against a gold-framed oil painting in the hallway. Her fingers hovered like she was afraid to touch it. “Do we need boot covers?”

“I’m scared to sneeze,” Megan murmured, clutching her clutch like it might protect her from the consequences of breathing wrong.

Daniela said nothing.

She was too busy taking it all in.

Polished hardwood floors so glossy they reflected the chandeliers above, yes, plural. Vaulted ceilings with hand-painted frescoes. Gilded mirrors. Velvet drapes so heavy they probably required their own structural support. Every corner was a flex. Every detail intentional.

The hallway, no, gallery they were led through was long and hushed, lined with antique vases on marble pedestals. Two house staff in formalwear escorted them without a word, only nodding politely when they opened the double doors at the end.

Inside, the dressing suite was larger than most apartments Daniela had lived in. Racks of tailored gowns and tuxedos filled one wall. A raised platform and full-length mirrors dominated the center. Stylists moved like a small army, armed with garment bags and tape measures that snapped open like blades.

A woman with a sleek chignon and a tablet barely looked up. “Welcome to the south wing,” she said. “The orchard view is better from this side. Please avoid tracking pollen into the dining hall.”

“Dining hall?” Yoonchae echoed faintly, her eyes wide.

Sophia stepped to the window and immediately jerked back. “Is that a maze? Who has a literal hedge maze in their backyard?”

“Rich people,” Megan replied dryly, already halfway into a backless gown like this wasn’t her first black-tie rodeo.

Daniela didn’t speak. But she did glance once toward the door, wondering where you were.

A deep plum suit was placed gently into her hands: rich, matte fabric, lapels detailed with a subtle line of jet beadwork that shimmered beneath the chandelier’s glow. She didn’t need to ask. It was exactly her style.

Which meant you chose it.

You always pretended not to meddle, but you did. In quiet ways. In ways that said you knew her better than she let on.

She slipped it on. Adjusted the collar. Smoothed the sleeves. In the mirror, she looked... regal. Like someone who belonged in rooms like this. But she didn’t. Not really. None of them did.

Still, as she caught sight of the oil paintings again, the silver trays stacked with monogrammed water bottles, the gold-detailed tailoring scissors glinting beside a crystal dish of pins, she didn’t judge it.

Because she understood you better now. All of this? It wasn’t luxury to you. It was normal. Familiar. Inescapable.

And tonight, she’d sit through your family’s long-winded speeches, nod through veiled critiques dressed up as compliments. Watch you fake smile across the candlelit table while dodging questions about legacy and expectations. If she was lucky, maybe you’d catch her eye. Maybe you’d even slip away for a moment together, somewhere behind the south wing’s double doors.

Maybe. But first, she adjusted her cufflinks and squared her shoulders. There was a senator, two CEOs, and your mother to survive. And she would.

Because you were worth it.

She was reminded of that the second she saw you enter the ballroom, yes, your house had a ballroom because of course you did. You appeared at the top of the grand spiral staircase, flanked by your parents like royalty. Your expression was poised, polished. The soft shimmer of your deep navy tuxedo caught the chandelier’s glow, haloing you in starlight.

Daniela didn’t realize she was holding her breath until Cami leaned in beside her, lips brushing the rim of her wine glass.

“You all look like you’re about to faint.”

“Who wouldn’t?” Daniela murmured back, eyes still fixed on you.

“We were too, the first time it happened,” Amara said, slipping in on her other side with a knowing smirk. “Crash course time.”

She pointed discreetly. “That’s her senator uncle, don’t bother, he only talks politics. Her distant cousin? The bishop. Only one in this whole building who still thinks we’re going to hell.”

“Charming,” Daniela muttered.

“That’s her designer aunt,” Amara went on, undeterred. “Stephanie, her cousin, owns a chain of… well, adult shops. Cielo? Concert pianist. Kathrinah, competitive figure skater. Oh, and see the blonde in the red gown? That’s her dad’s only sister. No partner, no kids, and completely obsessed with your girl.”

“She’s not my-” Daniela began, cheeks flushing.

“Yet,” Cami cut in, grinning. “We heard you on the plane, by the way.”

Before she could respond, a cool voice drifted behind her.

“Hurt her again, and I’ll make sure you never see her outside a screen ever again.”

Daniela turned. Hana stood behind them, expression unreadable.

“Hana, why are you threatening my members?” Sophia asked casually, sauntering over and slipping an arm around Daniela’s waist.

“Just making sure she doesn’t break our baby’s heart again.”

Sophia didn’t even blink. “Oh, then by all means, continue.”

“Sophia!” Daniela hissed, scandalized.

But none of them were really listening. Their eyes were back on you, on the way you smiled tightly at your family, the way your hands stayed folded, still bandaged from rehearsal. You were a perfect picture of grace and legacy.

And yet, Daniela knew what it took to hold yourself that still.

She hoped you’d look her way soon. Because she was here.

And this time, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Sophia let go of her arm as she drifted back toward her parents, gliding like she belonged in a ballroom. Daniela watched her wave you over with a bright, familiar grin. She caught the way you leaned toward your family to murmur a polite excuse, the subtle bow of your head, the way your eyes flicked over to their table. You smiled, this time more gently, before your gaze shifted to Sophia’s parents.

“Good evening po, Mr. and Mrs. Laforteza. Pwede po bang magmano?” you greeted, tone warm and bright, bending slightly to bring their hands to your forehead in the traditional gesture of respect.

“Ay naku, napaka-galang naman,” Mrs. Laforteza beamed. “Don’t be too formal, anak. It makes me feel old!”

[Oh gosh, you’re so polite]

“Sa totoo lang, kami nga dapat mag thank you sayo. Your home is gorgeous. I didn’t know you were their daughter. Sophia talks a lot about you” Mr. Laforteza says, clapping a hand over your shoulder

[In truth, I believe it’s us who should thank you.]

“Yes sir, thank you for the compliment. I hope she only mentioned good things. She’s been taking care of me in LA, she’s being a good ate to me and I must ask you if you’d be willing to adopt me?” 

“Kasal nalang, ayaw mo?” Mr. Laforteza laughs heartily

[How about marriage? Do you not want to?]

“Dad!” Sophia swats her father, embarrassed, ears turning red

Although Daniela wasn’t fluent in the language you and Sophia share, she knew enough to understand. Kasal. Marriage. She found herself clutching her wine glass a little bit tighter, the sangria suddenly tasting bitter, like something decaying beneath the fruit

She hears you laugh, skillfully avoiding the conversation with practiced ease, as if you’ve done this countless times before. Had there been marriage talks before? Ones offered to you, yet rejected gracefully? Had you done this before? Politely danced around proposals, family friends, names offered and dismissed? How many people had tried to claim you already?

In her deep thoughts, she didn’t notice the string quartet shifted seamlessly into something softer, rich violins swelling as the band eased into a slow, elegant waltz. The chatter around the ballroom dulled into something golden and distant, like the fading hum of a spotlight crowd. Crystal glasses clinked. Laughter drifted like perfume. Footsteps began to circle the polished marble floor.

And then there was you.

Daniela barely had time to register your approach before you were already there, a half-glass of champagne in one hand and your other hand extended toward her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Dance with me?” you asked softly, with that smile, not the press one, not the trained polite curl you’d worn all night, but the real one. The one you gave her when you were tired, when you were vulnerable. The one that meant you trusted her.

Her eyes flicked to your family across the room. To your senator uncle deep in political conversation, to your aunt critiquing canapés, to your cousin trying to impress Megan with fluent French.

And then back to you. Hair slicked perfectly, suit sculpted to your frame, looking like a walking legacy, until she caught the slight red on your knuckle, the faint fading trace of a nosebleed no one else noticed.

Daniela set her wine down.

“Of course.”

Your fingers laced together easily. You led her into the open space between the long tables and chandeliers, where only a few couples had started to sway. No spotlight. No cameras. Just you and her and the music.

She settled one hand on your shoulder, the other in yours. You were warm. Grounded. Real in a way this house often wasn’t.

“You look like you’re holding up,” she murmured.

You smiled wryly, glancing over her shoulder. “Barely. I thought I’d pass out during grace.”

She laughed, low and soft. “I saw you dab your nose. Was it bleeding again?”

“Just a little. I was hoping no one noticed.”

“I notice everything about you,” she said before she could stop herself.

Your grip tightened just slightly, and your eyes flicked up to meet hers. No teasing. No jokes. Just heat. And history. And something that crackled quietly beneath the surface. You swayed together, steps slow, practiced, your breath mixing with hers in the delicate space between cheek and jaw.

“I’m glad you’re here,” you said after a moment.

“I never left,” she answered, even if both of you knew that wasn’t entirely true.

“I hope you know waltz.”

Your voice came low, warm with amusement as you adjusted your position. She blinked at you, lips parting just slightly in surprise.

“I know enough to survive,” she replied, slipping her hand into yours.

You didn’t give her time to overthink. With a gentle tug, you pulled her forward, the two of you stepping into the edge of the polished dance floor just as the live string ensemble shifted into a slow Viennese waltz; lilting, sweeping, the kind of song that asked for grace and secrets and tension that simmered just beneath satin.

The moment your palm pressed flat against her back and your other hand interlaced with hers, Daniela realized you weren’t joking. Your frame was poised, leading her with the practiced confidence of someone who’d done this since childhood, someone who’d been trained in the language of appearances, of dinners with ambassadors and recitals for senators. And now here she was, letting you guide her across a ballroom in your family’s ancestral home, with a damn chandelier hanging overhead like something out of a period drama.

“Left foot first,” you murmured, your breath brushing her temple.

She nodded. You took the lead gently but firmly; your steps smooth, curved, rhythm matched perfectly to the ¾ time. You swept her into the flow like you’d done this in every lifetime, your bodies moving counterclockwise around the floor, hips close but not touching, the space between you taut with restraint.

Your left hand held hers aloft in a delicate frame, and your right stayed steady against the back of her ribs, fingers warm, anchoring her when the room spun in crescendos.

“You’re better at this than I expected,” Daniela whispered.

You smiled without looking down. “Twelve years of forced cotillion. I better be.”

Her laugh was breathy, and her fingers curled tighter in yours. All around you, the other dancers blurred into a kaleidoscope of movement and silk, but Daniela didn’t see them, only you. Your tailored suit. Your flushed cheeks from the wine and heat and dancing. The way your eyes held hers, steady and quiet and glowing, like you were afraid to blink and miss this.

“I’m glad you asked me,” she said.

You glanced down, just once, your expression unreadable for half a beat.

“I almost didn’t.”

“Why?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Your steps slowed with the music, turning her gently through a pivot before easing back into hold. Your voice was quieter when it came again:

“Because I didn’t want it to be part of the show. Because I wasn’t sure if I wanted them to see you, to know you. But I couldn’t let tonight pass without at least one real moment, with you.”

Daniela swallowed. Her hand ached from how tightly she was holding yours, but she didn’t let go.

“This is real,” she said. “Right now, this. Us. it’s real. We’re real.”

You nodded once. And in the lull between chords, in the slow sway of the last turn, your eyes met hers again with that look, the one that said everything neither of you was ready to say out loud. Not yet.

But maybe soon.

You leaned in just slightly, breath warm near her ear. “Want to complete this princess fantasy and join me for a break on the balcony?”

The question was a whisper. An invitation wrapped in velvet.

Daniela’s lips curved. “Yes.”

You didn’t wait. You took her hand, your callused fingertips brushing against her own polished ones, and guided her off the marble dance floor with more grace than you ever felt. You snagged two champagne flutes from a passing silver tray like it was second nature (even though you nearly tripped on the hem of your damn coat), and led her through the arched glass doors that opened to the moonlit balcony.

The garden sprawled below: fountains, hedges, and lantern-lit paths coiling through roses and bougainvillea, the air thick with the scent of jasmine, lavender and citrus. Somewhere in the distance, the soft echo of music and laughter bled into the night. Out here, though, it was quieter. Cooler. Just you and her.

“I’m sorry,” you blurted, already half-turning to her.

Daniela raised a brow. “For what?”

“For this whole… affair.” You motioned to the grandeur around you with your flute. “I wasn’t expecting it to be this lavish. I mean, I knew it would be. I just didn’t want to believe it. I hoped it’d be a small, casual thing. Like… pizza and pajamas or something.”

Daniela smiled. “Your family doesn’t seem like the pizza and pajamas type.”

“They really aren’t,” you sighed. “They like to go big. Always have.”

She took a small sip of her drink and waited.

“I love them, though,” you continued. “Even when they’re extra. Especially my parents. They adopted me when they didn’t have to. Raised me like I was theirs from the beginning. I don’t know the full story of where I came from…no one talks about it. And I never asked. But they gave me everything. They are everything.”

Daniela said nothing, letting you speak. Letting you breathe.

“And it’s hard, living like this,” you admitted, eyes flicking down to your boots, shifting awkwardly. “They taught me to blend in. To move with quiet grace, to make my money invisible. I had etiquette classes one day and ‘how to be normal’ lessons the next. They made me travel across the country with my nanny, Manang Aida, to understand people. Cultures. Dialects. Lives that weren’t mine.”

Your voice softened. “And then I started getting obsessed with things. Ice skating, volleyball, guitar, piano, bass, dancing, music. I graduated valedictorian. Bachelor of Fine Arts in Music.”

Daniela blinked. “You’re smart smart.”

You rolled your eyes, chuckling. “Please. Then my parents casually handed me three companies and said, ‘Do what you want. Burn them to the ground if you must.’ I didn’t have business experience, but somehow… they grew. So I hired Josephine. Then three assistants. And then…”

You hesitated. Your voice dropped. “I started spending my own money on SIREN5.”

Daniela straightened slightly.

“They don’t know,” you said quickly. “Please don’t tell them. The label was basically dead thirteen months into training. Amara was rationing medicine. So I had Phine move some things around. I didn’t buy the label, promise. But... I might’ve told her to do something about it.”

Daniela looked at you, processing. “…You didn’t know she sold it to Geffen, did you?”

“No!” you wailed, rubbing your face with your free hand. “I didn’t use my money to get closer to you, I swear. I mean-not like that. I didn’t even know it’d end up under you- with you…whatever. Ugh. I sound insane.”

She laughed quietly. “A little.”

“Also,” you mumbled, “I donate. A lot. To hospitals. Orphanages. Schools. And I still don’t see the end of my damn bank accounts. Accounts plural, by the way. My parents made me open one in every major market. Currency conversion is apparently ‘beneath me.’” You did air quotes, looking properly offended.

Daniela tilted her head at you. “You’re impossible.”

“Hopeless,” you corrected with a soft grin. “But um…”

You hesitated. Your voice got quieter.

“You look really beautiful tonight. In that plum suit. I sketched something rough, but Aunt Rosalinda cleaned it up. She always makes things better. I just… I wanted you to look like you belonged here. Because you do.”

Daniela felt her breath catch, just a little. “Thank you.”

There was a long pause.

“Can I kiss you?” you blurted.

She blinked. “I thought we were taking this slow?”

“We are! We are. I just…sorry- I’m just-" You laughed awkwardly, rubbing the back of your neck. “I should go back.”

“Kiss me.”

You froze. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You stepped into her space slowly, boots clicking softly against the stone balcony. The moonlight caught on your midnight blue suit, subtle embroidery glinting like starlight. Your high boots made you just slightly taller than her, and Daniela realized it was the first time she had to look up at you.

But you still looked like the same nervous loser she met in the training room. Just dressed like royalty.

You slid one arm around her waist, the other gently cupping her cheek, eyes scanning hers for hesitation. She gave none.

You leaned in.

And pressed a soft kiss: warm, careful, to the corner of her lips. Not quite there.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I drank too much tonight, vodka, champagne, rosé, like… wine and a bunch of other things I probably shouldn’t have mixed. I didn’t want our first kiss to taste like alcohol. You don’t deserve that.”

Daniela’s chest ached. She reached up, fingers brushing your collar. And pulled you in, her nails playing with the stray baby hairs tickling the nape of your neck

“Then kiss me when you’re sober,” she whispered.

“I plan to,” you whispered back. “You deserve everything.”

And for once, under moonlight, above a glowing ballroom, in a story too ridiculous to be real

She believed you.

taglist: @awkwardtoafault, @cheerlanader, @kianthegirlkisser, @teenybean, @skittledemon66, @hydrardz, @hotluvlet, @skriri, @ssamachiii, @iamconfusedrightnow, @pizzachicken, @aelien1, @yjiminswallet, @kathleenmikaelson, @gay-panic-at-all-times, @wandaromamoff69, @amishreyac

[laurelwinchester]

at some point a certain fandom within the spn fandom is going to have to do some self reflection and figure out why they're so

a) wildly entitled for no reason

and b) utterly obsessed with portraying themselves as victims because they didn't get what they wanted out of a fictional ship on a cw television series.

[ratsword]

internet not big enough...saw what is unmistakably his art style and felt like vomiting. it's crazy how someone can continue to poison you even after years of being blocked.

[voulezloux]

tw abuse in the tags

[arolesbianism]

Thinks oh so hard abt the spiraling upwards clan founders, especially the birchclan founders. Silly lil kitties who's pasts are drenched in blood with the primary regret of not drawing it sooner

[ayakashibackstreet]

What if you wanted to sleep like a reasonable person but God said 'you're going to cry about your dog until 2am instead'

[two-calicos-in-a-trenchcoat]

Oh thank fuck viviva has a plant they ship from in the US now

I saw they released a fall set of their watercolors and out of the watercolor brands I've tried (which is not many and most have been cheap. I would love to get a really nice professional grade set some day but that shits expensive) theyre my favorite

So I ordered the fall set and the limited edition van gogh set (which is mostly just a mix of paints they already sold in different sets with special starry night packaging but I like the paints enough im willing to buy a set of colors I already have in different packaging. Like fuck man yeah I'll take more of those colors) and the price of their basic sets is the same its always been. But I was expecting a possible delayed shipping time cuz of...everything since they used to ship from India (where the company is based)

But apparently they have a place in Massachusetts they ship from within the US now

So it should only take a week at most to get delivered