#❂⠀ ⠀ ⠀─────⠀ ⠀ ⠀1 : APPEARANCE'

[yourstrulynobody]

[DRAFT] inspired by another one of my prompts (+a fake tweet I did :D) lol

Admittedly, I had no idea what a dad joke was until I searched it up...

[zeep-xanflorp]

rambles and thoughts on Summer of all Fears - a meta

what really stands out to me about this newest episode is how it portrays how both summer and morty respond to stress.

EPISODE 1 SEASON 8 SPOILERS UNDER CUT

morty goes off the rails. he lashes out in every way he can think of. he becomes violent, vengeful, antisocial. he focuses on clear but short term goals like getting out of jail and fighting a war. when he's not doing these things, he fixates on things like engineering and firefighting, that have very set in stone rules but that are complex enough for him to get lost in. his hobbies are distractions but they are also productive. he opts not to use the productive side of him in times of stress. perhaps this isn't even consciously chosen. it's his instinct to self destruct.

and that's where he and summer differ. when she faces the same challenges, she focuses on mastery. she wants power, perfection, and order. she results to manipulation. she focuses on long term goals. on becoming untouchable to others around her. she becomes president and doesn't just become a master of her reality, but also a master of herself. she becomes fixated on achievement. she's able to do this by working extraordinarily hard, planning things out elaborately, and pulling strings like a puppeteer. it's her instinct to take charge.

both of them, when put in a situation outside of their control, do what they can to reclaim their power. morty is unconventional and chaotic, summer is traditional and lawful. he tries to reclaim power himself, summer tries to reclaim power over the situation.

id be remiss not to mention the feminist reading of this. that in times of stress, women are expected to remain composed and rational or otherwise be labelled emotional. summer has the same societal learning as us. she feels pressured to prove herself to even a fake society. perhaps even to rick and her brother. she takes conventional means to gain power so she not only appears as in control but feels it. although she doesn't place particular value on what she's doing, she knows its a typically respected profession and she can make it suit her.

i think she's smart enough to realise this but i don't think she's able to solve it for herself. interestingly, when she gets out of the matrix, she defaults to her standard self. she rejects wisdom and feedback, and decides to live impulsively.

in the real world when put under stress, morty tries to control the situation. he often goes to rick to get help, someone who he believes can do and fix anything. but summer tries to control herself. their roles switch.

[hyacinthsdiamonds]

Is this how Merc arrived to this grand prix like because how did you 'forget' the 2 pit stop rule when that was all anybody and their mother was talking about and was the only reason why people were pitting early in Monaco of all places 💀💀💀

[lilhawkeye3]

THIS APPLIES TO LOUELLA MCCOY TOO

I should NOT have to go back and explain this when the appearances of the majority of Seam inhabitants are explained IN CHAPTER ONE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF THIS SERIES

An author is a poor one if they have to constantly restate a character’s skin color every time they’re mentioned!!

THIS is what media literacy is, and I do not appreciate thinly-veiled racism claiming that I’m the illiterate one for stating this— IT’S IN THE TEXT.

THG Ch 1: “Straight black hair, olive skin, we even have the same gray eyes. But we’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families who work the mines resemble one another this way.”

SOTR Ch 1: “Louella McCoy lives three houses down from me [in the Seam] … Louella climbs the steps onto the stage, flipping her black pigtails over her shoulders”

SOTR Ch 10: “She sure looks like Louella…big gray eyes, long dark braids.”

The context was set in the first chapter. It’s applied unless stated otherwise, like with Prim.

Movie canon is what it is, but that does not erase the stated text of the books.

i am going to shout this from the rooftops:

Katniss, Haymitch, and the Seam inhabitants are all described as olive-skinned, brown-eyed (edit: and gray-eyed), and dark-haired.

Peeta, Maysilee, Katniss’ mother and the Merchants are largely described as blond haired, blue eyed, light-skinned.

The Hunger Games adaptations have a huge weakness to their casting because they allowed their white audience to overlook this very important fact, that the Mockingjay is a brown girl, that her mother was disowned for having a mixed-race and mixed-class marriage, that Katniss and Haymitch were long shots not just because they’re Seam but because they are brown… because the only brown characters in the movies (i.e. Rue, Thresh, 11 in general) were there to be tragic, not to be saviors.

Katniss Everdeen is brown, and I won’t forgive or forget the movies for erasing that part of her character.

this has been another tea time with hawk ☕️🦅

[shanastoryteller]

Happy Birthday! I'm dying to why Hokage's daughter Naruto is so strong when everyone who knows seals thinks she should be weak. so more of that AU please.

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

Naruto pulls tight on the chains restraining Gaara, waiting.

Her father stands, flash stepping to her side. Her mother stays seated, but she'd expected that. She hasn't been able to form chakra chains since she had Naruto, her coils too badly damaged by Kyuubi fighting out of her during the birth.

"What's going on?" he demands. "Naruto, stop, this is dangerous!"

She stares. She honestly hadn't expected this out of him and she thinks she would be touched if she weren't so mortified. "Do you have a way to restrain a demon that I don't know about? Because if I let go, Shukaku here is going to go on a little rampage."

She's the only one in the village who can use adamantine chains. It's a good thing her mother hadn't gotten rid of her scrolls about the technique even though as far as she knew none of the remaining Uzumakis could make them. Maybe she intended to pass it on to Naruto's children.

"I'll call the ANBU," he says, eyes scanning for whichever of them are hidden. Kakashi is staring at her, one eye still covered, which almost makes her weak with relief. This is already going to be pretty difficult to talk her way out of, but if Kakashi were using the sharingan, it would be impossible.

There's a shift of air next to her and Fugaku is standing there. He gives a the giant restrained demon a glance, but nothing more. "Hokage, sir, the invasion of the Sand has been thwarted per your orders. We currently have all the criminals in custody." He tilts his head to the side. "Almost all of them."

Her father isn't stupid. He knows the village is watching them and his spine straightens and his mouth thins, but there are no other tells. No one watching would guess that he had no idea what Fukagu was talking about.

There's another shift and then her classmates and Team Guy are moving, a coordinated attack they'd gone drilled until Naruto was sure she wasn't about to get her friends killed. The Sand genin find themselves restrained, now that it's safe to do so, now that the invasion has been made public.

The Uchiha police are not shinobi and not subject to a shinobi's laws. If they aprehend foreign shinobi for questioning, if that questioning gets a little out of hand, it's not an act of war. They're civilians, technically, trained as shinobi but removed from the established chain of command. If Naruto had been wrong, then having the Uchiha do the investigating would have prevented the Kazekage declaring war on them in retaliation anyway.

Uchiha police appear around the arena, Sand shinobi restrained in their arms as they break the genjutsu they'd been using to hide themselves, to ensure that no genjutsu could be cast over the arena while the Uchiha's sharingan watched over them.

Naruto has almost relaxed, everything having gone exactly according to plan, when her mother appears next to her grabs her wrists.

"You cant!" she cries hysterically. "It'll kill you, it'll kill you! You have to stop!"

Naruto's eyes widen and she strengthens her grips on the chains, trying to pull away. "Mom, stop! I've got it! MOM!"

Kushina doesn't listen. She sends a powerful burst of chakra through her hands, more than she's done in almost thirteen years, and severs Naruto's connection to the chains and taking them into her own hands.

Except she can't control them, of course, and as soon as she has them they break apart, shattering into pieces around them, and Shukaku tears himself free with a roar of triumph and rage.

Despair overtakes Naruto, a selfish grief she's been avoiding most of her life settling deep into her bones.

She doesn't have to do this. She could let the ANBU deal with it, leave it to her parents who's fault it is, no one would blame her for stepping back.

But if she does, her people will die. Not all of them. Probably not even a lot of them. But one dead from her cowardice is one too many.

She yanks onto Kurama's chakra, pulling it out around her, chakra claws and a thick red auror surrounding her, nine three tails of chakra swaying dangerously behind her. She already hears the screams of her people, the cries of demon ringing in her ears, but it doesn't matter.

She'll always choose her people over herself, no matter the cost.

At the end of the day, she's still her father's daughter.

[better-setterv2]

Heyy!! I hope you're doing ok :)

I was thinking maybe Lewis and reader being in a marriage/relationship by contract. It's like the beginning of it, when both of their agents or family or whatever decide is good for their public image. She is really nice towards him, immersed in his world, trying to give the best of her so it could work for both of them and make it a bit endurable. But Lewis is a total dick, rude towards her, treats her badly, humiliates her, hooks up with other girls, etc. After a while, after having to endure so much mistreatment, she decides to break the contract, but he has finally fallen too much in love with her. He begs her not to leave him and tries with his life to earn her forgiveness and love.

𝒯𝑒𝓇𝓂𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒞𝑜𝓃𝒹𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

Authors Note: Hey Guys! I've actually been meaning to write a one-shot like this so thank you for requesting it. I'm doing okay at the moment, a lot going on. Lots of love xx

Summary: A contract bound them; she gave her heart, he gave her pain until she walked away, and he finally begged to stay.

Warnings: slight swearing, slight angst

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You never thought your first marriage would take place in a glass-walled office overlooking the Thames.

No ceremony. No dress. No trembling vows whispered with love in your eyes.

Just an obscenely long contract, a silent Formula 1 legend across the table, and the low hum of a Nespresso machine somewhere behind you.

The pen in your hand feels heavier than it should. You glance down again at the mountain of papers before you - thirty dense pages, legal jargon weaving a cage around you. Your name printed neatly beside his: Lewis Carl Davidson Hamilton. The bold header reads Public Marital Partnership Agreement.

Romantic, isn’t it?

The silence thickens until it’s broken by a dry cough.

You look up.

His agent is watching you with thinly veiled impatience, tapping his pen against the polished table. Your lawyer leans forward, offering a quiet nod of reassurance. This is what you agreed to, they say without words. This is “good for you.” This is “safe.”

Safe.

Lewis hasn’t glanced in your direction once.

He’s slouched in the chair, sunglasses on despite the dull grey light flooding the room, arms crossed in a way that screams disinterest. Forty years old and still treating eye contact like some kind of favour you haven’t earned. His jaw is clenched, the sharp line of his mouth set in that cold, unreadable mask you’ve seen a thousand times on race day interviews and in press photos.

You clear your throat, trying to steady the tremor in your voice.

“We don’t need to go over it again?” you ask, even though you know the answer.

He shifts, finally, without looking at you. “No. It’s pretty straightforward,” he says, voice flat, clipped, like he’s dismissing a nuisance rather than discussing your future.

You bite back the urge to react.

“Right,” you say, forcing your fingers to stop trembling.

Lewis reaches for the pen with a deliberate snap and clicks it loudly, almost aggressively. The sound echoes too loud in the cold, glass office. He flips to the last page, and his signature flows smoothly confident, precise. Then he pushes the contract toward you, the movement sharp and careless, like he’s flicking away a scrap of trash.

The tension in the room swells. You lean forward, heart hammering, and sign beneath his name. The ink feels like a brand on your skin. You stare at the paper, the contract that binds you legally to a man who has barely spoken to you.

A voice breaks the heavy silence.

“Congratulations,” someone says, but it lands flat basically hollow and meaningless.

Your lawyer smiles politely, and Lewis’s agent claps his hands once, brisk and businesslike.

“That’s it, then. Public announcement scheduled for next week. Engagement photoshoot this weekend. Your first official appearance together will be the Monaco Gala next month,” the agent rattles off, as if you are nothing more than players in some carefully scripted PR campaign.

Lewis stands abruptly without a word.

He doesn’t look at you.

Doesn’t wait for you.

Doesn’t acknowledge your existence at all.

He strides toward the glass door like this entire arrangement is just another race to win or lose and he’s already checked out.

You exhale slowly, the sound more like a sigh of defeat than relief.

So, this is it.

You don’t know what you expected. Maybe a handshake, a nod, a flicker of human decency.

But Lewis Hamilton owes you nothing.

This isn’t about love. Not even about compatibility.

It’s about image.

Forty years old. Single. Tabloids circling like vultures.

And your name? Clean. Safe. The charity founder, smart enough to keep quiet, photogenic enough to play the part.

You are the perfect answer to the unspoken question hanging over Lewis’s public persona:

Why haven’t you settled down?

Because now he has.

On paper, anyway.

You gather your things with care, your lawyer’s voice low beside you.

“You okay?” he asks, eyes searching yours.

You nod once, forcing the smallest smile you can muster.

“I’m fine,” you say. “It’s just business.”

But deep in the pit of your stomach, something twists a knot tightening.

Because business doesn’t usually feel this cold.

And neither, you suspect, does marriage.

The first few days weren’t unbearable. Just hollow.

You moved into his London flat on a grey Wednesday afternoon, dragging two suitcases behind you and carrying a smile so rehearsed it could’ve been printed. Angela greeted you at the door, her voice a soft balm against the sterile silence that met your arrival. She helped you carry your things in, chatting gently about the weather, about the new legal aid project you’d be balancing alongside your new role in Lewis’s life, a role with no title and no clarity.

Lewis, meanwhile, remained out of sight, his voice drifting in from the next room in clipped, businesslike tones. Something about sponsorship clauses and non-disclosure agreements. Something important enough to ignore the fact that his new “wife” in every sense but legal and emotional had just walked into his home for the foreseeable future.

Angela touched your shoulder as she passed you a keycard. “He’s not good with change,” she murmured, offering a kind smile. “Just give it time.”

You nodded. You were always good at waiting. At hoping. At being the understanding one.

But this flat...it was a mausoleum. All sleek lines, polished concrete, and glass that let in the grey London skyline but none of the warmth. It looked like a place someone might tour and admire, not a place anyone actually lived in. Black leather furniture that looked un-sat-on, a state-of-the-art kitchen without a single spice jar or recipe book, and walls so bare they seemed to echo with their own emptiness.

There were no framed photos. No records or books or handwritten notes. Just silence.

And Lewis.

That first night, he finally emerged from the study around eight, eyes on his phone, AirPods in. You were in the kitchen, stirring a simple pasta sauce with garlic, crushed tomatoes, basil it was the kind of comforting meal you always made on uncertain nights. Something grounding. Human.

He barely glanced your way as he passed behind you to grab a bottle of alkaline water from the fridge.

“I made dinner,” you offered, voice light, hopeful.

He turned, face expressionless. “I don’t eat that.”

“Oh,” you said, blinking. “I didn’t know. I can make something else—”

“Don’t bother.” He waved a hand vaguely. “Just next time, don’t waste ingredients.”

You stood there for a moment, wooden spoon in hand, feeling the shame rise hot in your cheeks.

“Right,” you muttered. “Sorry.”

He finally looked at you properly looked at you and there was something in his eyes that felt like contempt disguised as boredom.

“Don’t you read interviews?” he asked. “I’ve said a thousand times I don’t eat pasta. Or anything with gluten. Or animal products. Or sugar.”

You held his gaze, the sting of humiliation settling beneath your ribs. “I read plenty,” you said softly. “Just not your food columns.”

He scoffed a low, humourless sound and walked away, muttering, “Figures.”

You ate alone. At the massive dining table that could’ve seated ten, you sat with your plate and a glass of water, listening to the distant thud of bass from the home gym downstairs. He didn’t come back up for hours.

And so, it began.

The next morning, he was gone before you woke. No note. No message. Angela texted around 10 a.m. to let you know he’d left early for training. You wandered the flat like a guest in a museum, unpacking slowly, careful not to disrupt the curated emptiness. You tried to add small touches like a book on the nightstand, your toothbrush by the sink, a lavender candle in the living room but they looked like mistakes in a showroom. Out of place.

That evening, he returned late and didn’t speak a word as he moved past you, towel slung around his neck, heading for the shower. You tried again asked how his day was, if he wanted anything for dinner.

He didn’t answer.

Later, when you gently asked if he’d like help preparing for a team dinner that weekend, he looked up from his phone and said flatly, “You’re not coming.”

“I thought I was supposed to attend events with you—”

“Yeah, not all of them. Just the ones that matter. This one doesn’t.”

The implication hit like a slap.

“You don’t have to be rude about it,” you murmured.

He laughed then, genuinely amused. “This isn’t rude. You haven’t seen rude.”

You turned away, blinking quickly to keep the tears from falling where he could see.

But he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

The following days blurred together in a haze of performative civility and quiet cruelty.

In public, he held your hand for cameras and leaned in with rehearsed affection. In private, he barely spoke unless it was to criticise or correct.

“You used the wrong towels for the gym,” he said one morning. “Don’t touch my stuff if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“The PR team said you need to dress more upscale for interviews. That beige suit made you look like a law clerk, not a celebrity wife.”

When you tried to push back when you reminded him that you had your own career, that this arrangement wasn’t meant to erase who you were he rolled his eyes.

“Right,” he drawled, “because helping people fill out court forms is exactly the kind of fairytale the tabloids are dying for.”

He didn’t just ignore you he belittled you. Subtly. Quietly. Constantly.

The final straw that week came at a gala. You were nervous, surrounded by celebrities and sponsors and influencers with perfect skin and expensive laughs. You tried to make conversation, to seem polished and confident.

But when you gently touched his arm to ask if he’d introduce you to someone from the team, he turned to you eyes sharp, voice low but lethal.

“Is this all you can talk about? Honestly. You sound like a bored housewife.”

Your breath caught. You stepped back, humiliated, and spent the rest of the night nursing a single glass of champagne in a corner, watching him work the room like a professional actor.

That night, he didn’t come home.

The next morning, you woke alone in the massive bed. A cold breeze drifted through the half-open balcony doors.

You padded into the bathroom and found a smear of lipstick on the guest towel. Not yours.

No explanation. No apology.

Just silence.

And the faint, ever-present scent of his cologne mixed with something too sweet and unfamiliar.

You didn’t cry. Not then.

You just stared at yourself in the mirror and reminded yourself, for the hundredth time, that it wasn’t real.

He didn’t love you. He didn’t even like you.

You were a convenience. A contract. A body to fill a frame.

But even so the ache in your chest didn’t care about logic.

And neither did the ghost of who you’d hoped he might be. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Weeks Later - Monte Carlo, 8:17 PM.

Another ballroom. Another lie.

The evening air was heavy with perfume and saltwater from the nearby coast, and even in the shelter of the marble-lined foyer, you felt the pressure creeping in under your skin a familiar, suffocating kind of tightness. You stood still, palms smooth against the clutch in your hands, every inch of you polished to perfection.

The gown champagne silk, off-the-shoulder was custom. It clung to your body like second skin, the kind of thing that begged to be admired and photographed. And it would be. You were styled to be noticed, sculpted to be the gleaming trophy beside him.

But inside, you felt like glass. Brittle. Cold. Ready to crack.

When Lewis finally appeared, you heard him before you saw him the click of designer shoes, the low rumble of his voice as he spoke to someone on his team, too casually, too loudly, like he knew he was being watched even now.

He didn’t look at you when he approached. Just stopped beside you, adjusted the cuff of his white tuxedo jacket, and gave a nod to someone across the corridor.

“You’re late,” you said softly, eyes still fixed on the ballroom doors ahead.

He finally glanced at you, his gaze slow and almost amused. “Fashionably.”

You held his gaze for a moment, jaw tight. “Of course. Wouldn’t want the spotlight to warm up without you.”

He smirked, leaned in like a lover about to whisper something sweet, but what came out was anything but.

“Try not to fumble your lines tonight,” he murmured, breath brushing your ear. “We’re supposed to look like we fuck.”

You didn’t flinch. You’d gotten good at that wearing stillness like armour.

“I’ll do my best,” you replied smoothly, lifting your chin. “Maybe if you touched me once in a while, it’d be easier to pretend.”

His hand curled around your waist then tighter than necessary, fingers pressing into your side like a warning. But when the doors opened, it was all smiles. You were bathed in light and camera flashes and the roar of the press calling his name.

“Lewis! Over here!”

“And your wife! Gorgeous! Give us a kiss!”

“Are those matching Cartier pieces? Couple goals!”

He played it perfectly.

A hand on the small of your back. A fake laugh at something you didn’t say. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple warm to anyone watching, but it felt like a stamp, a brand, a claim.

You smiled on cue, tilted your head just right, let your lips part in that rehearsed expression the world had grown so fond of.

Inside the ballroom, the air was rich with wealth and curated beauty. Gold trim danced along the walls, champagne fountains sparkled at the edges of your vision, and the buzz of elite conversation filled the space like white noise.

You barely had time to find your footing before Lewis guided you toward a cluster of important people - old sponsors, team executives, fashion heads. You recognised some of them, but they rarely addressed you directly.

That didn’t stop Lewis from using you as a conversation piece.

“This is her,” he said with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “My ball and chain. Doesn’t she clean up well?”

The group laughed politely. You laughed too, a soft, breathy sound that barely escaped your throat. Your cheeks flushed not with bashfulness, but embarrassment.

“She looks better when she’s not talking,” he added under his breath, only for you. Then louder, to the group, “Thank God she doesn’t try to keep up with F1 politics. I’d have to sedate myself.”

They chuckled again, and you felt the invisible wall tighten around you.

Later, at the dinner table, you reached for a glass of red wine only for Lewis to intercept it with an easy smile.

“She can’t hold her liquor,” he told the man beside him. “One glass and she’s telling strangers her childhood traumas.”

You blinked, stunned by the cruelty masked as charm, but you said nothing. You folded your hands in your lap and took a sip of water instead. Every head at the table still turned toward Lewis. No one noticed the colour draining from your face.

At one point, a reporter with a glossy microphone approached, all polish and bright smiles.

“Lewis, can we grab a quick word? And maybe one with your stunning wife?”

Lewis gave his best smirk. “Sure,” he said, drawing you in close like he hadn’t just humiliated you three times in the last half-hour.

The reporter asked you what it was like being married to a global icon.

Before you could open your mouth, Lewis cut in.

“Exhausting, right babe?” he said, grinning. “She married into chaos.”

You smiled tightly. “I knew what I was signing up for.”

He squeezed your waist again too hard.

“Did you?” he asked, just loud enough for you to hear.

By the end of the night, your feet ached, and your face felt like it might break from the constant smiling. Lewis had vanished three times once to the VIP lounge, twice to the bar with unnamed women hanging a little too close for comfort. Each time, he returned to your side like nothing had happened, taking your hand in his and brushing fake kisses along your cheekbone for the ever-watching photographers.

When the final camera flash died down and the crowd began to thin, he leaned in once more, voice low and cutting.

“You did well tonight. Almost made me believe you cared.”

You stared straight ahead, not blinking. “You’re welcome.”

He smirked again and stepped away to talk to someone from PUMA, already dismissing you.

You stood there a moment longer, just another ghost in the ballroom a beautiful, smiling, silent one.

The perfect accessory.

Back at the apartment, the facade crumbled quickly.

The Monte Carlo penthouse was the kind of place people dreamed about glass walls that looked out over the sea, high ceilings lined with sleek gold accents, and furniture so modern it looked untouched. But beauty didn’t always mean warmth. And inside these curated walls, the silence had begun to echo louder than any fight.

At first, you tried small things. Quiet, subtle efforts to make the space feel less like a showroom and more like a home. You left the lights on in the living room when Lewis stayed out late not glaring or intrusive, just a soft amber glow from the floor lamp near the sofa, the kind of light you imagined someone might appreciate after a long day.

A quiet welcome. A reminder. You’re not alone here.

But night after night, he breezed through the door without ever commenting on it. Sometimes he barely looked your way. A few nights he didn’t come home at all. And when he did, the light might as well have been a spotlight illuminating just how far apart you really were.

It was a rainy Tuesday when things finally cracked.

You were in the guest bathroom, kneeling on a plush bathmat, gently scrubbing Roscoe’s muddy paws. The weather had been terrible all day, and Lewis had taken him out early in the morning, returning only to rush off again, barely mumbling something about a meeting before vanishing.

Roscoe, sweet as ever, had trotted into the apartment hours later with bits of wet grass stuck in his fur, his paws tracking faint prints across the otherwise immaculate floor. You didn’t hesitate and you ran the warm water, fetched the special dog shampoo from the cabinet, and settled him into the oversized marble tub like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He didn’t protest. He never did with you.

His big eyes blinked at you with soft, trusting patience as you worked the shampoo into his coat, humming quietly an old lullaby your mother used to sing when your own childhood world felt like it might collapse.

In this space, in that moment, it wasn’t about roles or expectations or contracts. It was just you and a dog who, unlike his owner, seemed to recognise the shape of your kindness.

You wrapped him in a thick, warm towel and began to dry him off gently, whispering praise and running your fingers through the clean, damp curls of his fur. You barely noticed the creak of the door behind you.

“I swear he gets more affection than I do,” Lewis’s voice sliced through the moment like a blade dry, mocking and low.

You turned quickly, caught off guard, your hand still holding the towel to Roscoe’s back. Lewis stood in the doorway, one arm braced against the frame, blazer jacket tossed over his shoulder, eyes sharp with something you couldn’t quite name.

“He was muddy from this morning,” you said, carefully. “I figured—”

“You figured?” He cut you off with a humourless laugh, his eyebrows lifting in disbelief. “You figured it was your job now to mother my dog too?”

Your stomach clenched. The softness of the moment vanished in an instant.

“I wasn’t trying to—” you started, but he waved a hand, already dismissing your words.

“You weren’t trying, but you did it anyway. That’s the problem with you.” His tone was lighter than the words deserved, casual cruelty wrapped in silk. “You just insert yourself wherever there’s space. You think doing something nice means you belong here?”

You stood slowly, towel still draped in your hands, the scent of dog shampoo still clinging to your fingers. “I was just trying to help, Lewis. I thought—”

He scoffed. “Stop thinking so much. This isn’t your place. You’re not—” he paused, eyes flicking from your face to Roscoe’s wagging tail. “You’re not part of this life. Don’t start acting like you are.”

The room went quiet.

Roscoe let out a soft, uncertain whine, looking up at the man who hadn’t so much as offered him a pat on the head. Lewis’s eyes flicked downward briefly, but he didn’t move. He didn’t crouch. He didn’t smile.

He just turned, muttered, “Dry the floor,” and walked away, his shoes clicking down the hallway without a backward glance.

You stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where he’d been. The towel in your hands was suddenly too heavy, the tiled room too cold. You crouched down again, pressing your forehead briefly to Roscoe’s damp fur, the only warmth left in the apartment.

“Maybe I’ll stop trying,” you whispered into the silence.

But deep down, you knew that was another lie. Because even when someone tells you it’s not your place when they humiliate you, when they ignore every soft offering, you give there’s always a piece of you that keeps hoping. Keeps waiting.

Keeps leaving the light on.

Later that evening, you folded laundry in the bedroom.

The silence in the apartment was oppressive not the gentle kind that soothed, but the kind that pressed down on your chest, made your ears ring, made the stillness feel personal, like a punishment. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, folding laundry not because anyone asked you to, but because the motion of your hands gave you something to anchor yourself to.

The duvet was perfectly smooth beneath you. The wardrobe door creaked faintly when the air conditioner kicked on. Everything around you was sterile, untouched, staged like the photos in Architectural Digest. But you needed something real to hold onto, and so you turned to the mundane socks, joggers and hoodies.

Control. Neat piles. Clean lines.

You stacked Lewis’s black t-shirts into a tidy column on his side of the dresser. Soft cotton, all nearly identical like him in the press, in the interviews, in the photos. Polished. Predictable. Untouchable.

And then, your hand paused over one of them.

A black crewneck shirt, freshly washed, the fabric still warm from the dryer. At first, you thought the scent clinging to it was just the detergent. But no beneath the lavender and lemon, something else lurked. Something sweeter. Sharper. Foreign.

Perfume.

Your stomach dropped.

Not yours. Not your lotion. Not the hotel shampoo he sometimes liked to borrow from your side of the bathroom.

Another woman.

You pressed the shirt to your nose just to be sure, praying – begging that you were wrong.

But you weren’t.

It wasn’t damning, not outright. But it was enough.

Your throat tightened. A sharp sting bloomed behind your eyes, and you clenched your jaw against it. You just folded the shirt with mechanical precision and placed it at the bottom of the stack, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed the fabric.

The pile sat there neat, clean and quiet but it felt like it was mocking you.

You stared at it for a long time.

Then you got up, walked to the bathroom, and washed your hands until the scent was gone.

The next morning, he was already in the kitchen.

The smell of his espresso lingered faintly in the air, and the sun poured in through the tall windows, casting golden stripes across the marble floor. Lewis stood at the counter in a crisp navy suit, head bent over his phone, thumb scrolling rapidly.

You stepped into the room quietly, still in your robe, your slippers making soft sounds against the tile. You offered a tentative “Morning,” but he didn’t look up.

“I had a meeting,” he snapped, voice clipped and cold. “Why didn’t you remind me?”

You blinked. “I told you. Yesterday, over breakfast. You nodded.”

His eyes finally flicked to yours, laced with irritation. “Then say it again. Say it until it registers. Or better yet, put it on the damn mirror if you’re playing housemaid now.”

The words struck like a slap. You looked down, hands tightening around your coffee cup.

“I thought maybe a calendar in the hallway could help?” you asked quietly, your voice fragile around the edges.

He didn’t even respond. Just grabbed his keys, muttered something under his breath, and walked out the door clicking shut behind him like the final note of an argument you never got to finish. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Angela came by once that week.

You hadn’t asked her to. She just showed up sunglasses perched on her head, tote bag slung over one shoulder, her gaze immediately scanning the apartment the moment she stepped inside. She didn’t comment on the spotless kitchen or the meticulously arranged fruit bowl. She just looked at you and something shifted in her face.

You were holding Roscoe in your arms, rubbing behind his ears as he blinked up at you lovingly. He was the only source of comfort you had some days. The only living creature in this space who didn’t make you feel like a shadow.

Lewis was in the other room, on the phone, pacing. His voice carrie not the words, just the sharp tone of someone barking instructions and expecting obedience.

Angela waited until he was out of earshot.

“Do you need anything?” she asked gently, her voice low and kind. Not pitying just honest concern.

You looked at her, and for a moment, you nearly broke. Nearly let it all fall from your shoulders and into her open hands. But then you shook your head. Smiled weakly.

“No. I’m fine.”

But you weren’t.

You were exhausted.

Exhausted from pretending. From twisting silence into comfort. From learning how to breathe in a space where every inch of you felt unwelcome.

You didn’t tell her that some nights, you sat at the kitchen table long after he didn’t come home, staring at two place settings you’d carefully arranged napkins folded, candles unlit.

You didn’t tell her that your fingers had started to ache from scrubbing the same spotless floors, again and again, as if clean tiles could erase the mess of your marriage.

You didn’t tell her that you still Googled vegan recipes at 2 a.m., hoping maybe the right one might make him stay in for dinner. Might make him see you.

You just smiled. The kind of smile that lies.

Angela hugged you before she left. It lasted a second longer than it needed to.

She knew.

The weeks blurred.

Lewis was gone more. Time zones changed. Headlines appeared.

You stopped looking at the gossip blogs, but the headlines found you anyway.

“Hamilton Seen With New Mystery Model in LA”

“Ferrari’s Golden Boy Parties Until Dawn”

“Where is Mrs. Hamilton?”

They called you “patient.” They called your silence “grace.”

You called it survival.

He came home on the nights that didn’t matter. Late. Smelling like sweat, alcohol, and women you didn’t know.

Sometimes he showered. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he didn’t say a word.

He’d pass you in the hallway like you were furniture. Or worse like you weren’t even there.

One night, you found him on the couch.

You had just cleaned the kitchen with dishes put away, counters shining. You sat beside him hesitantly, legs curled under you, searching his face for any version of the man you once believed in.

“You don’t have to keep playing perfect,” he said, eyes on the television, though the volume was muted. “This isn’t a movie.”

You exhaled shakily. “No,” you said softly. “But it is our life. At least for now.”

He laughed, bitter and hollow. “This isn’t life. It’s a contract. Don’t confuse the two.”

The words knocked the air from your lungs.

You stared at him at his sharp jaw, his beautiful, distant eyes, his posture slouched like none of this mattered. Like you didn’t matter.

Your voice cracked. “I haven’t confused anything,” you whispered. “But maybe you should start trying.”

He didn’t respond.

Just stood up and left the room, his back retreating into the shadows, the distance between you stretching longer, colder, sharper.

You sat there, alone on the couch, the smell of lemon cleaner lingering in the air.

And for the first time, you didn’t just feel tired.

You felt done. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It happened on a Sunday.

There was no argument. No dramatic yelling. No thrown wine glasses or slammed doors. Just silence thick, stifling, the kind that creeps under your skin and stays there like a bruise. The kind of silence that doesn’t scream goodbye, but still says this is over louder than any fight ever could.

You made dinner that night.

Again.

You didn’t even realise you were doing it until your hands were already slicing carrots, moving with a rhythm that had become second nature a quiet choreography of survival. Each chop echoed through the hollow apartment like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The roasted parsnips were caramelised with maple and rosemary, like he liked them. You made mushroom risotto creamy, fragrant, perfectly salted. His favourite. You even steeped his oolong tea beside the plate, the loose leaves blooming in water the way your hope once had, before it shrivelled from too many cold nights.

You set the table for two.

Even though you knew.

You always knew.

The chair across from you stayed empty, and with every passing minute, that emptiness grew louder. You checked the clock. 8:04 PM.

Then your phone. Nothing. No call. No message. No apology.

You stared at the screen for so long your eyes blurred. At 9:12 PM, you stood up and quietly packed the food away. No dramatic slamming. Just lids pressed into containers with aching finality. Steam curled upward and vanished into the air like a ghost you couldn't hold onto anymore.

By the time 10:47 rolled around, the apartment had settled into that strange stillness that only truly exists when two people have stopped trying to reach each other.

Roscoe came padding in from the hallway quiet, loyal, sensing the shift in the atmosphere as only animals can. His nails clicked softly on the tile as he approached you, nudging your leg gently with his snout. You crouched down and buried your face into his fur. He smelled like lavender shampoo from his last bath the one you gave him, not Lewis. Always you.

Your hands clutched at him like a lifeline, grounding you, steadying you as you sat back on your heels and let yourself feel the ache that had been building for weeks. Maybe months. But still the tears didn’t fall. Not yet.

You curled into the corner of the couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of Lewis’s old hoodies the soft purple one he always tossed aside but you’d claimed, quietly, like a secret. It still held a fading trace of his cologne. It made you sick. It made you feel safe. You hated that contradiction.

Midnight came. Then 12:37 AM.

The lock clicked.

You didn’t look up.

He came in like a storm that had lost its thunder. Slouched shoulders, lazy steps. He didn’t speak. The room filled with the scent of alcohol, sweat, and something that didn’t belong to you sweet, sharp perfume that clung to his collar like a mocking whisper.

His shirt wasn’t his. Not one you’d ever seen. Lipstick stained the edge of the collar. His jaw clenched when his eyes finally met yours. Not guilt. Not surprise.

Just irritation.

“Why are you still up?” he slurred, tossing his keys onto the counter with a clatter. “And why the fuck are you wearing my hoodie?”

You looked at him, tired. Bone-deep tired. “I waited.”

Your voice barely carried across the room.

He scoffed, unscrewing a bottle of water. “You really don’t have to keep doing that.”

“I know,” you said softly. “I won’t anymore.”

He paused.

That finally made him look at you. Like really look at you. Like he was hearing words he didn’t expect to come from your mouth.

“What?” he asked, confused.

You stood up slowly, methodically, as though rushing would undo your resolve. Every motion deliberate. Every breath accounted for.

“I’m done, Lewis.”

His brows furrowed, still dulled by whatever cocktail of alcohol and arrogance he’d consumed. “Done with what?”

“With this.” You gestured around you to the table you still set every night, to the hoodie that still smelled like love, to the echo of a home that had never really been one. “With pretending. With waiting. With trying so hard for someone who stopped seeing me months ago.”

His mouth opened like he had something to say, something cruel probably. But you didn’t let him.

“I married you for a headline. And I told myself I could handle it. That I understood. But I didn’t agree to be invisible. I didn’t agree to be discarded.”

“You knew the terms,” he said sharply, defensive now, hiding behind the contract like a shield. “Don’t act like the victim.”

You exhaled, quiet but firm. “I’m not the victim. But I am done playing one.”

He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “So, what now? You’re just…leaving?”

You nodded. “My lawyer will be in touch tomorrow. We’ll spin the narrative 'scheduling conflicts,' 'irreconcilable differences,' something the public will forget in a week. It won’t be messy. I won’t make it ugly.”

His face twisted, somewhere between disbelief and anger. “That’s it? After everything?”

“Yes,” you said, voice steady. “After everything.”

You turned and grabbed the overnight bag from the hallway the one you’d packed earlier that evening. Toothbrush. Socks. A worn paperback you never got around to finishing. No souvenirs. No letters. Nothing worth holding onto.

You walked to the door.

He didn’t follow.

Not until your hand touched the handle did, he speak again.

“Wait.”

You turned.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, his face cracked. Not enough to let anything healing through — just enough to show fear. The kind of fear that clings to men who don’t know how to be alone.

“I didn’t think…” He hesitated. “I didn’t think you’d actually go.”

You looked at him and you pitied him.

Not because he hurt you. But because he never realised what he had until it was already gone.

“That’s the problem, Lewis,” you whispered. “You never thought I would.”

Roscoe whined beside you. You knelt down and kissed the top of his head, brushing your fingers through his soft fur. “Stay. He’ll need you.”

He licked your wrist, a soft farewell. Reluctant, he padded back inside.

You opened the door. Stepped into the hallway.

No more lights left on.

No more half-eaten dinners.

No more silence that begged to be filled.

You didn’t know what waited for you outside those walls. Maybe more silence. Maybe loneliness. But at least it would be yours.

And for the first time in a long, long time you felt your lungs expand.

You could finally breathe.

The silence in the house was different now.

Not cold. Not convenient.

But suffocating.

For days, Lewis hadn’t noticed the little things not really. Not until they were gone.

Her shoes weren’t by the door anymore. The fuzzy brown slippers she always left angled just right, toes pointing slightly inward like she’d only stepped out for a second. Gone.

Her soft humming from the kitchen barely there, always off-tune, always comforting had faded into a memory.

Her favourite mug, chipped at the rim but always the one she used, was tucked in the back of the cupboard, untouched.

He hadn’t realised how much he counted on the sound of her voice, the small routines she wove into their shared space. The way she always made tea when the nights ran long. The scent of her shampoo lingering on the towel she used to dry Roscoe after his bath jasmine and rosemary, clean and real and hers.

He tried to sleep the night she left.

He didn’t.

Not the next night either.

Not after that.

The house creaked differently now, like it was mourning her too.

No hallway light left on low “Just in case you come home late,” she used to say with a sleepy smile, eyes barely open.

No sound of her brushing her teeth in the ensuite bathroom.

No quiet rustle of her folding laundry that wasn’t even hers to fold.

She was just gone.

And the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful.

It felt like punishment.

And he had made it this way.

Lewis had told himself lies for months dangerous ones; cruel ones dressed in detachment.

That she didn’t matter.

That this was just business.

That her kindness was part of the job.

But it wasn’t.

She hadn’t been pretending.

She’d learned how he liked his coffee not just dark, but with a splash of milk and a sprinkle of cinnamon on bad days.

She’d taken care of Roscoe when he couldn’t be bothered to look up from his phone.

She’d smiled through his silence, through his passive rejections, through the way he ignored her in public but depended on her in private.

And she never asked for anything.

Not praise. Not attention.

Just a little respect.

And he couldn’t even give her that.

Why?

Because she was too kind.

Too patient.

Too real.

And Lewis had spent most of his life building walls to keep people like that out — people who saw him, really saw him, past the trophies and headlines and charm.

And every time someone did, they eventually left.

Not because he failed them though sometimes, he did but because he never let them in. Not truly.

So, this time, he pushed first.

He treated her like she didn’t matter.

Because if she never got too close, she couldn’t leave.

But she had.

And now?

Now he couldn’t breathe. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Two Weeks Later

He showed up at the hotel first.

Angela told him with a reluctant sigh that said don’t make me regret this that you were staying there temporarily. A quiet boutique place with no press hovering out front. You were consulting on a legal aid project. One you'd been offered months ago and turned down because your life, back then, had been rooted in his world.

Now, you were starting over.

You weren’t hiding. Just healing.

He didn’t bring a speech. Didn’t bring flowers. Didn’t even bring Roscoe.

Just regret.

And something heavier.

You opened the door in a robe, hair wrapped in a towel, one eyebrow arched in guarded surprise.

Your face fell the second you saw him.

“Please,” he said before you could close the door. “Don’t.”

You stared, unmoving. “If this is about PR damage control—”

“It’s not,” he cut in, eyes fierce, voice low. “It’s not about anyone but us.”

You hesitated.

“There is no us, Lewis.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, the break in it betraying the weight behind his composure. “I know I ruined that. I know I don’t deserve another chance. I’m not here to beg. I just... I needed to say I’m sorry. For real. Not in an interview. Not in a press release. Just here.”

He held out a small envelope.

Inside after you took it with skeptical fingers and slowly unfolded the paper was a short, messy note, his handwriting painfully familiar:

You were the only real thing in a life I built out of mirrors.

I treated you like fiction because I didn’t believe I could ever deserve someone real.

I was wrong.

And I’m so, so sorry.

You didn’t say anything.

But you didn’t close the door either.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Week Later

The headlines started popping up. You tried not to care.

You really tried.

LEWIS HAMILTON CANCELS NIGHTLIFE APPEARANCES, FOCUSES ON PERSONAL RECOVERY

"I TREATED HER WRONG" — HAMILTON TAKES RESPONSIBILITY IN RAW INTERVIEW

He didn’t name you.

Didn’t drop hints.

Didn’t drag you back into the public eye.

He just owned it.

And when he showed up at your work without cameras, without assistants, just a black hoodie, damp curls, and a small paper bag your coworkers exchanged wide-eyed stares.

So did you.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said softly, handing over the bag. Your favourite Thai. “And I hope you’re eating.”

He didn’t ask to come inside.

He didn’t linger.

He just turned and walked back into the drizzle; shoulders hunched against the wind.

And something in you, something bruised and aching softened, just slightly.

It didn’t happen overnight.

But he stayed steady.

He texted, never overstepping. Just little check-ins.

Hope your meeting went well.

Roscoe misses you (okay I do too)

I saw a book today that reminded me of you. Left it at the front desk.

No grand gestures. Just presence.

When he brought Roscoe over one evening, he didn’t even step inside.

“I thought he might like to visit,” he said, leash in hand.

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

And let the dog inside.

Small. Gentle. A beginning.

Days turned to weeks.

He helped where he could.

Brought coffee on mornings he knew your schedule.

Helped you prep for a nerve-wracking presentation.

Waited quietly outside a courtroom just to give you a hug after.

At a charity gala, you caught him watching you from across the room.

Not with pride.

Not with expectation.

Just love.

Later, away from cameras and champagne and small talk, he touched your hand gently.

“Thank you for giving me a chance to be better.”

Some days, your heart wavered.

The hurt ran deep, and trust doesn’t grow back like wildflowers.

But Lewis never demanded.

Never rushed.

When you doubted him, he didn’t try to fix it with charm.

He listened.

He showed up.

He stayed.

And slowly, you started to believe in him again not as the man he once pretended to be, but the man he was becoming. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

One Morning, Months Later

It was still early. The city barely awake.

You stepped out onto your balcony, robe pulled tight, coffee warm in your hands. The scent of jasmine drifted from your hair. And there he was already there sitting on the wooden chair he’d helped fix last week, hoodie pulled up, Roscoe curled at his feet, reading a book you’d once recommended.

He looked up, eyes soft.

“I know I lost the right to ask for anything from you,” he said, voice rough with sleep and something deeper. “But if someday you can see me the way I’m trying to see myself now... I’ll wait.”

You watched him for a long, quiet moment.

Watched the way his fingers stilled over the page.

Watched the hope in his eyes tremble.

Then you stepped forward.

You knelt beside Roscoe, brushing your hand over his ears, and leaned gently against Lewis’s knee.

“I see you, Lewis,” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “I see you trying. And I’m still here.”

He didn’t say anything.

But he reached for your hand tentative, almost afraid and when you didn’t pull away, when your fingers threaded with his and held tight, something shifted in the air between you. Not dramatic. Not perfect.

But real.

He rested his forehead to yours.

“Can I come back?” he whispered.

You nodded once. Slow. Certain.

“Only if you stay for real this time.”

His eyes closed, his hand gripping yours tighter.

“I’m already home.”

And this time, when you kissed, it wasn’t rushed or flashy. There was no music swelling around you, no perfect lighting or cinematic moment. Just the two of you, standing quietly in the fading light, the weight of weeks – months of silence and regret hanging between you like a fragile thread.

Lewis’s eyes searched yours, hesitant but desperate, like he was asking for permission without words. You felt your breath catch, your heart pounding so loud it threatened to drown out everything else. His hand found your cheek gently, thumb brushing along your skin as if afraid you might vanish if he touched too hard.

You closed your eyes and leaned into the warmth of his palm, the familiar roughness grounding you in the here and now.

When his lips met yours, it was soft at first, tentative like two people testing if the connection was still there, still real. Then, as if the walls you both built crumbled all at once, the kiss deepened. It became slow and aching, filled with all the things you couldn’t say the apologies, the longing, the sorrow, the hope.

Lewis’s hands cradled your face now, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you steady as if you were both afraid to let go. You felt the quiet desperation in his kiss, the way he was trying to memorise every inch of you, to make up for all the moments he missed.

You responded with your own yearning, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer as if closing the space between you could heal the past. The kiss was messy and imperfect, full of pauses and trembling breaths, but utterly real.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts still racing.

“I’m here,” Lewis whispered, voice raw and sure.

You smiled against his skin, tears threatening to spill not from sadness, but from the fragile, fierce hope blossoming between you.

“I’m here too.”

It was a promise.

One you would build together, brick by brick.

No mirrors.

No lies.

Just newfound love.

For real.

At last.

[everythingne]

marketing ploy (ln4) - rewrite

McLaren and Red Bull make a deal—a plan to get them both some publicity (and some extra cash). Olivia Piastri (yes, Piastri), the head analyst of Red Bull, has to pretend to date her brother’s teammate.

Oh, and she can’t tell anyone—not even Oscar, it’s not a real relationship.

piastri!oc x lando norris (fc: yesly)

warnings/notes: sort of financial abuse, manipulation from higher authorities, christian horner is fucking insane in this now btw!! fake dating AND brothers best friend trope, rewriting this to hopefully spark some inspiration for new fics over the summer ?

02 March 2023 - Bahrain (Instagram)

liked by landonorris, oscarpiastri, redbullracing, and 689k more…

oliviapiastri: thx bahrain for rb 1-2

tagged: maxverstappen, oscarpiastri

mclaren: the siblings ever 🧡

user1: so are we gonna talk ab her calling lando NORI during her little interview with kym????

⤷ user2: NO FR??

maxverstappen: only got p1 thanks to you and the team

f1wagsnfamsupport: miss olivia out here with the short hair looking STUNNING

maepiastri: OSCAR IM SCREAMINNGGG

oscarpiastri: what is that photo of me?

⤷ olivepastries: this is what u get for eating my timtams on the plane

landonorris: thanks oli 🧡

redbullracing: the prettiest strategist on the planet

user3: UGH I LOVE WOMEN...

⤷ user4: wuhluhwuh please PLEASE

hattiepiastri: THE PRETTIEST. SO GORGEOUS. WOWOWOW

7 March 2023 - Jedddah (Practice)

“Piastri incoming!” is the call that alerts the group of the presence appearing around the corner. Tall white heels clicking, Olivia--affectionately nicknamed Olive, Piastri steps into the doorway of the main meeting room in Red Bull's motorhome. Her little orange sundress swishing with every step she takes as she pauses to shake Christian's hand--tugging up the sleeve of her white sweater to do so, gold bracelets twinkling and clinking on her wirst, perfectly manicured navy nails securing around Christian's hand.

A small piece of hair tugs on her earring, and Olivia takes pause to slip it out of its confinement, before moving out of the way so Christian can close the door. Two dirty martinis and a shot of tequila down during family dinner, Olivia whisks her way into the room with a breath of floral perfume and a hint of rubber still clinging to her skin from the heat of the night practices in Jeddah. Even post dinner with the WAGs and some of the other women who worked in the sport, like Laura, Susie, and Hannah.

"Thank you again, Miss Piastri, for coming on such a short notice." Christian says as Olivia turns to take in the room in front of her. Three men sit in different stages of formal dress. One off to the side with Alice--Red Bulls CCO, a woman sitting next to Mark Webber in the corner--which is intriguing to Olivia, because they both had just been at dinner. And then when Olivia turns her head further, Zak Brown and Andrea Stella are against the far wall.

She blinks, pauses, and lifts a hand, "Sorry, what is this?"

And in the most casual clothing is Lando, leaned back in his chair like he owns the garage. Which makes Olivia's jaw tick just a bit. Who did he think he was? There wasn't any level of animosity between the two of them, but Olivia finds the whole situation to be quite interesting. Lando was polite, bright and smiley, had managed to get Oscar a little bit out of his shell. Not that Olivia would complain about that, it was nice to see Oscar with a genuine smile, but its Mark in the corner that makes her head tilt.

Mark has a tense line in his jaw Olivia knew meant he didn't necessarily care for what was about to go down. It only grew when Christian clapped Olivia's shoulder and she sent him a glare that had his hand popping off in a second.

"We were waiting for you to get started." Christian ends up motioning for the chair next to Lando that, conveniently, had been left open. Olivia moves forward and pops down next to Lando, offering him a small polite smile he manages to return.

Ah yes, civility. Olivia can work with the bare minimum, it's the usual amount of respect she gets here.

"My Mom had to get a picture of Oscar and I in the paddock here, thats what took so long." Olivia says, setting her little purse in her lap and folding her hands on top of it, "Sorry if I was a bit late."

"Right on time, actually," Christian nods, "As punctual as usual."

"Lets get right to business, we need Lando to be in top shape for tomorrows race. Can't keep him out too late." Zak easily jokes, bringing the attention of the room to him. Christian accompanies with his own laugh softly, taking a seat at his desk and flicking open his laptop. There's an obvious line of tension between the two, it was well known Christian and Zak didn't get along, and so Olivia sends a glance to Mark.

He won't meet her eyes.

So she clears her throat, and kicks Lando's chair with a small smirk, voice coming out monotonous as usual, "Ah, it's all too much for little Lando Norris, right?"

"Little Lando Norris?" He jokingly pouts and Olivia grins, kicking his chair again with a shrug, making him start laughing as he leans back and swats at her foot. His nails scratch along Olivia's ankle and her shiver is visible as she ends up pulling my ankle to the side of my leg.

"Well, this might work better than expected." Andrea comments with a soft grin on his lips, "they already get along well, and have some sort of chemistry."

"Huh?" "What?"

Lando and Olivia both turn to look at Andrea, then both turn their attention to Zak and then Christian in order. The three men laugh along to Andrea, nodding in agreement as the two women jot down some notes, the third woman by Lando huffing with a soft smile on her lips. I point to Mark Webber, my brothers manager and speak softly.

"Wait, so why are we here?" Olivia finally asks and Christian looks to Zak, holding a hand out for the man to explain. He does, standing as he motions around the room, introducing everyone to each other, thankfully.

There's Olivia and Lando settled in two leather chairs, Christian sat his desk with Zak and Andrea standing besides him. Alice, Red Bull's Chief Communications Officer sits next to Steve Atkins, who is McLarens Chief Communications Officer. Then, on the other side of the desk is a woman named Astrid Marina, who is Lando's manager, and then Oscar's manager Mark Webber, who is here to represent Olivia.

"And, we are all here for the two of you." Zak nods, and Lando sends Olivia a sharp look that says nothing but 'what the hell did you do?' which she counters with her best 'I didn't do shit, what did you do?' look.

"You see, tensions between Red Bull and McLaren's racing teams are at an all time high due to how close Lando has been racing with Max." Zak continues after a moment, "and the fans have been eating up the rivalry. It's truly been one of the most intense spikes in merch sales and social media trends we've seen in years on both sides. And, Miss Piastri, that is where you come into the picture."

"Okay? What does this have to do with me, if you don't mind my asking?" Olivia leans forward slightly, eyes glancing up at Zak, then to Andrea, then Christian, then back to Zak's smug smile.

"We need to keep the rivalry alive between us and Red Bull, yeah? And, over the past few weeks when you've been on radio with Max, the fans have noticed the two of you seem to be quite close. And considering you are Oscar's sister..." Zak waves a hand as he comes to take one of Olivia's, squeezing it as he leans down to be my eye level, "we have quite an opportunity."

"I'm not following." Olivia glances to Lando, who sends her a helpless shrug of confusion.

"Well, Miss Piastri." Christian taps his desk and Zak moves to sit down again. Both Alice and Steven whisper to each other as the Astrid and Ada nod to Christian, and he speaks words that should never have been strung together.

"To keep up with publicity, we would like for you and Lando to pretend to date. Just for a season or two."

Olivia sends a look to Mark, who just keeps his eyes firm on her. There's a sort of silent patience in his eyes she ifnds astounding. Has Mark agreed to this? Olivia finds she can't even bring words to her mouth, the room closing in and feeling crowded as everyone turns to watch Lando and Olivia react.

Luckily, Lando moves first, stadning with a shocked expression, "I'm sorry? What are you on about?"

"Olivia, you will start to spend more time with McLaren." Alice starts to explain, and everyone looks to her, "post more McLaren, wear more McLaren, start to cause a stir. Once we see that stir, we will take photos of you wearing Lando's number and post those. This should start a dating rumor through Australia to Miami."

Olivia's gaze hardens. She's being treated like a Sim.

"Once the rumor really starts, you will both do a 'soft launch' of the other--basically, faceless photos. You'll be caught by paparazzi on a date, you'll be seen together in the paddocks, and such. We'll bring this rumor up and up until about midway through the season when, during a pole position celebration, Lando will go to you for a celebratory kiss--which will cement your relationship." Alice continues, and then Steven takes over,

"We'll run the relationship probably through next season, maybe a little longer, and then you'll both have a peaceful split off and remain friends. No harm done."

Finally, I stand as well, gripping my purse as I swing it back around my shoulder, "You're reading me a film script, not the next twenty months of my life! I'm an analyst, not some--actress you can throw around for publicity points!"

"Olivia, please." Christian stands, holding a hand out like you would to a scared dog, "it's something temporary, and it's no strings attached! There's a pretty big... financial bonus as well."

The room shifts, Lando glancing back to Olivia with a look that reads 'what the hell?' but she can't even find a place in her mind to register that.

"You both will get between ten to twenty-five percent of all revenue made off this stunt. Merch sales, meet and greets... depending on how well you sell this... that could triple or even times both of your salaries by ten." Alice crosses her arms, "and, the deal will be kept to people in this office. Only we will know why this is being done. To everyone else, even Oscar and Max, this relationship is genuine. NDA assured."

There's a long pause, and part of Olivia feels trapped. The amount of money I could make for putting up with a guy I already put up with his obviously extremely appealing. She already makes a good chunk of change but with the extra...

Hell, Olivia could pay off all my student loans at once with that absolute chunk of change.

But what did this say for women in motorsport? I had been so careful with my image until this point. I got my job before Oscar joined McLaren, I worked tirelessly night and day with GP and Hannah, took classes on top of work on top of engineering on the side on top of life for this job.

Would I throw it all away for some ploy?

"Fuck it." Lando says under his breath, so low only Olivia hears the slight scratch of his voice as he sighs and then looks up at Christian, "We're already putting up with each other, what's the harm of some extra cash?"

"Norris?!" I shout as my disbelief hits an all time high. Lando's right hand takes a pen from Christian's left one as he turns back to me, running a hand through his frizzy curls.

"We fake date for a year, and then we go off and do whatever we want after with a large paycheck for something no one knows is fake. How is this a bad deal, Olivia? I already spend almost every weekend with you and Oscar anyway, it'll hardly be different." He says, and a paper is pushed his way, he looks back at me once more in that loose, half buttoned white tee and black dress shorts. His necklaces dangle off his neck as he scribbles down his name without any hesitance, clicking the pen shut and holding it out to me.

"Plus, if we're pretending to be a real couple, you'll be losing out on nothing because I will be buying you pretty much everything for the next twelve months."

Fuck. That's a good point. She could kinda manipulate this to benefit her if all goes to shit. The black pen taunts Olivia, and the way Lando grins and wiggles it in the air towards her hesitantly lifting hand is no different.

Yeah, so much for being shy, Lando.

"I have an image to maintain." Olivia squeaks out as she lowers her hand, and Christian stands then, slowly making his way across the room like he's planning some sort of attack.

"But, you would have more money than you ever need, and a big boost in permanent salary if you do this." Christian smiles dangerously, "plus, if you want to leave after we start this... talk with me, and I'll sort it out. It's really no strings attached."

Olivia looks to Mark for guidance. It's not an ideal situation in any way, but at least she'd have a way out, right? Mark blinks, watching her, and then he raises a hand, "Can I speak with her in the hall for a moment?"

"Lando already signed," Alice stands, clicking her pen shut, "McLaren is free to leave."

McLaren does just that, silently shuffling out. There's a moment of still, of pure silence as Mark collects his words. Christian leans back in his chair, eyebrows raising, before Mark sighs and finally moves off the wall to point at Christian, "I don't respect you."

Olivia can't help the laugh that barks out of her before she immediately slams her hand over her lips.

"I know that." Christian replies, "But its simply business, Mark. A year or so of this bullshit, she gets double the pay shes already got, then shes done."

Mark's reply is quick and flat, "Olivia doesn't just hold her own reputation, she holds the reputation for all women in motorsports. She's a professional, an analyst, and to quote her 'not some actress you can throw around for publicity points.'"

"Her dating a driver wont discredit her value to Red Bull, I assure you." Christian leans forward to rest his elbows on the desk and Olivia scoffs without even thinking about what shes about to say--

"Clearly you haven't read any article about women in motorsports or opened any of our Instagram comments, or listen to the broadcasters, in the past ten years, Horner."

"If I may interject." Alice raises a hand, looking between the two men. Mark huffs, taking a step back towards Olivia, his hand resting on the back of her chair, as Christian lightly lifts his head in suggestion.

"At any point, we can run back what was said, call it all conjecture, rumors, lies and say the two are friends." Alice shrugs, "Olivia and Max had dating rumors what, six months ago over a hug? These rumors come and go in F1, and we are a PR team, we are running the narrative, we can make things work the way we need them to if they get too bad."

"I still don't think it's a good idea." Mark sighs, "if these rumors run too long, they could destroy her future in her career."

Olivia sits there, ankles crossed. Mark has made nothing but good points. But it's Christian's next line that makes her heart sink,

"It would be a shame to replace such a star analyst."

and though the sentence could be morphed to mean it would be a shame to replace her if things get worse, theres a tinge of greed in Christian's eyes. She knows he means it would be a shame to find someone now to replace her, assuming Red Bull just moved her to another series rather than axing her fully.

Mark's hand on the back of the chair taps twice, some sort of signal for Oscar that flies over Olivia's head, and he moves to exit the room. It takes a beat, but Olivia begins to follow.

"Consider this deal closed. She's not doing it." Mark calls, Olivia stopping next to him to keep from colliding into his shoulder as he pauses in the doorway while he speaks. Mark continues down the hall, but Olivia hesitates. Alice folds her files neatly, and Christian speaks softly.

"If you like this job, Piastri..." He makes a vague signing motion and Olivia swallows, before slamming the door shut and chasing after Mark.

8 March 2023 - Jeddah (Qualifying)

Olivia sits restless at her desk, leg bouncing as she stares over the files and numbers and data that soar by. Eyes bore into her skin, and she turns her head to see Christian staring her down. It's been a constant since she left the meeting, and though she told Mark it was nothing to worry about and that she wasn't planning on signing anything...

God, the silent pressure all weekend was practically torture.

After quali, Max wants to go over data, so Olivia sits with Hannah and GP running numbers and showing simulations for a good few hours. The race strategy had worked relatively well, but Max always had room for improvement. It was why he and Olivia were so close and worked so well together, they always wanted to do more, be more. The plan for the quali-to-win is the same is usually is for Jeddah, save for the adjustments of a faster McLaren and a biting Mercedes.

They work well into the after hours, but there's a race tomorrow, and they know at some point this conversation must be pushed for the next day. So, Hannah leaves first, then Max, and finally GP--after finishing some final notes, before bidding Olivia farewell.

She stands quietly in the board room then, packing up her purse and disconnecting form the projector they'd been using. The large black purse--a Coach tote that she could fit her whole life into, had served her better than any backpack ever had. And as Olivia is shooting a text to Max in reply to a question about tire deg, there's a shadow looming in the corner of her eyes.

And much like the monster he's become, Christian breaks into a like sharp toothed grin.

"Miss Piastri." He says simply and Olivia pauses, hand tight on her phone. Slowly turning over her shoulder, she sees Christian in the doorway.

"I already told you Christian, I'm not doing that stupid PR stunt." Olivia tightens her grasp on her phone, feeling her pulse run against the rough plastic edges of the case.

Chrsitian sighs, "While I can't fire you, I will say, we have a lot of offers for new analysts. With two, your pay would cut in half, you do realize that, right? This opportunity is a way for us to grow the team's publicity in harmless way! Just a little fake date, that we completely control, no harm done."

"You realize I could report you to HR for this entire conversation, right?" Olivia whispers, but she knows before he laughs that it doesn't matter.

"And how well has that gone for those before you, Piastri?" Christian steps forward, placing a clipboard in front of Olivia. She stares down at it, gnawing her already bitten and chapped lips. And with a nrvous smile, she picks up the pen, hesitating before she asks,

"I can always back out, right?"

"Always." Christian's grin looks downright sadistic. But Olivia bites the bullet, and signs the damn paper. More so for the feeling of Christian off her back than the actual fake dating scenario. And when her asshole team principle leaves the room with a happy grin and an evil glint in his eyes, Olivia slumps back down into one of the chairs, running her hands through her hair and contemplating screaming, or sobbing, or throwing something.

But after a moment, she picks up her bag, plasters on a content look, and forces her way out of garage without as much as a glare in the direction of Christian's office.

9 March 2023 - Jeddah (Race Day)

The Saudi Arabian sun burns across the track, making wiggly lines shimmer on the streets and through the paddocks. Two hours to sunset, four hours to the race. Olivia can taste the heat in the air, her second water bottle already empty. It's miserable. Even more so as she ducks out of a meeting her and Lando had been subjected to in order to 'ensure they seemed legit.'

Olivia just wants to back out already, but if they haven't started earning money, she imagines Christian might axe her.

The thinner uniform shirts for Saudi don't do much to regulate the heat stifling the McLaren garage as they pass through, trying to get back to the motorhomes, but an attentive Oscar cuts them off with a joking smile on his lips but a serious inquiry in his eyes.

"Ready to die in the heat?" He asks, a perfect fist bump shared between the two teammates. Olivia smiles softly, looking around the garage, noticing the camera trained in their direction, the eyes on them. Olivia never left the screen at Red Bull, so seeing her here is an oddity. What's even weirder is when Lando turns after a joke with Oscar, and gives Olivia a proper hug. A full, two arm, squish into the chest and hold type hug.

The buzz begins with Oscar's confused grimace.

To kill the moment, Lando shakes the sweat of his water bottle in Oscar's direction, making him scoff and wipe the icy water off his face. Lando grins, turning and looking at Olivia like she's hung the moon and stars for him. She can't help but be shocked at how easily he can fall into faking utter and complete love. He's a natural.

Someone calls Lando over from the other side of the paddock and as he excuses himself, he places a hand on Olivia's lower back as he moves behind her, and it lingers like the burns of stares and camera lenses. His fingers glide along the fabric of her shirt, nails scratching at the skin underneath enough to make Olivia look over her shoulder at him as he smiles at me one last time before fully stepping away..

"When do you have to be with Red Bull?" Oscar asks, drawing Olivia's attention back to him, "to see your second, more important brother."

"You're so dramatic about Max." Olivia laughs, punching her brothers arm, "and not for another like… ten or so minutes, Hannah's leading the start today."

"Ah. Surprised to see you here, is all." Oscar takes a water from a worker who hands the two siblings ice cold plastic bottles. The two both take a large gulp, relishing in the fact its actually cold, before Oscar is called off like Lando had been. As Oscar turns away, Lando pulls Olivia back to a far corner and lets her rest against it as he hovers in front of her. Shielding me from view as he runs his hands through his curls.

"So, how exactly are we handling media?" He says, "like the paparazzi, the reporters, and stuff?"

"I guess we should just act the same? Maybe a bit friendlier, just... I guess deny all romantic things for now." Olivia hums, looking over at a few media personnel who hover around the car, the team, and Oscar. The paddocks are slowly buzzing to life as everyone's arriving for the day.

"Then, you have to act like you like me a little bit, Ollie." Lando leans in a bit, breath fanning across Olivia's cheek in a tease that she isn't afraid to counter by turning her head so their noses brush. Lando sucks in a breath, his hands hovering, begging to touch to hold, but she just smiles softly.

"Gotta go, Nori." she whispers back, grinning as Lando's eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes twice before he steps back. As Olivia steps out, she calls softly,

"Tell Oscar I said not to fuck this up!"

Luckily no one had passed out during the race.

Olivia's standing at the edge of the paddock, grinning as Max shakes champagne from his hair. He's flushed, still a bit heat-exhausted, but seemingly doing well enough. The rest of Red Bull is packing up, organizers already tearing parts of the track away to free to road within a few hours of the races completion. Checo laughs at something Max says, passing by with a slap to his teammates shoulder as the second place winner goes off to leave for the night.

"We did pretty damn good," Max leans against the wall, taking a water from Olivia's outstretched hand as GP exits the paddock with a wave over his shoulder at someone.

"And we'll keep the momentum up." Olivia chimes, before a flicker of approaching papaya catches her eyes. She blinks up and grins at Oscar's approach to the exterior of the Red Bull paddocks, two steps forward and she tugs him into a loose hug.

"Nice P4." She congratulates, Oscar stepping back with a smile.

"I almost tasted that podium," Oscar smiles, then straightens a bit when he sees the Red Bull staff hovering. Every one of us in shorts and tees, and Oscar in a hoodie like no one communicated to him that it was hot.

"Hey, Max." Oscar says, wiping sweat from his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. Whistling to get her brothers attention, Olivia tosses him a plain white towel, a cold one that Red Bull had frozen for the hear. She swears Oscar almost melts with appreciation when he sees it and then promptly wipes his entire face down and rests the towel around his neck.

"Good to see you, Oscar." Max nods, leaning on the shaded wall next to Olivia. Flushed cheeks and tired eyes making GP nudge the water bottle towards him with a little less sly nature than usual, a look from Olivia telling Max to just suck it up and take a sip.

"Good to see you Max, great win today," Oscar smiles, but quickly continues, "Livie, weren't answering your phone, and I needed to give you your stuff, so I came over to tell you I've gotta stay late, meeting with Mark."

"I'll catch a ride back, no worries." Olivia pats his shoulder and he Oscar nods, lifting his phone to his face and groaning.

"Gotta go, again, see you for dinner tomorrow when you land?" Oscar starts backing up and Olivia nods. The tradition of post-race dinner never a lost art on the Piastri siblings.

"As always! Seven pm, sharp!" Olivia calls to her brothers retreating form and he nods before turning and just taking off in a run to vanish into the McLaren paddock.

"Need a ride back?" Max asks after a beat, GP tugging his backpack up over his shoulders. Olivia goes to say yes, but a whistle takes her attention sideways to Lando approaching.

"Nope. See you guys tomorrow!" Olivia can't help but cheekily grin, slipping off the wall to approach Lando who twirls his car keys absentmindedly. He smiles at her approach, adjusting his bag as he stops so Olivia can meet him midway.

"Nice to see you, Ollie... you need a ride home, right?" He grins, placing a hand on my lower back once more and Olivia doesn't hesitate to lean up to tuck a stray hair back against the others. The same curl that always pokes out of it's spot.

"I do, Oscar's late with Mark tonight." Olivia says, peeking behind her to see Max--and a newly appeared Charles, Daniel, and off to side, Logan and Alex and George, watching the two interact.

"Perfect." Lando's eyes lift to look at the group, and seconds later he's escorting Olivia with flair, his hand naturally slotting to rest a little lower than the small of her back. his steps falling in time with hers as he guides her out of the paddocks with a cheeky, "Starting strong, aren't we?"

Olivia can't help but laugh, hiding her mouth with her hand as they slip into the car park. There's a few lingering reporters here, but no large crowd for once other than some teams that linger their eyes on the closeness of Lando and his teammates sister.

"Strong starts typically lead to strong races." Olivia says as he opens the passenger door to his car for her. The sleek black McLaren a beauty, and Olivia can't hepl the happy sigh as she sinks into the passengers seat. Lando makes sure shes all tucked in, even scooting her purse a bit deeper, before shutting the door as he makes his way around the front of the car and clambering into the drivers seat.

He smirks, "At least they can't say we aren't holding up our end of the contract."

And Olivia laughs, because its true, they are doing everything in their power to make sure this contract works. And it starts making Olivia think, how quickly can she get the hell out of this? She wasn't an actress, thats for sure, but she also didn't want to piss off Oscar.

It was a unique predicament to be in. One she didn't really want. But at least conversation with Lando flows easily as they drive back to the hotel.

general tag list! (open!)

@d3kstar @justalittlejess @tvdtw4ever @llando4norris @daemyratwst @piastri-fvx @sltwins @armystay89 @leclercdream

marketing ploy list! (open! this is an old list, so feel free to message me if you'd like to be removed or added!)

@harrysdimple05 @charli123456789 @fangirl125reader @dark-night-sky-99 @starmanv @ophcelia @buendiabebeta @seacactusplant @chaoticmessneutralplease @vellicora @littleagxs @sbella13 @nessacarty1 @rd14 @theimpoliteone @woozarts @luckyntrashy

[leafnyx]

Im just gonna answer this for my RDR2 oc Tobias :)

1. What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?

There was a character creation challenge thing in a server that I’m in, it was to create a cowboy/outlaw character so I designed Tobi without really and thought into him becoming a fully fleshed out character but then I got into rdr so I just decided to throw him into the story lol.

2. How long was the process before the character reached its final version? (Or a version that would be clearly recognizable as the character?)

His design has barely really changed since I created him, he’s still a fairly new oc, but his personality has changed somewhat. When creating his design I think I thought of him as more of a cocky character but he’s ended up being very kind, still with a confident exterior. I also often forget how my characters exactly act when I don’t think about them for a while so o think bcs of that some parts of Tobias’ personality have definitely changed but not to the point where he’s unrecognizable from how he was at first.

3. What was the first thing you decided on, the character’s name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?

Like I said before, I made his design first for a challenge then his name i think, cause I usually create names for all the characters I make, then personality and role in the story.

4. And reverse, which one of the four things did you struggle with the most?

Mostly personality and some of his role. I have a hard time grasping my characters personality, even though I made them lol, so sometimes I can’t figure out whether something feels like something Tobi would do or not. Little parts of his personality change fairly often but the big picture of it hasn’t changed very much. Then his role in the story was a bit difficult to figure out but in the grand scheme of things, he’s just a bg character in the vdl gang. I like to think of how my characters would fit into the actual story and for Tobi I think he would be a Kieran situation where he’s there, and you have like one or two main missions with him in it, but mostly you’ll see him if you loiter around camp.

5. How did you choose their name and why? Was it simply based on vibes or is there any specific meaning behind the name? Are the reasons behind their name different in- and out of universe?

Like I do for most of my characters, I looked up a list of names online and picked the one I thought fit his vibe the most lol. There’s really no meaning behind it.

6. What was the thought process behind their appearance? Did you go mostly for the aesthetic or are there other reasons they look the way they do?

I think it was mostly aesthetics when I made him, then I based parts of him and his personality off of the design.

7. What is an aspect of their appearance that you like the most?

I like his clothes, cause I think it’s something I could see an actual, proper, cowboy character in a piece of media wearing. I also like his eyes because I used to struggle with drawing thinner eyes, even though they aren’t that thin lol, so I made all my characters have really wide eyes but now that I’m better at it I think he just looks so him, like before he just felt a bit off.

Also he has very, very, light freckles that you can’t see unless you really look at him :)

8. What is the origin of their personality? And let's be honest - how much of it is projecting?

Honestly I really don’t remember why I made him act how he does. But shockingly I think he’s one of the characters I project onto the least since he’s very outgoing and I can barely even talk to my friends comfortably lol.

I started off at first with the idea of Tobi having strong morals, then it at some point went deeper and ended up with him having a sort of morality ocd where he has to truly be a good person, even though his standards and morals are ones he can never truly reach in his line of work. (Previously a sheriff, now technically an outlaw)

9. How big is their role in the story? Do they make a frequent appearance or are they a character with little "screentime" but big influence? Or are they just a favourite background guy?

If he was in the actual game he wouldn’t show up in many parts of the story. I think Arthur would have like one stagecoach robbery with him in chapter 2, where Tobias would refuse to kill anyone, then maybe a few optional missions and interactions around camp, and he’d be in like one or two of the bigger jobs pre-chapter 5.

10. What is their main character arc in the story? Where do they start and how do they develop? Do they get a happy ending or is their story a tragic one?

He doesn’t really have a particularly tragic past but he’s still not very happy in Colter, at the beginning of the game (he joined the gang during the Blackwater heist). But he gets happier in chapters 2-3, he thrives in small towns like valentine, and he ends up getting closer with the gang even with his preconceived notions of them. But then when things start going downhill, especially after Kieran’s death, Tobi’s mental health drops aswell. He has to go on bigger jobs and kill people, betraying his morals, and eventually it becomes too much for him. While the main pets of the gang are out in Guarma Tobias runs off and ends up dying in the middle of the forest near their makeshift hideout. (Once the gang gets back there’s a chance for Arthur to find Tobi in the forest and either pay some sort of respect to him and free/take his horse as a high honor thing or rob his corpse for low honor.)

11. Is there any existing character from other media that your character resembles? Was the resemblance intentional or was it a coincidence?

Honestly not any that I can think of. Someone once compared him to Chuuya from Bungou Stray Dogs but I don’t really see it.

12. Do you have a playlist for the character? What songs do you associate with them and why?

I do but it’s very small with only 2 songs, I’m trying to think of more that would fit him.

The songs on it are ‘I bet on loosing dogs’ by Mitski & ‘Let Down’ by Radiohead

His story is fairly tragic, especially near the end, so I thought they were fairly fitting songs.

13. Do you have a voice claim for the character? What do you imagine the character sounds like?

I don’t currently have a voice claim for him but I imagine him having a southern accent with a somewhat high pitched tone? Like not Bill Williamson levels but higher than Arthur.

14. Do you have any quotes tied to the character, either from the story itself or from another source that fit them?

“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” - Mahatma Gandhi

Or really any other motivational quote like that

15. Have you ever made a moodboard for them?

Yep! (It’ll be at the end of the post)

16. Is there any memes or running jokes associated with the character, both in- and out of universe?

Not really, but I suppose one thing the people in game might joke about when it comes to Tobias would be his naivety. He truly wants everything to be good in the world and for there to not be bad things like killing or even really robbery but everyone else knows that it’ll never happen. (And in the back of his mind Tobi knows it too)

17. Are there any motifs or symbols associated with the character? How are they represented, in their design, personality or in some other way?

Tobias has a yellow flower clip on his hat, it was given to him by a young girl he saved when he was a sheriff and he treasures that clip. It’s truly the only part of being a sheriff that he liked, he loves helping people. Yellow flowers also represent happiness, something that Tobi is trying to achieve and he gets momentarily before loosing it completely.

18. Does the character have other characters connected to them? Do you have a family tree and "offscreen" connections made up for them or do they exist in a vacuum purely for the purpose of the story?

I have a basic idea of hsi family but nothing too in depth.

His dad moved to a small town when he was a young adult from a larger city that he lived in. He eventually became the sheriff of the town, married Tobi’s mom, and had Tobi. Tobi was raised knowing that he would take the role of sheriff from his father when he was old enough. His mom died when he was a teen and his dad was still alive when Tobias ran away from everything because he couldn’t handle the bad parts of the law and being a sheriff.

19. What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

One of the things I love about Tobi is how respectful he is. A majority of Tobias’ friends are girls and he knows how to do many things for them to the point where people thought he had a sister. I also like how confident he is, and how he’ll flirt with people without really processing or knowing he’s being flirtatious, but the second someone tries to flirt back he becomes a mess.

Honestly there’s nothing I really dislike about him, I feel like I’ve made him a generally likable character lol.

20. Bonus question: share any additional thoughts, art, favourite scenes, anything you've been waiting for a chance to ramble about

In the gang I imagine Tobi’s closest friends are Kieran, because he pities the guy and doesn’t understand why people are so rude to him, Molly, and most of the girls even though they view him as a bit naive, and Pearson since Tobi willingly helps Pearson out a lot.

Character asks!

These are more focused on the background stuff rather than the usual "what would the character do in XY situation" kinds of asks. I've been looking for something like this for quite a while and in the end decided to make my own. Feel free to use, go wild, enjoy

What was the original thought that led to the creation of this character?

How long was the process before the character reached its final version? (or a version that would be clearly recognizable as the character?)

What was the first thing you decided on, the character's name, appearance, personality or their role in the story?

And reverse, which one of the four things did you struggle with the most?

How did you choose their name and why? Was it simply based on vibes or is there any specific meaning behind the name? Are the reasons behind their name different in- and out of universe?

What was the thought process behind their appearance? Did you go mostly for the aesthetic or are there other reasons they look the way they do?

What is an aspect of their appearance that you like the most?

What is the origin of their personality? And let's be honest - how much of it is projecting?

How big is their role in the story? Do they make a frequent appearance or are they a character with little "screentime" but big influence? Or are they just a favourite background guy?

What is their main character arc in the story? Where do they start and how do they develop? Do they get a happy ending or is their story a tragic one?

Is there any existing character from other media that your character resembles? Was the resemblance intentional or was it a coincidence?

Do you have a playlist for the character? What songs do you associate with them and why?

Do you have a voice claim for the character? What do you imagine the character sounds like?

Do you have any quotes tied to the character, either from the story itself or from another source that fit them?

Have you ever made a moodboard for them?

Is there any memes or running jokes associated with the character, both in- and out of universe?

Are there any motifs or symbols associated with the character? How are they represented, in their design, personality or in some other way?

Does the character have other characters connected to them? Do you have a family tree and "offscreen" connections made up for them or do they exist in a vacuum purely for the purpose of the story?

What is your general favourite thing about the character? What is your least favourite?

Bonus question: share any additional thoughts, art, favourite scenes, anything you've been waiting for a chance to ramble about

[wendichester]

safe and sound was absolutely beautiful 🥹 dad!dean is one of my faves, and for every story i read about him as a dad, i truly believe it’s like he would have had been if he would have had a child of his own 🩵 could you write sth with dean and his bby about she having her first sleepover ever? baby winchester can have the age you prefer, but i know sth for a fact, dean wouldn’t sleep that night, he would miss his girl until he picks her up, but he would also very sooo happy that she has a relatively more normal childhood than he did ✨

no one can change my mind, dean winchester deserved the world 😭

₊˚⊹♡ first night, forever girl,

summary. dean's gone through a lot, but dropping his little girl at her first sleepover? that's the hardest thing he's ever had to do in his entire life

pairing. dad!dean winchester x 8yo daughter!reader genre. fluffy fluff

wordcount. 645

notes / warnings. dean winchester being the world's most emotionally repressed softie: no actual sadness—just man vs. sleepover-induced heartbreak

Dean’s standing by the Impala like he’s witnessing the end of the world.

His daughter—his baby, his tiny tornado of a human—is halfway up the walkway of her friend’s house, backpack bouncing and braid swaying, when she turns and beams at him with her whole face.

And Dean Winchester melts.

She waves. “BYE, DADDY! LOVE YOU!”

“Love you more,” he calls back, voice caught somewhere between proud and panicked.

She vanishes inside. The door shuts.

And Dean stands there, alone on the porch, looking like he just got dumped by the love of his life. Which, technically, he kind of did.

“She’ll be fine,” Sam says gently from the passenger seat when Dean climbs back into the Impala, still staring at the house like it might explode. “It’s a sleepover, not the end of the world.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean mutters. “What if they give her the wrong kind of mac and cheese?”

Sam blinks. “That’s your concern?”

“It matters, Sam.” Dean grips the steering wheel like it’s a lifeline. “She likes the spiral kind. Shells are a betrayal.”

Sam snorts and pats his shoulder. “You’re a wreck.”

“She's never been away for the night,” Dean mumbles, eyes on the rearview like she might suddenly sprint back out and change her mind. “Not once. She still can’t reach the top cabinet without a chair.”

“She’s eight.”

“Exactly.”

Sam doesn’t argue. Because he gets it—they never had this. A childhood with birthday parties and glittery backpacks and sleepovers. Dean made sure she did.

It’s 11:37 PM when Dean finally stops pacing.

She would’ve been tucked in by now. Maybe they’re watching movies. Maybe she’s cold and too polite to ask for an extra blanket. What if she forgot her toothbrush? What if—

BZZZT.

Dean’s phone lights up.

[Photo attachment] It’s her. Wearing a fluffy headband and a pink face mask, making peace signs with two other girls and grinning so wide her eyes are little crescents.

Dean stares at the picture like it’s a sacred text.

Text from: Cece's Mom

"Face masks + Barbie movie night = best time ever! She’s glowing! 🩷

Sam leans over the couch. “That her?”

Dean flips the phone so he can stare at it alone.

“…She’s having fun,” he says, and there’s something weird and wet behind his voice.

Sam smiles softly. “Like she should.”

It’s well past 1 AM when Dean gives up on sleep.

He’s lying on the couch, fully dressed, one arm draped over his eyes. The baby monitor he hasn't used in years is weirdly back on his nightstand. The light in the hall is still on. Just in case.

He keeps looking at her bed like she might appear there by magic.

He misses the soft shuffle of her socks in the hallway. The way she always comes in three times before bed—to ask for water, for a hug, for just one last chapter of her favorite book.

She’s fine. He knows she’s fine. But Dean Winchester doesn’t know what to do when the most important person in his universe isn’t under the same roof.

When he picks her up the next morning, she runs out the door, messy-haired and still in her unicorn pajamas, and barrels into his chest like she never left.

“Hi Daddy,” she says, half-yawn, half-giggle.

Dean holds her tight—just a little longer than usual.

“Did you have fun?”

She nods against his neck. “So much fun. But I missed you.”

Dean’s chest tightens.

He pulls back and smiles down at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Yeah, baby. I missed you too.”

He ruffles her head, helps her into the Impala, and gives the other girl's mom a grateful nod and a small wave.

The door shuts.

And this time, when he drives away, she’s in the backseat—home, safe, sleepy—and humming along to the radio.

Dean exhales. Finally.

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

[dahliakbs]

More toddler!reader, pls? 🥺👉👈

A surprise from beyond the grave...

{I'm sorry I haven't been around for the past year, I had a huge case of writer's block but I finally logged back on to dish out some ideas. This is a continuation of the toddler reader story from a couple months ago.}

Warnings: Blood and Talks of Death and Grief(that's kind of it)

Relationship: Jason Todd and Toddler! Reader

Part 1

6 months after Jason's Death

After Jason's death time had continued to flow like usual. Days and weeks passed by in the blink of an eye and things stayed relatively the same, except one thing had changed in the toddler's schedule after Jason had left.

Since the cemetery wasn't to far from the manor Alfred would allow the toddler to sit outside and spend some time with her now departed big brother. This evening was no different.

They had carried their usual items, a couple snacksto share with their lovely big brother, two lollipops just in case Jason had requested other options, a drawing book to pass the time and a small picture frame the toddler would place at the base of the statuesque tombstone.

To others it was a sad sight to see, a small child sat alone among rows and rows of tombstones. Speaking animatedly to an audience of zero listeners and offering snacks to the small picture they'd brought along with them. It was obvious why this could have happened. Everyone seemed to be mourning Jason's death as of late, leaving the toddler to wallow in therr own grief all by themselves.

Even Alfred had seemed rather distracted as of late.

This seemed to be their only escape from the grief burdening them.

Usually the evening would continue as such, conversing with the picture frame, coloring in the lines of their new drawing book and sharing a few snacks with their big brother but today different.

There was a sudden flash in the bright blue sky.

A wave of cold, fresh air wafting through the cemetery before a sudden violent downpour of rain came about.

From beneath their feet the soil shifted, a loud noise emanating from the base of the tombstone followed by a loud banging. Almost as if something or someone was shaken to life by a violent surge of energy.

A few grunts sounded from beneath the soil, vibrations being sent through the ground beneath their feet and as instinct finally kicked in they quickly started packing their little bag.

The grabbed at every little thing they brought with them, the drawing book, the snacks and last but not least the picture placed at the base of the tombstone. They were to late though, their grubby hands moving as quickly as they could but not quick enough.

A hand shot up violently from the earth's soil, the skin around the finger tips torn off from the harsh digging motions and left a red bleeding mess. The hand quickly slammed down to feel the earth around, unceremoniously crushing the only picture they had left of Jason.

After the hand came an arm, then a shoulder and then the whole body came in suit. The figure rose out of the soil in an almost wild and unnatural way, pulling and yanking on every part of their body to escape the now waterlogged soil.

When the disheveled figure had finally risen from the earth's soil the toddler had gotten a good look at them.

It was Jason.

His body stood motionless above the soil. His appearance was drastically different from when they'd last seen him. His eye was a swollen purple colour, one completely red in colour and the other bloodshot.

His mouth hung open slightly, lower lip busted and jaw left slightly unhinged in a disturbing manner. Almost as if someone had beaten into him during his final moments. Even though they couldn't understand the sight infront of them the toddler could see the many bruises splayed all over their brother's body and that sight alone made them crumble.

Jason hadn't moved an inch from his spot above the earth's surface, the only sounds echoing through the air being the loud intakes of air coming from his tensed figure and the quiet cries coming from the toddler standing only a few feet away from them.

His eyes had set on the small figure, glazed and foggy as though he couldn't understand what he was seeing. His head felt numb, with no recollection of who he was, who they were or why they were both standing in a cemetery in the middle of the rain.

The only thing he felt at that moment was pure instinct from the years of being trained to take on some of gothem's best criminals and the little tricks he picked up from his time on the streets. He had no restraint in that moment.

He had quickly lunged at the small child, raising his fist quickly before bringing it down directly onto the side of their face. Effectively knocking the child out in one blow.

His arm moved again to lay down another blow but something inside him hesitated for a moment. That moment of hesitation being the only thing which saved them in that moment.

An hour later after the sun had finally set someone had come looking for the small child. Only to find them covered in a large amount of murky mud and viscous blood from the injury received from earlier.

Masterlist

[separocean-anxiety]

It’s also fun when it happens accidentally, or the author introduces Something with no real idea of it having any deeper meaning at that time, and then later they decide to properly flesh it out. Exhibit A is every appearance of Bill Cipher in Season 1 of Gravity Falls prior to his actual introduction. They had No Idea who that guy was.

oh i never know how to explain this properly but i looooooooooooooooove when a story just absolutely TELLS you something and it’s so obvious it goes right by you. like the equivalent of hiding in plain sight. i’m thinking in the original cut(?) of alien where they showed the full xenomorph, crouched and ready to pounce, but because we’ve never seen it before, we can’t tell what it is and interpret it as part of the spaceship. or it’s a detail that seems so out of place or wildly insane that you automatically ignore it and assume you misinterpreted until that exact detail comes back in a big way? (like when noah the raven boy flat out tells everyone he’s a ghost and they take it as a joke, so the reader does too) is there a tvtropes name for this i’m obsessed with it

[cupcakedieabetes]

Little Girl Part 1

The manor was all too silent, too suspicious. Dick crept into the manor after having not heard a single thing in the main room, which is usually occupied by someone. It seemed that everyone was out, which was suspicious, as everyone was indoor if they were in their civilian forms.

He tried to look for a sign of life in the manor, going through the hallways one by one, until he came upon a door whose lights were turned on.

He opened the door just a bit and peeked in. His eyes widened in surprise at what he saw.

"Daddy, Daddy! Look at my new dress. Isn't it pretty?" A little girl spun around in front of Bruce, who was crouched on the floor, her gaze as soft and sweet as cotton candy. Alfred was beside him, taking clothes from mountains of shipping boxes.

The little girl's hair was up in twin tails, with a little yellow ribbon attached to each tail. She was dressed in a black and yellow Batman tutu that looked so adorable on her.

Immediately, Bruce's eyes darted to meet Dick's and he looked guilty. Dick, having been caught, opened the door wider, making the girl spin around to look at him, then run into Bruce's open arms.

"Don't tell me you got lonely because of an empty nest?" Dick accused, glare only softening when he looked at the girl who looked confused.

"Daddy, who's that?" The girl spun around to look at Bruce, who silently took the hit to the face when her hair hit him.

"....He's your big brother."

"But he's not Dan?"

"There's another one?" Dick mouthed at Bruce. But Dick decided to step up before Bruce decides to make the most stupidest decision ever, like not telling anyone that he decided to take in a little girl as his little sister. How long ago did anyone last visit Bruce, and how long ago did he even take in this girl?

"Hey, there. I'm Dick! What's your name?" He said softly, approaching the two of them. The girl spun around once more, whipping her hair at Bruce's face to look at him, before settling her head on Bruce's neck. Dick had to hold in a coo at the sight.

"I'm Ellie. I'm 3!" She said, holding up her hands for him to shake.

Dick took her little hands, "Nice to meet you."

Dick looked at Bruce, who looked a bit troubled.

"Ellie, could you stay with Alfred for a bit? I have to talk with your big brother." Ellie nodded before reaching for Alfred, who took her to play with the toys Bruce must have bought through express and excessive shipping.

Bruce and Dick walked a bit further away to talk. They were close enough to still be in the same room as Ellie, but still had a bit of privacy to themselves.

"What the hell, Bruce?" Dick immediately whisper-yelled at Bruce, keeping his face still smiling and pleasant so as not to worry Ellie.

"She suddenly appeared in the Batcave through a portal," Bruce explained. "She came in with pajamas and called me 'Daddy'. So I took a sample immediately, and she is mine."

"When did you even conceive her?" Dick asked, a bit disgusted that Bruce, once more, didn't bother using any protection. Thinking back to the timeline, there was no way that Bruce had any relations during that time period.

"I didn't."

"Do you think she was conceived through cloning or like Damian?"

"..."

Dick looked at the girl. If she had been conceived through any of those methods, then she wouldn't be that bright, bubbly girl who was currently giggling as she twirled around and played with her new toys that Alfred had given her.

"I'm telling everyone."

"Hm."

[bella-feed]

How I Met Your Mother

Episode 1: The Picture

pairing: dad! husband! mingyu x mother! f!reader

genre: (for this ep:) fluff, slice of life

warning(s): you and mingyu have two kids. mentions of alcohol and being wet. i think that's all. Imk if I missed any

wc: 1055

author: the chapters are gonna be called as episodes. and im thinking of making seasons for each member. lets see....

tagging: @svthub, @kstrucknet @k-films

credits: @sanaxo-o @gyubakeries (beta reading)

taglist tag: @mooniewrld @syluslittlecrows @gunatth @joepomonerof @whoa-jo @potayaa @stupendouschildnerd

himym masterlist || bella's masterlist || taglist || mingyu's masterlist

Year: 2055

“Inho, help me with this box please,” You told your son, who had his headphones on him, almost tuning you out. When you repeated yourself, he helped you out. 

The box was labeled – DO NOT THROW!! in your handwriting from three apartments ago. Inho stopped in his tracks and with one hand removed his headphones, turning towards you.

“Mom,” He called you, still looking closely at the box in his hands, “What's this? And why is this named “Do Not Throw” He asked, mocking the last words.    

Before you could answer, Sora, your daughter’s squeal was heard at her elder brother's words. “What is that? Show me! Show me!” 

She ran, not after Mingyu, your husband, reminded her not to run. 

Tuning out her father's words of concern, both the siblings started searching through the box, curiosity getting the best of them. 

Mingyu and you let your kids be, and continued unpacking the boxes from the move-in truck. 

“We found a camera!” Sora shouted. “It actually works!”

Mingyu glanced over at you with a grin as he kept one of the last boxes, down. “Do you think it’s the camera?” 

You reciprocated his grinning and said,“I know it’s the camera.”

Inho appeared next to you both, while Sora was still searching through the box. “This picture,” he started not before calling his sister next to him. 

He turned the screen. There it was. A picture of you and Mingyu, both red-faced, sunburn visible because of the camera’s flashlight, laughing too hard and with two bottles of beer in your hands.

His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down, and you were in a sundress, hair in a bun. Your clothes were drenched, and it was only slightly visible in that picture. You looked…so young.

“Oh my God,” your daughter muttered. “Are you drunk? Also why are you wet?”

Mingyu laughed out, “We both were drunk, only a little.”

“That doesn't look a little.” Sora shared a look with her brother and looked at you both. 

You covered your face with your hand.

“That trip,” you said, through your fingers. “Oh, that was chaos.”

“What's the story behind this picture, Mom?” your son looked at you and his father. 

flashback  (2025)

“Wait— do you know what we should do right now?” You slurred drunkenlyto the 6 foot Cindrella. Without waiting for his answer you continued, “Jump in that lake!” You pointed towards the lake in front of you. 

“No! Are you mad? We are not doing that!” 6 foot Cindrella answered, taking a sip from his bottle of beer. 

“Why not?! Come on it's gonna be funnn.” You said, getting up and finishing the last sip of the beer. 

“No, Princess Sofia. Sit back down now.” 6 foot Cindrella tried to stop you from jumping into the lake. 

“Come on! Don't be a party-pooper. Get up, please!” 

You somehow managed to get the buff, six-foot man to stand up and dragged him near that lake. 

“Are you mentally ill? I'm asking seriously.” He looked at you with concerned eyes. 

“Yes and no. Now jump with me on the count of three.” You replied quickly and jumped with him, screaming, on the count of three in that lake, with a big smile on your face, after days. 

“You really are crazy. You know that?” Cindrella scolded you lightly while still helping you get out of the lake. You guys were in that lake for a good hour and a half.

Even though he enjoyed it, he scolded you for being so irresponsible. 

“I know.” You grinned while shivering and walking towards the bench where you were sitting before. 

“We should click a picture. As a memory, 6 foot Cindrella” You suggested. 

Mingyu looked at you, smiling with his eyes, before agreeing with you. 

You asked for a Corsican to click your picture on your digital camera 

He stood next you, wrapped his arm around your shoulder, and holding two bottles of beer, you guys smiled for the picture. 

Spending half a day with this Cindrella, drinking and driving around the town alone, made you feel so much better. 

You didn't know this guy or his name. But what you did know is that he was already giving everything he had to you, even without knowing you. 

Though at that moment you both were fighting internal battles with your ownselfs, you both didn't show it on your faces. 

Probably leaving out all your worries behind and being in the moment, even if it was with a stranger, healed something in both of you that had been broken. 

The picture you took was very near to your heart, for many reasons, one of them being the look Cindrella has on his face. The look of love towards you. 

This 6 foot Cindrella was really something else. You knew this trip was going to be the most memorable out of all. 

flashback over (2055)

Back in the present, your daughter looked up at the two of you. “Did you know you were in love?”

You blinked. “Then?”

Mingyu rubbed his neck. “Maybe yes, maybe no. We both were going through rough patches in our lifes and past relationships.”

“Wait— relationships?!? This was not your couple's trip?” Sora questioned being slightly amused and confused.

You smiled, “No.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s a long story.”

Your son scrolled further. “There are more photos…”

“Don’t go too far,” Mingyu warned. “Some are… not child-friendly.”

The kids groaned in unison.

You resumed your moving work, when you looked up and caught Mingyu’s eye.

“Still my favorite trip,” he said.

“I threw up on your sneakers.”

“Still my favorite.” He grinned. 

“Are y'all saying that you weren't dating when you went to this trip?” Inho, questioned this time.

“No, sweetie. We didn't even know eachother.” You replied with a smile. 

“I—” Sora clearly confused, questioned Mingyu, “Dad, how did you meet mom? ”

[uzumaki-rebellion]

Love Blues (Part 1) by Uzumaki Rebellion

Pairings: Elijah "Smoke" Moore x Annie Moore (Sinners)

Warning(s): Mentions of Hoodoo, Explicit Sex, Supernatural Elements, Romance, Some Violence, Angst, Smoke's POV, Pre-Sinners movie.

Summary: Smoke Moore has returned from WWI with his twin brother Stack and meets Annie for the first time. Smitten immediately by the young Creole beauty, Smoke longs to make Annie his own. But he has to get past his brother and another rival suitor first.

Word Count: 2.6K

A.N.: Dedicated to all the Smoke x Annie fans, writers and readers!

"I love the way you love me

And I love the way you comb your hair

And I love the way you love me baby

Love the way you comb your hair

If it was left up to me babe

You would never get to go nowhere"

Keb Mo –"Love Blues"

Elijah "Smoke" Moore watched his momma Taiwo speak to the prettiest girl he'd ever laid eyes on, in and outside of Clarksdale.

Annie.

That was her name.

Annie Belizaire.

Her daddy was as tall and handsome as a tupelo tree with sepia brown skin burned red from the sugar plantations of Louisiana and the cotton fields of Mississippi. Her gorgeous mother held a dark umber complexion with thick pretty hair that she passed on to her daughter. Annie took her daddy's height and her mother's breathtaking beauty and stole his heart. Smoke's attraction to her crashed down on him like a thunderbolt. It lit him up in his seat as he perched on a church pew with his mother by his side.

Uncle Jed preached the good word from his pulpit inside the stifling hot church that rested on the crossroads between the cotton fields, the Sunflower River, and a dusty road leading into town.

Sweat dripped from Uncle Jed's brow as he praised the return of his twin nephews back into the Baptist fold, his preacher voice sliding up and down a scale of shrieks and moans that the congregation punctuated with their "Amens" and "Thank you, Jesus" praise shouts. The call and response reached a crescendo, bringing tears to his mother's eyes.

He and his brother had come home from war after three years. Their escape from the bloody German trenches still plagued him with nightmares. His hands had taken on an uncontrollable tremor and he became obsessive with watching his back around everyone. But he was alive and maintained all his body parts, unlike scores of men that were conscripted for WWI. Too many vets came back stateside missing limbs, eyes, and their sanity. Smoke and Stack were the lucky ones. Although he didn't have physical scars on his body, his mind sure carried psychological ones that prompted Smoke to stay overly cautious and ready for any signs of danger. Oddly, Stack didn't seem to harbor any outward signs of trauma from their army stint. The harrowing experience seemed to garner an opposite effect, feeding his twin a voracious lust for life that was infectious to others around him.

Uncle Jed had thanked Annie's father for repairing the church roof.

Mr. Belizaire stood, accepted the applause from the congregation, and his wife squeezed his hand. That's when Smoke glimpsed Annie. She wore her hair combed to the side and tucked in a bun at the nape that looked so different from the popular styles the young women fancied in the church. Her poise in sitting and the way her delicate eyes slanted gave her a charming appearance. He viewed more of her when his uncle asked her to stand as he thanked her for baking the sweet potato pies they would all partake in at the picnic after the service. Annie rose and nodded at the flock who praised her desserts in advance. She shared a winsome smile and her pretty white teeth gleamed like polished pearls. Even her eyes radiated warmth as they became cat-like in their tightness, reminding him of a kitten pleased with the taste of sugary cream.

His insides tumbled for her.

Her eyes flitted over to his side of the church, and they gazed at each other. He looked away first, not wanting to appear improper by lingering on her face longer than deemed appropriate. Especially in front of his uncle. She won him over in a heartbeat. When he glanced at his brother seated on the other side of their mother, Stack revealed an openly lascivious expression already.

He glanced at his twin again later, while standing outside the back of the church eating a piece of Annie's pie. Taiwo stood next to her behind the crowded food table, helping Mrs. Belizaire serve folks.

Stack approached their mother with some pep in his step and spoke to Annie first.

Smoke's heart sank.

Stack always moved on women fast, from their teen years working the cotton fields and chasing girls across sharecropping plantations, to catching them and testing their maturing sexual appetites as young men. Unlike his twin, Smoke acted gun shy when first going after the opposite sex. His taciturn nature and slower approach to courting cost him plenty of chances next to his fast-moving, smooth talking younger twin. Because of that, women Smoke may have been eyeing discreetly often thought he wasn't interested in them at all. When he did latch hold, those women fought tooth and nail to keep him. He actually broke more hearts than Stack over the years. With Stack, women knew not to take him seriously because he played around too much. He wrote checks of love that his ass could never cash. Stack the Lothario, and self-professed scoundrel, romanticized the idea of love; not its actual fulfillment.

Smoke was the clinging-onto kind of man.

Had the war and his father not fucked him up early in life, perhaps he could've become an easy-going playboy like his twin. Unfortunately, he didn't have the luxury of floating through life full of whimsy and razor-sharp wit like Stack. He acted more like a protective father instead of a brother to his other half.

Smoke held his plate of food at the after-church pot luck social and watched his brother flirt and use a honey mouth to woo Annie. Their mother seemed close to the young woman and eager to introduce her to at least one of her sons. He sighed. Moving slowly cost him a chance to speak to her first. He knew Stack had ogled Annie's breasts and the way her light green Sunday dress clung to her burgeoning curves. Annie had slender arms and legs, but she was built like her momma overall, and Smoke knew that if he used his strapping physique to drop a few babies in her, that curvy figure would fill out more. Annie looked like the type of woman a man needed to marry up quick and build a family with. Smoke wanted to settle down and put the war behind him. Taiwo prayed for her sons to become respectable men to downplay their dead father's poor reputation. A reputation that stained the twins already.

Smoke eagerly yearned for a big family and a good wife to create it with. There were plenty of prospects in Clarksdale since he'd been back home. None rattled his heart the way Annie did on first look alone.

Annie's sloe-eyed gaze settled on Smoke's face. Stack kept talking to her, but she didn't break eye contact with Smoke. Uncle Jed pulled Stack away to introduce him to some men who worked on the Maybelle plantation. Taiwo gestured for Smoke to come over to the food table and he diverted his gaze elsewhere.

"Elijah…son, come over and meet Annie," Taiwo said.

His mother's gracious smile beamed like the sun baking the back of his neck, and he ambled over shyly, wiping his mouth to make sure no pie crumbs stuck to his lips or mustache.

"Annie, this is my oldest…my firstborn…Elijah."

"Hello, pleased to meet you, Elijah," Annie said.

Her smoky Creole accent delighted his ears, but her eyes…they were so dark and soulful, like she could see right through him and his attraction to her. His mouth turned dry, and he gulped down the vestiges of pie still in his throat.

"Hi…I'm Elijah."

"I know," Annie said.

"People call me Smoke."

"Why?"

Taiwo slipped away with a mischievous grin on her face.

"Momma, where you goin'?" he asked.

Panic surged through his voice. He wasn't expecting to speak to Annie alone already.

"I have to bring more refreshments," Taiwo said, winking at him.

He gripped his plate of food and looked at Annie. Her dreamy eyes and coquettish aura lulled him into a state of calm.

"Why people call you Smoke?" she asked.

She shifted her weight and put a hand on her hip. They were close in height. He wasn't accustomed to a woman looking at him directly eye-to-eye. He usually peered down at them.

"I fought a lot when I was younger…older. People said I'd never need a weapon in a fight. I brought all the smoke by myself. It kinda stuck."

"And your brother, Stack?"

"He likes money."

"You don't?"

Smoke lost focus, staring at her. Something about the intensity of the brown in her irises and the way the edges of her face blurred and brought her features into sharp focus reminded him of his grandmother Wo-Ma. His mother and grandmother were both Hoodoo practitioners and sometimes they had a way of keeping him grounded in front of them with their eyes alone. This was different.

The sun shined overhead, but glints of gold light like fireflies dancing floated around her head as if bright sun rays struck them directly. Her tone of voice had changed, too. It sounded probing and sure, challenging him to tell her only the truth of what his life was like in that moment.

Are you a man worth my time, Elijah?

He felt the question in his mind, not from her mouth.

"Brought you some fresh lemonade, Annie," Stack said, strolling over while carrying a big glass pitcher with a mason jar full of ice and yellow liquid.

"Thank you, Elias."

"Nobody but my momma and granny call me that. Stack is just fine, beautiful."

Annie accepted the glass.

"You met Smoke, I see. He ain't much of a talker."

"He talks enough," she said.

"Why don't you join me and some of my friends for a walk by the river? Get away from these old people and all this boring church talk," Stack suggested.

A group of childhood friends, two men and three women, waited over on the side of the church. Smoke recognized one of the burly men closest to him out of the group, Cornbread. The others were acquaintances of Smoke, but pals with Stack before the war. A fast bunch that liked to sneak sips of hooch and curse like sailors.

Stack tapped the pocket of his jacket. He already had a flask ready for the old gang.

Annie looked over at her mother who chatted with Smoke's Aunt Ruth, the first lady of the church. His seven-year-old cousin Sammie held Ruth's hand, kicking his church shoes in the dirt and watching other children run around screaming with rambunctious energy. A preacher's kid couldn't run around like a heathen, according to Uncle Jed.

"Maman, may I go with the others to the river and cool off?"

"Oui," Mrs. Belizaire said, returning to the food table with Ruth.

Taiwo returned carrying two pitchers of lemonade. She shooed them away with her apron, and Smoke followed behind Annie and Stack, greeting the others.

She liked Stack a lot.

Smoke noticed that right away.

She laughed at all his brother's jokes and playfully rolled her eyes when he teased her and the other women over silly things Smoke had no interest in.

He wished he could be as charismatic and relaxed as his twin. It just wasn't in him.

Being back in Clarksdale kept him in a constant state of hypervigilance. The Klan was hanging colored men in their military uniforms, so Smoke and Stack opted to wear the simple, yet still stylish brown suits they bought before coming home.

Well, the suits Stack picked out for them.

Smoke wasn't into style like his twin, so he deferred all fashion choices to the Clarksdale Black dandy. Stack could take the plainest looking shirt and trousers combo and turn them into upscale pieces by simply adding the right color tie, cuff links, finger ring accessories or even knitted scarves when paired with hats. The man had a knack for looking good, even when they worked in the fields as teens.

He got it from their grandfather, Papa Will, a half Black, half Mississippi Choctaw delta man with a soft spot for bright colors. He was a pretty man with a natural flair for looking good, especially with the colorful beadwork on some of his shirts and wide-brimmed hats. Papa Will used to wear a big shiny brass belt buckle with a turtle engraved on it. Smoke watched Stack show it off on his waist to Annie near the river.

She traced her finger around the turtle shell in a way that appeared suggestive to Smoke. He didn't think a woman should touch a man's belt unless she was helping him take it off.

She admired the buckle, then joined the women in throwing rocks into the river. They laughed when water splashed back on their dresses. The other women enjoyed her company. Viola, a nineteen-year-old who had a long-standing crush on Smoke, whispered something in her ear, and Annie shook her head playfully.

"You see that, nigga?" Stack chortled. "She didn't hesitate to touch my belt. I might have her in the old barn before the day is through."

"Watch how you talk. We're in mixed company," Smoke said.

"Aw man, that's just Viola, Florence, and Ida. Them heffas done heard it all."

"Try to show some respect. Annie's new around here."

"She been here long enough while we were gone. Momma is real tight with her…teaching her stuff. You think she's a virgin? She walks all proud and tall, and I can't tell if she lost her cherry yet. She old enough, though. Damn, she fine."

Stack twisted a toothpick between his upper teeth, then spit what he weeded out on the ground. His gaze stayed on Annie.

Smoke grit his teeth.

His brother's lust for women was no greater than his own. They were virile young men and walked around town like their nuts were too heavy to carry. He needed to ball just like Stack, but at least he tried to act chivalrous and have some restraint socializing with women.

"Why you got your face all twisted up for, Smoke? You already know that new pussy is the best pussy. She a lil prim and proper, but she's smart and funny, huh? When she gets to talkin' that Creole, I just wanna kiss her on the mouth."

Smoke chewed on the side of his cheek and reached for the flask in Stack's pocket.

"Yeah, that's what you need to loosen up. Why you so stiff all the time? All these pretty girls waking around…nigga, the Smokestack twins are back in action! We go get that bank loan, open up our juke…we'll be sitting pretty like some rich fat cats one day," Stack said.

Smoke unscrewed the cap on the flask and gulped down a huge sip of corn liquor. It burned down his throat and the immediate effects eased the tension in his shoulders.

Stack sauntered over to the women and shared the hooch with them and the men. Annie took a sip and clutched at her chest. She handed the flask back to Stack and gripped his hand to steady her balance. Stack laughed and guided her further down the path they all walked.

Smoke had to come to terms with the fact that his brother wanted Annie.

He'd have to step aside and let the situation play out. Cursing himself under his breath for missing out, Smoke gathered himself together and trailed behind the group downriver.

Part 2 Soon come....

A.N.: This will only have five parts based on my favorite Keb Mo blues song, "Love Blues". There are five verses, so I figure five short parts will get me through so I can get back to all the other fics I gotta finish and start. Enjoy! Please be sure to like/reblog/comment so we can get Black writer "Sinners" fics on the algorithm like all those other fics in the Sinners fandom that are decentering Blackness. You know which ones I'm talking about. Thank you!

Taglist:

@puffmamaa

@theethighpriestess

[littlebluebird2000]

Where the Lotus Grows

PART 1 - The Palace Invitation

pairing: yeon si-eun x reader (female reader)

rating: 18+

genre: romance, historical setting, slow burn, smut

warnings: eventual smut, family conflict, power imbalance, death, su*cide, bullying, social pressure, trauma, violence

summary: within the walls of the royal palace, nothing is ever as it seems. as subtle glances turn into quiet conversations, and duty begins to blur with longing, you must learn to survive the delicate game of court life without losing yourself.

author's note: like i said before, i love historical dramas. i wanted to put weak hero’s sieun into an historical setting. of course, there are no pens for him to stab people with…, but i decided to focus more on his quiet nature and his need of approval by his mother and father. i truly believe that sieun ( in the drama ) doesn’t really enjoy studying. he just does it to have his parents attention in a way… this fanfic will focus on that, but in a historical setting. sieun will have different goals / ulterior motive for his behaviours… to be seen in the future. i truly hope you enjoy this fanfic. it will be a slow burn and will also be multiple parts. i want to take the time to set the scene and make it as realistic as possible. let me know your thoughts in the comments and like / repost this story if you want to support me. byebye <3

word count: 7k+

part 1. part 2. part 3.

follow #bluebirdyeonsieun for updates on my stories or comment to be added to the tagglist

The morning air was cool, carrying the smell of dew and charcoal from the kitchen fires. The sun had barely risen over the tiled rooftops, casting long, slanted shadows across the courtyard. You sat alone under the veranda, peeling the skin off a plum, your fingers sticky with juice.

You loved mornings like this. They were quiet, unhurried, and untouched by duty. There was freedom in the stillness, a kind of peace that wrapped around you like a soft cloak.

Suddenly, you heard the main gate open from far away and hurried footsteps. Loud voices came from inside your house. Then, silence again.

A moment later, a maid appeared, slightly out of breath. She bowed. “Your father has called everyone to the main hall. There’s news.”

You stood slowly, brushing your hands on your robe, and followed the quiet hum of excitement into the house.

Your family was already gathered. Your father stood tall in the center of the hall, wearing his dark military robes. Your sister sat at your mother’s side, perfectly composed, her eyes wide with anticipation.

He didn’t waste time.

“The King has summoned me to court.” Your father announced. “I’ve been declared a national hero. They are awarding me the Medal of National Honor for my service in the border campaign. His Majesty has appointed me Minister of Military Affairs.”

Your mother gasped and covered her mouth with her hands. Your sister, Sooyeon, beamed in joy.

But your father wasn’t done.

“In addition,” He said, his voice swelling with pride, “His Majesty has offered us residence inside the palace court. A private place within the grounds.”

Your sister’s hands flew to her chest. “The palace?” She whispered.

Your mother turned to her immediately, clutching her hand. “This is your moment,” She said, eyes shining. “There will be noble families, high-ranking officials, and eligible young men—true matches. You must be ready.”

Your sister nodded eagerly, already lost in the idea of silk gowns, formal greetings, and quiet walks through royal gardens.

No one looked at you.

You stood a few paces behind them, hands clasped loosely in front of you. You knew better than to expect your name to be part of the excitement. You were the afterthought, the wild one, the untamed branch of the family tree that refused to grow the right way.

Only when your mother noticed you lingering did she speak.

“Y/N,” She said, her tone more controlled, “Perhaps this change will help you. If you take it seriously, you might learn how to carry yourself properly. This could be a fresh start for you too.”

You gave a small bow of acknowledgment but said nothing.

All you could think about was what it would mean to live inside the palace walls surrounded by rules, eyes, and people who smiled with closed lips. You knew girls like your sister belonged in that world.

You weren’t sure you did.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The palace walls rose higher than you expected.

Even from the distance of the main road, they loomed tall and pristine, quiet in a way that made your stomach twist. You sat inside the family palanquin, knees tucked together, hands resting in your lap. Your sister peeked through the curtain beside you, barely containing her excitement.

“We’re really here,” Sooyeon whispered, her breath fogging the silk. “The palace court.”

Outside, your father rode ahead on horseback, dressed in his formal uniform. Guards in blue lined the path. Servants followed in an organized line behind the palanquin, carrying your family’s belongings, crates of books, trunks of clothing, furniture wrapped in cloth.

As the palace gates opened with a heavy creak, your sister leaned closer to you.

“You should fix your posture. The court ladies will be watching.”

You adjusted your shoulders out of habit but didn’t answer.

The place you were given stood near the outer edge of the royal grounds, nestled between two smaller government halls. It was beautiful.

Your mother’s eyes swept across the grounds. She gave a quiet, satisfied nod.

“This is finer than I expected,” She said. “Behave properly while we’re here. No wandering off without permission, understood?”

She didn’t look at you when she said it, but the words were meant for you.

Your sister took her first steps up the pavilion stairs like she had always belonged there. She paused at the threshold, smiling.

“I can already tell,” She said. “Life will change for us now.”

You looked past her at the closed palace doors, the unfamiliar space, the quiet hum of rules beneath every polished surface.

It wasn’t excitement you felt. Not like Sooyeon.

It was dread in your bones.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Despite the incense burning in tall brass pots and the sunlight pouring through high, latticed windows, the throne hall felt extremely cold.

The stone floors echoed under every step. Tall columns painted in deep reds and golds stood like watchful sentries.

You lowered yourself to the cold stone floor beside your mother and sister, pressing your forehead down in a deep, practiced bow reserved only for the King. Around you, the rest of the court remained upright, offering only the formal bow of respect.

No one moved until the King’s voice rang out, firm and clear.

“Rise.”

You stood slowly, keeping your head down, eyes lowered to the polished floor.

At the far end of the hall, the King sat elevated on the throne. Robes of black and gold draped across his shoulders. Beside him stood a royal scribe with a scroll. Nearby, several princes and princesses stood in respectful formation. You didn’t dare look too closely, but you felt their presence, their quiet weight in the room.

When the hall fell silent, the scribe unrolled the scroll with both hands and began to read.

“By royal command of His Majesty, Sovereign of this nation, guardian of peace and order, it is declared that General Han Jiwon, for his unmatched bravery and strategic brilliance during the Northern Invasion, is to be awarded the Medal of National Honor and appointed to the esteemed position of Minister of Military Affairs.”

Your father stepped forward into the open floor.

The King rose slowly from his seat. An attendant carried forward a golden medallion on a silk cushion. You stole a glance upward, just for a moment.

The King looked directly at your father as he gave him the medal. His voice was strong. “You protected our borders when others hesitated. You risked your life, not for your own glory, but for the people. The palace welcomes your service.”

Your father bowed again. “It is my honor to serve, Your Majesty.”

The court responded with a unified murmur of approval, voices rising in a practiced chorus: “Long live His Majesty. Glory to the Han family.”

The formality of it all, the layers of performance, made your skin feel tight. Your sister leaned toward your mother, beaming. The Queen sat poised on her elevated seat, a thin, composed smile on her lips.

You returned your gaze to the floor.

Then, from the right of the King’s dais, the Crown Prince stepped forward. He bowed formally to your father.

“On behalf of the royal children,” He said, “We welcome your service to the court and the country, Minister Han.”

Your father bowed in return. “The honor is mine, Your Highness.”

The final portion of the ceremony included ceremonial blessings and formal closing statements. Officials remained in place until the King gave a brief nod, dismissing them from their stance. The hall slowly began to fill with the quiet murmur of movement.

You stayed still a moment longer than necessary.

You were no longer just the daughter of a military man.

You were now a court lady, whether you wanted to be or not.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It should have felt like a dream. But all you could think about was how the walls here seemed to listen.

You stood by the window, watching a pair of court ladies glide across the inner courtyard with their maids in tow, hair piled high and robes flowing like water.

“Y/N,” Your mother’s voice rang out behind you, brisk and clipped. “Come here. You’ll need to begin preparing soon.”

You turned and walked toward the center of the room where your sister already sat, draped in layers of soft jade silk. Her posture was impeccable, hands folded neatly in her lap, head tilted just enough to seem graceful without appearing proud. The servants around her fussed over which jewelry suited her best.

Your father sat nearby, his outer robe draped over his shoulder as he sipped warm tea. He looked at your sister, then nodded with quiet approval.

“You handled yourself well today,” He said to her. “Calm. Elegant. As a daughter of this household should be.”

Your sister offered a small, composed smile. “Thank you, Father.”

He looked over at you then, briefly. “You should take her example, Y/N. The eyes in the palace see more than you think.”

Your mother stepped in with a gentler voice, though it carried no less weight. “It’s a new chapter for all of us. It’s time you grew out of childish ways. This is no countryside estate. You’re among the highest ranks now.”

You said nothing, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of your robe. It wasn’t new—this comparison, this gentle pressure disguised as concern. Somehow, inside these palace walls, it seemed more suffocating.

Your sister leaned slightly toward you, her tone light but laced with quiet teasing. “Don’t worry, I’ll help you pick a hairstyle that hides how much you slouch.”

A few of the maids laughed softly, as if they weren’t sure whether they were supposed to.

You managed a small smile in return. “That’s kind of you. I’ll try not to ruin your image by being in the same room.”

Your mother gave a warning look, though your sister only hummed and turned back toward the mirror. She was already planning which eligible men she might meet tonight. She wouldn’t say it aloud, but it was clear: she saw the banquet as her stage.

You were simply part of the set.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The palace banquet hall was a world of polished splendor. The room murmured with soft conversation and the distant plucking of instruments, as nobles and officials mingled beneath embroidered banners.

You sat beside your sister at one of the long tables. The silks you wore were fine, seafoam green and soft ivory, but understated. No heavy necklaces or gaudy hairpins. Sooyeon, on the other hand, glittered with gold and pearl, her robe layered and intricate. She looked every bit the lady your mother always hoped for.

A group of young court ladies approached your table, smiling as they sat down. Their laughter was soft, graceful, just loud enough to draw attention. You could feel their eyes on you, sizing you up in the way women of court often did…not always cruelly, but never without purpose.

“I was trying to place your face all evening,” One of them said, her voice light and teasing. “You really are beautiful. We noticed you from across the hall.”

Another leaned in, nodding. “You don’t even wear much jewelry and still manage to outshine half the room. I would cry if I looked that good with so little effort.”

The third chuckled. “You’re going to be trouble for the rest of us.”

You smiled politely, unsure how to respond. Their words were kind on the surface, but laced with curiosity, maybe even quiet envy.

Your sister’s smile tightened almost imperceptibly. “Y/N has always had a certain natural charm,” She said smoothly. “Though between the two of us, I’m the one who can greet guests in three dialects and still remember everyone’s clan name.”

Laughter followed. Polite. Controlled.

You smiled, eyes lowered. It wasn’t worth responding. She’d made her point, veiled in charm, and the court ladies accepted it.

One of them touched your sister’s sleeve. “Lady Sooyeon, you truly carry yourself with grace. No wonder His Majesty’s court is taking notice.”

Your sister beamed, her posture straightening even more. She truly looked radiant. She knew how to thrive in this room.

“We were so curious when we heard the Han family would be moving into the palace grounds,” One of the ladies said, her smile carefully measured. “It’s always exciting when new faces join us.”

“Especially ones with such… reputation,” Added another, her fan half-lowered, eyes flicking between you and your sister. “Your father’s valor has been the talk of every household.”

“Thank you,” Your sister said graciously, folding her hands in her lap. “We’re very proud of him. What he accomplished for the kingdom means everything to us.”

You nodded in agreement, your voice soft but steady. “He’s always put the country before himself.”

“How noble,” One of them said. “A quality rarely seen these days.”

“Speaking of noble,” Another chimed in, her tone lightening, “Did you all hear about the hunt the Crown Prince organized last week?”

Your sister leaned in, interest gleaming in her eyes. “Yes, I heard a few details. Something about Lord Seo’s second son embarrassing himself?”

The ladies burst into laughter. Not unkind, but edged with satisfaction.

“He flew off his horse trying to show off in front of the Princess.” One said, barely able to contain her amusement.

“He nearly landed on his own sword,” Another added, shaking her head. “Poor thing limped all the way back to camp.”

You kept a neutral smile, eyes drifting across the banquet hall, while your sister spoke for the both of you.

“Meanwhile,” Someone said more quietly, “Prince Sieun returned with the largest stag of the hunt. Again.”

That caught your attention.

“And the King was so pleased,” Another sighed. “He called him forward in front of everyone and praised his skill. Said he had the focus of a seasoned general.”

Your sister sipped her tea, her expression unreadable.

“Yes, and did you see the Crown Prince’s face?” The third lady said in a lower voice, delighted. “Like he’d just bitten into something sour. I thought he might snap his bow in half.”

Laughter followed.

“They’ve always been compared, haven’t they?” Sooyeon said, setting her cup down gently.

A lady nodded. “The Crown Prince must be frustrated. It must sting, being outdone by your younger brother at everything—except birth order.”

A hush fell briefly over the group. It was the kind of statement that stepped a little too close to treason, even when whispered among silk and pearls.

“He is intriguing…Prince Sieun.” One woman broke the silence. “You never quite know what he’s thinking.”

Another nodded. “He only speaks when he’s correcting someone. Usually a scholar twice his age.”

“Or ignoring everyone altogether,” Said the lady in soft pink silk “I once tried to greet him in the corridor. He bowed so faintly I wasn’t sure if I imagined it.”

The ladies laughed at that. They were careful not to mock too harshly, just enough to amuse, to feel powerful.

“I suppose that’s why he’s still unmarried,” One said, fanning herself slowly. “No taste for company. No interest in courtesans. It’s strange, isn’t it? A prince that refuses all pleasure…”

Your sister chuckled lightly. “Perhaps he prefers books to people. Though… I wouldn’t be surprised if his mother’s death left him… cautious. ”

That drew a more thoughtful silence. The mention of Lady Yeon’s suicide shifted the mood slightly, from amusement to something closer to curiosity laced with unease.

Then, quieter still, someone added, “They say his mother’s death wasn’t what it seemed. That she didn’t kill herself.”

Your sister’s expression briefly faltered. “Careful. That’s not the kind of thing you say aloud.”

“I’m only repeating what the old court servants whisper,” The lady replied with a shrug, feigning innocence. “Everyone knows the Queen made things difficult for her. And now, no one speaks Lady Yeon’s name. No one but the King.”

For a beat, the conversation stilled. The warmth in the air dimmed, as if even the silks draped around them absorbed the weight of what was said.

A quieter voice chimed in. “It’s tragic, really. The Prince still lights incense for her every year. Even when no one’s watching.”

The air in the room felt heavier for a moment.

“Well,” Another lady said with forced brightness. “He’ll have to think of marriage eventually.”

A lady with an elaborate coiffure let out a breathy, almost mocking laugh. “ He doesn’t even have a favored court lady… One would think the King is losing his patience by now.”

“They say the King has been trying to arrange a match for years,” Sooyeon said, her tone light with just a hint of amusement. “But who would he even choose? It seems like the Prince barely looks at anyone.”

A lady with painted lips and too many hairpins leaned in, laughing behind her fan. “He looks through people, not at them. Like he’s already bored before you speak.”

“And they say he leaves the room the moment the dancers come in,” Another chimed in. “Imagine walking out on the King’s entertainment—Who does that?”

“That’s what I heard too,” Added another. “They say he always looks so uninterested… That he doesn’t even glance at them.”

Your sister lifted her cup delicately. “And still, not a single rumor? No court lady, no servant, no whispers of a lover tucked away in a quiet wing?”

“Not even an old flame,” One of them said, eyes gleaming. “Nothing. It’s like he’s made of stone.”

“It’s such a shame,” The youngest lady murmured, fanning herself slowly. “He’s so pretty, too. Like something painted on silk. All that beauty and no one to enjoy it.” The others laughed again, soft and sharp.

You restrained the urge to roll your eyes. You hated gossip. What did it matter if the Prince spent his nights with books instead of women? Why couldn’t people just let others be?

Still, you straightened your back and kept a pleasant smile on your face, careful with every expression. You weren’t only being watched by the ladies across from you. Others in the banquet hall were looking too, weighing every gesture, deciding where you might fit in this world of painted lips and careful alliances.

You glanced sideways, your eyes catching the elevated platform at the far end of the hall where the Queen sat. She was composed and still, her expression unreadable beneath the delicate curve of her golden hairpiece. Her personal attendants stood behind her in silent formation, hands folded, eyes lowered.

Beside the queen sat her daughter, the Princess, regal and sharp-eyed, her silks gleaming under the lantern light.

You quickly lowered your gaze again, smoothing your sleeves. At your table, the ladies continued to chatter, their laughter soft and contained. Then came a subtle shift in the room’s energy. It was the kind that made backs straighten and voices fall.

The Crown Prince had arrived.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The hall shifted. Everyone lowered their heads in a respectful bow, rising only after he passed.

He moved with easy confidence, broad-shouldered in his embroidered robes. The golden thread caught the lamplight as he made his way to the king, who stood in conversation with your father and several court officials near the head of the room. The Crown Prince bowed to them deeply, exchanging a few respectful words.

He then moved to the Queen and his younger sister, offering each of them a quieter, more familiar greeting. Behind him came his wife, elegant and demure, followed by his concubine who wore brighter silks and more jewelry. Both women took their seats gracefully on the floor cushions arranged near the queen.

To your surprise, the Crown Prince turned and walked toward your table.

You glanced at your sister, who quickly adjusted her posture, smoothing her skirts and offering her most gracious smile.

He stopped in front of the two of you and bowed politely.

“Welcome to the palace,” He said warmly. “Lady Sooyeon, Lady Y/N. Your presence brightens the hall.”

Your sister’s cheeks flushed slightly. “You honor us, Your Highness. It is a privilege to be here.”

His smile deepened, but his gaze drifted. For a moment it rested on you.

Not too long. But long enough that you noticed.

Long enough that your sister noticed too…

“Lady Y/N,” The Crown Prince said, voice smooth. “I had heard the Han family had two daughters, but I wasn’t told one of them would outshine the court itself.”

You felt your sister go still beside you.

You bowed your head slightly, voice calm and respectful. “You’re too kind, Your Highness. My sister is the true pride of our family. She’s a scholar of great discipline and grace. We’re all better for her example.”

A flicker of tension eased in your sister’s posture, and the other women at the table offered smiles of approval. The Crown Prince gave a small nod, amused perhaps, or simply satisfied.

He turned to your sister next, offering her a respectful nod. “Lady Sooyeon,” He said. “Your composure stood out earlier in the throne room. The court has already begun to speak of your poise.”

Your sister’s smile returned in full. “You honor me, Your Highness.”

He glanced toward the entrance, adjusting the folds of his robe. “The rest of the royal family should be arriving shortly,” He said, addressing the table with effortless authority. “The younger prince and princesses were delayed, but they will join us soon.”

With another polite smile, he excused himself to greet other guests. Your sister’s eyes followed him for a moment too long, while the ladies beside you exchanged soft whispers behind their fans.

You suddenly missed the quiet of your family home. The creak of the courtyard steps. The sound of wind through pine…

The sound of greetings and bows rippled through the banquet hall, interrupting your thoughts. A hush spread through the room, followed by murmured honorifics and shifting silks as people rose slightly from their seats to bow. The other Prince and Princess had arrived.

You looked up instinctively.

From your place, you could not see his face clearly, only the straight line of his posture and the way his dark hair was neatly half tied. Prince Sieun stood before the King, his head dipped in a subtle bow. The King, already flushed with wine, beamed at the sight of him and placed a hand on his shoulder, tugging him closer with a kind of affection rarely seen in public. His voice rang out with laughter as he pulled your father into the conversation.

The three of them stood in easy proximity, the King’s gestures animated, your father responding with respectful deference. From across the room, you saw the Crown Prince watching, his expression unreadable until a flicker of something passed across his face. The Queen caught it immediately. She gave her son a sharp look and his gaze quickly shifted away, back to his cup.

Meanwhile, the younger prince and princess had begun to make their way through the hall, stopping at each table with practiced courtesy. The youngest appeared to be around twelve years old. Their were clothed in pristine silk, their movements rehearsed but not stiff. When they reached your table, everyone rose and offered respectful bows.

“Lady Sooyeon.” The young princess said with a sweet, formal voice. Her eyes flicked to your sister, then to you. “Lady Y/N. It is an honor to welcome your family to the court.”

You bowed again, murmuring thanks. The boy beside her offered a polite nod, saying little, clearly more interested in the sweet rice cakes being passed behind him.

Then, as quickly as they came, they moved on, trailed by their attendants. You sat back down, your pulse still a bit quick. All around, the noise returned. Your eyes returned briefly to the King and Prince Sieun.

You could still only see him from behind, but there was something striking in the stillness of his posture amid the chaos around him, as if the noise of the room did not touch him at all.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“Do you know how much longer we’re expected to stay?” You asked quietly, shifting slightly toward your sister without drawing too much attention.

Sooyeon’s eyes narrowed, subtle but sharp. “Don’t ask that,” She replied in a low voice. “We stay as long as possible. Leaving too early would look ungrateful to His Majesty. This banquet was arranged to honor our family.”

You swallowed, nodding. The air in the hall had grown thick with perfume, roasted meats, laughter, and the ever-present music. It clung to your skin.

“I just thought,” You began hesitantly, “Maybe I could go out for a moment. Just outside the doors. For some air.”

That made Sooyeon turn. Her brow softened slightly, concern flickering across her face even as she tried to hide it behind a composed smile. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“I’m fine,” You said quickly, reassuring her. “It’s just… a bit much.”

She nodded after a pause, then leaned in a little closer. “Don’t wander too far. And if anyone asks, you’re simply cooling off.”

You gave her a grateful look before standing up from the table and offering a polite excuse to the ladies nearby. They smiled and nodded, returning to their idle gossip as soon as you stepped away. You didn’t notice the curious glances that followed your retreat. Several young noblemen watched your departure with thinly veiled interest.

Outside, the air felt like a balm. Cool and crisp against your cheeks, it carried the scent of night blossoms and damp stone. The noise of the banquet faded behind the thick palace doors, replaced by the soft hum of crickets and the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You wandered slowly, feet guiding you past the lantern-lit path and down a gentle slope to the palace garden. A narrow stone bridge curved over a shallow stream, moonlight dancing on the surface of the water.

You stepped onto the bridge and leaned against its edge, peering down. Beneath the water’s surface, pale orange and white koi swam lazily, their scales catching the glow of the full moon. They moved with such calm, untouched by the rules and rituals you’d been drowning in all evening.

You smiled softly to yourself.

Nature didn’t pretend. It didn’t gossip or measure every word. It simply existed. It was quiet, beautiful, and honest.

You wished your life could be that simple.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of smashing porcelain cut through the night air like a blade.

You turned instinctively, eyes widening as you spotted a young palace maid on the stone path nearby. She had collapsed to her knees, a shattered teapot and fallen tray at her side. Tea stained the ground in a dark puddle, and fragments of the delicate porcelain were scattered across the stones.

Without thinking, you gathered your skirt and hurried to her.

The girl bowed her head so low it nearly touched the ground. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, My Lady,” She stammered, her voice trembling. “Please forgive me. I understand if you must report me. I was careless, I…”

She was on the verge of tears.

You knelt beside her gently. “It’s alright,” You said softly. “It’s just a teapot. I’m sure the palace kitchen has plenty more. You’re not hurt, are you?”

Her head lifted slightly, eyes wide. She looked shocked, as if kindness were something unfamiliar.

“I… no, I’m not hurt. But… thank you. Truly.” Her voice wavered. “I didn’t expect…”

You offered a small smile and began gathering the larger shards of porcelain carefully.

She gasped. “Please, My Lady, don’t! You mustn’t dirty your hands with this kind of labor!”

You laughed quietly and shook your head. “I have two hands just like you. And I’m not too proud to help someone who’s clearly having a harder night than I am.”

For a moment, she only stared at you, speechless.

“What’s your name?” You asked.

“Seorin,” She answered hesitantly.

“Well, Seorin,” You said, meeting her eyes, “I’m Y/N. It would be my pleasure to help you tonight.”

The girl still looked unsure, but after a moment, she nodded. Together, the two of you gathered the broken pieces and walked toward the palace kitchens.

What you didn’t notice was the quiet figure watching from beneath an archway across the courtyard. He stood still in the shadows, half-concealed behind the carved stone pillar.

Prince Sieun had seen everything.

His expression remained unreadable, but his gaze lingered long after you and the maid had disappeared from sight.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

When you returned, the maid gave you a grateful look before hurrying off toward the servants’ quarters. You offered her a gentle smile and then stepped back into the banquet hall.

The warmth and noise hit you instantly, a stark contrast to the stillness outside. You made your way to your table, careful to move with quiet grace. Sooyeon looked up as you approached, her expression neutral. She offered a small, practiced smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

As you took your seat beside her, she leaned slightly toward you and whispered, “What took you so long?”

You murmured a vague reply, brushing your skirt smooth and straightening your posture. The conversation around the table had continued without pause, a river of flattery and speculation about court matters, noble families, and marriage alliances. You tried your best to follow along, nodding and smiling at the right moments.

Then a voice cut through the chatter—deep, smooth, and curiously devoid of emotion.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself sooner.”

You looked up.

Prince Sieun stood at the edge of the table, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His gaze, however, was directed not at you, but at your sister.

Sooyeon tilted her head slightly, her tone gracious as ever. “There is nothing to forgive, Your Highness. I understand well. His Majesty seemed eager to keep you close in conversation.”

You bowed respectfully, your movements slow and deliberate. As you lifted your head, you caught the faintest flicker of his eyes shifting toward you, just for a breath, before returning to their impassive stillness.

He gave the faintest nod. “His Majesty requested my thoughts on a few matters.”

“Of course,” Sooyeon said, her voice smooth. “It must be difficult, always in such high demand.”

Prince Sieun remained still for a breath before answering. “It is what is expected.”

There was no pride or complaint in his words. Just quiet acknowledgment.

Sooyeon tilted her head slightly, studying him. “We’re honored you would take the time to speak with us.”

“The honor is mine,” Prince Sieun replied, his voice steady and unreadable. “Lady Sooyeon. Lady Y/N.” Prince Sieun gave a polite bow, then turned to leave without another word.

His eyes hadn’t lingered on you for more than a second, and his expression remained as detached as ever. You watched his retreating figure, unsure what to make of it.

So this was the prince everyone called distant…

There was no trace of arrogance in him, none of the polished charm the Crown Prince wore so easily. He was calm, composed, and somehow all the more intriguing because of it.

Your sister leaned in slightly, her voice barely above a whisper. “He really is as cold as they say.”

You hummed, eyes lingering on Prince Sieun as he returned to the king. He was silent, composed, and curiously hard to forget.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Morning light filtered through the tall palace windows as you followed your sister into the hall where the court etiquette lesson was held. The air smelled faintly of ink, powder, and floral incense. You sat beside Sooyeon, trying to mimic her poise as the instructor, a severe-looking woman in a layered silk hanbok, began the session.

Her voice was sharp, and her corrections sharper. When you moved a fraction too quickly during a bow, she tapped her fan against her palm and called your name. Quiet giggles from a few of the other noble girls followed. You forced yourself to smile, shoulders tight with effort, and tried not to let it show that your heart was thudding with embarrassment. Sooyeon, graceful as ever, seemed perfectly composed.

You told yourself to breathe. To watch. To learn.

Just as the lesson was ending, a palace attendant entered the room and bowed. “Lady Sooyeon. Lady Y/N. Her Majesty the Queen has requested your presence.”

A hush followed. You blinked. Sooyeon straightened slightly but didn’t let her surprise show. The other girls were now looking at you both with open curiosity.

You rose with your sister and followed the attendant out of the room, the soft shuffle of your slippers loud in the sudden quiet.

The corridor to the Queen’s chambers was long and silent, lined with guards who kept their eyes forward. Sooyeon walked just ahead of you, her posture flawless, but you caught the slight tension in her shoulders. She was nervous too.

The Queen sat on a raised platform surrounded by her attendants. Her expression was unreadable as she observed you both approach. Beside her sat the Princess, hands folded in her lap, gaze calm. You bowed deeply and held your breath.

“Ladies.” She welcomed you. “I trust the banquet last night wasn’t too overwhelming.”

You’re sister replied carefully, “It was a great honor to attend, Your Majesty. My family is grateful.”

The Queen gave the slightest nod. “I’ve taken interest in the daughters of General Han. Court life can be… intricate. It is only right that you learn how to navigate it properly.”

The Queen studied both you and your sister for another moment, then gestured to the tray of tea being prepared beside her. “Sit. Take some tea. It is still morning, and I dislike talking on an empty stomach.”

The Queen’s gaze settled mostly on Sooyeon as the tea was poured. She asked about her studies, your family’s lineage, and Sooyeon’s interests. Your sister answered each question with ease and elegance, her voice calm, her posture perfect. You watched quietly as the Queen nodded in approval, offering soft praise about Sooyeon’s composure and intellect. Even the Princess gave a faint smile at one point, clearly impressed.

Then, the Queen turned to you.

Her expression remained neutral, eyes slightly narrowed as she regarded you with a kind of quiet curiosity.

“And you, Lady Y/N?” She asked. “You are the younger daughter, yes?”

You bowed your head slightly. “Oh–Yes, Your Majesty.”

The Queen’s eyes lingered on your face a little longer than felt comfortable. “You have a lovely face,” She said finally. “Striking. Not in the usual way.”

You gave a polite smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

She did not smile in return.

“What do you enjoy? What do you study?” She asked.

You answered simply, honestly. You enjoyed reading, walking in nature, and had a deep respect for philosophy, though you were still learning.

The Queen gave a slight hum.

“Your spirit seems… untamed,” She said, her words slow and deliberate. “There is something restless in your eyes.”

You froze slightly but kept your expression composed.

“Such minds often struggle here,” She continued, her tone unchanged. “The court does not take kindly to those who forget the weight of its walls.”

Her words hovered in the air. The Princess looked down at her tea. You sensed something beneath the surface of what had been said. A warning, maybe. Or a memory.

You bowed your head again. “I’ll try to remember that, Your Majesty,”

She gave a small nod before turning back to Sooyeon and asking another question about her tutors.

You sat quietly, the echo of the Queen’s words lingering like a quiet warning. Polished and graceful on the surface, but something colder pulsed beneath.

As the heavy doors of the Queen’s pavilion closed behind you, the soft clack of your shoes against the stone path echoed in the quiet garden. The scent of plum blossoms hung in the air.

Your sister walked beside you in silence, her hands folded neatly in front of her. But after a few steps, she glanced sideways, her voice low. “You must be more careful, Y/N. The Queen doesn’t speak without purpose.”

You hummed slightly, not trusting your voice.

Sooyeon paused, her brow tightening. “You can’t keep being… you. Not here.”

You frowned, but she continued before you could answer.

“I know this isn’t easy for you,” She said, her tone gentler now. “But the court isn’t kind to girls who don’t fit. You need to take your lessons seriously. Even if not for yourself, then for me. For our family.”

You stared at her, the weight of her words settling on your shoulders.

“I am trying,” You said quietly.

“I know you are.” She sighed and looked forward again. “Just try harder.”

And with that, she stepped ahead, her posture as composed as ever, the soft rustle of her skirt brushing against the stone path. You watched her back as she walked away, shoulders squared with the confidence of someone who had always belonged.

A dull ache settled in your chest.

You wandered further down the path, hoping that a short walk through the garden might help clear your mind. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves, brushing against your cheek like a passing thought.

Ahead, faint voices broke the stillness. Delicate and polite voices, just above a whisper. You paused beside a flowering bush, the petals damp and fragrant, and listened before you realized what you were doing.

“She’s not like the others,” One woman murmured. “There’s something… unrefined about her.”

A second replied, “But she’s rather striking, don’t you agree? Like she doesn’t know how pretty she is…”

“She reminds me a little of Lady Yeon,” One murmured quietly. “Lovely, but there’s a wildness to her… not quite shaped for court life.”

A few of the ladies hummed in quiet agreement, their fans fluttering faintly like whispers.

You stood still, your hand brushing the edge of your sleeve.

Wild? The word echoed sharply in your mind.

You hadn’t done anything yet. Nothing to warrant that kind of judgment. You had spoken politely, followed your sister’s lead, bowed when expected. Sure, you weren’t as poised as Sooyeon. You didn’t speak with the same elegance, didn’t shine in the same academic areas. But you hadn’t misbehaved. You hadn’t been unkind.

I haven’t even done anything yet, you thought, a quiet frustration curling beneath the defeat..

A subtle shift of air behind you made you turn.

There, just past the hedge-lined path, stood Prince Sieun.

He wasn’t dressed in his formal robes. Instead, he wore a black jacket tied neatly at the waist, the fabric light and suited for movement, an outfit meant for archery. His black hair was pulled into a half-up style, the rest falling loosely to his shoulders, a few strands damp near the nape. A bow was slung over his back, the curved wood polished and worn from use.

His face was calm, unreadable. His eyes were dark and clear. They held the kind of stillness that made it hard to look away. Beautiful, in a way that didn’t need attention to be noticed.

He wasn’t watching you. His gaze was fixed past the hedge, where the noblewomen’s voices had faded into silence.

“They speak more freely when they think no one is listening,” He said, his tone neutral, not unkind.

You didn’t answer. For a moment, you weren’t sure you even could.

He glanced at you then—not long, not deeply. Just enough.

And then he turned, walking past you with quiet, composed steps, his figure cutting through the soft light like a shadow made real.

Something about him lingered in your thoughts.

You weren’t sure why.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You walked deeper into the palace gardens, the soft crunch of gravel beneath your slippers the only sound in the quiet morning. The whispers from earlier still clung to your thoughts, but it wasn’t just them that lingered—it was him.

His words echoed in your mind, quiet but sharp. He hadn’t defended you. He hadn’t smiled or offered kindness. And yet, somehow, it felt like he had seen you more clearly than anyone else had since you arrived at court. Not as the odd girl, not as a lesser shadow of her sister. Just… you.

You turned the corner, steps light, and nearly collided with someone.

A soft gasp escaped your lips.

“My apologies.” Came a voice, smooth and amused.

You stepped back instinctively and looked up into the eyes of the Crown Prince.

He stood with one hand resting behind his back, the other loosely at his side. Though his posture was relaxed, his gaze held the quiet confidence of someone used to being noticed. He smiled.

“Lady Y/N.” He said, tilting his head slightly. “A fine morning for a walk, is it not?”

You bowed quickly, your voice soft. “Yes, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to interrupt your path.”

“You didn’t,” He said, his tone almost lighthearted. “In truth, I welcome the interruption.”

You blinked.

He continued, “It isn’t every day one finds a quiet moment alone with someone new to court.”

“I was just walking to clear my head,” You said, unsure how much to share.

“A wise choice,” He replied, his eyes briefly glancing to the path behind you. “These gardens offer more clarity than most rooms inside the palace.”

There was a pause, comfortable in its silence.

“I hear you’ve made an impression.” He said, a slight tilt to his smile. “Though some say you’re… not quite like your sister.”

You shifted slightly, uncertain how to respond.

He softened. “It’s all right. People change. You’ll find your rhythm here, in time. The court may feel like stone now, but even stone wears smooth when walked on enough.”

You dipped your head slightly. “Thank you, Your Highness. That’s… kind of you to say.”

His smile lingered, not too long, but just enough to feel real.

“If I may ask,” He said, voice smooth and casual, “How old are you, Lady Y/N?”

You met his gaze, cautious but composed. “Twenty, Your Highness.”

“Ah,” He said, as if something had just been confirmed. “A fine age. One where the mind has settled, but the heart is still curious.”

You weren’t sure how to respond, so you simply offered a polite nod.

“Most women your age have already found their place in the palace.” He said, his tone light but layered. “But things have a way of changing quickly here, especially for those who catch the right attention.” His gaze held yours a moment longer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you found the palace far more welcoming soon.”

The air between you held something unspoken, light but noticeable, like the brush of a breeze. He seemed at ease now, watching you not as a prince addressing a court lady, but as a man quietly intrigued.

You managed another small nod, unsure whether to feel flattered or wary.

The Crown Prince’s smile lingered, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then, with a graceful nod, he turned and continued down the path, leaving you with the strange sense that the conversation had meant more than it seemed.

You stood rooted to the spot, the weight of his smile settling uneasily in your chest, as if you had missed something important…

Something that might come back to haunt you.

tagg list: @niyzu @hemmosfear @stxr-lilac @sieunah

[ebbyhell]

BEELZEBUB IS COMPLEX AS AN 4 COURSE MEAL

WARNING: spoilers of Beelzebub cards and mentions of cannibalism

Beelzebub carefree person is mostaly an persona, build, created and crafted to protect his people.

While yes there is pieces of him in there you guys need to undestand this is not the all of Beelzebub, this persona is an parrarel to an other King who also uses one to protect his Kingdom Leviathan. One is view as the flawless King and the other as the wondering King when you see that no wonder both get paried up well (from Beelzebub part) and no wonder Beelzebub likes playing and teasing him Beelzebub knows they both acting personas and gets friendly with him. But only Beelzebub has the full grasp of the persona as he is more able to self-reflect while Leviathan can only deney his mistakes and real personality to himself.

Yes i see Beelzebub been able to grasp on the fact that his personality is mainly an person,and in fact he has showed us the signs of his real self. His possesivnes of MC is one of they.

His possesivnes going overborad at times of anything in involving mc shold it be not been weird for somebody so carefree? But dont forget this is the king of Gluttony we talking about, and one of the things he has been dreprived and had to escape during these years to protect his people has been the one thing he craves the most...an deep emotional bond of love. I mean look ant how much care his people have from, from doing parades when he is in his kingdom to even wating to get eaten by him in death they truely love him and he cannot fully reciprocate fully even tought he wants, he has to keep the carefree persona on to keep they in arms leghts even tought he wants more, an meal of overwhelming love that can never be fully eating....what an pain for the King of Gluttony. And there is MC somebody that is so protected by the other Kings and yourself that the chances of getting hurt by angels due to been conect with you are way more minimal. So Beelzebub shows more of his true self to her, somebody who long for love, somebody who is obessed with MC somebody with overwhelming of feeling not been able to show for an long time. These emotions are even more painfull when you put along with Beelzebub hivemind (may explain this concenpt in another post) deaths.

Beelzebub deaths are treated with with an diffrent sorrow of an lost one, they are treated as rather as loss of an piece of yourself. The motive why i reffer as hivemind is because even if him and his clones share the main concept of been Beelzebub they still are individuals self of him with their one experriencies. The motive why Beelzebub is so protectives of their tumbs is not only cause he did want to protect the pieces of himself that interected with Solomon protecting his memories of him but it is also because Beelzebub dont want these parts of himself to never disappear. He is attached to the conections and memories they have.

While you may say that his ADHD may make difficult for him to remenber, if there is proof there is still way for him to know it existeded. The evecidencies may lay under ground and his clouded mind may be haze but there is not deneying it still there inside him.

Other sign of his trueself is how his persona interects wtih Bael, the carefree self putting all the work and going who knows were. One of the intercctions of his true self is when Bael find his other body dead. The brief way Beelzebub looks to his body show to us how he feel at loos of his piece of self, with an deep sorrow of only been able to carry it last wish. Another ones is both on his event and on Belphegor event that shows how more observent that he is viewed and we even saw his emotional self reacting to the death of his people.

With that been said we can see that he is really way more than first appears. I also think he is my top 1 of Kings with potential to be yandere but that for another time.