#Admirable Traits Records

[themostefficientwaywithwater]

i am never forgiving gamefreak/tpc for making nemona from another region *just because*. like can you imagine adding to your game the perfect andalusian representation, with zero negative stereotypes and making her actually someone you aspire to be, someone competent both in battle and at school, someone that is good not because of mere talent but because she works hard to become better (she tells you this!!!), a character that's more than the funny sidekick, a character that both exudes personality without seeming dumb or uneducated... and you change her nationality at the last fucking second.

[facefullofsadness]

Could you do a giselle dom pervy step sister(female reader) smut where they don’t like each other at first but ig giselle found a way to turn that hatred into them fucking in secret while their parents are in the house

ANONNNN!!! YOUR MIND!!!! I've been thinking ab this ask for WEEKS and I finally have time to write about it omg obsessed

content - stepcest, blackmail, smut (pervy!giselle, cunnilingus, fingering, face sitting, squirt, voyeurism/public(?) sex)

wc - 2739

a/n - catching up slowly but surely on asks, I have no school this week so imma try my best!

you never really warmed up to giselle.

you never really WANTED to ever warm up to her. she was mean, annoying, obnoxious, and greedy. I mean, how fucking self-centered do you have to be to make your baby stepsis call you by another name because she "doesn't deserve to call me by my real name" as giselle had said. what infuriated you was how pretty she was too. someone who was such a bitch shouldn't get the benefit of being attractive, especially since aeri knew and definitely used it to her advantage. whether it be to the people around her like friends, classmates, teachers, or even your parents, she finessed them like no one's business.

but she could never trick or fool you. you were a challenge to her, and it pissed her off not getting what she wanted. giselle HATED your guts. you were smart, sweet, cute, and generous, traits she simply was not. she hated how your guys' parents eyes' would light up in excitement when you came to them with an academic achievement, looking at you with admiration and love, eyes that would look at aeri with annoyance and disappointment.

aeri's not stupid, she knows why she's disliked, but she doesn't really care. it only really started to affect her seeing YOU be soooo liked by them. she simply hated you because you weren't easy, and you hated her because she saw everyone as easy. though, however much it upset you, it upset her to a degree you couldn't even imagine. she had to win the invisible game, and she was going to get her way with you, one way or another. so she devised a plan, which was to put simply, blackmail.

one day when you were gone at school, she set up a secret camera in your room facing your bed. she laid back on the living room couch in content, watching you come home from school, shooting each other a painfully fake greeting, before you ascended upstairs to your room. during nightfall, you would of course, fulfill your physical desires while everyone was asleep in the house, unaware of the recording device from across the room. and in the morning when you left, your wicked stepsis would sneak back in to retrieve the footage, playing it back and giggling to herself, knowing this would ruin you.

giselle's sweet baby stepsis, a sexual deviant during the after hours, shoving a huge dildo into her pussy to force multiple orgasms from her own body.

aeri was giddy with joy, now owning what single-handedly would win her the upper hand. the day continued as normal, but as you were about to go to sleep, there was a knock at your door. you rolled your eyes when you opened it to find a smug aeri, her phone in her hand with a play button over a still image of you in your room. your eyes shift between her and her phone confused before she pushes you inside and shutting the door behind her.

"what the fuck is that aeri?"

she huffs and sits comfortably at the end of your bed, "first of all, it's giselle to you, don't forget. second, how 'bout I show you?"

playing the video on max volume, your muffled moaning erupting from the small screen, watching a video of yourself masturbating. your ears ring and your cheeks flush, pouncing onto the older girl and trying to tear the phone away from her. your older stepsis is far stronger than you and easily you get overpowered, her hands pinning your wrists together and against the bed, her legs straddling either side of your lap.

with one large hand gripping your wrists together and the other hand hovering the still playing video against your face, she smirks, "what? shy? you weren't so shy last night when you were shamelessly fucking yourself, now were you? hm, y/n-ie? my sweet little sister?"

you grit your teeth and shake your head back and forth to deny the accusation, as if it weren't true. her dark chuckle fills your ears and the room, joined with the loud squelching of your pussy coming from the video. you feel tears start to well in your eyes and you plead with her.

"unnie, please... delete that!"

she coos at you, "awww sweetie, you think I'm that easy? not without a price, I won't."

you continue to plea in a desperate voice, "unnie please! I'll do anything! just please, delete it, or don't share it! anything you want!"

her lips curl into a sinister smirk that you can see even in the dark. you feel your heart drop to your stomach at the thought of what she must've suddenly imagined, immediately regretting your choice of words. before you could even consider opening your mouth to take back what you said, aeri drops the phone and covers your mouth.

"anything huh? will you behave for unnie and do anything I want?"

you debate shaking your head no, but when you hear a particularly loud moan come from the video playing next to your ear, you nod your head yes.

"good girl, you may be stubborn but you're not stupid. a little bit dumb for your choice of words though," she hums above you and trails the hand over your mouth downwards, dragging her long slim fingers across your sensitive body, jerking with every inch of contact she makes.

you whine as her fingers circle your hardening nipples and pinch them between her fingertips, giggling at how your body reacts to her touch.

"sensitive little baby, aren't you y/n-ie? fuck you're so cute, you shouldn't be so fucking cute."

aeri hated how much she was enjoying this almost as much as you did. she hated how cute her little sis was, writhing under her, eyes welling with tears in fear, body reacting to every subtle brush, thighs rubbing themselves together to suppress the ache at her core. and you hated it too, you hated that your older sister made you feel so fucking good, how her touch ignited flames in your stomach, how you panted into the air the more intimate her touch became, how you anticipated and needed more when you realized how disgusting this all was.

you both hated it, but you both couldn't get enough.

looking up into giselle's eyes at the same time she looked into yours, locking onto one another and gazing into lustfilled stares, the tension filling the air. the hatred boiled over and morphed into a new emotion, desire. a compromise emerged, and mentally, you both knew what it was. it all felt too good to want to stop, so you gave in.

leaning up and smashing your lips against aeri's, her immediately pushing back into you, pressing you down into your mattress. sloppy wet kisses loud and echoing through the room, both your moaning filling your ears and drowning out any possibility for moral dilemmas to pierce your mind. the hand pinning your wrists down, traveling up to hold your hand, interlacing her fingers through one and letting the other one go.

you let your free hand shoot into her hair, pulling her closer into you and shoving your tongue into her mouth, eliciting a whine to escape giselle's throat, accepting the intrusion. her other hand finds your thigh and brings it up, wrapping your leg around her waist and grinding her hips against your clothed core, making you both groan out into each other's mouths.

"fuck, you're good. why are you good?" she moans into your mouth.

"I'm not- a fucking- amateur." you pant out between kisses.

"yeah? then tell me, has anyone else made you feel this good?"

she questions, almost as a challenge, and you're scared to answer knowing it's just another piece of blackmail to hang over your head. you both already know the truth, obvious by your hips rutting back against her, your sweat dripping down your forehead, neck, and chest, your core aching with need, and your eyes blown to oblivion.

"fuck you," you answer instead.

she chuckles lowly again, the tone and vibration in your mouth when she does it making your pussy throb between your legs.

"not before I fuck you."

flipping you over and onto your hands and knees, tearing your shorts and panties off, throwing them to the ground. she wastes no time shoving your legs apart and licking along your leaking slit, making you moan out and bury your head into your pillows.

"you're so fucking sick, do you know that? being so wet and horny for your unnie like this, you disgusting little whore."

giselle says as if she's not soaked in her own clothes, nipples hard and hole clenching around air. she feels so powerful, so in control, and it feels so good to have you whining under her. sticking her tongue out and getting to work immediately, dragging her wet muscle greedily and swiftly against your pussy, drinking in all of your slick. muffling your moans into your pillows and clawing at your sheets hard enough to rip them.

her strong grip on both of your legs forcing you to keep them apart, slapping your ass every so often and making you scream out into the pillow. her tongue moves around your core so fucking good, alternating between sucking and flicking at your clit to thrusting and licking inside of your cunt, the sounds unbearably sinful and delightful to especially aeri's ears. she's drunk, on the taste and feel of your pussy, the way your body reacts, and the muffled cries being torn from your mouth.

she closes her eyes and relishes in your delicious juice swishing around her mouth, moaning into your pussy at how fucking good it feels to have you like this. her core aches and throbs so painfully, she clenches her thighs to hold it in. she lands another slap on your ass before shoving three fingers into you, already starting with an unforgivable pace, curling them and finding that spot in you easily. you scream and claw at the sheets, almost assuredly knowing your pillow wasn't muffling your cries anymore, not like either of you cared. aeri was going insane and felt herself becoming more and more addicted to you. addicted to ruining you, addicted to having power over you, addicted to owning you.

with the arch of your back and body stilling, you gush cum all over your stepsister's face, thighs trembling and chest heaving, moans slipping out of your mouth like a waterfall, your pussy mimicking the motions of one too. giselle drank all of it, everything, licking all over your leaking cunt and wiping her face of it too, sucking her fingers dry to not leave a single drop wasted.

she didn't even let you rest as she flipped you over onto your back, quickly stripping of her pajamas and lingerie, before climbing up to your face, her thighs resting on both sides of your head.

"use your tongue for something useful, pervy slut."

pfft, hypocrite.

she gives you no time to respond or think before shoving her fat pussy into your mouth which you immediately start to drag your tongue all over, coating it in her slick. your hands grip her juicy thighs and you dig your nails into them, her wincing above you and gripping the headboard with one hand, the other hand in her mouth to muffle her sounds.

you never rip your eyes away from her face for even a second, obsessed with how much sheer pleasure rests on giselle's face, her mouth biting down on her hand, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and eyes clamped shut. your nose hits her clit repeatedly with your tongue buried deep inside her cunt, flicking it to stimulate inside her tight walls. she tastes so fucking divine, cum directly entering your mouth and your spit drooling out the sides of your lips.

her hips quicken and she fully rests her weight on your face which makes you delighted, drinking her up and pulling her in, suffocating between her thighs. not that it mattered, you loved it. you couldn't breathe but you pushed through, thrusting your tongue in her and maneuvering her hips as her clit hit the tip of your nose.

"drink my squirt you little bitch, take it! don't waste a drop! fuck!"

she demands you as she cums in your mouth, her pussy squirting onto your tongue. her thighs shake in your hands and you close your eyes to avoid squirt getting in them. you feel like your drowning in the sheer amount of liquid coming from aeri's pussy, but you obey your sister, drinking everything that slides down your throat. she finally calms down and you tap on her thighs in a panic, literally not able to breathe. she laughs above you and stays there, watching color drain from your face before she lifts herself up, watching you cough and gasp for air.

"sick fuck," she says before smashing her lips against yours' and digging her tongue into your mouth again.

suddenly, she pulls away and gets dressed, picking up her phone and waving at you with that infuriating smirk on her face as she opens the door and leaves, "see you again, baby sis!"

and from then on that's when it started, fucking your step sister in secret. at first it was only at night, every night since the first time. then it progressed to whenever your parents were out of the house, fucking on the couch in the living room, on the kitchen island, in the shower, in each other's rooms. at some point, she started to get more flirty with you, her touches lingering for too long when she held your hips in the kitchen to move past you or sliding her hands up your shirt when she'd greet you with a hug when you came home from school, whispering an "I missed you" into your ear, her breath against it making a shiver go down your spine, which always drove you insane.

at some point though, giselle couldn't give less of a fuck if your parents were home or not, she just wanted to fuck you. your family would be having a movie night in the living room and you'd go to the kitchen to get more snacks, the older girl following you to "help." then she'd pin you to the kitchen counter and slip her fingers down your underwear, dipping them into your already wet pussy.

"really y/n-ie? you're fucking wet? were you eye fucking me all night that you couldn't help yourself get horny? let me help you with that baby."

she would whisper breathily into your ear before fingering you right then and there, you clutching the popcorn bag in your fingers and biting down on your lip, trying so hard not to moan and get caught, thankful the movie was loud enough.

or during a dinner party WITH YOUR RELATIVES, she would "accidentally" drop a spoon on the ground and go to retrieve it, only to separate your thighs and trail a long tortuous lick across your exposed pussy, aeri having demanded you to wear nothing under. you're suddenly gripping your utensils and coughing on the food in your mouth, acting like it went down your throat wrong. your sister climbing back up from under the table with a lost spoon and a smile.

and of course, she fingered you under the dining table that night too, your face red and physically incapable of eating for about twenty minutes, clutching her forearm as you came around her fingers in front of everyone. you had bit down on your lip so hard, blood had started dripping down your chin and onto your dress, excusing yourself to clean up. panting out of breath in your room and ripping the dress off of you, your sister following behind you and pinning you to your bed with a smirk.

"that was impressive baby, you were able to keep in all those delicious moans huh? well, don't you dare fucking keep them in now, they can't hear you from here, and we're not even close to finished."

smashing her lips against your blood stained ones, the taste of metal filling her mouth.

and while you're not sure if you're starting to like your sister or not, you definitely start getting used to it (maybe obsessed).

a/n - the other night when I was looking at this ask, I suddenly had the urge to write a "rich girl aeri x reader fic where they both fucking despise each other and are just rich bitches until one night they both break from all the sexual tension and fuck in the back of aeri's car" fic... I'll get to work-

[just1cefor4ll]

—Tavo akys

Lukas Radzevičius x f!reader

summary. as a storm began to form you stumble upon a band in desperate need of a producer

translations. Tavo akys yra nežemiškos = your eyes are ethereal. Mylimoji = Beloved, Brangioji = Dearest

It was a rainy day, the clouds were turning a dark grey as the approaching thunderstorm only worsened.

The streets of Vilnius were full with panicked mothers who were scrambling to get their children home so they wouldn’t catch the worst cold of their lives. However some teens were laughing, enjoying the beauty of nature’s chaos. One young adult in particular stood out with her unique umbrella in hand— the old sun designs with a ‘hippie’ look to it added to her charm as she tried to get the attention of the passers by, however few acknowledged what she had to say.

You had just opened a small studio for upcoming artists— or even big artists to record their music in, and currently you were on the hunt for said artists— in the worst weather possible..

A group of people also decided to go out in this pure hell of a weather, approaching from behind you as they seaked shelter as soon as humanly possible. You noticed them from the corner of your eye— and as they were about to pass you decided to try your luck one last time. “Excuse me—“

The four of them turned, their sudden attention making your heart stutter. You froze for a second, realizing you’d caught them mid-hurry, and scrambled to get your words out. “I— hi, sorry, I just opened a music studio a few blocks down, and I—” You quickly lifted your umbrella, tilting it to try and shield them from the rain as best you could. “I was wondering if you could maybe take these?” You held out a small stack of flyers, the paper trembling just a bit in your hand. “If you know anyone who might be looking for a place to rehearse or record, I’d really appreciate it. I’ve got, um, a pretty open schedule right now.”

They all looked at you like they’d just seen an angel, exchanging quick glances you didn’t quite catch. The blonde with the slightly long hair took the flyers, his eyes meeting yours for a beat that made your heart feel a little unsteady.

“How much do you charge?” he asked, voice low but curious.

You smiled, trying to keep your tone light. “25€ an hour, but I’m flexible depending on how long or often you want to use the space.” You pulled out your phone, opening Instagram before handing it over. “Here, follow yourself. We can figure something out when it’s not, you know, pouring.”

He nodded, tapping a few buttons before handing your phone back. The group gave you a final nod before turning back to their path.

“Thanks,” the girl of the group called over her shoulder. “We’ll let you know.”

Just a week later after he had sent you a message, they showed up at the studio where you discussed the details of when and what times they’d want the studio and how much you’d charge which all got settled pretty quickly, they weren’t picky at all to your surprise because that was one trait almost all artists had when you worked as an assistant in a studio. It was refreshing to have a few humble people in after a while.

The weeks with them in went smoothly, their style of music was admireable and you soon found out it was very similair to your own music taste which was amazing to hear that you wouldn’t have to endure some bad rappers for who knows how long.

You pressed record as Emilija played the bass of the song, getting lost in the tune. It sort of reminded you of the time you first met— a song you’d listen to in that kind of weather and chaos. Curiosity got the best of you and after 2 weeks of recording you decided to ask. “So, what’s the song for? An album, a single?” You spin in your chair as Emilija sat down with the rest of the group behind you on the dark orange couch, Jokūbas being the only one sitting on the red samira carpet— the worn out designs of it telling stories of the many others doing the same thing— the kind of old thing you’d find at your grandmas house.

“Eurovision, actually. We’ll be competeting against other Lithuanian artists first to see if we even get in next month.” Your jaw was on the floor as Alanas explained. You were producing a song for Eurovision— the biggest song contest in Europe? “Wow— I, uh expected anything but that.” You smiled awkwardly, the others chuckling at your reaction. “Yeah, we’re just a band with a dream.” Alanas jokes but the others just side eye him. “Out of all the jokes he could’ve made..” Jokūbas sighs, but breathes out a laugh nonetheless.

For about a month, you had perfected the song—every detail sculpted into something meaningful and beautiful— memorable even. But as the audition date neared, you were hit with unexpected news; the song needed to be altered, and not in a way you could fix overnight.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do now?” Alanas sighed, leaning against your recording table. “Why didn’t they say anything sooner? Are they that dim witted?” Jokūbas added, making you rub your temples. You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to think of the fastest way to alter a song this drastically on such short notice. But really, there was no way—you needed time.

With a sudden burst of determination, you grabbed your phone and started scrolling, Emilija standing up to peek at what you were doing.

You dialed a number she didn’t recognize, and after a few rings, a man’s voice picked up. “Hello, this is Rimvydas Černiauskas.” They all froze, eyes widening as if you’d just summoned a ghost. “Holy shit,” Lukas whispered, the group instinctively clinging to each other like a makeshift human shield.

You took a steadying breath before speaking.

“Hello, Mr. Černiauskas, this is [Name] [Last Name], songwriter and producer. I’m currently working with Katarsis on a track we’ve been perfecting for the upcoming selections. We were just informed, quite unexpectedly, that the song requires significant changes. Given the nature of these adjustments, I’d like to respectfully request a delay in the selection process, if at all possible.”

The group continued to clutch each other, silently praying as they awaited his response, their nervous energy crackling in the air.

“I understand your position, but you must realize we’re working on a tight schedule. These selections are already on a strict timeline.” You tightened your grip on the phone, sweat forming on your palms. “I completely understand, sir. Believe me, we wouldn’t make this request if it weren’t absolutely necessary. We just want to make sure the song is the best it can be, not just for us, but for the integrity of the selection itself.”

Another pause, the kind that feels like it stretches for hours. You could practically hear Alanas and Emilija holding their breath behind you.

“I appreciate your commitment to quality,” he said, his tone softening just a fraction. “How much time are you asking for?” You glanced at Lukas, who held up 7 fingers. “Ideally, an extra week would give us the time we need to polish the adjustments properly. But even a few days would make a significant difference.”

You heard the rustle of papers on his end, and the faint creak of a chair as if he was leaning back, weighing the request.

“Alright,” he finally said, exhaling a bit as if making the decision had relieved some of his own tension. “I can extend the deadline by four days, but no more. I expect the final version to be nothing short of impressive.”

A wave of relief crashed over you, nearly buckling your knees. “Thank you, sir. We won’t disappoint.”

“See that you don’t,” he replied, the hint of a grin slipping into his voice before the line clicked dead.

You lowered your phone, a long sigh escaping your lips as you wiped the sweat off your palms. “We have four days, not a second longer.” You looked up to see Lukas coming to hug you with the others. “Shit, [Name] you’re amazing.” Alanas praised. “Yeah we could’ve said goodbye to Eurovision if you didn’t just save us like that as if it was nothing.” Lukas pulled away and put a hand on your shoulder. “Thanks širdutė.”

Your cheeks warmed, but you smiled softly— not knowing what to do and so you put a hand over his that was on your shoulder. “Of course.” He then awkwardly put his hand back in his pockets, making you clear youe throat. “Okay, chop chop we have work to do.” You clasped your hands together and everyone nodded— getting their instruments and walking into the recording room.

sunnystudios

liked by lukas_radz, eurovision, user772631119, katarsisgyvas and 1.7K others

sunnystudios recording sesh w/ @.katarsis :D

210 commented

katarsisgyvas 👍👍 lmao

sunnystudios replied 👍👍👍

That day, you never even thought for a second that you'd be packing for Eurovision, flying to Basel for the semi-finals just two months after Katarsis won the auditions. It all felt like a dream—you hadn’t even expected them to ask you to come along. But then Lukas messaged you, basically announcing that you were coming with.

“But what about the studio? I need money for tickets and hotels which I currently do not have, and my family..” you stammered over the phone, nerves crashing in. But it was like he’d already planned a solution for every worry you might have, and before you knew it, he’d somehow charmed you into saying yes.

Once in Basel, you met so many amazing people. You found yourself spending late nights in Sissal’s hotel room with Miriana, JJ, and Kyle. They were all so sweet and welcoming, treating you as their equal even though your role was a bit more behind the scenes. “Without people like you, our songs wouldn’t come to life,” Sissal once said, her smile warm and genuine, and the words wrapped around you like a comforting hug, washing away your lingering doubts.

You’d head back to your own room afterward, lying on the stiff, unfamiliar bed, thinking about how lucky you were to have met the quiet band. Without them, you’d still be back in Lithuania, hoping for clients to walk into your little studio, just trying to get by.

sunny_y/n

liked by sunnystudios, emoon_bass, ziferblat_band, erikavikman and 4.8K others

sunny_y/n introverts in a room full of extroverts raise your hands ✋

328 commented

emoon_bass ✋✋

lukas_radz ✋

ageofadonxs bye why am I so tall compared to eveyome

bara_vaeb were serving in this pic bro dm it to us

Once the second semi-finals came around, you were nervously fiddling with your fingers, clutching the lithuanian flag in your hands as if it was the last thing you’d ever hold. Everyone seemed so much more relaxed— and even if they were nervous, they didn’t let it show. “Hey, breathe. Even if we don’t get in the finale, we at least got to meet you through all of this.” Emilija smiled softly, putting a hand around your shoulder and listened in for the results as the first qualifier was to be announced.

“The first country to qualify for the grand final is..”

“Lithuania!”

You jumped up in excitement, and Emilija followed a second later as you all celebrated the unbelievable achievement. You hugged each of them tightly, your heart still racing with the rush of it all. But when you reached Lukas, he grabbed you by the waist and put a hand on your cheek, pressing his lips to yours before pulling you into a tight hug. “We did it, Brangioji.”

The others erupted into whistles and cheers, making the whole thing feel even more surreal. You slid back into your seat, now wedged between Lukas and Emilija, your face burning as you stared straight ahead, too stunned to say a word.

As the final country was announced, you noticed Adonxs standing off to the side, clearly devastated. You quickly crossed the room to him, pulling him into a hug. You'd spent a lot of time together during this whirlwind, and you hated to see him like this.

“I’m so sorry, Adam. I know this meant a lot to you,” you said, squeezing his shoulder as you pulled back.

“I’ll be okay,” he managed, offering you a sad smile. “I’m glad your gang made it to the finals. I’ll be cheering for you.”

Before you could say more, Sissal, Miriana, Erika, and JJ swarmed you, still buzzing from the announcement.

“[Name], we saw what happened with you and Lukas! What the hell are you doing go get your man hoe!” JJ teased, throwing an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a playful hug.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “I’m just—I don’t know what to say. I didn’t think he liked me like that.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Lukas smiling softly with the rest of your bandmates, catching your eye as the crowd started to thin out. The night felt like a dream, the kind you hoped you wouldn’t wake up from.

sissaljo

liked by sunny_y/n, ageofadonxs, johannesjjpietsch, nemothings and 47.8K others

sissaljo so happy to have been able to meet all these wonderful people 🤍

19K commneted

sunny_y/n :,) <33

johannesjjpietsch why am i not on any of these pics ????? haha okay

sissaljo replied shut up twink love you the most

(A/N: in the second pic, the blonde is sissal and the brunnete is you, but of course you can imagine yourself however you want <3333)

sunny_studios

liked by alanas.brasas, lukas_radz, emoon_bass, jandriulius, schkodraelektronike and 3.2K others

sunnystudios so so so so proud of my lil gang :,) <3 @.katarsisgyvas

111 commneted

You soon said your goodbyes and headed to your hotel, but in stead of going to your room— you turned to the groups room which was just a floor higher then your own.

With a gentle knock, you patiently waited for someone to open up, and just a moment later Jokūbas opened the door.

“Hey, the lover boy has been going crazy over you. You should talk.” He stepped out for a second, giving you a hug. “I’m glad it’s you. We’ve all taken quite the liking to you, [Name].” He ruffled your hair and opened up the door. “Lukas! Someone’s here for you!” He yelled into the room and smiled at you one last time before going inside, letting Lukas out before closing the door behind him.

You stared at your shoes, unsure where to look as you walked down the hotel corridor. Lukas walked beside you, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, eyes fixed ahead—probably just as nervous as you.

He cleared his throat, glancing down at the carpeted floor. “I’m sorry if what I did was.. too much. Too public, if you know what I mean. I should’ve told you how I feel in private.” He muttered, stepping out into the cold Basel air. “I hope you’re not upset. I noticed you ran off after what I did, and I’ll understand if the feelings aren’t mutual.” He met your gate, his blue eyes contrasting with your own. Reaching out, he took your hands in his, as if about to recite vows for your wedding. “But if you do happen to share these feelings with me, it would be an honour for you to let me be your boyfriend.” He breathed out, his hands cold and slightly shaky as he smiled softly.

You stared at him, speechless as he let go of your hands, giving you some space. His words slowly started to sink in— he liked you, and he was confessing it.

It would have never crossed your mind, but as you let yourself think about it, there’s always been some feelings lingering for him in the back of your mind, you just never let yourself feel them. But now, as the cold air swept through his hair, his eyes staring deep into yours, it all came crashing down on you. It was as if a stronge sense of longing had overcome you— and now it felt impossible to let go. “Tavo akys yra nežemiškos.” He cupped both of your cheeks, rubbing comforting circles on them.

You put your arms around his torso, resting your head on his chest. He didn’t hesitate to pull you closer, wrapping you in his jacket to shield you from the cold— and then you finally spoke. “I don’t know how it happened, nor how you managed to slip into my heart but I think I’ve loved you this whole time.”

You look up at him, a soft smile forming on your lips and when you did he let himself smile too, probably the brightest you’d ever seen. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, cupping your cheek

“I love you more Mylimoji.” He leaned closer, pressing soft kisses against your lips, and in that moment— you knew you were down bad.

lukas_radz

liked by sunny_y/n, emoon_bass, jandriulius, alanas.brasas, ziferblat_band and 9.4K others

lukas_radz @.sunny_y/n 🤍

206 commented

jandriulius i knew itttt

emoon_bass <33333

sissaljo feeling like a proud mother

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© just1cefor4all— I don’t consent to my writing being reposted to other platforms or fed into AI. Translating it is also strictly prohibited. 🚫

[kenzdolls]

𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐘𝐀 𝐈𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒:

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 𝐢𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐢𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐲𝐚 𝐢𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐱 𝐮𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭! 𝐠𝐧! 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦: @va-3

MEETING TENYA IIDA:

he probably already knows your name, quirk, and a brief summary of your academic record before actually meeting you. he did his research, okay? UA is prestigious!.

first interaction? most likely during orientation. he's making sure everyone is following the rules, and you're probably one of the few who actually are. instant respect.

if you're even slightly late to class, even by a minute, you'll get a polite but firm lecture about punctuality being a vital trait for a hero. he's not trying to be mean, he's trying to help.

introductions are formal. a deep bow, a clear enunciation of his name, and a summary of his goals as a hero. prepare for a handshake that means business.

he'll probably (and literally) run into you in the hallway, especially if you're rushing. a sincere apology is issued, accompanied by a lecture on the importance of being aware of your surroundings.

study sessions become a thing early on. not necessarily because he needs help, but because he's happy to provide it. be prepared to take very detailed notes.

if you ever defend him from bakugo's explosions or teasing, he will be eternally grateful. like, writing-you-a-thank-you-note grateful.

he respects your dedication to becoming a hero, and that's a major factor in him even noticing you beyond a classmate. he admires hard work and resolve.

TENYA CRUSHING ON YOU:

the crush hits him like a speeding engine. one moment he's focused on hero training, the next he's acutely aware of your presence.

he tries to analyze his feelings logically. he'll write down a list of your positive traits, comparing them to the qualities of an ideal hero. It's... endearing.

he'll attempt to be "casual" but fails spectacularly. expect stilted conversations, overly formal greetings, and maybe even a slight stutter.

he starts noticing the little things: the way you focus in class, the way you help others, your smile. he may even write these things down.

secretly, he admires your quirk. he's fascinated by its applications and effectiveness. he'll ask you about it, phrasing it as "research," but it's really just an excuse to talk to you.

he becomes fiercely protective of you during training exercises. he won't let you get hurt, even if it means risking himself.

if he sees you struggling with something (homework, a training technique), he'll be the first to offer assistance. expect a detailed explanation and hands-on guidance.

he will absolutely ask his brother, ingenium for advice (and get teased relentlessly). tensei probably gives him the worst, most cliche love advices ever.

he blushes so easily! a simple compliment from you can send his face into overdrive.

DATING TENYA IIDA:

the confession is direct and earnest. he'll lay out his feelings clearly, explain why he admires you, and ask you to consider being his partner. no beating around the bush.

dates are planned with military precision. expect a detailed itinerary, backup plans, and contingency measures for every possible scenario.

he's a gentleman. doors are opened, chairs are pulled out, and he always walks you home safely.

he takes your opinions and ideas very seriously. he values your input and will always consider your perspective.

PDA is kept to a minimum. maybe holding hands while walking, but anything more is reserved for private moments.

he loves studying with you. he finds it soothing and productive to hear your input on different topics

he's a surprisingly good listener. he genuinely cares about your thoughts and feelings, and he'll remember everything you tell him.

he will help you organize everything. your notes, your training schedule, your closet. it's his love language.

When you two have alone time, he relaxes a lot. the serious Tenya disappears and you get to see a goofy, loving side of him where he becomes more confident.

he likes learning from you. he always wants to improve as a hero and a human being so you teaching him things makes him happy.

he cherishes your relationship more than hero work sometimes, and he makes sure you know that.

he will write you letters instead of text, especially when he is away.

he loves giving you piggyback rides because of his engines. he will run you around everywhere, and he only stops when you ask him to stop.

he loves wearing matching outfits with you. they may not be the most fashionable, but he will love wearing them with you always!

© 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐙𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐒 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 —

[inkyquillstories]

Out of Our Minds (A Body Swap Story)

Note: The discord version of this story has some videos and more photos. If you would like to read that version, you can find it here: https://discord.gg/mMY9wSu4rS

The Beginning 

Walter James Holloway, born in 1959, was a lifelong Kentucky auto mechanic, known for his grit and hard work. Years of heavy eating and little exercise had left him overweight, but he found comfort in his routines—working under car hoods by day, unwinding with a cigar by night. His bond with his son, Daniel, was distant, but with his grandson, Ryan, it was different. Ryan admired his old-school ways, even when they clashed.

Born in 1999 and shaped by Chicago, Ryan David Holloway was athletic, disciplined, and ambitious. A 6'2", 215-pound physical therapist, he dedicated himself to helping others regain mobility. City life was expensive, so when he needed a more affordable place to stay, Walter offered him a room. The arrangement suited them both—Walter enjoyed the company, and Ryan appreciated the short commute to his sports rehab job.

The night of the accident, the chill in the air had been sharper than expected. Walter had shivered, rubbing his thick hands together before eyeing Ryan’s coat. His own was too thin for the dropping temperature, so Ryan handed over his heavier jacket without a second thought. Neither man realized the mistake—their wallets, tucked into their respective coat pockets, had now been switched. As they got into the car, Walter stubbornly insisted on driving. He claimed Ryan had drunk too much at the gathering, even though Ryan had barely touched his glass. The old man wouldn’t listen, convinced that his grandson was unfit to drive. Reluctantly, Ryan let him take the wheel.

The hum of the highway filled the silence between them. Walter’s hands gripped the wheel firmly at first, but then his fingers slackened. A wave of dizziness hit him, his vision narrowing to a tunnel. His chest tightened, and for a split second, his mind blanked—his body freezing up as he experienced a transient ischemic attack. The car swerved wildly. Ryan reacted instantly, reaching over to grab the wheel, but the sudden movement only made things worse. Tires screeched, the vehicle spun, and before either of them could fully comprehend what was happening, they crashed headlong into the highway divider. The impact sent the car flipping multiple times before it crumpled into a final, jarring stop.

The collision was so violent that their skulls fractured, and their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Emergency responders arrived to find both men unconscious, their skulls fractured from the violent collision. The impact had been so severe that their brains were ejected from their heads upon impact. Walter’s brain, dislodged from his shattered skull, landed just beside Ryan’s unconscious body, while Ryan’s brain tumbled near Walter’s motionless form. The grotesque sight painted the wreckage in tragedy, their identities now quite literally displaced.

Paramedics rushed them to the nearest hospital, where chaos and confusion took hold. Due to their exchanged coats, the hospital staff misidentified them. Their last names matched, their faces were too swollen to compare to their IDs, and in the frantic rush to surgery, no one double-checked. Their medical files were also misplaced and mislabeled, further cementing the misidentification.

Relying on mislabeled records, the lead neurosurgeon reviewed their brain scans. One brain, though outwardly resembling that of an elderly individual, exhibited an unusual level of rapid healing—traits typically found in much younger patients. This was, in reality, Walter’s brain, but the accident had triggered a restoration process that made it appear younger. The other brain, while structurally younger, showed significant inflammation and signs of deterioration more commonly associated with advanced age. This was actually Ryan’s brain, which had suffered more damage from the accident, making it seem far older than it truly was.

The medical team analyzed the locations where the brains had landed, mistakenly believing that the brain near the muscular body belonged to the younger patient and the brain near the older, overweight body belonged to the elderly man. Compounded by misidentification and limited time, the surgeons made a catastrophic assumption—believing Ryan’s brain to belong to Walter and Walter’s brain to belong to Ryan. 

The hospital staff proceeded with what they thought was a life-saving operation. They addressed the extensive trauma to their skulls and bodies, miraculously sparing their internal organs. After repairing the fractures, they carefully placed the dislodged brains into what they assumed were their correct bodies. What should have been a clerical correction became a medical catastrophe.

The Awakening

Walter awoke with a start, his heart pounding like a jackhammer in his chest. His vision blurred for a moment, then sharpened with a clarity he hadn’t experienced in years. He blinked, confused. Wait… he thought, reaching up to rub his eyes. His hand—his hand—caught his attention. It was large, strong, and calloused, but not from decades of wrenching on cars. This was something else entirely. He flexed his biceps, marveling at the ease with which they moved. No stiffness. No ache.

He sat up slowly, the movement effortless, and glanced around the hospital room. The sterile smell of antiseptic filled his nose, but his body felt… different. Alive. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thud. His knees didn’t creak. His back didn’t protest. He stood, his breath catching in his throat as he realized just how tall he was. He felt… powerful.

Walter took a few tentative steps, each one feeling lighter than the last. His feet carried him with a grace he hadn’t known in decades. He glanced down at his body—Wait, this isn’t my body. His chest was broad, his arms muscular, his waist trim. He ran his hands over his torso, his fingers tracing the contours of hard muscle. This isn’t me. His heart raced as he stumbled toward the bathroom, his reflection in the mirror stopping him dead in his tracks.

Staring back at him was Ryan.

Walter froze, his breath hitching. No. No, this can’t be real. He stepped closer, his hands trembling as he reached up to touch the mirror. The face—Ryan’s face—mimicked his movements perfectly. He turned his head, examining the sharp jawline, the stubble that shadowed his face, the piercing blue eyes that seemed to hold a life of their own. This… this is Ryan’s body.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Walter—now in Ryan’s body—grabbed Ryan’s smartphone from the nightstand. He tapped the screen, the bright glow illuminating his new, youthful face. His heart pounded with exhilaration as he stared into the selfie camera, tilting his head to admire the sharp jawline, the smooth skin untouched by age. He ran a hand through his thick hair, relishing the unfamiliar yet thrilling sensation. The reflection staring back at him was strong, vibrant—everything he had lost over the years, now his to claim.

Bringing the phone back into the bathroom, he placed it on the sink, angling the camera just right before hitting record. Walter flexed, watching his bicep swell with power, then smirked as he reached under his arm, rubbing the thick patch of armpit hair with satisfaction. The sensation sent a wave of pride through him—this body was youthful, masculine, perfect. Grinning, he grabbed the phone, lowering the camera to capture the tight ridges of his abs, tracing a hand over them possessively before finally lifting the phone to his face. His smirk widened as he locked eyes with his reflection, drinking in his own smug satisfaction.

But the curiosity didn’t stop there. His eyes drifted lower, over his flat stomach, toward the waistband of his hospital-issued pants.

His heart pounded as he slid them down, revealing the thick, heavy weight of Ryan’s bulge. Walter’s breath hitched, his fingers trembling as removed his underwear. He touched his new cock and it was warm, heavy, and currently his own. He gave it an experimental stroke, a moan escaping his lips as pleasure shot through him...

Then he observed it even more and began to make his dick and balls swing like a pendulum

He leaned against the wall, his knees weak as he continued to stroke himself, the sensations overwhelming. His other hand wandered, exploring every inch of his new body. He pinched his nipples, gasping as the sparks of pleasure intensified. He ran his fingers through the coarse hair on his chest, down his sides, over his hips. Every touch felt electric.

Walter paused, his nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of something. He lifted his arm, touching his armpit hair and then inhaling deeply. The scent was musky, masculine, and familiar. It was Ryan’s scent—his cologne, his sweat, him. Walter’s cock twitched in his hand, his arousal spiking. He couldn’t help himself. He leaned in, burying his face in the crook of his elbow, breathing in the intoxicating aroma. It was primal, raw, and his.

His strokes grew faster, his body trembling with need. He tilted his head back, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as pleasure coiled tightly in his gut. This is… this is too much. But he couldn’t stop. His hips bucked into his hand, his cock throbbing with every stroke. He moaned, the sound low and guttural, filling the small bathroom. His balls tightened, his release building with every passing second.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his grip tightening as he edged closer and closer to the brink. His muscles tensed, his body shuddering as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him. And then he was there, his orgasm crashing over him like a tidal wave. He came with a shout, his cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum spurted onto the floor. He collapsed against the sink, his legs trembling as he rode out the aftershocks, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Walter stared at the mess he’d made, a strange mix of guilt and satisfaction swirling in his chest. He had just jacked off in his grandson’s body. What the hell is wrong with me? But even as the thought crossed his mind, he couldn’t deny the exhilaration coursing through him. This body—Ryan’s body—was incredible. And it was his right now.

He cleaned himself up, his mind racing as he tried to process everything. He needed to figure out what had happened. How he’d ended up in Ryan’s body. But for now, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of… excitement. He looked at his reflection one more time, a sly grin spreading across his face. This is going to be interesting.

Ryan’s consciousness drifted back slowly, his mind groggy as if weighed down by something heavy. His whole body felt wrong—bloated, sluggish, stiff. A dull ache radiated through his limbs, his joints protesting even the slightest movement. His chest rose and fell, but his breaths were deeper, heavier, almost labored. Something was off—terribly off. His heart pounded, but instead of its usual strong, steady rhythm, it felt slower, weaker, unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, his throat raw and dry, and when he moved his hands, they felt thicker, rougher. Panic crept in.

His fingers brushed against his face, and his stomach dropped. His skin was loose, not firm and smooth like it should be. He traced over deep wrinkles, then moved up to his head—his hair. His heart clenched. The thick, youthful strands were gone, replaced by thinning hair and a balding scalp. His breath quickened as he looked down, only to see a broad, heavy gut stretching his hospital gown. His arms were thicker, softer, with veins more pronounced and skin slightly sagging. His chest was heavier, fleshier, completely wrong.

This wasn’t his body. His hands fumbled beside him, landing on a pair of glasses on the nightstand. His trembling fingers slid them on, and suddenly, the world snapped into focus. Desperation overtook him as he reached blindly for the phone on the nightstand, his unfamiliar, clumsy hands struggling to grip it properly. He turned on the screen, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he opened the camera app and switched to selfie mode. His entire body froze. Staring back at him was Walter. His grandfather’s face. 

The lined, aging skin, the receding hair, the tired, sunken eyes—it was all there. His breath hitched as he slowly touched his cheek, watching Walter’s reflection mimic his every movement. His fingers trailed down to his heavy jaw, the rough stubble, the loose skin of his neck. His horror deepened as he lowered the phone, angling it toward his chest—the bulky stomach, the unfamiliar flesh. His own grandfather’s body. His vision blurred—not from the lack of glasses, but from pure, overwhelming dread. The phone slipped from his hands, clattering onto the sheets as he screamed. This couldn’t be real. But it was.

In the other room, Walter’s exploration was cut short when a sound froze him in place. A voice. A voice he had known all his life. His own voice—but weak, hoarse, and laced with panic. He cleaned himself up immediately and wore his hospital robes once more. 

Walter turned abruptly, his heart pounding. He followed the noise, pushing open the door and stepping into the hallway. Another hospital room. He moved quickly, his newfound speed shocking him. As he approached, he heard rustling, then a sharp intake of breath—followed by a scream.

Walter shoved the door open and stopped in his tracks.

Walter froze in the doorway, his breath hitching as he got his first real look at the body he had left behind. His old body. Ryan was sitting on the hospital bed, hunched forward, his face twisted in shock and horror. But it wasn’t just the face—it was everything. The broad, sloping gut, the soft arms, the sagging flesh hanging from his neck. Was this really what he had looked like all this time? The sight sent a shiver of revulsion down his spine. He had always known he was overweight and old, but seeing it from the outside made it so much worse. How had he lived like this? His breath was heavier, his posture slouched, his very presence sluggish. Walter clenched his jaw, forcing down the wave of disgust and relief threatening to bubble up. Because now, that wasn’t him anymore.

Ryan’s head snapped up at the sound of movement, and his breath caught. A man stood in the doorway—young, muscular, shirtless. His body. His body was standing there, staring at him. His stomach twisted in confusion. How was this possible? His pulse pounded as the world sharpened. The stranger wasn’t a stranger. He knew that face—the sharp jawline, the confident stance, the broad chest. But it was wrong.

Walter took a slow step forward, his powerful legs carrying him effortlessly, but he kept his expression carefully neutral. "Ryan," he said cautiously, pretending to hesitate.

Ryan inhaled sharply at the sound of his own voice coming from someone else’s mouth. His hands clutched the hospital sheets, knuckles white. “No… no, no, no… that can’t be…” He swallowed hard, his throat tight, his body trembling as he looked up at the man—at himself. “Grandpa?” His voice wasn’t his voice. It was rougher, weaker—Walter’s.

Walter nodded slowly, as if the realization pained him, but inside, he felt a thrill of satisfaction. "I don't know how," he said, carefully keeping his tone neutral, masking the excitement rising in his chest. “But we woke up like this. We woke up as each other.”

Ryan let out a shaky exhale, staring down at himself in disbelief, his hands gripping at the thickened flesh of his stomach. His own grandfather’s body. His breath quickened as he clutched at the loose skin, the soft flesh of his arms, the unfamiliar weight pressing down on him. He had felt strong his entire life, but now? Now he felt heavy, sluggish, weak.

They stepped closer, eyes locked, studying what they had lost and gained.

Ryan’s wrinkled hand trembled as he reached out, pressing against Walter’s hard abs, then his solid pecs. He squeezed—firm, powerful, his pecs. His fingers drifted up, brushing through thick, luscious hair—his hair. A shudder ran through him as he traced his strong jawline, the smooth skin.

Then, he hesitated, looking at his own body. Slowly, he raised a shaking hand to his bald scalp. His breath hitched at the thin, wiry strands left behind. His grip moved to his soft chest, squeezing—nothing but sagging weight.

Walter finally reached out, gripping Ryan’s weak arm, squeezing the loose, aging flesh. His fingers pressed into Ryan’s soft pecs—his old manboobs—and he barely hid his disgust. He lingered only for a moment before stepping back, rolling his strong shoulders.

A knock on the door interrupted them. Both turned as a nurse stepped in. “Oh, good. You’re both awake. The doctors will be in shortly to see you.”

“This can’t be real.” He turned toward Walter, who stood there in Ryan’s youthful body, an almost dazed expression on his face. “ Tell them,” Ryan pleaded, his voice rising. “Tell them we’re not who they think we are!” Walter, shaken but more composed, nodded grimly. 

When the doctors finally arrived, their expressions neutral but professional, Ryan wasted no time. 

“We—we’ve switched,” he blurted, gripping the sheets of his hospital bed with his trembling hands. “That’s not my grandfather. 

That’s me in his body. And—and I’m in his.” His voice cracked, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. Walter, in Ryan’s body, took a step forward. “It’s true,” he said. “I woke up in his body, and he woke up in mine. Something went wrong.” 

The doctors exchanged puzzled glances before one of them cleared his throat. “Mr. Holloway, you’re disoriented from the accident,” he started, but Ryan cut him off. 

“I know who I am!” he snapped, the exertion making his new body’s chest heave. 

“I don’t care what my name says on your charts. That’s my body standing right there.” He pointed a trembling finger at Walter. 

The medical team looked between them, skepticism etched onto their faces—until another doctor, flipping through a tablet, suddenly paled. He exhaled sharply. 

“My God,” he muttered, drawing the attention of his colleagues. Looking up, he hesitated before speaking. 

“We… we may have made a terrible mistake.” 

The air in the room thickened as he explained, voice cautious yet urgent. 

“During surgery, we relied on multiple factors to identify the bodies—facial structure, ID tags, personal effects. But their faces were swollen beyond recognition, and their medical files were mislabeled in the chaos. Their coats had been switched, leading to further confusion. We assumed the brain found closest to each body was the correct one.” He paused, gripping the tablet tighter. 

“But that assumption… was wrong.” Another doctor, looking equally unsettled, pulled up the brain scans. “We should’ve known,” she admitted, her voice tight with regret. 

“Walter’s brain, despite its age, exhibited an accelerated healing response, which is why it looked younger in the initial scans. Meanwhile, Ryan’s brain suffered significant trauma, causing inflammation and deterioration, making it appear older than it really was. 

We mistook those neurological differences for evidence of their respective ages and—” she hesitated, exhaling slowly, “—we placed the wrong brains in the wrong bodies.” 

The words hit like a sledgehammer. Ryan’s knees buckled, and he barely caught himself against the bed. 

“Fix it,” he gasped. “Switch us back.” The doctors exchanged grim looks before one of them finally spoke.

 “We can’t.” 

Walter and Ryan froze. The doctor continued, his voice heavy with finality. 

“The reconnection process was incredibly delicate. Your neural pathways have already begun adapting to their new hosts. Any attempt to reverse the procedure would result in severe, irreversible brain damage—possibly death.” He swallowed. 

“There’s no way to undo this.” Another doctor stepped forward, regret plain on her face. “We are deeply sorry,” she said, “but the swap is permanent.” 

The words sent a wave of cold dread through Ryan. His breath came in short gasps as reality crashed over him. He was trapped. This body—this slow, aching, unfamiliar form—was his for the rest of his life. Forever.

Ryan’s body sagged. Walter, too, felt the weight of those words, though the sting was dulled by the strange exhilaration running through him. Permanent. He would never go back. Walter realized that he would never feel that old body again. His mind warred between horror and an undeniable thrill.

The doctors exchanged uneasy glances before speaking again. “For now, we strongly advise keeping this a secret.”

Ryan’s head snapped up. “What?”

“If this gets out,” the doctor continued, “it could lead to medical lawsuits, ethical scandals, media chaos. The hospital would be ruined. Your lives would be turned upside down.” He glanced between them, his voice firm. “It’s best if you assume each other’s lives.”

Walter’s lips parted in shock. Ryan looked utterly stricken.

“As far as the world is concerned,” the doctor said, “you are Ryan Holloway.” He turned to Walter. “And you are Walter Holloway.” His gaze was unyielding. “That is how the hospital will refer to you, and that is how your families will know you.”

Ryan was visibly horrified. His whole life—his identity—had been stripped away in an instant. But Walter… Walter could feel the seed of something dangerous, something exhilarating taking root within him. He had been old, tired, and at the end of his road. But now? Now, he had everything ahead of him again.

And for the first time in a long, long time, Walter James Holloway felt truly alive.

The Initial Adjustment 

To help them adjust, they were referred to psychiatry. The psychologist assigned to their case, Dr. Evelyn Carter, was a woman of firm composure and measured words. She wasted no time in establishing the gravity of their situation. "For your mental and emotional well-being," she explained during their first session, "you must fully integrate into your new identities. There can be no doubt, no hesitation. From now on, Walter James Holloway is Ryan David Holloway. And Ryan David Holloway is Walter James Holloway."

Ryan sat stiffly in his chair, hands clenched into fists. His body, now weighed down by age, ached with every movement, and he felt suffocated by the reality that this was now his existence. Across from him, Walter sat in Ryan’s youthful body, leaning back with a relaxed ease that only made Ryan's fury burn hotter. "This is ridiculous," Ryan muttered. "You're asking me to pretend to be someone I’m not."

Dr. Carter’s gaze was steady. "I'm asking you to survive. If you refuse to accept this, your mind will reject your new body, leading to severe dissociation, depression, and possibly worse. The human psyche craves consistency. You must become Walter in every way possible. And you—" she turned to Walter, "—must embrace being Ryan."

Walter gave a slow nod, as if considering her words, but Ryan saw the glimmer of something else in his expression—excitement. He already knew Walter was relishing this, the chance to start over in a body full of strength and vitality. Ryan wanted to scream.

Dr. Carter, however, had no patience for resistance. She was relentless, her approach clinical and unforgiving. "You will commit to this," she said with an icy firmness. "Every hesitation, every denial, every refusal to accept your new identity will only make this harder. You are Walter. Period. If you cannot embrace that, you will never be able to function in the life that is now yours." She leaned forward, her piercing gaze locking onto Ryan’s weary eyes. "From this moment on, you will respond to ‘Walter.’ You will introduce yourself as Walter. If you hesitate, if you falter, we will start again until you get it right."

Ryan seethed with frustration, but there was no room for argument. Every day, Dr. Carter drilled it into him. Morning sessions were brutal. "Say it again," she ordered. Ryan’s voice was hoarse from repetition.

"I am Walter James Holloway. I am sixty-five years old."

"Louder."

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I am Walter James Holloway," he repeated, each word tasting like poison.

"Again."

Meanwhile, Walter, in his youthful, powerful form, flourished under the same treatment. He practically beamed as he repeated his lines, sitting up straighter with every declaration. "I am Ryan David Holloway. I am twenty-six years old. I am young, strong, and full of life." His voice carried confidence—more than Ryan ever had.

Dr. Carter only reinforced this divide, encouraging Walter’s transition into Ryan’s life while pushing Ryan further into his new role. She arranged daily conversations where Ryan had to describe "his" past experiences as Walter—his first car, the long hours in the repair shop, his favorite cigar brand. "Make it real," she insisted when he hesitated. "Believe it. Because no one else will believe you if you don’t."

Dr. Carter took the exercises a step further, introducing direct role-play into their sessions. One morning, she placed two chairs in the middle of the room and gestured for them to sit. "We’re going to reinforce your identities with introductions," she announced. "Walter, introduce your grandson."

Ryan tensed. His throat tightened as he glanced at Walter, who sat across from him with an infuriatingly relaxed grin. Dr. Carter’s expectant gaze left him no choice. He swallowed hard. "This is my grandson, Ryan," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Louder. More confidence."

Ryan clenched his fists, forcing the words out again. "This is my grandson, Ryan David Holloway." The statement felt wrong, like a betrayal of everything he was.

Walter, meanwhile, sat up straight, puffing out his chest. "And this is my grandpa, Walter James Holloway," he said with a smug ease, gesturing toward Ryan. He even threw in a playful pat on Ryan’s knee. "He’s had a long life, worked hard as a mechanic, and now he’s enjoying retirement."

Ryan’s jaw clenched as he heard the words. Retirement. It was another nail in the coffin.

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly before moving to the next phase. She held up a photo of Ryan’s old body, shirtless at the gym, muscles defined and glistening with sweat. "Who is this?"

Walter smirked. "That’s me," he said proudly. "Ryan Holloway. I work out regularly, and I take pride in my physique." He flexed his arm slightly, as if to emphasize the truth of his statement.

Ryan wanted to throw the chair. Instead, he forced himself to mumble, "That’s my grandson."

Dr. Carter didn’t let him off easy. "Say it properly."

Ryan inhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s my grandson, Ryan David Holloway. He’s twenty-six years old, works as a physical therapist, and is in excellent shape."

Walter chuckled under his breath. "Thanks, Grandpa. Appreciate that."

Dr. Carter then held up another photo, this one of old Walter—his overweight, aging frame sitting on a lounge chair near the pool. "And who is this?"

Ryan felt sick. "That’s... me."

"Full sentence," Dr. Carter pressed.

"That’s me. I’m Walter James Holloway. I’m sixty-five years old, and I used to be a mechanic." The words made his stomach turn, but Dr. Carter simply nodded in approval.

Walter leaned back with a grin. "Yeah, that’s my grandpa," he said casually, glancing at the image. "He’s been through a lot, but he’s still kicking." He turned to Ryan with a smirk. "Ain’t that right, old man?"

Ryan ground his teeth. He didn’t respond.

The exercises continued—more questions designed to hammer their new identities into place. Dr. Carter would ask who was older, who was younger. Who was strong, who was weaker.

"Ryan, stand up and describe your daily fitness routine," she instructed.

Walter eagerly complied, launching into an enthusiastic monologue about "his" morning runs, weightlifting, and strict nutrition. He flexed his arms playfully, smirking at Ryan as if reveling in his newfound youth.

Then she turned to Ryan. "Walter, describe your typical day before the accident."

Ryan was forced to mutter about oil changes, cigar breaks, and back pain. Each time he faltered, Dr. Carter would correct him, forcing him to repeat the statement until it sounded natural. Each time, Walter grinned, enjoying every second of his new role. And every time Ryan looked in the mirror, the reality became harder to deny.

Dr. Carter intensified their conditioning by incorporating physical and sensory exercises. She had them touch and feel their bodies, comparing them to what they remembered before the accident.

"Ryan, describe how your skin feels. The texture, the muscle tone, everything."

Walter ran his hands along his arms, his biceps firm and strong. "My skin is smooth, my muscles are defined. I feel powerful, full of energy. It’s like I have endless stamina."

She turned to Ryan. "And you, Walter?"

Ryan hesitated before placing a hand on his stomach, feeling the softer flesh, the wrinkles on his hands. "My skin is looser, my muscles are weaker. My joints ache. My fingers feel stiff. I’m..." He swallowed hard. "I’m older."

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. "Good. Acknowledging these changes will help your mind accept them. Now, let’s work on movement."

She made them practice mannerisms. Ryan had to learn the slower, heavier gait of an aging man, the slight stoop, the way old Walter used to rub his lower back absentmindedly. Walter, meanwhile, had to master a youthful stride, the way Ryan used to bounce on the balls of his feet when excited, the casual confidence of a younger man.

Walter took to it with ease, exaggerating Ryan’s old habits at first but gradually settling into a natural flow. He walked with effortless energy, stretched his shoulders confidently, and even practiced grinning at his reflection the way Ryan used to. He was absorbing the role with glee, while Ryan struggled to let go of his former self.

Dr. Carter was relentless. "Again. Walter, you should be moving slower. You’ve had a long life, and your body has the weight of years. Show it."

Ryan sighed, shifting his posture to mimic an elderly man’s careful movements. "Like this?"

"Better. But I want it to be second nature. We’ll keep practicing."

Then came the hypnosis.

Dr. Carter dimmed the lights, her voice a steady, rhythmic pulse in the dimly lit room. "Close your eyes. Take slow, deep breaths. With every exhale, let go of who you were. With every inhale, become who you are meant to be."

The air grew thick with the weight of suggestion, their minds sinking deeper with every word. "You are stepping into a grand hall," Dr. Carter murmured, "a palace of memory, a mind palace where truth is revealed. Look around you. This place is yours. It has always been yours. Walk through its corridors, see the reflections of your life."

Ryan and Walter found themselves standing within the endless mirrored halls, their surroundings shifting like a dream. The polished floors reflected them perfectly, stretching endlessly into the distance. But something was wrong. The reflections weren’t right.

Ryan peered into the glass, and his heart pounded. His old body—his real body—stared back at him. The strong jawline, the youthful vigor, the sharp, defiant eyes. But as he watched, the image flickered, warping ever so slightly.

Dr. Carter’s voice was patient, inescapable. "You were always Walter, weren’t you?" she said, her tone like silk wrapping around his thoughts. "From the moment you were born, you were Walter James Holloway. You grew up fixing cars. You built a life, had a grandson. And that grandson... is Ryan David Holloway."

The new Walter shook his head, but his reflection wavered. The skin grew looser, lines forming where there had been none. His shoulders slumped, the once-defined muscles softening, weakening. His hands, resting at his sides, twitched as the veins became more pronounced, the skin weathered. He could feel it—the slow, inevitable transformation sinking into him, reshaping his very sense of self.

Dr. Carter then turned her attention to the new Ryan. "And you, Ryan. You are young, full of energy, full of potential. You’ve always been Ryan, always twenty-six. You were born into strength and health. That old life you remember? That was someone else’s story. Look at yourself. Accept what you see."

Walter stepped toward his reflection with a reverent gaze. He had expected to see his old, worn face. Instead, Ryan’s youthful form stared back at him, powerful and whole. His chest tightened with something dangerously close to relief.

The new Walter’s breath came in ragged gasps as the transformation continued. His reflection—the one that had been his true self—was fading. The gray hair took root. The skin sagged, wrinkles deepened. His back hunched slightly. The young man he had been was disappearing before his eyes, swallowed by the reality being woven around him.

The new Ryan, standing beside him, beamed at his own reflection. His body—no, Ryan’s body—stood tall and strong, exuding the confidence of youth. He touched his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, running a hand through thick, dark hair. "This is right," he said, the words coming naturally now. "This is how it has always been."

Dr. Carter’s voice wrapped around them both, sealing their fates. "There was no surgery mishap. There was no switch. Walter was, is, and always will be Walter. Ryan was, is, and always will be Ryan. It was meant to be this way. It has always been this way."

The old Ryan tried to speak, to protest, but the words dissolved before they reached his lips. His mind felt like sand slipping through his fingers. The past was distant, blurred, uncertain. And the mirror before him—the mirror that had once reflected the truth—now showed only the inescapable reality. He was Walter. He had always been Walter.

The old Walter, now fully embracing his new existence, straightened, stretching his arms as if testing the strength that belonged to him now. "That felt... good," he admitted, his voice filled with satisfaction.

Ryan blinked groggily, his head aching. He turned toward the mirror one last time, desperate to see something—anything—of his old self. But the face staring back at him was unfamiliar. Not just in appearance, but in identity.

Dr. Carter smiled. "Good. We’ll continue this tomorrow. We’re making progress."

Outside of sessions, Walter made it worse. He had fully embraced his role as the younger man and took every opportunity to taunt Ryan for his struggles. "C’mon, Grandpa," he’d say with a smirk when Ryan groaned as he lowered himself into a chair. "Takes a while to get used to the ol’ joints, huh?"

Ryan gritted his teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. But Walter didn’t stop. He took pleasure in watching Ryan fumble with his new limitations, chuckling when Ryan dropped something and struggled to bend down and pick it up. "Want me to get that for you?" he’d ask mockingly, flexing his arms for emphasis.

At mealtimes, Walter would take exaggerated bites of his food, sighing in delight. "Damn, this metabolism is something else," he’d say, patting his flat stomach. "I could eat a whole pizza and not feel a thing." He’d then glance at Ryan, whose plate was filled with doctor-recommended portions for an elderly man. "Better watch your sodium, though. Gotta be careful at your age."

The more Walter thrived, the more Ryan suffered. And worst of all, no one cared. No one believed he was suffering at all.

Beyond the psychological conditioning, they were also referred to rehabilitation medicine to help them adjust physically. Ryan despised it. Every exercise session was a brutal reminder of how weak and sluggish his body had become. He struggled with basic movements, his joints stiff, his muscles sore from even the lightest exertion. He used to love pushing his limits in the gym, but now? Now, simply standing from a chair felt like an ordeal. Worse, the cravings gnawed at him—a deep, incessant yearning for nicotine. Walter’s old habits had latched onto him like a vice. He found himself gritting his teeth, fingers twitching for a cigar he didn’t even want.

Walter, on the other hand, was thriving. He attacked every workout with an eagerness that left Ryan seething. He ran, he lifted, he moved with a joy that Ryan had once taken for granted. The burn of his muscles, the soreness after an intense session—Walter embraced it all. He reveled in the sensation of sweat rolling down his back, the musk of his own body after pushing it to the limit. He even took deep breaths after each session, enjoying the raw, earthy scent of exertion. "Damn, I missed this," he murmured more than once, flexing his arms in the mirror, watching the way his muscles tensed and released with effortless precision.

The divide between them grew wider with each passing day. The more Walter embraced his new identity, the more Ryan felt like he was fading away. And no matter how hard he tried to fight it, the reality was settling in: he was no longer Ryan David Holloway. He was Walter. And there was no way out.

The Request

One evening, Ryan sat on the edge of his hospital bed, his wrinkled hands gripping the stiff sheets, his body still aching from the trauma of the accident. The dim hospital lighting cast long shadows across the room, making it feel colder than it was. The door creaked open, and in stepped the new Ryan—his former body—tall, strong, and exuding a presence that made Ryan’s stomach twist. Walter, now a young man, moved with an effortless confidence that Ryan never had, his every step controlled and precise. He grinned, shutting the door behind him with an air of authority.

"Hey, Grandpa," Walter said smoothly, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. The way he said it—casual, natural—sent a spike of anger through Ryan’s chest.

Ryan clenched his jaw, refusing to respond right away. He had been waiting for this moment, wondering if Walter would slip up—if he would acknowledge the truth, even just for a second. "Grandpa," Ryan said pointedly, his voice rough and unfamiliar to his own ears. "You know who I really am."

Walter smirked, pushing himself off the wall and strolling closer. "I do," he said, his voice teasing. "You're my grandpa, Walter Holloway." He reached out and patted Ryan's knee in a patronizing gesture. "And I’m your grandson, Ryan. Took me a bit, but I think I’m finally getting used to it."

Ryan’s hands curled into fists. "Stop it," he hissed. "You know that’s not true." His chest tightened as he searched Walter’s face for any sign of recognition, of doubt, of something—anything—that would prove he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But there was nothing. Only that infuriating grin.

Walter pulled up a chair, sitting across from him, his posture relaxed, completely at ease in his new body. "Why fight it, Grandpa?" he said with exaggerated patience. "You heard Dr. Carter. We have to accept who we are now.”

Ryan swallowed hard, his throat dry as he stared at the man before him—his body, his youth, his entire life, now inhabited by someone else. The weight of his wrinkled hands resting on his lap only deepened the ache in his chest. He needed something—anything—to hold on to. A compromise. A semblance of his old identity.

"Grandpa," Ryan started, his voice low, hesitant. "What if… just when it’s just us… we still call each other by our real names? I don’t mean in front of the doctors or anyone else, just… in private." His tired eyes searched Ryan’s old handsome face, hoping—begging—for some kind of understanding. "I just—I need something to hold on to. Something real."

Walter tilted his head, considering the plea for a moment. Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smirk. "Nah," he said simply.

Ryan stiffened. "What?"

Walter chuckled, stepping closer, his movements loose, confident, utterly at home in the body that should have been Ryan’s. "No can do, Grandpa. See, that’s the problem—you keep looking back, clinging to something that isn’t yours anymore." He placed a hand on Ryan’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him feel the difference in their strength now. "You heard Dr. Carter. That part of your life is gone. And the sooner you accept it, the easier this will be for you."

Ryan's nails dug into his palms. "I am Ryan," he gritted out.

Walter gave a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. "Still not getting it, huh? Alright then, let me help you."

With that, he reached down and grabbed the hem of his hospital gown, pulling it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The hospital’s dim lighting cast shadows over his defined abs, his broad chest—the physique Ryan had worked years to maintain, now standing tall before him, stolen. Walter flexed his arms slightly, rolling his shoulders as if savoring the feeling of being young and powerful.

Ryan could only stare, his breath shallow, his insides twisting.

Walter smirked. "Take a good look, Grandpa," he said, running a hand over his chest before giving his bicep a slow, deliberate flex. "This is my body now. Not yours. Not ever again. You see, it doesn’t matter what you remember. What matters is what’s real. And this—" he gestured down at himself, at the sculpted muscles, the youthful skin, "—this is real. You? You’re just an old man now. An old man who needs to stop pretending."

Ryan felt something inside him crack.

Walter grabbed his shirt from where he had tossed it onto the bed but didn’t put it back on. Instead, he took a step closer, towering over Ryan. "You wanted a moment of honesty between us? Fine. Here’s some honesty: It’s over. There’s no going back. This body belongs to me now, and the sooner you let it go, the easier this will be." He patted Ryan’s knee mockingly. "So go ahead, Grandpa. Say goodbye. Otherwise, I’ll make you."

Ryan's vision blurred, his breath shuddering in his chest. Even his own grandfather or rather… grandson—even Walter—refused to give him a sliver of acknowledgment.

Walter stood in front of the full-length mirror, his—no, Ryan’s—body glistening under the soft light of the room. He ran his hands over his chest, feeling the firm ridges of muscles that now belonged to him. His reflection stared back, young, strong, vibrant. It was perfection.

He turned to Ryan, who was slumped in a chair, his shoulders hunched, looking every bit the frail old man he now was. Walter smirked, the corners of his lips curling upward in a cruel, knowing way.

"Strip," Walter commanded, his voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument.

Ryan’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with disbelief. "What? Why would I—"

"Because I said so," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. He took a step closer, his towering frame looming over Ryan. "You need to face reality, old man. Our reality. So strip. Now."

Ryan hesitated, his hands trembling slightly as he reached for the hem of his shirt. He pulled it over his head, revealing the sagging, wrinkled skin of Walter’s old body. His stomach hung slightly, the muscles long gone, replaced by softness that spoke of years of neglect.

Walter’s eyes raked over him, his expression a mix of amusement and disdain. "Good," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Now the pants."

Ryan’s face flushed with humiliation, but he obeyed, awkwardly shimmying out of his pants until he was naked and exposed. His body was a stark contrast to Walter’s—young, powerful, arrogant.

Walter stepped back, his eyes never leaving Ryan as he began to strip as well. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as he peeled off his shirt, revealing the chiseled chest and abs that Ryan had spent years building. He kicked off his pants, standing tall and confident, his body on full display.

"Look at us," Walter said, spreading his arms wide as if to emphasize the difference. "Isn’t it perfect?"

Ryan couldn’t look away, his eyes darting between Walter’s body and his own. His shame was palpable, but there was something else there too—something darker, more primal. A flicker of arousal that he desperately tried to suppress.

Walter noticed, of course. His smirk widened, and he took a step closer, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You like what you see, don’t you, Grandpa?"

Ryan’s breath hitched, his face turning a deep shade of red. "I—I don’t—"

"Don’t lie to me," Walter interrupted, his tone sharp. "I can see it in your eyes. You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?"

Ryan’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His heart was pounding, his body betraying him in ways he couldn’t control.

Walter laughed, a low, dark chuckle that sent shivers down Ryan’s spine. "Admit it," he demanded, his voice firm. "Tell me who’s the grandpa and who’s the grandson now."

Ryan’s jaw tightened, his pride warring with the humiliation coursing through him. "You’re the grandson," he finally muttered, the words barely audible.

"Louder," Walter commanded, his eyes blazing with intensity.

"You’re the grandson," Ryan repeated, his voice trembling. "And I… I’m the grandpa."

Walter’s grin was triumphant, his chest swelling with satisfaction. "That’s right," he said, his tone dripping with superiority. "And this?" He gestured to his body, running a hand over his chest. "This is mine now. Every muscle, every inch of skin. Mine."

Walter stepped closer, his presence overwhelming, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as he loomed over the frail, wrinkled man in front of him. "You’ve always been so jealous of me, haven’t you?" he taunted, his voice slow, deliberate, dripping with cruel amusement. "Even before all this, you wanted what I had. And now…" He trailed off, his hand reaching out with an almost mockingly gentle touch, his fingers brushing over Ryan’s soft, sagging chest, feeling the loose skin beneath his fingertips. "Now you’re stuck with this."

Ryan—no, the new Walter—flinched at the contact, his hands clenching uselessly in his lap, but he didn’t pull away. Ryan—the old Walter—chuckled darkly as he crossed his arms, tilting his head to the side as he took in the pitiful sight before him. The old man sat hunched and small, shoulders curled inward, looking up at him with a mixture of resentment, disbelief, and—most satisfying of all—helplessness.

"You know," Ryan mused, tapping his chin as if lost in thought, "I bet you’ve always been jealous of me."

Walter’s head snapped up, his aged face twisting in defiance. "What?" Ryan grinned, white teeth flashing against his youthful skin. "Come on, Grandpa. Don’t play dumb. You wanted this, didn’t you? My body, my strength, my youth." He spread his arms wide, stretching deliberately, rolling his shoulders to feel the strength coursing through his muscles. "Hell, you practically drooled every time I was at the gym. Always making comments—‘Damn, kid, you don’t know how lucky you are.’ Or, ‘If I had your body, I’d—’ Well, now you know. And let’s be honest, you weren’t just admiring it from a distance. You were longing for it, weren’t you? Watching me move, watching me live—all while being trapped in that pathetic old shell of yours."

He took a step closer, deliberately slow, letting his towering presence loom over Walter’s frail form. "I mean, look at me." He turned slightly, giving a mock flex, the defined muscles in his arms and chest shifting beneath his smooth, youthful skin. "Imagine how it must feel—to wake up every morning strong, invincible, without a single ache or pain. To have all the energy in the world, to be the one everyone listens to when you speak, to be the one people want to be around. That was me before, and now? Now, it’s still me. But you?" His smirk deepened as he tilted his head. "You're nothing more than an afterthought now. Just another old man waiting for the world to move on without him."

Walter’s face darkened, his lips twitching as if he wanted to speak, to lash out, but nothing came. The words—the truth—hung in the air between them, undeniable and crushing. Ryan leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing you’re beneath me now. Knowing I own the life that used to be yours. Knowing that, from now on, no one will ever look at you the way they used to look at me."

Walter’s face burned, his wrinkled hands twisting in the sheets beneath him. "That’s not—"

"Oh, don’t even try to deny it." Ryan cut him off, stepping closer, his voice thick with condescension. "You wished for this. I could see it in your eyes every time you groaned about your back, every time you huffed and puffed after going up the stairs. You wanted to be young again. To be me. And now, look at you." He let out a short, amused chuckle, shaking his head. "Karma’s funny, huh?"

Walter’s mouth opened, but no words came out. The heat in his face spread down his neck, shame curling around him like a vice. Ryan smirked, placing his hands on his hips, tilting his head as if genuinely curious. "Tell me, Grandpa, if you were in my shoes—if you swapped bodies with your grandson—wouldn’t you love it?" He let the question hang in the air, savoring the tension, his smirk widening as Walter stiffened, his breath catching in his throat.

"I mean, come on. Think about it. Really think about it. You know exactly what I’m talking about now, don’t you? Now that you’re the old man, you get it." Ryan took a slow step forward, his presence looming, his voice like velvet laced with poison. "Be honest with me, Grandpa. Wouldn’t you have enjoyed waking up one day in a body like this? No more aching knees, no more graying hair, no more struggling to even be noticed in a crowd. You spent years watching me, admiring me—hell, envying me. And now you know what it’s like to be on the other side of it. Doesn’t feel so great, does it?"

Walter looked away sharply, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration, but Ryan wasn’t finished. "Tell me, does it burn you up inside when you see me walking around, feeling amazing in this body? Do you hate it when I stretch, when I flex, when I live like I was meant for this?" He chuckled, shaking his head as he leaned down just enough to meet Walter’s weary eyes. "Or worse—do you crave it? Do you secretly wish you could trade back, knowing damn well you never will? Do you miss your body? Or are you finally realizing that it was never yours to begin with?"

Walter looked away, his jaw tight, his breathing heavy with frustration.

Ryan leaned in, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Feels different when you're the one stuck in the rocking chair, huh? When you're the one struggling just to get up in the morning?" He let out a breath, deliberately warm against Walter’s ear, before straightening back up.

Walter swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing against the sagging skin of his throat. His entire body tensed like a coiled spring, but there was nowhere to go, no escape from the torment.

Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms above his head. "Look, I get it. You’re jealous. And that’s okay. It’s natural. Anyone in your position would be jealous of me." He flexed his arm, rolling his shoulders as if relishing the movement, his eyes flickering toward Walter expectantly. And just as he predicted, Walter’s gaze betrayed him—darting, just for a moment, toward the strong biceps, the smooth skin, the sheer power that had once belonged to him.

Ryan caught it instantly and let out a low, knowing chuckle. "Yeah, I saw that. You can’t help it, can you?" He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied the old man before him. "I mean, look at me. I’m young. Strong. Alive." His voice softened, turning almost patronizing. "And you? Well… you’re just Walter now."

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to accept it.Ryan let the words settle before placing a firm, almost comforting hand on Walter’s frail shoulder. "But here’s the thing—you need to accept it. This is our reality now. There’s no going back. No second chances. This—" he gestured between them, "—is permanent. I’m Ryan. And you’re Walter. For good."

The Family Visit 

Eventually, the day of the family visit arrived, and Walter could feel his stomach twisting with unease. He sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his aged body aching from even the smallest movement. Across from him, Ryan stretched his youthful limbs with ease, barely able to contain his excitement. The roles they had been forced into were about to be cemented, and Walter dreaded every second of it.

When the door swung open, Daniel Holloway entered first—The old Ryan’s dad, and now Walter’s son. Though now Daniel had to see the old Ryan as his father, Walter. Behind him was Margaret, Daniel’s wife and Ryan’s mother. Then came Charles and Peter, Ryan’s younger brothers—though now, they were supposed to be his other grandsons. The sight of them was both familiar and alien, each face filled with relief and happiness.

"Dad!" Daniel greeted warmly, smiling at Walter with all the familiarity of a son addressing his father. Walter swallowed hard, his hands clenching against the hospital sheets. That greeting was meant for what used to be his grandfather—but not anymore. It was for him now.

"Grandpa!" Peter grinned, moving to Walter’s bedside. "It’s great to see you up. You gave us a real scare."

Walter flinched at the word. Grandpa. No, no, no. This wasn’t right. Daniel, his own father, was now looking at him as if HE were his father. It was suffocating.

Meanwhile, Ryan stood with an excited grin, spreading his arms wide. “Dad, Mom, Charles, Peter! Man, you have no idea how good it is to see you all.”

Margaret let out a relieved sigh and pulled Ryan into a tight embrace. “Oh, sweetheart, we were terrified,” she murmured. “I can’t believe you’re okay.”

Ryan leaned into her touch, relishing every second. “Of course I am, Mom. Strong as ever.” He flexed his arm playfully, making Charles and Peter chuckle.

Ryan basked in the attention, his new face lighting up as he embraced his mother—his former daughter-in-law —and patted his father—his former son—on the back. It was exhilarating. Thrilling. They truly believed he had always been their Ryan. They spoke to him as if he had always been their son, their brother. Every word of affection, every familial gesture, sent a pulse of euphoria through him. It was as if fate had always intended for him to be in this body.

Walter’s chest tightened as he watched his former body bask in the warmth of his family’s love. That was his mother embracing him. His brothers laughing with him. But now, they saw him as the grandfather—an old man, a relic of their past.

Walter also felt the crushing weight of despair. Even his own parents—who he was supposed to treat now as his own kids, looking at him with concern—saw him only as their dad, Walter. There was no recognition, no flicker of realization that something was horribly wrong.

Daniel turned back to Walter and placed a hand on his shoulder. “How are you feeling, Dad?”

His breathing grew unsteady. He had to fix this. "Dad, listen to me," Walter rasped, voice shaking. "I’m not—I’m not your dad. It’s me, Ryan! That’s my body! He—he stole it! You have to believe me!"

A tense silence filled the room. The smiles faded. Ryan, standing beside their mother, let out an exasperated sigh and turned toward the nurses. "I told you this might happen. His memory’s been slipping ever since the accident."

“Oh, Grandpa, not this again.” He turned to the others with an exaggerated sigh. “The doctors said he’s been having these memory lapses. He keeps insisting he’s me.”

One of the nurses nodded sympathetically. "It’s common with head trauma at his age. Sometimes, patients get confused about who they are."

Margaret’s expression softened with concern. “Oh, Walter…” She kneeled beside him, taking his wrinkled hands into her own. “The doctors did say there might be confusion after everything you went through. But don’t worry, we’re here for you.”

Walter’s face burned. "No Mom! I’m not confused! I swear to you, I’m Ryan! That’s my body! That’s my life!"

Walter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “No! I’m telling you the truth! I’m your son, Ryan! That is my body!” He pointed a trembling finger at Ryan, who merely shook his head with amusement.

His desperation escalated, his voice cracking as he tried to force them to see the truth. But all they saw was an old man having a breakdown. Daniel frowned, concern deepening in his eyes. "Dad, please, calm down. You’re scaring the boys."

Daniel sighed and squeezed Walter’s shoulder. “Dad, please. I know this must be overwhelming, but you’re Walter Holloway. You’ve always been my father.”

Ryan leaned against the bed, arms crossed, his smirk growing wider. “Come on, Grandpa, you don’t want to confuse the kids, do you?” He turned to Charles and Peter, feigning sympathy. “It’s hard watching Grandpa struggle like this, huh?”

Charles gave an awkward smile. “Yeah… but the doctors said he just needs time, right?”

Walter’s hands trembled as he looked from face to face. No one believed him. Not his dad, not his mom, not his brothers. The truth was slipping through his fingers like sand, and Ryan was enjoying every second of it.

Ryan stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Walter’s shoulder, leaning in slightly, his voice gentle but condescending. "Grandpa, you need to rest. You’re just confused. I know it’s hard, but you have to accept the truth."

Walter shook his head furiously. "You did this! You stole my life! You—"

Ryan clicked his tongue and turned to the others. "See what I mean? It’s like he’s stuck in some fantasy. I read about this—sometimes older folks cling to a delusion because reality is too much for them."

Walter gritted his teeth, shaking with humiliation. His own family. His own flesh and blood. They all thought he was a senile old man losing his grip on reality.

Ryan turned back, eyes gleaming with something cruel and victorious. "You’re not Ryan, Grandpa. I am. You’re Walter. Always have been. Always will be. And there’s no changing that."

Walter slumped back against the bed, defeated. His world had been stolen, and no one—not even his own family—would ever believe him.

Ryan took a step closer, lowering his voice just enough for only Walter to hear. “Face it, old man,” he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement. “This is your life now. You’re Grandpa. And I’m Ryan.” He patted Walter’s frail knee, just as he had been forced to do in their therapy sessions. “Better get used to it.”

Walter’s vision blurred with frustration and helplessness. Ryan had won. He had taken everything. And there was nothing Walter could do to stop it.

The Final Adjustment

Dr. Carter wasted no time intensifying their therapy sessions after the disastrous family visit. Walter’s outburst had only reinforced the doctor’s belief that he was suffering from a severe delusional episode, and Ryan made sure to milk every second of it.

At the start of their next session, Dr. Carter sat across from them with a patient but firm expression. “Walter, before we continue, I think there’s something you need to say to Ryan.”

Walter tensed, already dreading whatever was about to come next. “What do you mean?”

Dr. Carter tilted his head, as if speaking to a confused child. “You accused Ryan of something very serious in front of your family. You caused a scene, frightened your grandchildren, and distressed your son. Don’t you think you owe Ryan an apology?”

Walter’s stomach turned. His hands clenched against his thighs as he cast a hesitant glance at Ryan, who was lounging in his chair, arms crossed, a smug little smile playing on his lips.

Walter wanted to resist. He wanted to scream the truth again. But what good would it do? No one believed him. No one ever would. And the only way to stop the relentless humiliation was to play along.

“I…” Walter forced the words out, his throat dry. “I’m sorry, Ryan.”

Ryan’s grin widened. “Sorry for what, Grandpa?”

Walter swallowed back his pride. “For accusing you… of stealing my body.”

Ryan leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “And why do you think you did that, huh?”

Dr. Carter nodded encouragingly. “Yes, Walter. Let’s explore that. What made you feel like Ryan had taken something from you?”

Walter’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded in his temples. Ryan’s eyes were gleaming, waiting for him to break.

“I guess…” Walter exhaled shakily. “I was jealous.”

Ryan clicked his tongue. “Jealous?”

Walter stared at the floor. “Yes.”

“Jealous of what?” Ryan pressed.

Walter’s shoulders sagged. “Of… your body.”

Ryan let out a small, satisfied laugh. “Oh yeah?”

Walter shut his eyes tightly, willing himself to disappear. “Yeah.”

Ryan leaned back, tapping his fingers against his knee. “And what else? You jealous of my muscles? My youth? The fact that I get to live as Ryan while you’re just old man Walter?”

Walter felt the weight of every word pressing down on him. He forced himself to nod. “Yes.”

“Say it,” Ryan ordered. “Tell me what exactly you’re jealous of.”

Walter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Your strength. Your body. Your youth.”

Ryan wasn’t done yet. He leaned in closer, his voice smooth, almost gentle, but dripping with cruel amusement. “Come on, old man. You jealous of the way I wake up every morning, full of energy, no aching joints, no stiff back? The way I can run without gasping for breath, the way I can eat anything I want without worrying about cholesterol or heartburn?” He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Bet you miss that, huh?”

Walter clenched his fists in his lap, his nails digging into his palms. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight.

Ryan tilted his head, studying him like a predator toying with wounded prey. “Or maybe you’re jealous of how people see me. No one looks at me with pity. No one treats me like some fragile old man who’s past his prime. No one assumes I need help just getting out of a chair.” His smirk widened. “That must suck, huh? Going from being strong, being respected, to being… this.”

Walter bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep quiet, but the words pressed against his lips like poison waiting to spill.

Ryan wasn’t finished. “How about the way people talk to me? The way they listen when I speak, when I walk into a room, when I shake someone’s hand?” He flexed his fingers, letting the movement draw Walter’s gaze. “Bet you miss that, huh? Bet you hate looking in the mirror and seeing Walter Holloway staring back at you. The sagging skin, the graying hair, the belly that won’t go away no matter what you do.” He let out a fake sympathetic sigh. “Damn, that’s gotta sting.”

Walter swallowed thickly, his throat raw. He wanted to shut his eyes, to disappear, but it wouldn’t stop. It never stopped.

And then, for the first time, he spoke without being prompted.

“I’m jealous,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan’s smirk deepened. “What’s that, Grandpa?”

Walter’s fingers twitched, his nails pressing deeper into his palms. He exhaled shakily, his voice stronger this time. “I’m jealous… of how strong you are. How you can move so easily, how you can run and jump without thinking about it. I’m jealous of your energy, how you wake up feeling rested, how your body isn’t slowing you down.” The words spilled from his lips like a confession, each one tightening the grip around his chest.

Ryan folded his arms, nodding smugly. “Go on.”

Walter shut his eyes for a moment, as if saying it out loud might somehow make it worse, but the pressure was unbearable. He had to let it out. “I’m jealous of how people look at you. The respect you get. The admiration. I’m jealous that when you talk, people listen. I’m jealous that you don’t get treated like you’re fragile, like you’re in the way.” He inhaled shakily, his voice dropping to a hoarse murmur. “I’m jealous that you have your whole life ahead of you while mine is…” He trailed off, unable to finish.

Dr. Carter, who had been watching intently, leaned forward slightly, his expression warm with approval. “This is good, Walter. Acknowledging these emotions is important for your progress. But there’s something else you need to say.”

Walter’s stomach twisted. “What?”

Dr. Carter’s voice was steady, coaxing. “Despite your jealousy, despite everything you feel… you wouldn’t have it any other way, would you? You would rather be Walter Holloway. That’s who you are, and that’s who you want to be.”

Walter felt a lump lodge itself in his throat. His skin felt hot, prickling with shame, with exhaustion.

Ryan was watching him expectantly, his smirk lingering, waiting for him to break completely.

Walter’s jaw tightened. The weight pressing down on him was suffocating. He wanted it to stop. He wanted all of this to stop.

So he did the only thing he could.

He nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Carter’s smile widened. “Say it, Walter.”

Walter’s lips parted, the words slow, shaky, forced. “I… I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Ryan’s smirk deepened.

Dr. Carter beamed. “Good. That’s very good.”

Walter stared at the floor, feeling the last of his resistance crumble. It was done. He had said what they wanted to hear.

Dr. Carter smiled approvingly at Walter’s supposed ‘progress.’ “Good, Walter. Acknowledging these feelings is an important step. Now, let’s reinforce this understanding with sensory exercises.”

Walter’s stomach churned. He knew what was coming. He had endured these exercises before, each one designed to strip him of whatever dignity he had left. A quick glance at Ryan confirmed his fears—his grandson, now towering over him in the body that once belonged to him, was already smirking, barely containing his amusement.

“Stand up,” Dr. Carter instructed, his voice leaving no room for hesitation. Walter pushed himself up slowly, his joints stiff, his movements sluggish, while Ryan rose effortlessly, his youthful body full of strength and energy. Walter barely had time to steady himself before Ryan took a deliberate step forward, his presence overwhelming.

“Face each other,” Dr. Carter continued.

Ryan wasted no time closing the gap between them, his muscular chest nearly brushing against Walter’s frail one. Walter could feel the heat radiating from his former body, his skin tingling with the stark contrast between them.

“Walter, touch Ryan’s face,” Dr. Carter directed. “Feel the difference.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he reached up, brushing against Ryan’s jawline. The skin was firm, the bone structure sharp and defined—nothing like the sagging, soft flesh that now hung from his own face.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And what do you feel?”

Walter swallowed hard. “Strength,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

Ryan chuckled. “Damn right,” he said, flexing his jaw for emphasis. “Feels solid, doesn’t it? Not like that loose mess you’ve got now.”

Walter’s face burned, but Dr. Carter wasn’t finished. “Now, move to his shoulders.”

Walter obeyed, his hands hesitantly trailing down to Ryan’s broad shoulders. They were powerful, firm with well-developed muscle. His grip tightened slightly as he traced the structure, feeling the undeniable strength beneath his fingertips.

“Compare it to your own,” Dr. Carter ordered.

Walter pulled back slowly and reached for his own shoulders, wincing at the stark contrast. His hands met soft, sagging skin, the once-solid mass now reduced to frailty. Before he could react, Ryan’s hands followed suit, gripping Walter’s shoulders with an exaggerated squeeze.

“Man, this is like grabbing a sack of dough,” Ryan quipped, kneading Walter’s flesh mockingly. “No muscle left, huh? Just… soft.”

Dr. Carter ignored the taunt. “Now, Walter, his arms.”

Walter’s hands hesitantly wrapped around Ryan’s biceps. They were thick, hard, brimming with power. Ryan flexed with a smirk, his muscle bulging beneath Walter’s touch.

“Give it a squeeze,” Ryan encouraged. “Go on, Grandpa. Feel what real strength is like.”

Walter did as instructed, though the action only deepened his humiliation. The sheer power in Ryan’s arms was undeniable. Then, before Walter could react, Ryan reached for his arms, gripping them in return.

“Wow,” Ryan mused, squeezing the loose skin. “There’s just… nothing here. No definition, no strength. Just… flab.” He gave Walter’s arm a light shake, watching as the skin wobbled pathetically. “Man, that’s depressing.”

Walter clenched his teeth, his body stiff with shame, but the session was far from over. Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension. “His chest, Walter.”

Walter’s hands hesitated before settling on Ryan’s chest. It was firm, solid, each muscle defined and sculpted. He swallowed hard, already dreading the next instruction.

“Now your own.”

Walter pulled his hands away and pressed them against his own chest. His fingers sank into soft flesh, the skin loose and yielding beneath his touch. Ryan wasted no time mirroring the action, pressing a hand against Walter’s chest before bursting into laughter.

“Wow. It’s like feeling an old couch cushion,” Ryan taunted, giving a light squeeze. “No muscle. No tone. Just sagging.”

Walter’s humiliation deepened, but Dr. Carter continued. “His abdomen, Walter.”

Walter’s hands trailed down Ryan’s torso, brushing against the ridges of his six-pack, the muscles firm and unyielding. The contrast was unbearable.

“Now your own.”

Walter forced himself to touch his own stomach, feeling the soft, excess flesh pooling beneath his fingertips. Ryan, ever the tormentor, pressed a firm hand against Walter’s belly and gave it a condescending jiggle.

“Damn,” Ryan laughed. “What happened, old man? You used to have abs—now you’ve got this?” He patted Walter’s stomach mockingly. “Guess you don’t need to worry about sit-ups anymore, huh?”

Walter squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the shame, but there was no escape.

Dr. Carter continued, “his legs.”

Walter’s hands slid down to Ryan’s thighs, feeling the sheer power in the muscle. His legs were strong, lean, built for movement. Ryan shifted slightly under Walter’s touch, flexing his quadriceps just to emphasize the contrast.

“And your own,” Dr. Carter prompted.

Walter obeyed, his hands falling to his own thighs. They were thin, weak, lacking the firmness they once had. Ryan reached down, gripping Walter’s thigh in return, his fingers pressing into the soft, aging flesh.

“These legs are useless,” Ryan scoffed, shaking his head. “No wonder you walk like you’re about to fall over.”

Walter’s head hung low. The session had stripped him down piece by piece, leaving him raw, exposed, and utterly powerless. Ryan, meanwhile, stood tall, his smirk one of pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Dr. Carter nodded, seemingly satisfied with the exercise so far. “Now, we’re going to take this a step further. I want both of you to smell each other. Start with the armpits.”

Walter’s eyes widened in horror. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Dr. Carter said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Smell is a powerful sense—it can help ground you in reality. Ryan, go first.”

Ryan smirked, raising his arm and flexing slightly to expose his armpit. “Go ahead, Grandpa. Take a whiff.”

Walter hesitated, his stomach churning at the thought. But under Dr. Carter’s watchful gaze, he leaned in, his nose brushing against Ryan’s armpit. The scent hit him immediately—musky, masculine, and undeniably Ryan. It was intoxicating, and Walter couldn’t help but feel a pang of arousal.

“Who’s musk does that belong to, Walter?” Dr. Carter asked.

“Ryan’s,” Walter admitted, his face burning with shame.

“Good. Now, Ryan, smell Walter.”

Ryan grinned, raising Walter’s arm and pressing his nose against the older man’s armpit. He took a deep breath, the scent filling his nostrils. It was musty, the smell of age and neglect, and Ryan wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Man, that’s just… gross,” Ryan said, pulling away with a grimace. “Smells like old sweat and decay.”

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the heavy silence, calm and clinical as ever. “Now, Walter, Ryan, I want you to take this exercise one step further than before. I want you to explore the differences between your bodies in their most… intimate form.”

Walter’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting into knots. “What?” he choked out, his voice barely audible. He could feel Ryan’s gaze burning into him, smug and expectant.

“You heard the doctor, Grandpa,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with amusement. “Time to get up close and personal.”

Dr. Carter nodded, her expression unchanged. “You will touch each other’s genitals. This is an essential part of understanding the physical disparities between you and accepting them.”

Walter’s heart raced, his breath catching in his throat. He knew what was coming, and the dread coiled tightly in his gut. He glanced up at Ryan, who was already smirking, his youthful arrogance shining through. Ryan’s eyes gleamed with anticipation, and Walter could see the faint bulge in his pants—a cruel reminder of the vitality that now belonged to his grandson.

“Stand closer,” Dr. Carter instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. Walter took a shaky step forward, his frail body trembling as Ryan closed the gap between them with ease. The warmth of Ryan’s body radiated against Walter’s, the contrast between their physical states almost unbearable.

“Walter,” Dr. Carter began, “reach out and touch Ryan’s waistband. Feel the difference in your bodies’ structure.”

“Go on, Grandpa,” Ryan taunted, his voice laced with mockery. “Touch it. Feel what a real man has.”

Walter’s hands trembled as he hesitantly reached for Ryan’s hips. His fingers brushed against the fabric of his grandson’s pants, feeling the firmness of the muscles beneath. Ryan shifted slightly, intentionally pressing his hips forward, and Walter’s fingers accidentally grazed the bulge that was unmistakably there. Walter jerked his hand back as if burned, his face flushing with humiliation.

“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” Ryan teased, his voice dripping with mockery. “Scared of a little contact? Or maybe you’re just jealous?” He leaned in closer, his breath warm against Walter’s ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this easy for you.”

Before Walter could react, Ryan grabbed his hand and placed it firmly on his own crotch. Walter’s fingers instinctively curled around the hard, throbbing length beneath the fabric. He tried to pull away, but Ryan held him in place, his grip strong and unrelenting. “Feel that?” Ryan whispered, his voice low and taunting. “That’s what strength feels like. That’s what youth feels like. Bet you haven’t felt anything like that in years, huh?”

Walter’s face burned, his humiliation intensifying with every passing second. He could feel the heat of Ryan’s arousal through the fabric, the undeniable proof of his grandson’s virility. It was a cruel reminder of everything he had lost—the firmness, the energy, the life that had once been his.

“That’s it,” Ryan encouraged, his voice low and taunting. “Feel how big it is.”

Walter’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around Ryan’s shaft, the girth filling his hand in a way that made his own seem laughable in comparison. He could feel the heat radiating from it, the pulse of life that seemed to throb with every beat of Ryan’s heart.

Dr. Carter’s voice cut through the tension, steady and unyielding. “Now, Walter, it’s your turn. Let Ryan touch you.”

Walter’s stomach churned, his mind screaming in protest. But he knew there was no escape. Walter’s breath hitched again as Ryan’s hand closed around him, the difference between them painfully obvious. Ryan’s grip was firm, confident, his fingers easily wrapping around Walter’s small, soft member.

“Wow,” Ryan said, his tone dripping with mockery. “It’s like… nothing. Just a little nub.” He gave a light squeeze, watching as Walter’s face flushed deeper with shame. “Guess you really have lost everything, huh?”

Walter’s face burned with shame, his body stiff under Ryan’s touch. He could feel the warmth of his grandson’s hand, the contrast between their bodies even more pronounced now. Ryan gave a light squeeze, his fingers exploring with a mocking curiosity.

“Nothing to work with here,” Ryan continued, his voice laced with cruel satisfaction. “Just… flaccid and lifeless. Like the rest of you.”

Ryan’s hand began to move, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s cock with a deliberate, mocking slowness. “Feels like I’m touching a little worm,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “No muscle, no hardness. Just… limp.”

Walter’s breath came in shallow gasps, his humiliation and jealousy intertwining in a way that made his head spin. He tightened his grip on Ryan’s cock, his fingers sliding up and down the thick, hard shaft. He could feel the power in it, the way it seemed to pulse with life, mocking his own inadequacy.

“That’s right,” Ryan said, his voice filled with smug satisfaction. “Feel it. Feel how much better I am than you.”

Walter’s hand moved faster, his grip tightening as he tried to block out the taunts. But no matter how much he tried to focus on the task at hand, he couldn’t escape the stark contrast between them. Ryan’s cock was everything his wasn’t—big, strong, alive.

Ryan’s own hand moved with a deliberate slowness, his fingers sliding up and down Walter’s small, soft cock with a mocking precision. “It’s almost cute,” he said, his voice filled with amusement. “How pathetic it is.”

Ryan’s breathing grew heavier, his smirk widening as he watched Walter struggle. “That’s it, Grandpa,” he said, his voice low and taunting. “Keep going. Let’s see who finishes first.”

But then, without warning, Ryan’s body tensed, his smirk widening into a grin of pure triumph. “Here it comes,” he said, his voice low and filled with a mix of arrogance and excitement.

Walter’s eyes flew open just in time to see Ryan’s cock pulse, a thick stream of cum shooting out and hitting him square in the face. The warmth of it was almost suffocating, the sheer volume of it a stark reminder of Ryan’s virility. Walter froze, his hand still gripping Ryan’s cock as the younger man’s cum continued to spurt out, coating his face and dripping down onto his chest.

Walter’s own cock twitched in Ryan’s hand, a small, pitiful spurt of cum barely managing to escape. Ryan glanced down, his smirk widening as he took in the stark contrast between them. “That’s it?” he taunted, his voice filled with amusement. “That’s all you’ve got? Man, you really are pathetic.”

Walter’s face burned with humiliation, his body trembling as he tried to process the sheer difference between them. Ryan’s cum was still warm on his face, a bitter reminder of his own inadequacy. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could barely even think as the weight of Ryan’s dominance pressed down on him.

Dr. Carter nodded in approval. “Very good. Now, let’s proceed with hypnosis while you’re still euphoric. I want you both to sit down and listen to my voice.” They weren’t even allowed to clean themselves. 

Walter obeyed, already feeling lightheaded from the session. He barely reacted as Dr. Carter began speaking in a low, rhythmic voice, guiding him deeper into relaxation.

Dr. Carter’s voice deepened, slow and steady, like a distant pulse guiding them into the depths of their minds. “Close your eyes,” he instructed. “Let go of everything else. Picture yourselves stepping into a vast space, one that belongs to both of you.”

Walter felt himself sinking, drifting into the doctor’s words, his senses blurring as the weight of the session pressed against him.

Dr. Carter’s voice became a thread weaving through his mind. “You are in a grand hall,” he continued. “A palace of mirrors, stretching endlessly in all directions. There is no ceiling, no walls—only reflections, endless and pure.”

The vision took shape.

Walter found himself standing in an enormous, empty chamber. The floor was smooth and black, almost liquid in appearance, reflecting light that had no source. Tall, ornate mirrors lined the space in every direction, their silvered surfaces pristine, infinite, inescapable.

He wasn’t alone.

Ryan stood beside him, just as Dr. Carter had described, both of them facing the mirrors that surrounded them.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but insistent. “Tell me, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter turned toward the nearest mirror, his breath catching in his throat.

Staring back at him wasn’t his wrinkled, aging face.

It was Ryan.

His reflection was young. Strong. The way he had once been.

A jolt of longing struck him like a knife between the ribs.

Ryan exhaled sharply beside him, amusement laced in his voice. “Hah. Would you look at that.”

Dr. Carter’s voice remained steady. “And if you look down at yourself, Walter… what do you see?”

Walter hesitated.

Slowly, he lowered his gaze.

His heart lurched.

He wasn’t looking at withered hands, spotted with age. His body—his mental body—wasn’t frail or weak.

It was Ryan’s.

The hands were young, strong, his shoulders broad, his posture straight. His chest solid, his legs full of power.

For a single, intoxicating moment, hope flared within him. Maybe this was the proof he needed. Maybe, if even his mind rejected this body, there was still a chance—

Dr. Carter turned his attention to Ryan. “And you, Ryan? What do you see?”

Ryan smirked. “Same thing. My reflection looks like Walter. And when I look down?” He flexed his fingers experimentally. “Old. Obese. Weak.”

Walter’s stomach twisted.

Dr. Carter nodded. “Good. That is your self-perception. The mind’s final grasp on the confusion. But that confusion will fade. The mind cannot fight the truth.”

The words slithered into Walter’s thoughts, sinking deeper.

“The reflections are truth,” Dr. Carter murmured. “The mind knows which body it belongs to.”

Walter turned his gaze back to the mirror.

His breath caught.

The image was… shifting.

The firm jawline softened. Wrinkles bled into the smooth skin. His chest lost its shape, sagging under the weight of years. His shoulders hunched, his legs losing definition. The reflection aged before his eyes.

His pulse pounded.

“No,” he whispered.

But the mirrors did not lie.

Across from him, Ryan’s reflection changed, too—but in the opposite way. The tired, aging body in his mirror straightened. Muscles formed beneath once-loose skin. His shoulders broadened. His stance grew confident, filled with youth.

Ryan chuckled softly, watching the change unfold.

Dr. Carter’s voice remained unwavering. “The reflections have settled. But now, the mind must align.”

Walter looked down, desperate—

His body still looked young. His hands were still Ryan’s hands. His chest still solid, his legs still strong.

The reflection was wrong.

It had to be wrong.

Ryan hummed thoughtfully, inspecting himself in the mirror. “Yeah… this is looking a lot better, huh?” He turned his head slightly, watching the light catch his sharp jawline. “Starting to feel natural.”

Walter’s breath grew shallow. “No…”

Dr. Carter’s tone became more commanding. “The mind must not fight the truth.”

The walls of mirrors shimmered.

A pull deep within Walter’s chest made his skin crawl. A sinking sensation washed over him, like he was being submerged, like something was being taken—

And then—

His hands.

His chest.

His legs.

They weren’t young anymore.

His own body—his mental body—had changed. The frail arms, the wrinkled skin, the weakened muscles—

It was all his again.

Walter gasped sharply, stumbling back.

“No.” His voice was hoarse. “No, no, no—”

Ryan’s laughter was quiet, smug.

Walter turned, wide-eyed, to see Ryan inspecting his own reflection. And this time, when Ryan looked down at himself—

He saw youth. Strength. Power.

And when he smirked, it wasn’t an illusion. It was real.

His body.

His mind.

It was over.

“You are Walter Holloway,” Dr. Carter’s voice droned. “You have always been Walter Holloway. You are an aging man, a father, a grandfather. And Ryan is your grandson. That is the truth. That is reality.”

Walter’s head swam. His body felt heavy. The words seeped into his mind, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.

Dr. Carter’s voice softened. “Tell me, Walter. Who are you?”

Walter’s heart thundered in his chest. He wanted to scream. To resist.

But as he looked back at the reflection—at the undeniable image staring back at him—his throat closed.

“I…”

Ryan exhaled, dragging out the moment, savoring it.

Dr. Carter’s voice was gentle but firm. “Say it.”

Walter swallowed hard, every ounce of fight draining from his limbs.

His lips trembled.

His voice barely above a whisper.

“I am Walter Holloway.”

Dr. Carter nodded approvingly. “And who is Ryan?”

Walter clenched his fists, but his reflection only showed old, frail hands curling in on themselves.

He looked at Ryan.

Ryan—young, smirking, victorious.

Walter’s head lowered in submission.

“My grandson.”

Ryan let out a slow breath, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “That’s right.”

Dr. Carter smiled. “Very good. And tell me, Walter—despite everything, despite the jealousy, despite the past… would you have it any other way?”

Walter hesitated.

The mirrors had spoken.

The body.

The mind.

The truth.

He exhaled shakily.

“…No.”

Dr. Carter’s voice was a final, steady command. “Then accept it.”

Walter’s shoulders sagged.

His body.

His reflection.

His fate.

“…I accept it. I wouldn't have it any other way ”

Ryan grinned.

And Walter Holloway knew, with bone-deep certainty, that there was no going back.

The Conclusion

After weeks of relentless therapy, psychological conditioning, and medical evaluations, the doctors finally deemed Ryan and Walter fully adjusted to their "true" identities. There were no more arguments, no more desperate pleas, no more resistance—at least, not outwardly. Walter had long since realized that fighting was useless. He had been backed into a corner, stripped of everything, and molded into what they wanted him to be. The final signatures were scrawled onto discharge papers, the last stamp of approval sealing their fates. With that, the hospital doors were thrown open, allowing them to step back into the world—not as themselves, but as the people the system had forced them to become.

As they prepared to leave, the contrast between them was stark. Walter—now in Ryan’s youthful, athletic body—was practically glowing with excitement, while Ryan—trapped in Walter’s aging, weakened frame—moved stiffly, weighed down by both the ill-fitting clothes and the unbearable reality of his situation.

Dressing that morning had been its own form of torture for Walter. The thick fabric of the slacks chafed against his legs, and the button-up shirt felt foreign, like a costume draped over someone he no longer recognized. The cardigan smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale detergent, a scent that clung to him like an accusation. The orthopedic shoes were stiff and heavy, dragging his steps down even further. Each layer of clothing was a reminder of what had been taken from him.

Ryan, on the other hand, had never felt better. He relished the way Ryan’s well-fitted tank top hugged his torso, how the jeans sat comfortably on his hips like they had always belonged to him. But the best part—the part that made it all feel real—was the scent. With a satisfied smirk, he rolled on Walter’s deodorant, letting the crisp, masculine smell envelop him. Then, with slow deliberation, he reached for Walter’s cologne, giving himself a generous spritz before inhaling deeply.

“Ahh,” Ryan sighed dramatically, stretching his arms in satisfaction. “Now this smells like me.”

When it was finally time to leave, Ryan snatched the car keys and twirled them between his fingers, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll drive,” he said, shooting Walter a knowing glance. “Considering the last time you were behind the wheel, we both ended up in the hospital, I’d say it’s for the best.” The words were lighthearted, but the smugness in his tone made Walter’s jaw tighten.

Walter said nothing. What could he say? He simply followed Ryan out of the hospital, his slow, weary steps a bitter contrast to Ryan’s confident, youthful stride. Ryan moved like he owned the world—because, in a way, he did. Walter, burdened by age, weight, and the cruel truth of his new reality, shuffled behind him, feeling smaller with every step.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Ryan adjusted the mirrors, the seat, the steering wheel—everything to fit his new, larger frame.

Walter sank into the passenger seat, feeling uncomfortably out of place in a car that had once been his. The interior, the familiar scent, the worn leather—all reminders of a life that no longer belonged to him.

The sun bore down through the windshield, and Ryan exhaled dramatically. “Damn, it’s hot.” With a smirk, he grabbed his tank top and pulled it off in one fluid motion, tossing it onto the dashboard before buckling his seatbelt. His bare chest gleamed with sweat, the ridges of his abs shifting as he settled in. Walter forced his gaze forward, his gut twisting at the sight of his former body, now so casually on display.

Ryan drummed his fingers on the wheel, then shot Walter another grin. “Ready to go, Gramps?”

Walter swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had no choice but to nod. The drive home felt longer than ever.

When they arrived home, Ryan stepped through the door with effortless ease, his posture relaxed, his smile easy—exactly how the old Ryan used to be. He greeted his family with a familiar charm, embracing them with warmth and speaking with the natural confidence of a young man who had his entire life ahead of him. They welcomed him with open arms, laughing at his jokes, asking about his recovery, completely unaware of the horrifying truth behind his stolen identity. 

Meanwhile, Walter stood awkwardly at the threshold, his movements slower, his presence smaller. The moment their eyes landed on him, everything changed. His family’s smiles faltered just slightly, their expressions shifting into something softer—gentle, but laced with a quiet pity. They spoke to him in lowered tones, carefully enunciating their words as if he might not understand. A hesitant pat on the shoulder, a brief exchange of pleasantries—it was clear they saw him as an old man who needed patience, not as the person he truly was. Every glance that lingered too long, every concerned look exchanged behind his back only deepened the pit in his stomach. He had come home, and yet, for the first time in his life, he had never felt more out of place.

The transition was swift and brutal. The old Walter stepped seamlessly into Ryan’s life, assuming every aspect of his former grandson’s existence as if he had always belonged there. He moved into Ryan’s bedroom, effortlessly adjusting to the space—the unmade bed, the posters on the walls, the faint scent of cologne still lingering in the air. It took him no time at all to settle into the familiar routine: early morning workouts at the gym, cracking jokes with Ryan’s friends, slipping into easy, flirtatious conversations with women who had once been off-limits. He thrived in this body, this life, indulging in every sensation and pleasure that came with youth.

Meanwhile, Walter was forced into a role he had never imagined for himself—that of an aging, powerless retiree. His world shrank overnight, confined to the quiet, unremarkable existence of an old man whose presence barely registered to those around him. He was no longer included in conversations the way he once had been; his opinions carried less weight, his presence went unnoticed. His body, once strong and agile, now ached with every movement, reminding him constantly of what he had lost.

But the most painful losses weren’t physical. They were the pieces of his identity that were stripped away, one by one, until there was nothing left of the man he had once been. His phone—his direct connection to the world he knew—was surrendered, replaced with a simple device meant for seniors, its contents erased. His bank accounts, his credit cards, the very name attached to them. His clothes were replaced with drab, practical attire suited for an elderly man, his favorite belongings distributed without a second thought. With every item he relinquished, the reality of his new existence settled in deeper, suffocating him.

The nights were the worst. Lying alone in his unfamiliar bed, Walter would hear the sounds coming from his old bedroom—the laughter, the music, the muffled voices. And then, sometimes, the unmistakable sounds of passion, of intimacy, of a body that had once been his, now used for pleasures he could no longer experience. A sharp, ugly jealousy burned within him, twisting his stomach into knots, but he swallowed it down. This was reality. This was how things were meant to be. Walter was Ryan now, and he, the old Ryan, was nothing more than an old man. And so, he forced himself to close his eyes, to let go of the bitterness, to accept the life that had been decided for him.

Now, back in the privacy of Ryan’s—his—room, Ryan stood shirtless in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the body that was now his. The morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over his skin. He ran his hands over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers. He was perfect. Every inch of him.

He turned to the side, flexing his biceps, watching as the muscle tensed and bulged. He reached down, cupping the firmness of his ass, squeezing it experimentally. A shiver of pleasure ran through him. This body… it was electric. Every touch felt amplified, every sensation more intense than he remembered.

His hands drifted lower, tracing the defined lines of his abdomen, until his fingers dipped below the waistband of his sweatpants. He let out a low groan as he took himself in hand, feeling the heat and hardness of his new body. It had been years—decades, really—since he’d felt like this. Young. Hungry. Alive.

He began to stroke himself slowly, his eyes locked on his reflection. His breath quickened as he watched his face flush, his lips part in pleasure. He couldn’t look away. The sight of himself—his youthful self—was intoxicating. Every movement, every twitch of muscle, every bead of sweat rolling down his skin was a reminder of what he’d gained.

His hand moved faster, his breath coming in ragged gasps now. He let his free hand roam over his chest, tweaking a nipple, feeling the sharp jolt of pleasure that shot through him. He was close—so close. His head fell back, a low moan escaping his lips as he reached the edge.

And then he was there, his body shuddering with release, his hand still moving as he spilled onto his stomach. He stood there for a moment, panting, his heart racing, his mind buzzing with satisfaction.

When he finally opened his eyes and opened his selfie camera, he couldn’t help but grin. This was his body now. His new life. And he was going to enjoy every damn second of it.

Ryan flourished in his stolen youth, embracing every ounce of vitality and strength that came with it. At home, he rarely bothered with a shirt, his toned physique constantly on display as he stretched, flexed, and moved with the effortless confidence of a man in his prime. Every movement seemed designed to remind Walter of what he had lost, of the body that once belonged to him but now obeyed another. Ryan's reflection had become a source of pride, and he ensured that his new grandfather—his former self—saw exactly what he had become.

He took to Ryan’s life as if it had always been his own, stepping seamlessly into friendships, relationships, and professional pursuits. His charm made the transition effortless. No one questioned the shift in demeanor, the newfound confidence and ease with which he navigated the world. Even in love, he thrived. The woman the old Ryan had once longed for but could never quite win over was now his. He had everything the old Ryan had struggled for, and he had taken it without consequence. Every success, every moment of pleasure, was a reminder that this was his life now, and no one—not even the man who had once lived it—could change that.

Meanwhile, Walter withered under the weight of his new reality. He was no longer seen as the strong, capable man he had once been. Now, he was an afterthought—an aging, pitiful figure trapped in a body that betrayed him at every turn. His protests were dismissed as the confused ramblings of a senile old man, his desperation met with sympathetic nods and condescending reassurances. He was humored, not heard. The fight drained out of him with each passing day, his words fading into silence as he realized the futility of it all. He was powerless, forced to watch his old body, his old life, thrive without him.

Eventually, Walter stopped fighting. There was no point anymore. The world had already moved on, and he had been left behind. He no longer corrected people when they called him Walter. He no longer tried to reclaim what had been stolen. He simply accepted it. And with that acceptance, the last remnants of his old self faded away. For all intents and purposes, he was Walter Holloway.

https://lh7-rt.googleusercontent.com/docsz/AD_4nXetnQg1GJNopG4fBsKFeJQmKSQHdGOH5rVqxdbiVZTEUrk3NmzvlBE_qid0DNp_F797AUaoptTbMZ__sivOcgt9dhmeyulsY1gA6HJo_AYU3L7BUaAg1VlFT0HsP-k1GowhELtwLA?key=kgQC7utVG18iSUuBehAZym-C

A full year passed since the accident, since their minds had been wrenched from their rightful places and forced into new vessels. The family gathered once again, a mirror image of the last time—except everything had changed. Ryan played the role of grandson with ease, laughing, joking, exuding the boundless energy of youth. Walter sat in the background, the quiet, aging patriarch. Something inside him had shifted as well. The resistance had vanished, replaced by something resembling contentment—or at least resignation.

For a fleeting moment, a thought crept into his mind. It had been a year since we were out of our minds. A year since fate—or something else—had rewritten their lives. But he pushed the thought away, willing himself to believe what he needed to believe. He was, is, and always would be Walter Holloway. And the man across the room, the one who had once been his grandfather, was, is, and always would be Ryan.

The End.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Undercover feelings

Hwang Jun-ho x chubby!reader

Summary: Jun-ho drops hints for months, but you’re oblivious. Frustrated, he finally confesses—only to learn you would’ve said yes all along.

Word count: 1233

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Hwang Jun-ho wasn’t a man of many words. As a detective, he relied on sharp instincts, subtle observations, and knowing when to stay quiet. But when it came to you, all of that skill and expertise seemed to vanish into thin air.

You worked at the station’s records department, tucked away in an office lined with dusty filing cabinets and stacks of forgotten paperwork. Jun-ho had been finding every possible excuse to visit you lately, even if it meant pretending to need case files that he already had access to.

“Hey,” he greeted as he leaned against the counter, watching as you sorted through a pile of reports. His eyes briefly flickered to the way your sweater hugged your soft curves, how the fabric stretched just slightly over your chest before draping comfortably over your stomach. He always thought you looked cozy, like someone he could pull into his arms and never want to let go of.

You glanced up, offering him a polite smile before returning to your work. “Need something?”

“Yeah, a reason to keep coming back here,” he said smoothly, eyes scanning your round cheeks, always slightly flushed, and the way your lips pursed in concentration.

You blinked at him. “Huh?”

“I, uh—I mean, I need the old case files on illegal gambling rings,” he backtracked quickly, clearing his throat.

You nodded and turned to rummage through the cabinet, your hips swaying slightly as you moved. Jun-ho exhaled sharply, looking away before his thoughts drifted too far. He wasn’t sure why he expected you to catch on.

Every time he tried to hint at his feelings, you somehow missed it.

Like the time he casually mentioned liking people with “kind eyes, soft smiles, and someone warm to hold.” He’d looked directly at you when he said it, but you had just nodded and replied, “Yeah, those are good traits to have.”

Or the time he threw his jacket over your shoulders on a cold night, secretly loving how the oversized material only made you look smaller and softer. But instead of seeing it as anything romantic, you had just patted his arm and said, “Thanks, Jun-ho! You’re like my personal heater.”

He wanted to be more than your heater. He wanted to hold you, squeeze your plush waist, rest his head on your shoulder after a long day, and feel the warmth of you against him.

But you? Absolutely oblivious.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

A week later, he finally decided enough was enough.

It was raining when he arrived at your apartment building, holding a takeout bag in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

When you opened the door, he took a moment to admire how cute you looked in your pajama shorts and oversized hoodie. The sleeves were too long, covering most of your hands, and the way the hem rested against your thighs made his fingers twitch.

“Jun-ho?” you said, blinking at him.

“You didn’t eat yet, right?” He held up the bag. “Figured I’d bring dinner.”

Your eyes lit up, and his chest warmed. “That’s nice of you. I was just about to make instant noodles.”

He stepped inside, following you to the kitchen. As you reached up to grab some plates, your hoodie lifted slightly, exposing the soft curve of your belly. Jun-ho’s gaze lingered, but he quickly looked away before you could catch him staring.

“So,” he started, “you ever think about dating?”

You set down a glass of water. “Of course.”

He leaned forward slightly. “And?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s hard to tell if someone’s interested in me.”

Jun-ho almost choked. “You don’t say.”

“Yeah. I mean, no one’s ever really asked me out directly, so I just assume no one sees me that way.”

He stared at you. “No one? Not even… hypothetically, a detective who comes by your office every day for no reason?”

You frowned, thinking. “Well, that would be odd, right? Unless he had a thing for old case files.”

Jun-ho dropped his head onto the table with a groan. “Unbelievable.”

You tilted your head. “Are you okay?”

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze. “I’m trying to tell you something, and you’re making it really difficult.”

You blinked at him, then suddenly straightened. “Wait… Jun-ho, are you—”

“Yes,” he interrupted. “Yes, I like you. I’ve been dropping hints for months. I’ve been bringing you food, making excuses to see you, offering you my jacket—hell, I even told you I was free all weekend! You’re impossible.”

Your eyes widened, mouth slightly open. “Oh.”

“Oh?” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “That’s all you have to say?”

You looked down at your lap, cheeks warming. “I… I didn’t think someone like you would…”

Jun-ho’s expression softened. “Someone like me?”

“You’re—you know.” You gestured vaguely. “Cool. Serious. Handsome. I didn’t think I’d be your type.”

Jun-ho stared at you before shaking his head. “You really don’t see yourself clearly, do you?”

You fidgeted with your sleeve. “I just didn’t want to assume.”

“Well, assume,” he said, voice firm. “Because I like you, and I’m asking you out. Officially.”

Your heart did a weird little flip. “Oh.”

A slow smile crept onto your face. “Okay.”

Jun-ho exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath this whole time. “Finally.”

You laughed. “You really have been trying, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better,” you said, reaching for his hand, “I would’ve said yes a long time ago.”

Jun-ho let out a short, incredulous laugh before squeezing your hand. “Better late than never.”

[waokevale]

[For the record, WX-78's relationship with Wagstaff portrayed here is strictly PLATONIC and bordering familial. The similarities of their appearances are intentional]

I swear to God if people focus strictly on Woodrow again while trying to ignore Wagstaff's existence—

Ik people hate him and I'm tired of it, he's just a guy, it's not funny when you're doing it for so long. Max, while under the influence of them did a lot of worse things, and while I don't hate him for it, there definitely feels to be a double standard.

Y'know actually, it's kinda hilarious that whenever people come in contact with nightmare fuel or shadow creatures, they turn into the worst versions of themselves; Ie. William becoming Maxwell, inadvertently ruining Charlie's life, getting her killed and starting a kidnapping spree, trying to take someone like Witherstone straight up out of spite and personal grudges.

Willow burning down the Orphanage and seemingly appearing to show no remorse or internal conflict afterwards (whether there were other kids or not– but let's be honest, realistically she wouldn't have been the only kid in there).

Wagstaff genuinely trying to help people (while also taking secret payment from them, because while they are rich, he's seemingly broke, seeing his apartment and junk.) but he still goes out of his way to save their lives, until he stumbles upon the projector which is filled to the brim with nightmare fuel– I think you get the point. You could easily assume that humans getting in contact with this substance tend to become more callous of the others' general well-being.

Aside from that, it's fun to portray how Wagstaff's and Woodrow's relationship used to be. I always thought Woodrow used to highly admire Wagstaff and think of him as a mentor or father figure of sorts, while Wagstaff definitely was impressed with their skills, and who knows, maybe even cared about them somewhat as well.

People tend to villify Wagstaff while making WX appear blameless and an innocent victim, which is strictly false. I LOVE WX, but they are screwed up and evil, that is no act. I wanted to highlight this aspect of them here, they appear to have good intentions, but they don't care about what his needs and wants are here. They're trying to appear noble by wanting to save him from his awful flesh, but in reality, as soon as he begins doubting them and claims their project is hazardous and needs to be nullified, they immediately turn their back on him and attack him. Of course their plan fails and they end up in the Constant, bearing spite and resentment towards him, as well as a lot of internalized contlict. They don't fully hate him, because to an extent, they were the one who took things too far.

In a way, both of them appear to share the trait of : If it doesn't work, get rid of it and start anew, and whilst this mentality mostly applies for organic creatures in WX-78's case, Wagstaff is more double-sided.

No, but I genuinely love this old man and want to explore his lore, why he is as fucked up as he is, because he's a very interesting and fleshed out character!

[mutantninjamidlifecrisis]

Silly question, could Leo and Leon's relationship be considered that of a father and son? It was hinted at in the episode where they go to eat pizza, and their interactions are quite similar to those of a father and son. Mikey also mentions that Leon has more of a paternal air than a brotherly one.

Also how Leon sees Leo as a sad child who needs a responsible adult, Leo's point of view is more complicated but still, what do you say?

Ty for your question! This one's really interesting (I love your art btw). Personally, I don't view Leon's connection with Leo as paternal. Without even going into the weirdness of viewing your younger self as your child, Leon was already really struggling to grapple with the concept of taking on that role with Casey. I think the intention with what Mikey was thinking there was that, Leon has the age and weariness of a guy with a long track record of leading people through shit circumstances, so his leadership style inevitable reads more like a tired old master compared to Leo's brotherly shenanigans.

Imo Leon has no clue how to classify his relationship with Leo. Oc there's a low relationship bar of 'fond and friendly' that he tries his best to meet but at times there's still elements of... well, on both sides of the relationship, I think we all have things about ourselves that piss us off or make us sad and sometimes it's difficult to have a mirror held up to you like that- there is of course the other side of the coin where Leon and Leo can understand eachother like no one else can + there's so many good traits to them that are admirable that they can see in one another. With some time and healing, I could see Leon take on the part of a mentor (a backseat leader that provides guidance or throws out nuggets of wisdom when the team really needs it) or a weird uncle figure, but I don't think his relationship with Casey, the younger turtles, and especially Leo can be simplified to the parent-child dynamic.

In terms of Leo's perspective... Again, it's himself. I don't think his view of Leon could ever line up in a similar way to how he sees Splinter. He obviously respects Leon, looks up to him in a lot of ways- definitely wants to prove himself to him, but I think he would struggle to grapple with those uh.. daddy issues? Daddy issues isn't the word but I don't think a term exists for whatever the hell Leon and Leo have going on.

I do think there's some comedy to Leon and Leo being mistaken for father and son by third party, outside observers that have zero context for any of this. And honestly despite how much Leo and Leon might not like it, it's probably easier for the family to just go along with that excuse rather than explain the whole terrifying "alternative timeline where we all could have been wiped out by aliens but it's okay dw about it we fixed it"

[echoreconcrew]

Stolen Imperial Files - Captain Howzer

SUBJECT FILE: #7569-HWZ-RYL STATUS: DESERTER – ACTIVE THREAT LEVEL: high DESIGNATION: CT-7569 “HOWZER”

AGE: 26 (BIOLOGICAL) SPECIES: HUMAN EYES: BROWN HEIGHT: 6'1" ALIAS: HOWZER  HOMEWORLD: KAMINO

TRAITS: EXHIBITS A CALM, STEADYING PRESENCE—COLLECTED, PRINCIPLED, AND PROTECTIVE BY NATURE. TENDS TO FORM DEEP EMOTIONAL BONDS, PARTICULARLY WITH CIVILIANS AND SUBORDINATES, WHICH OFTEN OVERRIDE PROGRAMMED LOYALTY TO COMMAND. SHOWS STRONG INTERNAL CONFLICT BETWEEN DUTY AND CONSCIENCE, LEADING TO ACTS OF DEFIANCE WHEN IMPERIAL ORDERS CONTRADICT PERSONAL ETHICS. INSPIRES TRUST AND LOYALTY AMONG HIS PEERS THROUGH QUIET STRENGTH, EMOTIONAL INTELLIGENCE, AND UNWAVERING RESOLVE. AFFILIATIONS: GAR

BIOGRAPHY

CT-7569, codenamed “Howzer,” is a clone officer formerly assigned to Imperial garrison command on Ryloth during the initial post-war occupation. Publicly considered a model officer, Howzer’s service record within the Republic Army was unblemished, with commendations for loyalty and command efficacy. Following the rise of the Empire, Howzer remained stationed under the directive of Vice Admiral Rampart to enforce martial stability across Twi’lek territories. Subject’s defection occurred during the Ryloth Uprising (see Rebellion Suppression Dossier #RLS-INC-33). During an attempted extraction of known insurgent Cham Syndulla, Howzer openly disobeyed Imperial orders, directly intervening to prevent execution of civilian and rebel targets. Eyewitness reports confirm subject incited clone troopers under his command to stand down and join the resistance, resulting in a failed detention of key insurgents and a compromised garrison post. CT-7569 was detained under Imperial security protocols and listed for tribunal transport to Imperial Justice Station ODR-3. During transit, subject escaped custody under unknown circumstances (see Prisoner Transfer Breach Report #ODR-EVAC-19A). It is suspected that Howzer’s extraction was coordinated by rogue clone elements or sympathetic internal agents. Subsequent sightings across the galaxy have placed CT-7569 in proximity to known clone deserter networks, including cells operating beyond the Mid Rim. A verified field report submitted by CC-3636 confirms visual identification of Howzer on Teth, in the company of CT-7567 

PROFILE NOTES Command Proficiency: Trained under Republic High Command; known for adaptive strategy, effective squad cohesion, and exceptional morale leadership. Psychological Deviation: Subject’s behavior during the Ryloth Uprising indicates possible inhibitor chip degradation or suppression. Moral Alignment Shift: Extensive exposure to civilian populations, particularly on Ryloth, may have influenced a psychological realignment. ISB analysts suggest subject exhibits strong empathic bias toward native resistance movements and fellow clones.

THE HUB Ask to join the Tag List!

[mackwin]

willmack tarot reading 🔮

disclaimer: this is all in good fun! this is by no means meant to serve as absolute truth. please take this with a grain of salt and keep this in our rpf community, etc etc.

how does macklin feel about will?

first off i want to say that mack has A LOT TO SAY about will. i had like 4 cards jump out of the deck during this question lol

oh god does mack think will is the best thing since sliced bread…..he’s the bees knees, the apple of his eye, his knight in shining armor (literally..pulled so many knight cards for this), etc.

will provides a sense of structure and control for mack. he sees will as a leader (his leader…) and feels will helps him in many different ways. he sees will as practical, reliable, focused and disciplined — all which mack very much admires. he feels will protects him and he’s thankful for this. alexa play daddy’s home by usher

mack thinks will is brave, energetic and a free-spirit. he loves will’s positive and easy-going attitude and how he lets difficult things or problems easily roll off his back. he finds these traits VERY admirable and attractive.

will helps him view the world and his own perspective differently and this inspires him. will’s enthusiasm and energy is contagious to him and it is easy for him to mirror.

with all of that said above, mack thinks will is soooo charming it makes me SICK. will makes mack giddy ASF. he makes him feel excited, passionate and extremely flirtatious. he finds him very attractive (closing my eyes and sighing loudly)

mack feels a sense of “this is how it should be” when he’s with will. like he is realizing what it means to be genuinely comfortable and this is what love should feel like. will is a safe place for him and he thinks they make a great team. he loves their easy domesticity.

mack feels that will heals him — will is comfort in itself to mack. he has a sense of childlike joy when he’s with will, and he feels sentimental and almost nostalgic for the memories he’s made with him (and will continue to make).

on a sadder note, mack does feel a bit burdened by his feelings for will based on outside circumstances. he feels there is a weight of responsibility that comes with his feelings.*

in summary: mack loves that sexy charming emotionally regulated man and he wants that cookie so effing bad 24/7

how does will feel about macklin?

oh man does will’s pieces lover boy ass really come through on this…

mack gives will hope…he finds him healing. he makes will feel like a whole new person. he thinks mack is a star in every sense, and he finds strength in him.

i fr cannot emphasize enough how incredibly lucky will feels to have mack by his side. he feels very hopeful for their future in all aspects.

both mack and will have been hurt by something in the past but they heal each other. together, they rekindle their hopes for the future. many tender feelings here 🥺

will feels his relationship with mack went from 0 to 1000 LOL. he’s a bit surprised by how fast everything has changed/grown.

will is incredibly protective of mack as a person, as well as his own feelings towards mack. he would fight a mf ASAP for mack, even when it is not fully warranted.

will sees mack as reliable, efficient, hardworking, and committed. he admires how hard mack has worked consistently to get where he is now and achieve his goals.

will feels mack is generous, caring, nurturing and a homebody (💀). mack is comforting and welcoming to him, and he appreciates how mack accepts him for who he is completely. he revels in the domesticity of their relationship and thinks mack is so sweet. 🥹 he has a deep affection and unwavering support for mack.

i sound like a broken record but really will is the #1 willmack stan. he LOVES loves his relationship with mack…..he is very much attracted to him and thinks their unity is wonderfully harmonious. he loves their open communication, and feels their connection is special, fulfilling and mutually beneficial.

will believes mack is very loyal to him (which he loves) but also thinks he’s stubborn lmao. he feels steady and secure in their relationship as there is plenty of mutual respect.

in summary: mr william smith certified lover boy….he is literally like omg i love US we are soooo compatible 😍😍 mack his feral chaotic sweetie pie fr fr

some other notes on their relationship:

- there is already-married-esque like bickering between them. mack always wants to be right (LOL) but will finds it easy to placate him (side eye……..)

- mack feels bored, stagnant and apathetic without will. there is a repressed, simmering passive form of jealousy from mack’s side. however, these two notes alluded by the cards suggested these are time-specific feelings. (is will with other people rn? he’s already feeling the off-season woes? lol)

- mack thinks will has a big dick? 💀 Please why are yall telling me this….

- both mack and will feel they are “old friends”. i’m not entirely sure what this means and the context of this in the cards is vague…old friends as in someone they’ve just been aware of for years? or are they feeling uwu whimsical romance and think they’re soulmates?

- will thinks mack is a bit immature, lazy and unmotivated but not in a career sense. cards seemed to note this is more on a domestic basis (re: mack being a homebody lol)

- they are very physically affectionate

why does mack feel burdened by his feelings for will?

his dad :/ …..good ol’ Sheriff Rick at the scene of the crime. essentially, his dad is worried mack’s feelings for will may hinder his career and distract him from everything he’s worked hard for.

however, i would like to note that these feelings are not so deep/harrowing. mack feels will gives him strength and that they both have confidence in their partnership.

final notes:

during this reading and based on all cards pulled, i feel this is a relatively newly established relationship, but has been steady for sometime. their relationship is full of respect and tenderness, and is much softer than what is seen on the surface 🥲

i hope you enjoyed reading!!! please feel free to share your thoughts and/or request more questions for the deck! 💕

[crguang]

607. I MISS YOU.

" And I found photographs of our school, on the day we met I thought that you were so beautiful, it was love, I guess."

VIOLINIST AU MASTERLIST

It's here!! The official lore-filled post for the Violinist AU that my wonderful anons, @shalomniscient's godly input and I have concocted over the past three months. This masterlist will serve as guidelines for the AU so that newcomers and current enjoyers (me included lol) can easily refer to it and see if any burning questions have already been answered or not. Speaking of, every anon questions and rambles can currently be found under the #violinist au tag. Things will inevitably be added as time goes by, so I'll do my best to update this post when they do. Let's get into it! ♫

SOME BASICS!

SUMMARY ♫

╰┈➤ Kafka and Reader are classical musicians and childhood best friends who have been playing together since their respective instructors discovered their potential and made them work together on a piece at just 8 years old. At the time, they are both young prodigies in the making who share a dream of becoming the best in their field. They navigate the carefreeness of childhood, heavy expectations, close friendships and tumultuous high school years hand in hand. As they grow, so does their music. The two are intrinsically tangled up; where there is one, you can surely find the other. One day, when they're around 16 years old, R moves away. Their last bus ride together is a memory Kafka holds close to her heart and she remembers it viscerally whenever comes the time to bring an especially complex composition to life. This musical prowess eventually becomes the source of her recognition and success.

After R moves away, Kafka loses herself in her ambitions and Elio's strict teaching. He continues to groom her into the perfect musician and has little regard for her self-destructive behavior if the results surpass his expectations. She isolates herself from her friends, practices until her fingers ache, and spends a long time exteriorizing her feelings of abandonment through her music. She’s snarky, irritable and mean. She grows up to play the violin professionally and is recognized as a prodigy in that world. She goes through pianist accompaniment after pianist accompaniment, always looking for the “missing key” to her art that’s disappeared alongside R, but it remains unattainable.

R grows up insecure due to Elio’s hurtful favouritism towards Kafka; they never feel skilled enough to keep up with her, strong enough to shoulder their instructor’s expectations for them and thus worthy of Kafka’s attention and respect. When they move, they stop playing the piano for a while. Even they pick it back up eventually, it’s never in a professional context. While KFR have different relationships with music, since they’ve learned it as a duo, they understand each other’s art like no one else. R now makes records of songs covers that they’ve only recently started selling due to their popularity among the locals. It’s a hobby, not a career.

PRESENTING... KFR ♫

╰┈➤ KAFKA

We all know her, we all adore her, forever a superstar... Kafka's as close to HSR's canon as I could make her. Since this is an AU, there are obviously backstory/character traits that I've added to further flesh her out but the base of her character remains the same. Classical music is her life and she's played professionally as soon as she could; praised and admired almost all of her life (by her instructor and her fellows), she's a goddess with the violin. She's playful, confident with the skills to back it up, and guards her true feelings behind easy smiles only the ones closest to her can pick apart.

Some Kafka facts:

She's most definitely a media sweetheart. Her practiced elegance and distinct fashion style make her look very Cool, and it's an image she's carefully built brick by brick!

She lives in a condo with minimalist design, so it looks pretty empty despite her collections of records, musical instruments and mini libraries filled with books, music sheets and the likes. You can find an intricate, pretty vase in almost every room.

Outside of music, she doesn't do commitment. She sucks at it, hates feeling "hindered" and is often preoccupied by someone something else anyway. Hookups and FWB are more her style. She’s had like one serious relationship up until the present time.

As a teen, she was pretty rebellious. Though rigorous when it comes to the violin, she was never above skipping a day or two of class to have some fun and almost always dragged R along whether they thought it was a good idea or not. As an adult, she still enjoys the thrill but is much more calculated due to being under the spotlight most days.

She’s always heard humming! Though singing’s not her thing, she’s constantly humming her favourite orchestras, pieces she’s currently learning or just songs that she likes.

Heavy smoker, especially when she’s feeling some type of way.

She has no living relatives.

She harbours some repressed anger that she’s never fully healed from until the present time. That explains a lot of her defense mechanisms and current guarded behaviour.

She wears her sunglasses when she wants to hide.

Her closest relationships are: Blade, Acheron and Black Swan.

She meets Blade sometime after college and offers him a job as her personal driver. He understands her needs implicitly and she deciphers his moods just as easily. He’s the one who takes care of her when she drinks too much or needs to clear her head with a long drive. Sometimes, shared silence is enough. Kafka and Acheswan have been friends since high school and have stayed friends throughout adulthood. The three of them grew closer right after R moved away.

╰┈➤ Reader

Because this is still an x reader AU, they don’t have a specific appearance. All of their specificities lie in their character. R is an excellent pianist despite their traitorous mind convincing them otherwise, they genuinely have a passion for the piano and classical music as a whole so they’re very knowledgeable when it comes to it. They currently work at a record store alongside Serval and make music for themselves that others happen to enjoy. They’re an overthinker and tend to diminish the place they take up in people’s lives but they’re also very sweet, reserved and thoughtful.

Some R facts:

They’re a terrible liar. It’ll show on their face whenever they’re bothered by something, or they’ll have little tells like fidgeting or avoiding eye contact.

Funnily enough, they were the most direct one out of the two as teens. R had no issue calling Kafka beautiful on concert night or holding her hand unprompted as they walked to the bus stop. While she hid behind shitty humour and sarcasm, they were more open in their affection. It’s a little more complicated in the present time, as they have to relearn each other with their respective baggage.

Elio's berating is the reason why R starts hiding things from Kafka and their other friends. As a teen they keep more secrets from her than she thinks, it's something she'll come to realize in the present time.

R moves away for a couple of reasons; their parents consider moving due to having to take care of chronically ill relatives but that decision isn't cemented until R tells them that they're okay with it. By the time they make this decision they've let their dwindling passion for the piano, years of Elio's expectations and their own insecurities take up so much space in their mind that they simply don't believe they're needed anymore. They couldn't do it anymore, look at Kafka and be reminded of how insignificant they were. They don't inform her simply out of cowardice. At 16 they were going through so much that they just believed leaving was for the best.

They have a little sister! She's 14 years younger than they are, so she was 2 when their family moved away. In the present time she's 14!

R sings! Not professionally or anything, but their singing voice is (one of) someone's favourite sounds.

They live in the one bedroom apartment right above the record store. It's cozy and seems packed at first glance, complete opposite from Kafka's home. There are music sheets and drawings from when their sister was younger on the fridge, pictures framed on the walls, old posters of bands they still love in their bedroom, etc.

Their closest relations are: Serval, Acheron and Swan

Serval and R met at the record store, where she already worked at before they were employed there. R is often invited to her band's performances, and they grew close from working together so often (outside of the owner, they're the only two employees in the store.) They're here for each other as they both go through these ridiculous homoromantic situationships... Acheswan are high school friends and once KFR reconnects, so do R and our fav purple ladies. They're closest to Acheron.

TIMELINE ♫

╰┈➤ KFR are the same age and meet at 8 years old. They grow together under the same instructor, Elio. They go to the same school and don't live that far off from each other, only one bus ride away.

At 14 years old, in high school, KFR befriend Acheron and Black Swan who have just started dating. They're high school sweethearts!

At 16 years old, the Bus Breakup happens and R moves away. Kafka's left to finish the rest of the school year with Acheswan and throws herself into her music/goals to cope with R's sudden absence.

Kafka starts to get recognition in the classical music world in college, but more so in the years that follow. At 23, she's already pretty known as a violinist prodigy. Also the year she meets Bladie!

Around a decade after they last saw each other, at 28 years old, KFR meets again in the vintage record store R works at. When I say "present time" I'm referring to their first meeting and on.

KFR officially get together about a year later, at 29 years old.

SOME FUN STUFF!

DRABBLES

╰┈➤ I've written a few short drabbles for specific moments of KFR's lives together that particularly spoke to me. I intend to write more whenever I feel inspired, and you're all welcome to pitch in as well !

🎼 Bus Breakup

🎼 Record Store Shitshow

🎼 Random KFR drabble

HEADCANONS ♫

(more like fun facts since I decide what's canon...)

╰┈➤ These aren't in chronological order because that would take me an insane amount of time to figure out. As always, if anyone wants me to elaborate on any of these they can always send me an ask :)

R has natural perfect pitch while Kafka's worked hard to hone hers. In the present time, she’s much better than they are due to playing consistently and professionally.

Kafka picked up smoking in college to alleviate her stress. Very bad habit that she can’t seem to stop.

Kafka has tattoos! I don’t care, she at least has a spine tattoo. Her and R probably get matching ones at some point, much smaller though. I’m thinking particular music notes.

R eventually comes to own the record store they work at.

Kafka’s very close with R’s family. They hang out without R often. Their sister loves her and they've had a few spa days.

R’s dog tag is from a grandparent that passed away. It’s sort of a way for them to remember to keep their loved ones close. I can see Kaf gifting them one with a date engraved on the back.

Kafka’s tried her hand at composition but the one she’s been working on and off on for years is still unfinished.

Once KFR gets together, they're always touching in some way. One of them toying with the other's fingers is a common occurrence.

R still has the drawing their 8 year old self made with Kafka somewhere in their teenage bedroom. They've also held on some specific annotated music sheets/partitions that they've worked on with Kafka when they were in the school orchestra.

Kafka and Serval have a funny relationship; Serval loves to get on Kafka's nerves because she's a rich snob and Kafka's always a fan of getting even. The passive aggressiveness between them is off the charts, but they can also be found giggling together when drunk. They'll deny it wholeheartedly.

R and Himeko are friends! They go to the same coffee place almost every day and see each other often but work in very different fields.

Serval and Cocolia have something weird going on. They've been friends who kiss sometimes since college and now they have different career paths that add some distance between them but they still want each other but Cocolia tends to prioritize her work and Serval feels she doesn't care as much anymore and--- it's complicated. Bronya doesn't exist at this point in the AU, but she likely will in the future.

R's followed some of Kafka's success on social media for a few years before they met again. Kafka has a little fanbase!

R sells their personal collection of the records they make at the store. When Kafka gets wind of it, she makes sure to have a copy of each (mostly by having Blade buy them from people’s hands…) and keeps the records at home. That’s before they get together.

R plays the piano for Kafka for the time the morning after they sleep together hehehe.

R confesses to Kafka about Elio's mistreatment after Swan convinces them to. I would say it’s the biggest chance Kafka has to make them understand that she wants them at her side.

Swan was the pretty but kinda weird girl in high school who was very into palm reading and tarot cards. Acheron was probably on the track team or something. Super sweet but reserved.

Kafka and Acheswan see each other pretty often. They have brunch.

Acheron studied philosophy in college.

Acheron mostly taught Kafka how to do her makeup as teens.

Swan has always been able to see through Kafka's bullshit and defense mechanisms.

When they were in high school, R’s house was the designated hang out spot for the 4 of them. At school they had classroom 311B which was often vacant so they hung out there most of the time.

KFR's confession happens in R's teenage bedroom after a family dinner. Sev and I already have the whole thing planned out...

Their bus number, 607, means “I miss you” in pager code! I thought I was being clever when I chose it lol. It’s kind of the official title me thinks.

CONTRIBUTIONS!

╰┈➤ KFR PLAYLIST MADE BY @blinkinn <3

Very grateful and giddy about this one because I still can’t believe my brainrot has inspired someone to make a playlist out of it. It’s full of angst, as it should be, so I’m very happy. I’m still adding on songs that make me think of them and have some instrumentals/violin sonatas that I need to add as well, and I'm always taking anon suggestions for songs y'all think would fit them <3

╰┈➤ KFR PINTEREST BOARD

This pinterest board is unfinished but is essentially meant to be a progression of KFR’s childhood to adulthood. It was supposed to start off representing childhood carefreeness and nostalgia then progresses into their angsty teenage years, their separate lives, all to come back to the time they meet again well into adulthood. However, the board is structured from most recent to older years, so the oldest memories are at the bottom.

Thank you to all my anons and Sev for brainrotting with me, this AU is getting kind of big now and I’m really happy about it. I’ll add more info to this post periodically, I think about it often and I’ve likely forgotten some stuff that has been mentioned to me before so it’s a work in progress!!! Hope more people enjoy what we’ve all made together <3

[sharksupermacy]

our little place

out little place- huh yunijn x producer! reader

synopsis: you and yunjin had a place always.

tags: angst, break-up, booo to hybe for making them break up, aespa being oblivious, they were actually so cute before the break up 1.7k words

now despite you and yunjin or jennifer being on relatively bad-ish terms after the breakup, you would still rush over to her if she were to reach out to her. 

you had a bad experience to be attached to the past. so you made a rule to yourself that if that was the past call you would never answer. it was a toxic trait nonetheless you had but for some odd reason, yunjin was always the exception to this rule. 

even when one of your exes of the past called for some reason you always never answered them except her. 

it was a nice sunny day when she broke up with you. you were a producer at sm and she was a hybe trainee in a secret relationship with each other. both of your companies would definitely not like to see the top-ranked either dating each other or worse 'spilling' company secrets to each other. 

both of you were walking through a secluded park just outside of the center of seoul where the sun was shining down happily. your hand in hers, just looking like a super clingy best friend in public. both you and she sat down near a pond in the shade just admiring how the light refracted in the pool. birds chirping softly all around, the sound of a bush being ruffled while a squirrel went through it, and yunjin head on your shoulder. 

to you, this was the perfect moment until it wasn't. "hey, y/n," yunjin whispered out your name as if she didn't want you to hear it. 

"yea yunjin," you whispered back to her jokingly, still laying your head on top of hers. 

she shifted her head away from you holding your shoulder forcing you to make eye contact with her, "i want to break up."

you stood silent for a second debating if she was joking or actually serious. "is this like a joke or uh you're serious?" you questioned her as she held your shoulder still. 

she only removed her hands from your figure where she had silently nodded as her panicked eyes tried not to meet yours. two figures on the bench no more than strangers now. "can i at least ask why?" you said breaking the silence between the two of you while trying to take her hands in yours to make sure she panicked a bit less. 

she bit her lip and she cried oh so sadly. she shook her head as her hands retreated from yours leaving you alone in our or more like your little place now.

that incident happened about nine months ago and well yunjin had made it into being an idol. meanwhile, you had gotten lucky and were assigned as aespa exclusive producer at sm. you still couldn't get over the fact that the american had broken up with you in such a matter and blocked you. 

 it was a weird experience moving on to yunjin never having the closure that you had usually gotten from your previous relationships. but there was something about yunjin that you weren't able to let go of. it didn't help that aespa was friends with yunjin always when going over to see her told you about how fun she was and thinking that both of you would get along. 

you of course brushed it off with a cool, "i uh gotta make deadlines," every time though it wasn't an exact truth it wasn't really a lie. even with about a year behind you after the incident, you were definitely not ready to face the new idol, or ever for that matter. turning back towards your bright lighted monitors that were filled with new lyrics and tracks for aespa comeback. as you hear, the four idols behind you discuss random things as you set up the booth for what they need to record next. 

yunjin was a wreck. 

 or at least that's what she thought she was without you. ever since that fateful day of having to break up with you. in order to save face for both of you since you were outed by one of her fellow trainees. she had never felt so empty on the inside; yes, she had these amazing girls in the world to be in the group with. don’t get her, le sseafim was the most amazing thing to ever happen to her, but was it worth sacrificing her entire half to do this?

 over a month ago, she was so sure of her decision, but yet here she was crying on the floor of a random practice room at 2 a.m. with multiple calls from the two eldests and numerous messages that seemed to never end. her brain has always been scattered for the past week, no matter how much reorganizing, journaling, or songwriting she has done. 

 a blurb of the week is what it was. too fast to recount everything, but too slow to pass by. She could always find time these types of weeks to think about you. did you block her back? maybe you have someone else now? or worse, maybe you had forgotten her completely.

 whatever the case was, it didn't end her undying craving to see you or be in your presence again. the comfort you had provided the past her, the soft sunlight that always seemed to shone down on you with your walks in the parks, and that stupidly adorable laugh. for now, all she could convince herself was to hold herself back while warm tears were streaming down her face. as she utters to herself underneath her breath, ‘"i wish i could see you again,” ' while packing all her things and heading to le sserafim dorms again.

you on the other hand were also not doing too hot either.

you weren't a complete mess per say but let's just say your bosses weren't very pleased lately with your worth ethic. checking your phone constantly for messages, how you didn't put aespa constantly at work like some fellow producers, or how long it took you to produce a song for them.

all of these criticism were slowly but surely killing your creative output and also the insurmountable pressure from fans to create another song that tops the last didn't help either.

you know what you needed yunjin. no wait. you don't need her, she left you. or at least that the argument you always battle against yourself. you went down to the vending machine as the machine light flickered, with a variety of snacks reflecting your tired figure. it was just another day of the week for you, the company barren at this unholy hour you were here.

another unhealthy energy drink entered your system by the time you had left the place where the machine was as you made your way back towards your second home. you hear slight whispers and giggles from across one of the halls. you look over curious to see who would also be at this hell hole willingly, seeing three figures you could make out. winter, ning ning, and her.

god. she look like she was doing well. you quickly turned back towards the direction of the studio after briefly seeing her not wanting to draw any attention yourself. a small smile plastered over your face as you walked away from the scene.

oddly enough you never turned back and saw the figure looking back at you with such shock at your state.

yunjin had never once seen you look so disarrayed or sleep-deprived in her life. she knew that you still worked at sm for some time now but never knew what you were up to.

her thoughts were interrupted by an excited ning ning, "oh! that's y/n do you know her?" the youngest asked.

she looked over where your figure once was, lingering a little bit too long in her opinion to be over her ex. a simple reply of  "no," was given as the younger simply pouted, and the eldest being a little skeptical of her answers to her actions. 

“you sure?” the short-haired girl questioned, looking over at the american in disbelief. yunjin noted how her facade was slowly crumbling in front of winter. panic rushed over her taking over her head again as she felt her heartbeat slowly travel to her head like a punch each time it pounded. 

“yep,” she shakily replied as she racked her mind with a single excuse of wanting to see you. the aespa members had bought the lie for now, but she now looked at her sweaty hands gripping her phone again. wanting, no. needing to call out for you just down the hall but she couldn’t then and there, especially with people. 

it was six am the next morning where you had received a call. you flipped over the incessant noise making phone calls to see who was crazy enough to call a person at this hour. it was you ex. yunjin. 

you looked in pure shock and disbelief. deciding not to pick up the phone but instead let it ring through. picking up the phone a minute after your ex had call you. only too see that she had left a message.

curious to see what your ex had to say after your not so amicable break up you pressed play. there a single sentence was shakily uttered out from the voice you had loved so dearly.

'meet me at our place.'

then the message had ended. you rushed out in your pajamas, towards the park you and yunjin had always visit before. grabbing only your phone and wallet before rushing out.

after 15 minutes of sprinting to the park you saw a figure sitting waiting out on the bench facing out towards the pond that both of you once enjoyed. you walked slowly out on the path now not wanting to disturb her but of course you had to step on a twig, snapping it. making the figure turn its head around facing you wide eyed and seemingly almost out words.

"you came?" yunjin uttered out in a low voice as if she was never truly expected you to show up. after all she was the one who abandoned you for no reason, explanation, and had blocked you on all social media.

you smiled at her gently, before responding softly back "you called?" finally glad too see her and talk to her once again.

a/n: yk that one cringy like tiktok trend that happened like one year ago... that's legit what this entire premise is centered around. get tricked. anyways wanted to post smth before the smau is released. also hi... been dead for a while lol. have some content.

[ruershrimo]

k. nobara x fem!reader | two pretty best friends??

synopsis: nobara is nothing short of drop-dead gorgeous. you're really gay and super in love even though you think her affection toward you is merely platonic. but then an encounter during the sister school goodwill event makes you discover that you're also super oblivious.

seriously, how do you simultaneously keep those two up?!

word count: ~2.7k, tws: not really anything besides (noritoshi) kamo trying to hit on you??? it makes sense when you read it lol ('tw kamo' LMAO), reader throws shade (?) on mai and noritoshi, reader is called a ‘little mouse’ but more because of demeanour rather than,,, her figure,,,

you meet kugisaki nobara for the first time in the concrete jungle of tokyo. there, she looks like magic in a person, pure magazine model material: dyed brown hair cut girlishly short, wild and frayed at its ends like a paintbrush that had accompanied its owner for years; eyes the hue of a saccharine sweet milk chocolate bar; her back straight and confident, bold and all in place, as if she is where she should be and she knows this. the pinnacle of beauty, this girl is, perfect picture on the cover of vogue. 

she’s got skin that looks milky, silky; loved and kissed with her own tender, painstaking care, it seems. there’s a little bump on it— a blemish that goes unnoticed by the boys, covered by concealer, but it just makes her all the more beautiful. 

you’re barely able to talk to her. your brain goes blank as if it’s short-circuited, stricken and frozen in place. she opens her mouth and a melody sings mellifluously like a restaurant cabaret from an old record in your grandparents’ house. 

she’s magic. 

the second time you meet her, she drags you out shopping and you follow her like a magnet, not even bothering to make a begrudging reply. you’re hauled along by the collar, almost, and you let her. 

“I’m so glad that I’m not the only girl, honestly,” she states as the two of you walk along the pavement, “I can’t imagine having to handle those two all on my own, they must’ve been insufferable! actually, how did you deal with those idiots?” 

you have no idea how, actually. but the boys, savants in some ways yet complete imbeciles in others (oh they really could be bumbling idiots sometimes)— would never understand or comprehend this, any of this. no being of the male species would; they wouldn’t notice the way her eyes catch the light, her irises bursting into a kaleidoscope of colour, or the way she sits so confident of herself, position relaxed and powerful and self-assured. they wouldn’t have the mind to see these things, all right in front of them, and appreciate these traits, admire them. 

your words are almost caught in your throat; your reply comes out mangled and weak like asphyxiated fish from an iron net. “I– I don’t know, honestly,” you stutter, “I just, um, avoided them… but I guess it seems that they’re really close to each other already.” 

“...hey, you okay?” she asks, grabbing hold of your hand. your heart stops and nearly flatlines, heat pooling up in your cheeks. the summer air feels hot. yet it swelters you even more as she inches closer to you, her breath— mint mouthwash and grape-flavoured, mouth-cooling gum— nearly burning literal assaults on your skin. “no need to be shy. I mean, the two of us have got to stick together, you know!” 

“I’m– I’m okay, thanks. sorry.” 

she pulls herself away, and the little circle you have around you misses her in her absence, almost whining as you remind yourself that if she were to get any closer to you in proximity, you could possibly faint, or things could get much worse. 

“but seriously, if you’re a shy person, don’t let people pick on you or intimidate you!” she rolls up her sleeves, an impish yet valiant smile on her face, “I’ll beat them up if they do!” 

the third time you meet her, she’s teaching you a better way to do your makeup. something simpler, she says, a trick she learned online, something meant to mimic the stuff of movie stars and their picture-perfect, freshly-kissed lips. 

you don’t know how it’s gotten to this, though: your knees bent on the sofa as her legs are split on your lap (it looks less erotic than it sounds, you’re sure, but it still makes your brain feel like it’s being waved and wrung all over like a raggedy piece of cloth). she straddles your sides this way, snug between your lap and your stomach. 

“then you’re supposed to just dab it all around like this,” she continues, the blistering heat in your head spreading through your body pervasively as she presses her thumb to your lips, catching your breath in your throat. she places her hand on the side of your face, her fingers caressing your jawline and her thumb resting on your cheek, so close to your eyes that you can see it in your peripheral vision as you stare up at her, rendered a complete and utter mess. 

“come on, don’t be shy. stay still!” 

“sorry, kugisaki…” 

“hey,” she stops, her eyes boring into yours, unassuming and free of any sort of malintent, “don’t be so polite. you prostrate yourself too much, especially around me. seriously, don’t say sorry for everything, and just call me nobara, okay? we’ve got to help each other out— we’re both the girls of the group, the better half and all that. and we’re most of the only girls in this school. the ratio is crazy. so we’ve got to stick together and stuff, be comfortable with each other. no more apologies or self-doubts!” 

every bit of contact her skin has with yours lays a blooming garden of goosebumps on your skin, from your cheek, sliding all the way down to your shoulder. 

how could you act normal about this?

“see?” she asks, holding a mirror up to your face when she’s completed it. “you look beautiful! woah, I’m so good at this, honestly. it makes you feel pretty, right?” 

you’d never be as beautiful as her. for a long time, you’d thought you’d never be beautiful at all. 

but for once, you do. even if you won’t ever compare to her— and you guess nobody else ever could as well— it’s the way she says it, that gleam in her eye as she flashes you a grin while you marvel at how your face looks when it’s ‘dolled up’. you feel like you’re in a painting. like you’d been loved enough to be put in one. 

so you smile back at her, your teeth bare after years of covering your face in pictures and dreading when you couldn’t. she makes you believe that you could be beautiful. maybe that’s what real beauty is. that’s why she herself is beauty beyond compare. “yeah.” if you think about it and believe it enough, then you could embody it. like this, people would want you because you think they would. like this, you could be knockout because you think you could. you’d always known that her confidence factored into her beauty. 

“if you want, I could teach you how to put more makeup. it’s not that you need it to look ‘pretty’, but it would help you show others how you want to feel pretty. the reason why this looks good on you is because I did it to make your features stand out a little: see? you’ve got these gorgeous lips, so I made them look like that,” she highlights, “oh, yeah— want me to take a picture?” 

“you like kugisaki?” fushiguro asks. 

you remain silent. 

he rubs at his temples. “oh my goodness, you do. you’re in love with her.” 

“…not like you would understand,” you retort under your breath. he hears you anyway. 

“she’s so beautiful,” you start, sighing, “and so kind and confident. like she can walk into something and know exactly what she needs. she’s put together like that. and she does things with purpose. she doesn’t wander aimlessly or fight without a goal. she’s so good at makeup and fashion and resourceful when it comes to playing by her skills on the field, and she’s so outgoing and welcoming with people who she can get along well with, and she’s so warm—

“oh, I can’t stress it enough, fushiguro. I— she’s literally perfect. I like her so much, I-I feel like I’m on a cloud or something. every day feels like that.” 

“you’re down bad.” 

“I know,” you choke out pathetically. 

“but I’m pretty sure she already thinks the two of you are dating.” 

“…wait, what?!”

this happens, well— around the fiftieth time you meet her: 

sports festival preparations have been as lively as bubbles in soda pop lately, and you’re sitting down next to her, knees bent on the pavement, mourning a classmate you barely knew and the fact that he could have been a lifelong friend had he not been snuffed out prematurely. as you take another swig of your drink— green tea in the can so that she can have it too if the coca cola’s making her teeth have that weird, fuzzy, plaque formation-indicating feeling like always— she places her hand on yours. 

the heat on your cheeks, the barely formed but nearly forming sweat on your body. that stuff isn’t going to go away, ever. you’re pretty sure of that. even with a thousand indirect kisses from sharing food and even warming up to having her lying back flushed to your lap, it’s never going to go away. each time she looks at you, your gaze is transfixed on hers, your voice nearly comes out mangled, and you feel heat blossoming on the back of your balmy neck. 

“yeah?” you ask. 

“you know, [name], I love you. a lot. like, you’re really special to me,” she smiles warmly, a faint hint of red on her cheeks, just like the rose in her name— though that could just be your imagination. 

“...I love you too.” 

“heh,” she giggles, an impish, graceful, secure sound, like a kiss to your ears, your favourite song playing on the car radio in a memory from several years ago, “I’m glad!” 

it’s wonderful. 

your worst fears are never confirmed, but there are definitely things that give way to them. 

you’re quite sure that nobara herself isn’t like that— she does talk about having a boyfriend, but she doesn’t actually want to date a boy, you’re sure. the closest thing to a crush that you’ve ever seen her having is her admiration for maki— and you understand that. 

you respect maki: she’s impeccably smart, strong, and everything in between. yet her existence begets a small worry. if nobara crushes on maki and they end up together, what would be of you? 

the only thing you’d be certain of was that you’d keep loving nobara. you’d just want her to be happy, after all— all your tears and mourning for time spent on purposeless yearning, just to see that grin on your face. that would be worth it, a fair trade. 

but this is how you’re proven wrong, and you fall deeper in love with nobara after that. 

before the sister school goodwill event starts, the six of you (plus yuuji— you’d hate to admit it but seeing him again nearly made you break down in tears) have been given the opportunity to meet the kyoto students and welcome them. it goes about as well as you’d expected it to be— at least the physical portion of the fights and conflicts hadn’t already begun there. 

after having met them, you’re sure that half of them are out for blood here. they’re an eccentric crowd, but not just eccentric, per se— borderline terrifying. you’ll be sure to avoid them throughout and just focus on the plan. 

which is why you nearly sprint in the other direction like a deer from wolves when you see kamo noritoshi and zenin mai approaching you. 

and zenin mai has a stunning face. even if it can’t compare to nobara or her sister’s, she’s got a charm to her, a glint in her eye that you’re sure somebody else will appreciate someday. (just not you.) kamo is just there, his eyes closed for some reason even though you’re sure he must be fully capable of keeping them wide open, and his hair in an awful haircut that you fail to understand the appeal of. probably something traditional that his clan wanted. 

“oh?” mai says, a lilt in her tone. you’re going to get bullied, right? your stomach lurches forward and you nearly keel over, fainting— an all too familiar feeling. the popular people in school used to do that, especially the rude athletic boys. she would probably be popular among them, had she been born into a normal life. “what a little mouse. she seems like a doormat.” 

“zenin, teasing our competitors is unbecoming of members from our lineages,” he admonishes before mai groans. “shouldn’t you be with the other tokyo students?” kamo asks. 

why couldn’t you have just had to meet todo? he’d say that you had wonderful taste in women, you’re sure. why the girl with family issues and the guy with family issues and an atrocious haircut? 

“I, um— I got lost. but I don’t know if they’re going to have me anyway, I mean yuuji’s stronger than me so now I’m just going to be the weakest member there. anyway, um, nice chat, I’ve got to go, bye-bye—”  

“no,” kamo denies, “itadori yuuji besmirches the title of ‘jujutsu sorcerer’.” 

“and the title of weakling goes to maki, not you, I’m pretty sure,” mai says, “but you’re an adorable little thing. what’s your name— something-something, [name], am I correct?” 

what were they doing, completing their sentences like that?  did they practise their lines in the morning, staring in the mirror and repeating them over and over? they sound like people who’d be mentioned in the local family restaurant comedian’s shows— no, not even their shows, they’re not entertaining enough to be in their shows. they’d just barely be mentioned in passing in the bits so that five audience members could get an extra laugh they’d eventually forget about. 

“maki’s really strong, though,” you refute, trying to keep your mind calm “and yuuji, too. it’s hard fighting with them because nobody can ever beat them down, really.” 

“durability does not equate to power,” kamo claims. well, and then there’s someone like him, with neither. “and be confident of your own abilities. I can sense your cursed energy from here. it’s impressive,” he remarks. 

“...I appreciate the thought, but really, I have to go now—” 

“oh, stay for a while, won’t you?” mai asks, inching closer to you like a large ant from the corner of a room. how were insects always so good at slipping into houses and mentally impaired when it came to exiting them? 

kamo joins her, gripping your wrist. you’ll have to sanitise your hand and double-wash your sleeve now, especially after what you said (you’d be fine if mai was doing it, but why kamo? kamo of all people?) 

“ah, and this may seem rather spontaneous, but you’re rather beautiful.” really, it only sounds as good as it usually does if nobara is the one saying it. it feels like his words are assaulting your ears. “good luck.” 

“come on, don’t let her go yet—” 

“[name]! you okay?” 

it’s nobara. thank goodness, it’s nobara. 

“what the hell do you two think you’re doing to my girlfriend?!” 

girlfriend?! 

“oh, nothing,” mai goes, “just playing with her a little. she’s a doll. you picked well!” 

the only thing she can play with is her fucking audacity. 

“ugh— let’s go, [name]! don’t care about these people!” she pulls you along by the wrist. 

“I should’ve made sure you were okay,” she says as the two of you walk to the tokyo students’ gathering point. “I was worried! you’ve got to stick to us next time.” 

“sorry… but they really didn’t do anything. but, um… I think kamo tried to hit on me…?” 

“ew— with that haircut? hate it when twos go looking for tens.” 

“but um…” you hesitate, “about what you said, am I really… your girlfriend?” 

“huh?” she pulls back, “I thought we’d been dating for almost a month!” 

“wait, what—?!” 

“I even told you I loved you! we literally sleep on each others’ laps!” 

“I couldn’t tell if that was platonic or romantic or not! I mean, I don’t mean that I don’t want to date you, I just meant that I didn’t know—” 

“okay,” she exhales, “since we both need things to be clear. want to be my girlfriend?” 

“like, a girlfriend-girlfriend? like, going out on dates and stuff and um…” 

“yeah, a girlfriend-girlfriend. we can go out on dates and do even more than that, maybe,” she greens cheekily. 

“woah… I mean— it’s a dream, I—” 

“so it’s a yes?” 

“yeah—” 

she kisses you and it effectively shuts you up. her lips taste like a latte from the fancy coffee shop the two of you had visited two days before. to think that she’d seen it as a date, while you’d thought the whole thing was just another outing between ‘friends’... 

it’s the best feeling ever. 

this is going to flop too lmao but back at it w the low-quality posts but

[xoxorealitygalore]

CHILL BABY (6)

Summary: Yami navigates the chaos of life while searching for peace, with Jacob by her side, encouraging her to embrace imperfection and trust the process. Together, they discover that although life may never be free from chaos, it is possible to find stillness within it, ultimately transforming both of their paths in unexpected and profound ways.

Pairing: Jacob Fatu x Afro-Asian OC

Previous: Chapter Five

April 2025

Under the dazzling lights of Las Vegas, amidst the glitz and glamour of WrestleMania Weekend, Yami found herself at the heart of the action, not as a competitor in the ring, but as a guest on The Nikki & Brie Show, recorded live from the SiriusXM Studios at the Wynn Las Vegas.

The air buzzed with anticipation as fans and superstars alike converged for the most anticipated event in sports entertainment.

Seated across from Brie and Nicole, Yami exuded a calm confidence, her presence commanding attention even in the bustling studio. When the conversation turned to her personal life, she offered a playful smile.

“I’m off the market,” she declared. “My man has made it clear I'm not going anywhere.” Her words, though lighthearted, carried the weight of genuine affection and commitment.

Though she wasn't scheduled to wrestle at WrestleMania 41, Yami's support for Jacob was unwavering. She was there to cheer him on in his singles match for the WWE United States Championship, a title he had long coveted. Her dedication to him was evident, not just in her words but in her presence, a constant source of strength and encouragement.

The interview delved deeper into Yami's journey, from her tumultuous youth to her rise in the wrestling world and her success in the beauty industry. She reflected on her "pinch me" moments, acknowledging the challenges she had overcome and the resilience that had propelled her forward. Her unrelenting attitude, a hallmark of her persona, was not just a character trait but a reflection of her life experiences.

When asked about the possibility of joining a Total Divas reboot, Yami's response was measured. She expressed interest, noting that it would depend on the direction the show took and how it aligned with her personal and professional aspirations. Her openness to the idea highlighted her adaptability and willingness to explore new avenues within the industry.

As the conversation shifted to WrestleMania Weekend, Yami shared her thoughts on some of the most talked-about matches and storylines. She expressed her support for Naomi in her match against Jade Cargill, stating, “I’m Team Naomi, that's family and you gotta stick with family.” Her loyalty to Trinity was rooted in their shared history and mutual respect, transcending the scripted rivalries of the ring.

Later that evening, Yami attended the WWE Hall of Fame ceremony at the Fontainebleau Las Vegas hotel. Seated with Trinity, Sefa, and Aphrodite, she observed the proceedings with a mixture of admiration and fatigue.

The ceremony, delayed by half an hour and lasting until nearly 1:30 AM without breaks, tested the endurance of all in attendance. Despite the late hour, Yami remained composed, her demeanor a testament to her professionalism.

Returning to her hotel room with Jacob, Yami was visibly exhausted. Jacob, ever attentive, chuckled as she collapsed onto the bed fully dressed. “I told you to skip it but no you wanted to go,” he teased, his voice laced with affection. He gently undressed her, removing her makeup and jewelry, and placed her in her bonnet, a small but intimate gesture of care. Yami, already asleep, offered a contented sigh, her trust in him evident in her peaceful slumber.

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yamirosnay MOST VALUABLE #WWEHallofFame

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The following day, WrestleMania Saturday dawned with the electrifying energy characteristic of the event. Triple H took to the stage, hyping the crowd for the monumental night ahead. The matches that followed were filled with high stakes and emotional moments. Joshua clinched the World Heavyweight Championship, celebrating with his twin brother Jon in a heartfelt embrace.

The New Day, Kingston and Woods, performed their Midnight Hour finisher on Ivar, securing the World Tag Team Championship. In a highly anticipated bout, Jade Cargill faced Trinity. The match was a showcase of strength and agility, with Trinity executing a running bulldog and a split-legged moonsault for a nearfall. However, Jade's power proved decisive as she delivered a powerbomb followed by her finishing move, Jaded, to win the match.

As the evening progressed, Jacob prepared for his match against LA Knight for the United States Championship. Yami, ever supportive, kissed him and wished him good luck, her words a source of encouragement.

The match itself was a display of athleticism and resilience. Jacob dominated much of the bout, countering Knight's moves with precision. The climax saw Knight countering a double-jump top-rope moonsault, nearly securing a pinfall. However, Jacob's determination shone through as he delivered a top-rope Samoan Drop and two double-jump top-rope moonsaults, ultimately winning the title.

In the aftermath, Haku joined Jacob in the ring to celebrate his victory. Yami, overwhelmed with pride, rushed to the gorilla position to meet him. As Jacob made his way backstage, she leaped into his arms, her voice filled with joy. “You did that shit, baby,” she exclaimed, her words a testament to her unwavering belief in him.

The night was a culmination of hard work, dedication, and the support of loved ones, marking a significant milestone in both their careers.

For Yami, WrestleMania Weekend was more than just an event; it was a celebration of her journey, her relationships, and her unyielding spirit. From the SiriusXM Studios to the Hall of Fame ceremony, and finally to the ring where Jacob secured the United States Championship, she stood as a testament to resilience, loyalty, and the power of love.

yamirosnay 20m

The beat of the music pulsed through the walls, vibrating the air around the VIP section of the club. The celebration was in full swing. Bottles popped. Cameras flashed. The bass dropped like thunder behind the laughter and shouting, as friends and family toasted Jacob’s massive victory, he was now the United States Champion.

Yet amid all the noise, Yami only had eyes for Jacob. He, too, seemed hyper-focused despite the sensory overload, watching her with a gaze that hadn’t wavered all night.

She stood there glowing in a metallic gold mini-dress, her skin kissed by the ambient light. Her curls framed her face perfectly, and her smile was all he needed to know this night would stay etched in his soul forever. Jacob had always known this woman was special. She was fiery, fearless, and unapologetic.

But tonight, he saw something else. She was his calm in chaos. She was the one for him. His forever.

He leaned into her ear, his voice low, intimate. “Step outside with me?”

Yami raised a brow, teasing. “The party just started. You tryin’ to sneak away already, champ?”

Jacob smirked. “Just for a minute. Trust me.”

Curiosity tugged at her. She followed him through the private back entrance, past a bouncer who gave Jacob a knowing nod. The Vegas air was warm but crisp in the early spring night. The Strip glittered in the distance like a string of stars draped across earth. They stood in a quiet, roped-off rooftop space, far above the noise.

Jacob turned to her, his expression suddenly serious, but soft. “You ever think about how far we’ve come?”

Yami tilted her head, eyes narrowing playfully. “This a sentimental moment? You about to cry or something?”

He chuckled, rubbing his beard. “I might. You have become a big part of me. You have made me whole.”

“Awe, baby, you were already whole, I just made you see it for yourself,” she quipped.

That earned a laugh from him, full and real. Then his hand reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. Her breath caught the second she saw the small black box.

“Jacob…” Her voice dropped into a whisper.

“I don’t wanna do this on no extra shit or wait six months for some staged moment. I want it now. While my family's here. While you’re glowing like you own the damn sky. I’m not waiting another minute.”

He got down on one knee, the glimmer of the ring catching the rooftop lights. “Yami… will you marry me?”

Everything froze. The strip, the club, the world itself, it all vanished in a haze. Yami’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes shimmering.

“You for real?”

“As real as it gets.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, smudging her liner just enough to make her laugh as she nodded. “Yes. Of course, yes!”

Jacob stood and scooped her into a kiss that blocked out all sound. Somewhere behind them, cheers erupted, apparently, some of the family had followed them up without either of them noticing. Sefa was the first to charge over, lifting Jacob into a tight hug that nearly crushed his ribs. Trinity was next, embracing Yami with a squeal.

The celebration that night shifted into something else, still full of champagne and dancing, but now laced with something deeper. A promise. A future. The talk of the club was no longer just the new champion but the newly engaged couple.

The next morning, Yami groaned as she rolled over in bed, the sun creeping through the sheer curtains of the hotel suite. Her head was heavy, her body exhausted from the night’s whirlwind. She stretched, blinked and frowned.

Jacob wasn’t in bed.

Her fingers brushed the cool sheets beside her. That man always got up early after a win, high off adrenaline but still, it was their first morning engaged. She expected kisses, maybe room service and stolen cuddles before the chaos of WrestleMania Sunday kicked off.

She reached for her phone, then noticed a note on the pillow:

Get dressed. Hair up. Simple makeup. White. Trust me. Be ready in 45 minutes. – J

She blinked. “White?”

Her brows furrowed as she sat up. Then she noticed the clothing bag hanging on the door. A soft, off-white gown, elegant but simple, hung inside. No glitter. No frills. Just class. Her heart started to race.

“Oh no, what is this man up to...?”

At 10:30 am, Yami’s heels clicked against the sidewalk as the car parked at the iconic Las Vegas wedding chapel. It was a quiet street, lined with palms and sunshine, but when the door opened, she nearly lost her breath.

The Fatu family stood outside, waiting. Trinity. Jon. Joshua. Sefa. Haku. Aphrodite. All forty of them. Even Jacob’s kids were dressed up and holding small lei garlands.

Jacob stood at the entrance in traditional Samoan garments: a lavalava wrapped around his waist, a tapa sash across his chest. He looked regal, grounded, radiant with pride. In his hands, he held a white lei and a flower crown made of white hibiscus and pikake.

“What… is this?” she said, stepping out with disbelief in her voice.

“A wedding,” he grinned. “Ours.”

“You planned a wedding in less than 10 hours?”

Jacob gave her a look. “You surprised? You think I was gonna propose and not marry you asap?”

She laughed through the tears already forming. “You are out of your damn mind.”

“And you love it.”

She nodded. “I do.”

He walked toward her slowly, music beginning to play softly, a mix of traditional Samoan drums and gentle vocals humming through speakers hidden by the garden. He placed the lei over her neck and the crown gently atop her curls. Her fingers touched his chest.

“You sure?” she whispered.

Jacob looked into her eyes, unwavering. “You’re my day one. I never been more sure of anything in my life.”

The ceremony was short but deeply rooted in culture. Haku gave a short blessing, followed by a Samoan wedding chant delivered by an elder cousin who had flown in late the night before. They exchanged rings—gold, solid, timeless. Their vows were personal. Simple.

“I promise to protect you, laugh with you, build with you, and never let this industry come between what we got.”

“I promise to fight with you, for you, beside you, always. You’re my peace, Jacob. And my fire.”

They kissed beneath the white chapel arch while the small crowd erupted in cheers.

Later that morning, backstage at Allegiant Stadium, Yami and Jacob returned to WrestleMania for Day Two, not just as attendees, but as newlyweds. Yami now wore a crisp white jumpsuit and a “Mrs. Fatu” nameplate necklace that Trinity had given her minutes after the ceremony. Her eyes sparkled more than usual. Her phone buzzed endlessly with texts and social media pings.

The whole roster seemed to buzz with the news. LA Knight even offered a joking toast backstage, saying, “He took my title and locked down the baddest one in the room. Respect!”

Yami beamed as she walked through the locker room, hand-in-hand with Jacob. There was a different air around them now like they’d leveled up from power couple to something mythical. Unshakeable. Inevitable.

As the opening pyro roared above the stadium and thousands of fans screamed, Yami leaned into Jacob’s ear with a mischievous grin.

“You really just snuck-marry me before brunch.”

Jacob kissed her temple. “Now you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

She laughed. “Good. I’m not going anywhere.”

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yamirosnay 04.20.25 💒

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It didn’t take long. Before the opening match of WrestleMania Sunday even finished, the wrestling world and the internet at large was on fire.

They were trending globally.

Yami’s Instagram story had teased it first, just a single photo of a heart shaped wedding cakes with the words til death written in icing on it and the caption: “4.20.25.”

Within minutes, screenshots flooded Twitter. TikToks went up from fans who happened to be near the Little White Chapel that morning, catching glimpses of the ceremony from across the street. Wrestling pages and gossip blogs alike raced to confirm the news. TMZ, Sports Illustrated, and even People Magazine had picked it up by early afternoon.

Surprise Wedding in Vegas! WWE’s Jacob Fatu and Beauty Mogul/Wrestler Yami Tie the Knot in Intimate Samoan-Inspired Ceremony.

“They Said ‘I Do’ Before They Said ‘Let’s Go!’” – Couple Marries Just Hours Before WrestleMania Day Two.

“Power. Loyalty. Legacy. This Is What Love Looks Like.” – A viral fan edit on TikTok racked up 2.3 million views in 5 hours, using slow-motion footage of their kiss set to SZA’s Good Days.

In backstage interviews during WrestleMania, WWE’s own social team leaned into the story, capturing exclusive footage of Jacob and Yami walking hand-in-hand through the stadium, showing off their new rings. Sefa gave a quick shoutout on camera, beaming: “Y’all already know. That’s family. And now it’s official-official.”

Even Rikishi posted, quoting a picture of the newlyweds: A Samoan Dynasty moves forward with strength and grace. Congratulations to Mr. & Mrs. Fatu.

Fans were split between shock and joy. Some had always rooted for the couple, calling them "goals" since Yami first appeared at Jacob’s side months ago. Others were completely caught off guard.

“They really did a title win AND a wedding in the same weekend? Peak Samoan excellence.” — @WrestleTeaQueen

“Yami really said ‘catch me in a bonnet one night and a wedding veil the next’ and I respect the HELL outta that.” — @girlinthearena

“Jacob Fatu got his US title and his wife within 24 hours. Roman somewhere watching like ‘I taught them well.’” — @HeadofTheTea

“WWE needs to make this a documentary ASAP. I want the vows, the planning, the chapel, ALL of it.” — @KayfabeFeels

Even those outside the wrestling bubble noticed. Forbes included it in their WrestleMania recap, citing the union as a PR dream for WWE—a real love story in a business often filled with storylines and kayfabe relationships.

“Yami isn’t just another Diva-turned-entrepreneur,” they wrote. “She’s a self-made mogul who came from real-life struggle and chaos, and Jacob Fatu is wrestling royalty with a warrior’s soul. Together, they symbolize the evolving face of wrestling power couples with less glitz and more grit.”

Meanwhile, PR analysts speculated that a reality show might be in the works. The buzz around the spontaneous wedding, the championship win, and their family roots had all the makings of a high-rating docuseries. Some claimed WWE had been quietly filming behind the scenes since WrestleMania weekend began.

Later that week, on The Nikki & Brie Show’s WrestleMania Recap episode, Yami made a surprise call-in appearance. Her voice, still giddy from the weekend, held that post-honeymoon glow, even if it had only been 72 hours.

“You really did it like that?” Nikki asked, laughing. “Like one night you’re at the club with your man, and the next morning you’re a wife?”

Yami chuckled. “He didn’t even give me time to freak out. That man handed me a note and a dress and said, ‘Be ready in 45 minutes.’”

Brie gasped. “You didn’t even know?”

“I thought maybe brunch or a spa,” Yami said. “Not a damn wedding with the whole dynasty outside the chapel.”

“But you looked incredible,” Nikki added. “You both did. And girl, that white hibiscus crown? I got chills.”

Yami’s tone shifted, soft, emotional. “It was perfect. I never thought I’d have a moment like that. Not with the life I came from. Not with all the trauma, the chaos... but Jacob sees me. All of me. And he never blinked. That man’s love is spiritual.”

On the first SmackDown after WrestleMania, WWE leaned into the moment, opening the show with a highlight reel of Jacob’s championship win spliced with footage from the wedding. The crowd in the arena erupted at the kiss. Chants of “MRS. FATU!” broke out when Yami made a surprise run-in during Jacob’s post-match segment, the commentary sealed the narrative: “They went to Vegas for WrestleMania, but they left with more than gold. They’ve got legacy. They’ve got love. This is the new era of the Samoan Dynasty, and the Fatu name just got even stronger.

[butteredfrogs]

hello i feel like there has been a lot of negativity in the sims community recently so i wanna show some love to my fav simblrs <3 i’m sure someone has made a similar post already but i just wanna show some love to some of my fav blogs! (disclaimer i may sound like a broken record because there are so many talented and lovely people i know on this app but yeah)

@squea you already know but i appreciate you so much literally one of the sweetest and best people ever and ofc the creator of the legendary corn who i’m sure most people already know and love <3 but also you’re so talented and you make such amazing sims as well!!

@solargrove again literally just one of the nicest people ever, and also just your sims and just general aesthetic are so warm and cozy and i love it so much <3

@druidberries again the creator of the iconic elowen who i love so so much her and her spooky lil family!! also just once again such a lovely person and ofc butterberries (need i say more)

@alelelesimz once again so lovely and so talented! like your pokémon sims are stunning im obsessed and the fact you make the poses as well just makes them even better like the dedication and time just is amazing

@folkbreeze literally such aesthetic screenshots, and like such a warm and cozy vibe. also your psds and graphics and edits are incredible you’re so so talented like pls teach me how to edit like you. also like i have said so many times and will probably say so many more times just a really sweet person!!

@stinkrascal the most recognisable and iconic vlad, and also just the dedication and time and love you put into your stories is amazing and really inspiring! i also love reading your oc lore and it inspires me to write more lore for my ocs!! <3

@futurelabs honestly adore your gameplay so much and seeing it on my dash really makes me want to try do my own gameplay😭 also i admire sims builders so much and your builds are always so cozy and lovely!

@crazy-lazy-elder-sims honestly such a lovely and supportive person! also my first ever simblreen you were the first creator i got gifts from and honestly it made me so happy and you just made it such a wonderful first simblreen and it made me really enjoy the event so so much so thank you sm for that and i’m excited to see what gifts you have this year! <33

@wildmelon the BEST fantasy sims ever. also just the most stunning posts in general like your renders and even just cas photos are incredible and i just really love your aesthetic and general vibe it’s very whimsical and i love it <3

@kari-sims adorable sim style!! i love your sims so much they’re so cartoony and animated and bright and they just make me so happy whenever i see them on my dash!

@rattrait again literally such adorable sims and your renders are amazing!! <3

@stellarfalls DO I NEED TO SAY ANYTHING??????? their edits hello??? chefs kiss. incredible

i don’t wanna ramble on too much but some other blogs that i adore and have amazing sims and content that you should defo check out

@aliengirl / @alientown / @fizzytoo / @trashedfruit / @ezra-trait / @worriedrat / @velvet-disc / @zleepyhollow / @kamiiri and probably a ton more that i’m forgetting but just know i adore each and everyone of you that i follow and everyone is so talented and just yeah !!! anyway i wanted to spread some positivity that is all!!!

[muiitoloko]

Hi can you do a Frank x reader slowburn, where the reader is newbie lower rank that got assigned to be with him. She’s clumsy and a nervous wreck around him (but that’s because she admires him and wants to do her best). At first, frank gets annoyed with the reader because how can someone be that level of rank and then is quite the opposite of a “soldier” traits stuff. The vibe is kinda “The Devil Wears Prada” but meets “Top Gun”…I need it to be like really really slowburn and it can be a series if you want….

ps I need a scene where suddenly you see why the reader is at that level of ranking and that’s where frank slowly respects her (action scene where there’s some type of trouble happened or just like her showing her shooting skills)

thats all! i really like your works especially the series ones <33333

Title: Beneath the Uniform.

Summary: Stripped of her rank, a soldier fights to prove she is more than her demotion, forging an unlikely bond with a lieutenant general hardened by years of command.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader.

Warnings: Anguish, rejection, mention of fighting, mention of shooting.

Author's Notes: I'm glad you like my story and hope this new story pleases you too.

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson stood up from his desk, his imposing figure casting a long shadow across the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and discerning, locked onto you as you entered his office. You snapped to attention, your body rigid with the formality drilled into you over the years. But despite your best efforts, Frank could see your hands trembling slightly as you saluted him. The telltale sign of nerves, of insecurity, and it irked him.

"At ease, Private," Frank said, his baritone voice carrying a tone of disdain. He watched as you lowered your hand, trying to steady yourself, but the slight quiver in your movements didn’t escape his notice. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took in your appearance—neat, tidy, but still a shadow of the officer you once were. To him, you were just another reminder of how the army had softened, allowing anyone to slip through the cracks and land a position they didn’t deserve.

He didn’t know the specifics of why you were assigned to him, nor did he particularly care to find out. All he knew was that you were a demoted captain now reduced to a private, and that spoke volumes in itself. To Frank, it was an insult—assigning a soldier with such a tarnished record to him, a Lieutenant General with decades of experience and a spotless service record. The army, he thought bitterly, was clearly lowering its standards.

You stood there, trying to hold your composure under his scrutinizing gaze. The silence in the room was suffocating, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock on the wall. Frank finally broke the silence, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, his tone flat, giving nothing away.

You swallowed hard, trying to find your voice. "Sir, I—"

He cut you off with a wave of his hand, the gesture dismissive. "You're here because someone up the chain of command decided that I needed an assistant. And for some inexplicable reason, they thought you'd be a suitable choice."

His words stung, and you fought the urge to shrink under his gaze. "Sir, I was—"

"Spare me the details," Frank interrupted, his voice edged with impatience. "Frankly, I don’t care about the reasons behind your demotion or whatever sob story they’ve attached to your file. What matters to me is competence, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a former captain, now a lowly private, mess up my operations."

You bit back the retort that threatened to spill out, knowing it would only make things worse. You had been reassigned to Frank after your previous posting became untenable due to your demotion. The brass had decided that placing you under Frank’s command would give you a chance to "redeem" yourself, though you doubted Frank saw it that way. To him, it was likely more of a punishment—dealing with you was probably the last thing he wanted.

"You’ve been assigned to assist me in operational planning and logistics," Frank continued, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You’ll handle the paperwork, the briefings, and whatever else I deem necessary. And you will do it without complaint, without hesitation, and without any more mistakes. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," you replied, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression unyielding. "Good. Now, get out of my sight and familiarize yourself with the files on your desk. I expect you to be up to speed by tomorrow morning."

You saluted him again, your movements stiff but controlled, and quickly turned to leave. As you walked out of his office, you could feel his eyes boring into your back, the weight of his disdain heavy on your shoulders. You knew that earning his respect would be an uphill battle, one that would require you to prove your worth every single day.

You sighed as you closed the office door behind you, the cold metal clicking shut with a finality that seemed to echo in your chest. To think that you had admired this man so much—Lieutenant General Frank Benson, a name spoken with respect and reverence throughout the British Army. He was a legend in his own right, having won numerous honors over the years, his reputation built on a foundation of unyielding discipline, sharp intellect, and tactical brilliance. But now, after that first interaction, the admiration you once held felt tainted, replaced by a gnawing sense of disappointment.

As you walked down the corridor, you forced yourself to greet the other soldiers you passed, maintaining the decorum expected of you. Each step sent a dull throb of pain through your leg, a stark reminder of the injury you sustained in Afghanistan. The wound, though mostly healed, had left its mark—a lingering ache that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard, like this morning during training. You had been determined to prove to yourself that you could still keep up, that your demotion hadn’t broken you, but the price for that determination was now an uncomfortable limp that you tried your best to conceal.

You straightened your back, willing yourself to walk normally as you passed a group of officers. The last thing you needed was for anyone to notice your discomfort, to see any more signs of weakness. In the military, perception was everything, and you had already given Frank Benson enough reasons to doubt you. The thought of him, his sharp hazel eyes piercing through you with disdain, made your stomach churn.

Lieutenant General Benson had been someone you once looked up to—a figure of authority who represented everything you had aspired to be in your career. But now, all you could think about was the way he had dismissed you, his baritone voice dripping with disapproval, his every word a reminder of your fall from grace. The admiration you had for him felt like a distant memory, replaced by a growing resentment that you struggled to keep in check.

But you couldn’t afford to dwell on that. You had work to do, and no amount of pity or self-doubt would change the fact that you were now just another private under Benson’s command. The files waiting for you on his desk were the first of many tasks that would come your way, and you knew you had to tackle them with the same determination that had once earned you your rank.

As you approached the end of the corridor, you felt the pain in your leg intensify, a sharp reminder of your limits. You paused for a moment, leaning against the wall to catch your breath, cursing yourself for pushing too hard. The injury was a direct result of your decision in Afghanistan, the moment that had changed everything. The moment you chose to save that young girl, defying orders, knowing full well the consequences it could bring. It was a decision that had cost you your rank, your career, and now, it seemed, the respect of a man you had once idolized.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pushing the memories aside. Now wasn’t the time to reflect on the past; you needed to focus on the present. Taking a deep breath, you pushed off the wall and continued walking, this time with a more measured pace, determined not to let the pain slow you down any further.

The truth was, as much as Benson’s disdain stung, it also fueled a fire within you. A fire that refused to let you be defined by your demotion, by your injury, or by the scorn of a man who knew nothing of the choices you had made. You had been a captain once, and while you no longer wore the rank, the experience and knowledge you gained from that position were still with you. You would prove to Benson, and to yourself, that you were still capable, still worthy of the uniform you wore.

By the time you reached your new desk, tucked away in a corner of the operations office, you had steeled yourself for the long night ahead. The files Benson had mentioned were neatly stacked, their contents waiting for your attention. You pulled out the first folder, flipping it open and scanning the contents, your mind already beginning to compartmentalize the tasks at hand.

But as you worked, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, the sense that Benson’s eyes were still on you, scrutinizing your every move. You knew that gaining his respect would be an uphill battle, but it was a battle you were determined to fight. You had come too far, faced too much, to let one man’s judgment define your future.

With that thought, you buried yourself in the work, your focus sharp despite the throbbing pain in your leg. You knew this was just the beginning, the first step in a long journey of redemption. But you had faced worse, and you had no intention of letting Lieutenant General Frank Benson—or anyone else—stand in your way.

The days that followed your reassignment to Lieutenant General Frank Benson’s command were a blur of long hours, late nights, and an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. The mountain of files on your desk never seemed to shrink, no matter how many hours you poured into them. You often found yourself stumbling over military jargon that had once rolled off your tongue with ease, your confidence still shaken by the demotion.

Frank Benson was a constant presence in your life, even when he wasn’t in the room. His hazel eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to haunt your every move. You could almost feel his disapproving gaze whenever you fumbled with a report or misplaced a document. His voice, low and authoritative, echoed in your mind, a reminder that any mistake you made would only confirm his already low opinion of you.

Despite your best efforts, it seemed that everything you did managed to draw his ire. There was the time you accidentally spilled coffee on a crucial operations report, earning a withering glare that made your heart drop to your stomach. Or the day you showed up five minutes late to a briefing, breathless and apologetic, only to be met with a scathing remark about your lack of discipline.

"Private, if you can’t manage to arrive on time, perhaps you should consider a career more suited to your...relaxed attitude," Frank had said, his voice dripping with disdain. You had stood there, cheeks burning with embarrassment, trying to explain that you had been caught in a meeting with another officer, but Frank had already turned his attention to the next item on the agenda, dismissing you with a wave of his hand.

Your attempts to lighten the tension with humor were met with even harsher criticism. It had become something of a defense mechanism—whenever you felt the pressure mounting, you’d crack a joke, hoping to defuse the situation. But Frank Benson was not a man who appreciated levity, especially not from someone he already considered unworthy of wearing the uniform.

One particularly tense afternoon, as you were reviewing logistics for an upcoming operation, you had made an offhand comment about how the army should consider investing in self-filing paperwork. The room had been silent for a beat too long, and you had realized your mistake as soon as Frank’s hazel eyes locked onto you.

"Private, this is the British Army, not a comedy club," Frank had said coldly, his voice sending a chill down your spine. "If you’re unable to take your responsibilities seriously, then perhaps you should reconsider your place here."

You had stammered an apology, feeling the weight of his disapproval like a physical force. It was clear that your attempts at humor were only making things worse, but you couldn’t seem to stop yourself. It was as if the more you tried to fit into Frank’s rigid expectations, the more you felt the need to rebel against them, even in small ways.

The tension between you and Frank reached its peak during a critical mission briefing. The room was filled with high-ranking officers, all waiting for the Lieutenant General to lead the discussion. You had been tasked with preparing the briefing materials, a responsibility that you took very seriously, knowing that any mistake would be magnified tenfold in Frank’s eyes.

As you began to distribute the briefing folders, you noticed too late that one of the key reports was missing. Panic seized you as you frantically searched through the papers, your heart racing as you realized that you must have left the document on your desk.

"Private," Frank’s baritone voice cut through the room, silencing all conversation. "Is there a reason why this briefing is being delayed?"

You looked up, meeting his steely gaze, your throat dry. "Sir, I—"

"Speak up," Frank demanded, his tone brooking no excuses.

"I...I seem to have left one of the reports on my desk, sir," you admitted, your voice trembling with the effort to keep your composure.

Frank’s expression darkened, and you could see the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "You ‘seem to have left it’?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Private, do you understand the gravity of this situation? This is not some inconsequential task that you can fumble through with your usual lack of attention. This is a mission briefing, and your incompetence is unacceptable."

You stood there, frozen in place, the weight of the room’s attention pressing down on you. Frank’s words cut deep, each one a reminder of how far you had fallen. You had once been a captain, respected and trusted to lead, but now, in Frank’s eyes, you were nothing more than a liability—a soldier who couldn’t be trusted to perform even the most basic tasks.

Frank didn't mince words as he stood there, towering over you with his imposing figure, his hazel eyes gleaming with barely concealed disdain. "What could I possibly expect from someone like you?" he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. "A demoted captain, now reduced to a mere private. Tell me, how does it feel to fall from such heights, hmm? To go from leading men to barely being able to carry out the simplest of tasks?"

You stiffened, every muscle in your body tensing as you fought to keep your composure. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls pressing in as Frank continued his verbal assault. His words cut deep, each one a deliberate strike designed to wound.

"I can't even fathom how you managed to get into the army in the first place," Frank continued, his tone mocking. "Perhaps your dear old daddy, the Colonel, had to pull a few strings, eh? A little nepotism here, a favor there. After all, it's the only explanation for how someone as incompetent as you could have ever worn the rank of captain."

The mention of your father, a respected officer with decades of service, sent a jolt of anger through you. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, the humiliation mixing with a growing fury that you struggled to contain. But Frank wasn't finished; he leaned in closer, his voice lowering to a cruel whisper.

"How disappointed he must be now," Frank mused, his eyes gleaming with malice. "To have a daughter who couldn't even hold onto her rank. Demoted from captain to private. What a disgrace. Daddy's little disappointment."

You clenched your fists, the urge to lash out nearly overwhelming. You could feel the sting of angry tears threatening to spill over, but you forced them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You stared at the floor, your vision blurring as you struggled to keep your emotions in check. The humiliation was almost unbearable, the weight of Frank's words pressing down on you like a physical force.

But you remained silent, biting down on your lip to stop the words that were on the tip of your tongue. You knew that if you said what you truly wanted to, it would only make things worse. So you swallowed the anger, the pain, and the humiliation, forcing yourself to remain still as Frank continued his tirade.

"Go get that file," he ordered sharply, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. "And when you're done with that, I want you out of my sight. Your punishment for this disgraceful display is to do push-ups until the sun goes down. Maybe that'll knock some sense into you."

You mumbled a barely audible "Yes, sir," your voice trembling with the effort to keep your emotions in check. Frank didn't even acknowledge your response; he simply waved over another soldier who had been standing at attention nearby.

"Make sure she does every single one," Frank instructed coldly, his eyes never leaving yours. "And if she slacks off, you make her start over. I won't tolerate laziness, especially not from someone who should know better."

The soldier nodded, a mixture of pity and discomfort in his eyes as he glanced at you. But Frank's gaze was unyielding, his expression hard and unfeeling. You could feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on you, the humiliation of being reduced to this... nothing.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and marched out of the room, the soldier following closely behind. The moment you were out of sight, the tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, hot and angry against your cheeks. You wiped them away furiously, trying to pull yourself together as you made your way to retrieve the file.

The pain in your chest was almost unbearable, a raw ache that made it difficult to breathe. Frank's words echoed in your mind, each one a dagger that twisted deeper with every step you took. You had once been proud of your accomplishments, proud to wear the uniform and serve your country. But now, all of that seemed so distant, so out of reach.

By the time you returned with the file, the sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky. You handed it over without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you fought to maintain your composure. Frank barely glanced at you as he took the file, his focus already elsewhere. You were dismissed without so much as a nod, as if you were nothing more than an inconvenience.

The soldier led you outside, to a spot where the setting sun cast long shadows across the ground. He glanced at you, his expression conflicted, but he said nothing as you dropped to the ground and began your push-ups.

Each movement sent a jolt of pain through your arms and shoulders, but you welcomed it. The physical pain was a distraction, something you could focus on instead of the crushing humiliation that weighed on your heart. You pushed yourself harder, gritting your teeth as the minutes turned into hours, the sun sinking lower and lower in the sky.

You would do better. You promised yourself that much as the sweat dripped down your face, mingling with the dirt on the ground beneath you. Damn Frank Benson would eat his words. He didn’t know you, didn’t know the lengths you’d gone to earn your rank, and he certainly didn’t know the fire burning inside you now. You had never needed your father’s influence to get where you were. Every stripe, every promotion, was earned through your own blood, sweat, and determination. You had fought, sacrificed, and clawed your way to the top, and you wouldn’t let some pompous old man march over everything you’d built. You wouldn’t let him break you.

Your arms screamed in protest, muscles burning from the relentless push-ups, but the pain was welcome—no, it was necessary. It grounded you, gave you something tangible to focus on as the anger inside you surged. The anger fueled your strength, pushing you beyond your limits. You had no intention of stopping, not even as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, dark shadows across the ground.

The soldier who had been tasked with watching you shifted uncomfortably as the darkness settled in. “Private, that’s enough,” he said, his voice laced with a mix of concern and discomfort. But you didn’t even acknowledge his words, continuing with the push-ups, your body moving on pure determination and fury.

“Private, I said that’s enough!” the soldier repeated, his tone more urgent this time. But still, you didn’t listen. You wouldn’t stop, not until you had pushed every ounce of strength from your body. The physical pain was a small price to pay to silence the gnawing humiliation that had taken root in your heart.

Inside the building, Frank Benson stood by the window, his imposing figure backlit by the dim glow of the interior lights. His hazel eyes were narrowed as he watched you through the glass, his expression unreadable. He had expected you to give up, to fall in line like so many before you. But as the minutes turned into hours, he found himself unable to look away. There you were, still going, still pushing yourself beyond what any normal soldier would have endured. It was both infuriating and oddly impressive.

The room around him was silent, the last meeting of the day having just ended. But Frank remained at the window, watching you, his thoughts churning with a mixture of disdain and something else he couldn’t quite place. He had seen soldiers break under less, yet here you were, defying every expectation he had of you.

He didn’t hear the footsteps approaching until the person was standing beside him, their presence unmistakable. Frank didn’t need to look to know who it was. The familiar scent of polished leather and the subtle creak of a well-worn uniform told him everything he needed to know.

“Lieutenant General,” came the low, even voice of Colonel [Your Last Name]. Frank could feel the man’s eyes on him, probing, questioning, though his tone remained deceptively casual. “I’ve been hearing a lot of hubbub about you insulting me during a meeting today.”

Frank kept his gaze on the window, watching as you continued with the push-ups, your form unwavering even as the night closed in. He didn’t deny the accusation. “I was scolding your daughter,” he replied, his voice as calm and composed as ever. There was no point in lying, not when the truth was as plain as day.

The Colonel hummed, a low, thoughtful sound as he turned his attention to the window as well, watching you with an inscrutable expression. The two older men stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound in the room the distant hum of the building’s ventilation system.

“She’s got your stubbornness,” Frank said finally, breaking the silence. There was no malice in his tone this time, just a grudging acknowledgment of the trait he recognized. He had seen plenty of soldiers break under pressure, but you—despite your many flaws—hadn’t buckled. Not yet, at least.

The Colonel’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “Stubbornness isn’t always a virtue, Lieutenant General,” he replied, his tone cold and measured. “Sometimes, it’s just a symptom of not knowing when to quit.”

Frank could hear the disdain in the Colonel’s voice, the unspoken criticism aimed not just at you but at Frank himself for recognizing it as something worthy of note. The Colonel’s eyes remained fixed on you, but there was no warmth, no pride, only a clinical assessment of a soldier—no, of a daughter—who had failed to meet his expectations.

“She’s a disappointment,” the Colonel continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “Always has been.”

Frank’s brow furrowed slightly at the harshness of the statement, but he said nothing, letting the Colonel speak. The Colonel’s next words, however, revealed more than just disappointment; they unveiled a deep-seated resentment.

“I never wanted her,” the Colonel said, his voice as cold as steel. “I wanted a son, someone who could carry on the family name, follow in my footsteps with pride. But instead, I got her. A daughter who thinks she can play soldier, who dares to believe she could ever live up to the standards set by the men in this family.”

Frank finally tore his gaze from the window, turning to look at the Colonel with a mixture of curiosity and something darker—a hint of disapproval, perhaps. It wasn’t unusual for parents to have expectations for their children, but the bitterness in the Colonel’s voice went beyond that. It was as if he had never seen you as a person in your own right, only as a failed attempt at continuing his legacy.

“She’s not a son, true,” Frank said carefully, his voice measured. “But she’s still a soldier.”

The Colonel’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. “She’s not fit to wear the uniform,” he snapped. “Her demotion was well-deserved. I tried to steer her away from this path, tried to save her from this humiliation, but she was too damned stubborn to listen. And now look at her—reduced to nothing more than a private, barely able to keep up with her duties.”

Frank could feel the intensity of the Colonel’s disdain, and for the first time, he wondered how much of your struggle was due to the weight of your father’s expectations. It wasn’t just the army you were trying to prove yourself to—it was him, the man who had never wanted you to succeed in the first place.

Outside, you continued your push-ups, your body trembling with exhaustion but your resolve unbroken. You had no idea that your father was watching you, judging you with every fiber of his being. To you, this was just another obstacle to overcome, another test of your strength and determination.

“She doesn’t belong here,” the Colonel said, his voice filled with finality. “She never did. But she insisted on this path, and now she’s paying the price. She’s weak, Lieutenant General. Weak and delusional, thinking she could ever be anything more than a failure.”

Frank didn’t respond immediately, his mind racing as he considered the Colonel’s words. He had seen weakness in you, certainly—seen the way you struggled under the weight of your mistakes, seen the way your hands trembled when faced with his scrutiny. But he had also seen something else, something that the Colonel was either blind to or unwilling to acknowledge: a flicker of defiance, of determination that refused to be snuffed out, no matter how many times you were knocked down.

“She saved a life,” Frank said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s more than some soldiers ever do.”

The Colonel’s gaze snapped to Frank, his eyes flashing with anger. “She disobeyed orders,” he retorted sharply. “She put her own misguided sense of morality above the mission, above the lives of her comrades. That’s not bravery, Lieutenant General. That’s stupidity.”

Frank met the Colonel’s gaze head-on, his expression unreadable. “And yet, she’s still here,” he pointed out. “Still pushing herself, still trying to prove something.”

The Colonel scoffed, dismissing Frank’s observation with a wave of his hand. “She’s a fool, and you’re wasting your time if you think she’ll ever amount to anything. She’ll never be more than a private, and that’s only because I won’t let her tarnish this family’s name any further by leaving in disgrace.”

Frank said nothing, his thoughts hidden behind a mask of calm professionalism. But as he turned back to the window, watching you push yourself to the brink of collapse, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the Colonel was wrong about you. There was something in you, something that refused to be broken, no matter how much pressure was applied.

He wouldn’t tell the Colonel that, though. It wasn’t his place to interfere in family matters, and he had no desire to provoke the man any further. But as he watched you finally collapse onto the ground, your body spent from the hours of grueling push-ups, Frank couldn’t help but feel a twinge of... what? Sympathy? Respect? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that you had earned a measure of his attention, whether you realized it or not.

“Keep an eye on her, Lieutenant General,” the Colonel said, his tone dismissive as he turned to leave the room. “And don’t hesitate to come to me if she steps out of line. I won’t tolerate any more failures from her.”

Frank gave a curt nod, his expression neutral. “Of course, Colonel.”

With that, the Colonel left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until they faded into silence. Frank remained by the window for a moment longer, watching as you finally pulled yourself to your feet, your body swaying with exhaustion but your head held high.

You had a long way to go, that much was clear. But Frank found himself wondering just how far you could go, how much you could achieve, if only you could find the strength to break free from the shadow of your father’s expectations.

Perhaps it was time to push you in a different direction—one that would force you to confront your own limitations, your own fears, and in doing so, perhaps discover a strength you didn’t even know you had.

The road ahead wouldn’t be easy, but Frank Benson had never been one to shy away from a challenge. And neither, it seemed, were you.

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the barracks as you moved with quiet efficiency, collecting the last of the briefing materials for Lieutenant General Frank Benson. The days since that humiliating encounter had been long and grueling, but they had forged a steely resolve within you. Gone was the nervousness that once gripped you in his presence; gone, too, was the inclination to crack jokes in a vain attempt to lighten the atmosphere. You had learned quickly—adapted to the harsh realities of your situation.

You now anticipated Frank’s requests, moving almost in tandem with his thoughts. If he wanted a report, it was on his desk before he asked. If he needed transport, you were already waiting by the vehicle. Your efficiency and discipline had grown, honed by a determination to prove yourself—if not to your father, then at least to yourself.

This morning, you stood at attention outside Frank’s office, waiting for him to emerge. The crisp morning air was filled with the distant sounds of soldiers drilling, the rhythmic cadence of their movements a constant reminder of the world you were trying to reclaim a place in.

When the door opened, you straightened your posture, meeting Frank’s hazel eyes with a calm, composed expression. His gaze lingered on you for a moment, assessing, as if trying to gauge what had changed. But if he found anything, he didn’t comment on it.

“Vehicle’s ready, sir,” you said simply, your voice steady.

Frank gave a curt nod, his white hair catching the light as he stepped out, his baritone voice as authoritative as ever. “Let’s not waste time then. We have a meeting to attend.”

You fell into step behind him, your mind already running through the logistics of the day. The meeting was critical—a gathering of top military officials to discuss ongoing operations and strategy in the Middle East. Frank would be in his element, directing the discussion with the same sharp intellect that had earned him his rank. And you would be there to ensure everything ran smoothly.

The drive to the meeting location was silent, save for the hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of papers as you reviewed the agenda. Frank sat beside you, his eyes occasionally flicking over to the documents, but his focus remained outward, as if always calculating, always planning.

As you navigated the vehicle through the winding roads leading to the military compound, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. It was a subtle tension in the air, a sense that you were being watched. Your instincts, honed by years of service and sharpened by your recent trials, prickled at the back of your neck.

“Sir,” you said, your tone professional but laced with caution, “I recommend taking a different route. There’s something about this road that doesn’t feel right.”

Frank turned his head slightly, regarding you with a look that was both curious and wary. “Explain.”

“Gut feeling, sir,” you replied, keeping your voice level. “And I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

There was a brief pause as Frank considered your words. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. Take the alternate route.”

You didn’t need any further prompting. You took the next turn, guiding the vehicle onto a less-traveled road that wound through a series of low hills. The tension in your gut didn’t ease, but you kept your focus on the task at hand, eyes scanning the surroundings with heightened vigilance.

The ambush happened so quickly, it was almost a blur. One moment, the road ahead was clear; the next, a burst of gunfire erupted from the hillside, shattering the silence. The windshield exploded in a spray of glass, and you barely had time to swerve the vehicle as bullets peppered the metal, the sharp cracks of gunfire echoing in the confined space.

“Down!” you shouted, your training kicking in as you slammed the brakes, the vehicle skidding to a halt behind the cover of a small ridge.

Without hesitation, you grabbed your rifle from the backseat, the weight of it familiar and reassuring in your hands. The world narrowed to a single point of focus as you assessed the situation. The attackers were positioned on the ridge, using the high ground to their advantage. But they hadn’t accounted for your quick reaction.

“Stay low, sir,” you instructed, your voice calm despite the adrenaline surging through your veins. “I’ll handle this.”

You reached for the door handle, ready to leap into action, but before you could open it, Frank's hand shot out, gripping your arm tightly. You turned to look at him, your instincts screaming at you to move, to fight, but what you saw in his eyes froze you in place. Frank's hazel eyes, normally so sharp and commanding, were wide with panic. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and his hand, still gripping your arm, was trembling.

"Sir?" you said, your voice tinged with confusion. You glanced down at where his other hand was fumbling for his sidearm, but it was clear that he was struggling. For a split second, your mind raced through the possibilities—had he been shot? Was he injured? But as you quickly assessed him, you realized it wasn’t physical—Frank Benson, the unflappable Lieutenant General, was having an anxiety attack.

The realization hit you hard. Frank was a man of control, always the one in command, always the one making the tough calls from the safety of his office. But it had been years since he was on the front lines, years since he’d faced the reality of combat up close. The years spent behind desks, overseeing drone strikes and coordinating operations from afar, had dulled his edge. And now, here in the heat of an ambush, the raw terror of being back in the thick of it had caught him off guard.

You took a deep breath, pushing down your own fear. You knew what had to be done. Frank wasn’t in any shape to command this situation, and it was up to you to protect him. The irony wasn’t lost on you—a demoted captain, now a private, taking charge of the situation. But there was no time to dwell on that. Your training and instincts kicked in, and you moved swiftly.

“Sir, you need to stay down and keep your head low,” you said firmly, your voice steady and commanding, despite the chaos erupting around you. “I’ve got this.”

Frank’s grip on your arm loosened slightly, his hazel eyes locking onto yours. For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in him, the fear he was trying so hard to suppress. It was a side of him you’d never imagined existed, and it struck you deeply. But there was no time to dwell on that either.

You gently but firmly pried his hand from your arm, giving him a reassuring nod before grabbing your rifle. You didn’t hesitate as you slid out of the vehicle, using it as cover while you assessed the situation. The attackers were still positioned on the ridge, firing down at you, but they hadn’t moved from their position. That was their mistake.

You took a deep breath, steadying your aim, and returned fire. The first shot took out one of the attackers, the second forced the others to scatter. You moved quickly, staying low and using the terrain to your advantage, keeping yourself between Frank and the line of fire. You could hear his labored breathing behind you, and you knew you had to end this quickly.

The next few minutes were a blur of movement and gunfire. You pushed forward, using every bit of cover you could find, firing in controlled bursts to keep the attackers at bay. Slowly but surely, you forced them to retreat, the intensity of their fire dwindling as you pressed the advantage.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gunfire ceased. You held your position for a few moments longer, your heart pounding in your chest, before slowly rising from your cover. The ridge was clear—the attackers had retreated.

You turned back toward the vehicle, your breath coming in heavy gasps, the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. Frank was still in the car, his chest heaving as he tried to regain control of his breathing. His eyes met yours, and for the first time, there was no disdain, no judgment. Instead, there was something else—something softer, almost vulnerable.

You walked back to the vehicle, lowering your rifle as you approached him. “It’s over, sir,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “We’re clear.”

Frank nodded, his breathing slowly beginning to steady. He reached up, running a trembling hand through his white hair, his gaze never leaving yours. “You saved my life,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, the usual baritone softened by the weight of the moment.

You shrugged, trying to downplay the situation, though your heart was still racing. “Just doing my job, sir.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied you, really seeing you for the first time since you’d been assigned to him. The harsh, critical gaze was gone, replaced by something more thoughtful. And in that moment, he saw you—really saw you—not just as a soldier, not just as the demoted captain he had so harshly judged, but as a person. A woman who had just risked her life to protect him.

You continued to take control of the situation, leaving Frank crouched in the passenger seat, his breathing still ragged and uneven. Without hesitation, you hopped back into the driver’s seat, your hands gripping the wheel tightly as you shifted the vehicle into gear. The adrenaline still surged through your veins, but you forced yourself to stay calm, focused. Frank needed you to be steady, even if he’d never admit it.

"Hang on, sir," you said, your voice firm but calm, as you pressed down on the gas. The vehicle lurched forward, skidding slightly on the loose gravel before gaining traction. You kept your eyes on the road, scanning the horizon for any signs of danger as you sped away from the ambush site.

In the seat beside you, Frank leaned back, his white hair slightly disheveled, his hazel eyes closed as he tried to control his breathing. His chest heaved with each breath, and you could see the way his hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, a telltale sign of his struggle to regain composure. You stole a quick glance at him, your mind racing as you considered how to help him.

The radio crackled to life, interrupting your thoughts. "Base to Sierra Three, do you copy?"

You reached for the radio, your hand steady despite the tension coiled in your chest. "This is Sierra Three, Private [Your Last Name] speaking. We’ve encountered an ambush but are currently en route to safety. What are your orders?"

There was a brief pause, filled only with the sound of static, before the response came. "Sierra Three, you are to return to base immediately. I repeat, return to base. We’ll send backup to secure the area. Over."

"Copy that," you replied, your voice steady. You placed the radio back in its cradle, then glanced at Frank again. "We’re heading back to base, sir. Just hold on a little longer."

Frank didn’t respond, his eyes still closed as he leaned back in his seat, trying to regulate his breathing. His usual commanding presence seemed diminished, replaced by a man grappling with something deeply unsettling. You knew what it was—fear. The raw, unfiltered fear that comes when a person who has spent too long in the safety of command is suddenly thrust back into the heart of danger.

You drove in silence for a few moments, the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires the only sounds filling the space. But the tension was palpable, hanging thick in the air between you. You needed to do something to break it, to help Frank calm down.

"Sir," you began carefully, keeping your eyes on the road, "my father—the Colonel—once told me something about you. He said you saved his life."

You felt Frank’s eyes on you, a subtle shift in his posture, but he didn’t say anything. Encouraged by the reaction, you continued, keeping your tone light, conversational.

"He didn’t give me all the details, of course," you said with a small, knowing smile, "but he mentioned that you two served together a long time ago. He told me how you pulled him out of a bad situation, one that could’ve gone very wrong if you hadn’t been there. He always spoke highly of you, sir. Said you were one of the best officers he’d ever served under."

Frank’s eyes opened, and he turned his head slightly to look at you. His expression was guarded, but you could see the flicker of recognition in his eyes as he remembered the incident you were referring to.

"You know what my father is like," you added, trying to inject a bit of humor into the conversation. "He doesn’t hand out compliments easily. So when he told me that, I knew it meant something. Said he owed you a debt he could never repay."

Frank remained silent, but you could sense the tension in him beginning to ease, just a little. His breathing was starting to steady, the panic slowly receding as he focused on your words instead of the attack.

"I guess what I’m trying to say is," you continued, your voice softening slightly, "you’ve been in tough spots before, sir. You’ve faced danger head-on and come out on top. Today was no different. We made it through because you were here, and I wouldn’t have it any other way."

For a long moment, the only response was the sound of the engine and the road passing beneath you. Then, finally, Frank spoke, his voice low and a little rough but steady.

"You did well back there, Private," he said, his tone softer than you’d ever heard it. "Better than I gave you credit for."

The acknowledgment took you by surprise, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you nodded slightly, keeping your focus on the road. "Thank you, sir. Just doing my job."

Frank fell silent again, but this time, the tension between you had eased, replaced by a tentative understanding. He leaned back in his seat, his eyes closing once more, but his breathing was calmer now, more controlled.

As you drove back to base, the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the landscape. The adrenaline was slowly fading, leaving behind the exhaustion of the day’s events, but you felt a small spark of something you hadn’t expected—a sense of connection with Frank, a mutual respect born from the chaos of the ambush.

The road ahead was still long, and you knew there would be challenges to face in the days to come. But for now, as you drove through the twilight, you allowed yourself a small moment of relief. You had made it through, and so had Frank. And in that shared survival, a new bond had formed, one that might just carry you both through whatever came next.

After the intense drive back to base, you and Frank Benson finally arrived at the military compound. The sun had fully set, and the compound was lit by the harsh glare of floodlights, casting long shadows across the vehicles and buildings. The moment you pulled into the motor pool, a group of medics hurried over, their faces etched with concern. Frank waved them off, his baritone voice steady as he assured them he was fine, though his white hair was slightly disheveled, and the lines of tension were still visible on his face.

As Frank stepped out of the vehicle, he adjusted his uniform, his hazel eyes scanning the area with his usual sharpness. He seemed to have regained much of his composure, though there was a lingering weariness in his posture. He nodded curtly at you, a subtle acknowledgment of your efforts during the ambush, before walking off to debrief with the other officers.

You were about to head to the barracks when you heard a familiar voice call out, "Captain!" The voice was filled with concern, and you turned to see Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins striding toward you. Jamie had been one of the soldiers under your command in Afghanistan, a bright and capable young officer who had always looked up to you. His dark hair was slightly mussed, and his blue eyes were wide with worry as he approached, his steps quick and purposeful.

"Captain, are you okay?" Jamie asked, his voice laced with genuine concern as he came to a stop in front of you, his gaze sweeping over you, searching for any signs of injury.

You couldn’t help but soften at the sight of him, a mixture of warmth and sadness filling your chest. You managed a small smile, but it was tinged with melancholy as you gently corrected him. "Jamie, I’m not a captain anymore. And I’m certainly not your captain." Your voice was soft but firm, carrying the weight of the reality you had come to accept. "You shouldn’t call me that."

Jamie’s face fell slightly, a flicker of confusion and hurt passing over his features. "But... you’ll always be my captain," he said, his voice quieter now, almost as if he was trying to cling to the memory of who you had been.

You shook your head gently, your smile fading as you took a step closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. "I appreciate that, Jamie, I really do. But I’m a private now. You’re the Second Lieutenant here. It’s you I should be saluting." There was a quiet insistence in your tone, a reminder of the chain of command that you both had to respect, no matter how much it pained you.

Jamie’s expression shifted to one of reluctance, his shoulders sagging slightly as he realized the truth in your words. He hesitated for a moment before giving you a small nod, the respect in his eyes clear as day. "Understood, Private," he said, though the formality of the title felt strange coming from him, and you could tell he didn’t like it.

As you exchanged these words, you noticed Frank Benson standing a short distance away, his gaze fixed on the two of you. His hazel eyes held a curious glint as he watched the interaction, the way Jamie had instinctively referred to you as “Captain,” and the way you had gently corrected him. Frank’s expression was inscrutable, but you could sense that he was piecing something together, trying to understand the depth of your connection with the younger officer.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder, realizing that Frank was watching. He straightened up quickly, giving you a small, almost apologetic smile before saluting you, the gesture crisp and respectful. You returned the salute, though the role reversal felt strange and uncomfortable.

"Take care of yourself, Jamie," you said quietly as he lowered his hand, the warmth in your voice genuine despite the formality.

"You too, Private," Jamie replied, the title still feeling foreign to him, but he gave you a nod of understanding before turning to leave.

As Jamie walked away, you could feel Frank’s gaze still on you, assessing, considering. When you finally turned to face him, his expression was thoughtful, though he said nothing. The moment stretched between you, the silence heavy with unspoken questions and newfound understanding. It was clear that Frank had witnessed something in your exchange with Jamie that had piqued his interest, something that didn’t quite fit with the picture he had formed of you.

But whatever conclusions he was drawing, he kept them to himself, his demeanor as guarded as ever. He gave you a curt nod, signaling that you were dismissed for the evening, before turning to head toward the officers’ quarters. As you watched him walk away, you couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking, and whether today’s events had shifted his perception of you, even if only slightly.

As you made your way to your own quarters, the weight of the day’s events settled heavily on your shoulders. The road ahead was still uncertain, but for the first time since your demotion, you felt a small glimmer of hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, you could prove yourself once again, not just to Frank Benson, but to yourself.

In the days that followed the ambush, there was a noticeable shift in Frank Benson's demeanor toward you. While he remained tough, his usual edge of disdain had softened. He still held you to high standards, but there was now a mutual understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the life-or-death bond forged during the ambush. Frank's hazel eyes no longer bore into you with unyielding judgment; instead, there was a glimmer of respect, perhaps even curiosity, that hadn't been there before.

Frank, despite his outward stoicism, couldn't shake the incident from his mind. The way you had acted so decisively, so fearlessly, lingered with him. He had seen soldiers crumble under pressure, had seen them falter when it mattered most, but you—you had faced the danger head-on, saving both of your lives without a second thought. And yet, there was still a mystery surrounding you, a puzzle he couldn’t quite piece together.

Your files were frustratingly sparse on the details of your demotion. The official report mentioned insubordination, a blatant disregard for direct orders, and yet it also noted that you had acted to save a single life. The incongruity of the situation gnawed at Frank. Why would someone like you—a former captain who had proven herself under fire—make a decision that would cost her everything?

One afternoon, as you were engrossed in your latest task, Frank made a decision. He wanted answers, but he knew better than to ask you directly. Instead, he sent for Second Lieutenant Jamie Collins, the young officer he had seen interact with you the day you returned from the ambush. Jamie had been one of your comrades in Afghanistan, and Frank suspected that if anyone knew the full story, it would be him.

Jamie arrived promptly at Frank’s office, standing at attention as he awaited instructions. Frank motioned for him to sit, and as Jamie took his seat, Frank studied him closely. The young officer had a respectful demeanor, but there was a trace of something more—loyalty, perhaps, or even admiration—when he spoke of you.

"Second Lieutenant Collins," Frank began, his baritone voice steady, "I need to understand something about Private [Your Last Name]. Her file is incomplete, and I have reason to believe that you might have the information I need. What led to her demotion?"

Jamie hesitated, glancing at the door as if to make sure you wouldn’t walk in at any moment. Frank noticed the apprehension and gave him a reassuring nod. "You can speak freely here, Lieutenant. This is between us."

Jamie took a deep breath, clearly grappling with the weight of what he was about to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but filled with a deep sense of respect. "Sir, I’m not sure what the file says, but I can tell you this: [Your Last Name] has always been the kind of leader who cares about every life under her command. She’s saved my life more times than I can count, and I’m not the only one."

Frank leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful as he listened. Jamie continued, his words pouring out as if he had been holding them in for far too long.

"In Afghanistan, she wasn’t just our captain—she was our protector. She didn’t just give orders from the safety of the command post; she was always on the front lines with us, putting herself in harm’s way to make sure we made it out alive. There were times when the rest of us were ready to give up, but she never did. She always found a way to keep us going."

Jamie paused, his blue eyes clouded with memories. "There were so many times she could have just followed orders, could have put the mission first, but she didn’t. Instead, she made sure the civilians in the villages we passed through were safe. I remember one time—we were supposed to clear out an area suspected of harboring insurgents. It was a high-risk mission, and we were under orders to proceed without delay. But as we were moving in, [Your Last Name] saw a group of children playing nearby, unaware of the danger."

Jamie’s voice softened as he recalled the event. "She didn’t hesitate. She broke formation and ran to get those kids to safety, even though it meant delaying the mission. The rest of us followed her lead, and by the time we secured the area, the insurgents had gotten away. Command wasn’t happy, of course. They blamed her for the failure, but none of us did. Those kids are alive today because of her."

Frank absorbed this information in silence, the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fall into place. Jamie’s account painted a picture of a soldier who valued human life above all else, even if it meant sacrificing her career.

"And it wasn’t just the locals she protected," Jamie added, his voice filled with admiration. "She took care of us too. There were times when food was scarce, and she’d give her rations to the younger soldiers, claiming she wasn’t hungry or that she’d already eaten. We all knew it was a lie, but she did it anyway. She’d go without so we wouldn’t have to."

Frank’s hazel eyes darkened with understanding. He had misjudged you, had seen your demotion as a sign of weakness, of failure. But now, he saw it for what it really was—a consequence of your unwavering commitment to protecting others, no matter the cost.

"She was disrespected by some," Jamie continued, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Some of the other officers didn’t like taking orders from a woman, especially one who was so young. They questioned her decisions, undermined her authority. But we, the ones who served under her, we knew better. We saw her strength, her courage. She was a leader in every sense of the word, and we’d follow her anywhere."

Jamie fell silent, his words hanging in the air between him and Frank. Frank’s expression remained impassive, but inside, he was deeply moved. The picture Jamie painted was of a leader who had been willing to sacrifice her own career, her own well-being, for the sake of others. It was a rare quality, one that Frank now realized he had been blind to.

After a long pause, Frank finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "Thank you, Lieutenant Collins. You’ve given me a lot to think about."

Jamie nodded, sensing the weight of the conversation. He stood, saluted Frank, and then left the office without another word. Frank remained seated, staring at the door long after Jamie had gone, his mind racing.

He had been wrong about you. He had been so focused on your demotion, on the fact that you had disobeyed orders, that he had failed to see the bigger picture. You weren’t a failure—you were a soldier who had chosen the hard road, who had put the lives of others before her own career. And that, Frank realized, was something he deeply respected.

As the days passed, Frank’s attitude toward you continued to soften. He still held you to high standards, still pushed you to be your best, but there was now an underlying respect in his interactions with you. He began to involve you more in strategic discussions, seeking your input on matters that he would have previously handled alone. And though he never directly mentioned the conversation with Jamie, you could sense that something had shifted between you.

One evening, as you were leaving the office after a long day, Frank called you back.

"Private," he said, his tone less formal than usual, "I’ve been meaning to ask—about that day in Afghanistan, the one that led to your demotion. Do you regret your decision?"

You paused, caught off guard by the question. You had spent so long trying to forget that day, to push it to the back of your mind, that you hadn’t expected Frank to bring it up. But now that he had, you realized that you didn’t regret it—not for a moment.

"No, sir," you replied, your voice steady. "I don’t regret it. I did what I had to do."

Frank studied you for a moment, his hazel eyes searching yours. Then, with a slight nod, he simply said, "Good. You did the right thing."

It was a small acknowledgment, but it meant the world to you. For the first time since your demotion, you felt truly seen—not just as a soldier, but as a person who had made the difficult choice to save a life, even when it cost you everything.

As you walked out of the office, you felt a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead was still uncertain, but with Frank Benson’s newfound respect and understanding, you knew you could face whatever challenges lay ahead. You had proven your worth once, and you would do it again, not just for yourself, but for the lives you had sworn to protect.