#Symphony of Dedication | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kathaelipwse · 2 months ago

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Not just a work crush || L.Jihoon (Woozi)

Pairing: Woozi (Lee Jihoon) x Reader (Single Mom!Staff)

Warnings: Mentions of exhaustion| past heartbreak {not with woozi} | workplace struggles | protective Woozi | fluff overload | slow burn | single parent struggle | petnames {zi, zizi, munchkin, sweetheart, baby} | NO PROOF READING WAS DONE. Trope: Secret Single Mom | Found Family | Slow Burn to Love Word Count: 6268 words ; Reading Time: 23 mins-ish Synopsis: You’ve spent years keeping your biggest secret—your daughter—hidden from your work life. As a dedicated staff member for SEVENTEEN, exhaustion is second nature, but Woozi starts noticing. When he stumbles upon a picture of your daughter, everything clicks. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t pry—he just starts showing up. In quiet moments, in unspoken gestures, in the way your little girl calls him "Zizi" before you can even admit what’s happening. Author’s Note: This is a soft, slow-burn story about love that sneaks up on you, about finding a home in unexpected places, and about a tiny human who unknowingly sets everything into motion. Expect protective Woozi, adorable child moments, and fluff that will melt your heart. Requests are open!!

The studio, usually a vibrant hub of creative energy, was shrouded in a hushed, almost reverent stillness. The digital displays on the mixing consoles cast faint, flickering lights, painting the room in a spectrum of soft blues and greens. The air, thick with the lingering scent of electronic equipment and late-night coffee, seemed to vibrate with a quiet intensity. You, however, were oblivious to the subtle symphony of the space, lost in the depths of a weariness that permeated your very bones.

The day had been a relentless marathon, a blur of back-to-back meetings, urgent phone calls, and the constant, gnawing pressure to maintain a semblance of order amidst the chaos of the entertainment industry. Each task, each demand, had chipped away at your reserves, leaving you feeling stretched thin and utterly drained. Yet, the thought of your daughter, her bright, innocent eyes and infectious laughter, had provided a fragile anchor, a reminder of the purpose that fueled your every move.

Your fingers, calloused and weary from hours of typing and scribbling, lay still on the scattered papers before you. The tour schedules, the promotional plans, the endless stream of logistical details blurred into an indistinguishable mass, reflecting the fog that had settled over your mind. Your eyelids, heavy as lead, fluttered closed, and your head, aching with a dull, throbbing rhythm, finally succumbed to the irresistible pull of exhaustion. The cool, smooth surface of the desk offered a momentary respite, a fleeting sanctuary from the relentless demands of your life.

The silence of the studio was broken only by the low hum of the ventilation system and the distant, muffled sounds of the city, a symphony of urban life that usually went unnoticed. Tonight, however, the quiet hum became a soothing drone, a lullaby that gently coaxed you into a state of semi-consciousness.

Woozi, drawn back to the studio by the nagging feeling of an unfinished task, entered the room with his usual quiet precision. He expected to find you immersed in your work, a whirlwind of focused energy, your brow furrowed in concentration as you navigated the complexities of the group’s schedule. He had a half-formed, wry comment ready, a playful jab about your legendary work ethic.

But the scene that unfolded before him was a stark contrast to his expectations. He found you motionless, your head resting on the desk, your breath soft and steady. A flicker of concern, a rare and unfamiliar sensation, stirred within him. He approached with cautious steps, his movements as silent as the shadows that danced across the room.

He paused, his gaze lingering on your peaceful expression. There was a vulnerability in your stillness, a quiet fragility that he had never witnessed before. It was a stark reminder of the human beneath the ever-efficient professional. Then, the soft glow of your phone illuminated the darkness, pulling his attention to the image displayed on the lock screen.

The face of a young girl, her eyes wide with a curious innocence, stared back at him. The resemblance was undeniable, a striking echo of your own features. The same delicate curve of the cheek, the same determined set of the jaw, the same spark of intelligence in the eyes. A realization, sharp and sudden, pierced through his thoughts, illuminating a hidden dimension of your life.

He sank into the chair opposite you, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen, his mind reeling with the implications of this unexpected discovery. The pieces of the puzzle, the hurried exits, the late-night phone calls, the subtle weariness that clung to you like a shadow, finally fell into place. He remembered the faint, almost imperceptible tremor in your voice when you spoke of deadlines and responsibilities, the way your eyes held a depth of unspoken emotion.

He thought about the tiny jackets he had seen you quickly hide into a bag, and the small snacks that you had hidden in your desk drawer. He thought about the small drawings that sometimes were left on your desk, that he had thought were just random sketches.

His fingers hovered over your phone, a silent temptation to delve deeper into this hidden world. But a sense of respect, a quiet understanding of the boundaries you had erected, held him back. This was your story, your secret, a part of your life that you had chosen to keep private.

He sat there, in the quiet solitude of the studio, his gaze tracing the delicate features of your daughter’s face. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through his chest, a sense of protectiveness that he couldn’t quite comprehend. He felt a newfound respect for your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the demanding world of the entertainment industry while raising a child.

The silence of the room was heavy with unspoken emotions, with the weight of a secret revealed. Woozi, the master of carefully crafted words and calculated expressions, found himself speechless, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts and unfamiliar feelings. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but in this moment, he was lost in a symphony of his own making, a composition of newfound understanding and quiet admiration.

The studio, once a place solely defined by the rhythm of music and the demands of production, began to transform into a space imbued with a quiet, almost palpable sense of understanding. The day after Woozi's discovery was a delicate dance of unspoken acknowledgment, a subtle shift in the atmosphere that permeated every corner of the room. You were acutely aware of his presence, a gentle undercurrent that flowed beneath the surface of his usual focused demeanor. His gaze, usually sharp and analytical, now held a softer, more contemplative quality, lingering on you for fleeting moments before he'd quickly divert his attention back to his work.

You found yourself constantly questioning his newfound attentiveness, your mind swirling with a mix of gratitude and anxiety. Had he seen the lock screen? Did he judge your situation? Was this a temporary phase, a fleeting expression of sympathy that would eventually fade? The thought of your private life being exposed, the vulnerability it implied, sent a shiver down your spine. Yet, he remained silent, offering no explicit confirmation, no intrusive questions.

Instead, his actions spoke volumes. Small, almost imperceptible gestures began to accumulate, a quiet symphony of unspoken understanding. A bottle of chilled water, precisely the temperature you preferred, would appear beside your workspace, as if conjured by an unseen hand. A neatly packed lunchbox, filled with healthy and balanced ingredients, materialized during the lunch break, a subtle nudge towards self-care amidst the chaos of the day. And when the pressure from management threatened to overwhelm you, when their demands became unreasonable, Woozi would step in, his voice a calm, firm barrier between you and their frustration.

He did not raise his voice, nor did he offer platitudes. He simply presented logical counterarguments, calmly dismantling their unreasonable demands with his sharp intellect and unwavering composure. It was a subtle act of protection, a silent acknowledgment of the burdens you carried.

The unspoken communication between you became a delicate dance, a series of subtle cues and unspoken acknowledgments. You’d catch his eye across the room, a fleeting glance that held a depth of understanding, a silent reassurance that you weren’t alone. He’d leave small notes on your desk, scribbled on scrap paper, containing encouraging words or a simple drawing, a small token of support amidst the whirlwind of your day.

His presence, once a source of professional respect, now became a source of quiet comfort. He was still Woozi, the meticulous producer, the genius songwriter, but there was a newfound gentleness in his demeanor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played within the studio.

One evening, as the recording session stretched into the late hours, your phone rang, its insistent chime cutting through the quiet hum of the studio equipment. The caller ID displayed the familiar number of your daughter’s daycare, and a wave of anxiety washed over you.

“I have to go,” you said, your voice tight with urgency. “There’s an emergency.”

Woozi’s gaze met yours, his expression calm and reassuring. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t demand explanations. He simply reached into his pocket and slid his car keys across the desk.

“Go,” he said, his voice soft but firm. “I’ll cover for you.”

The gesture, so simple yet so profound, took your breath away. It was a silent acknowledgment of your responsibilities, a quiet reassurance that he understood the delicate balance you maintained. You stared at the keys, your throat tightening with emotion, unable to articulate the gratitude that swelled within you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, a silent acknowledgment, and turned back to the mixing console, his focus unwavering. You grabbed the keys and rushed out, your mind a whirlwind of anxiety and gratitude.

The drive to the daycare was a blur, your hands gripping the steering wheel, your mind racing with worst-case scenarios. When you arrived, you found your daughter safe and sound, her feverish brow cooled by a damp cloth. The daycare staff explained that it was a brief spike in temperature, a common occurrence in young children.

Relief washed over you, a wave so intense that it left you weak. You held your daughter close, her small body warm against yours, and whispered reassurances into her hair, a silent promise to protect her from all harm.

As you drove home, your thoughts turned to Woozi. He had covered for you, without hesitation, without question. He had given you the time and space you needed, without expecting anything in return. It was a selfless act, a quiet demonstration of his understanding and support.

When you returned to the studio the next day, he was working as if nothing had happened. He didn’t mention the previous night, didn’t ask about your daughter. He simply continued with his work, his focus unwavering.

But you knew, deep down, that something had irrevocably changed. He had seen you, truly seen you, not just as a colleague, but as a person, a mother, a woman with a life beyond the studio walls. And in that quiet understanding, a connection began to form, a bond that was both fragile and profound.

The studio, once a place of work, began to feel like a sanctuary, a place where you were seen, understood, and supported. The unspoken communication between you and Woozi became a silent language, a symphony of understanding that resonated deeper than any words could convey. You began to look forward to seeing him, to hearing his voice, to feeling the quiet reassurance of his presence. And even though the fear of eventual change lingered, you allowed yourself to savor the peace, the quiet comfort, that he offered. You began to feel a warmth grow in your heart, a feeling you had long suppressed, a flicker of hope that perhaps, just perhaps, you weren’t alone after all.

The decision to invite Woozi into your home, into the sanctuary you’d built for yourself and your daughter, was a tightrope walk between hope and fear. It was a leap of faith, a fragile attempt to open a door that had been slammed shut years ago. The echoes of your past, the sharp sting of broken promises and abandoned dreams, still lingered, casting long shadows over your present.

You remembered the way he had looked at you when you told him about the ex-boyfriend, the man who had promised forever and then vanished like smoke in the wind. The way he’d gripped your hand, his own knuckles white, as you described the lonely nights, the silent tears that soaked your pillow, the crushing weight of single parenthood. He had listened without judgment, without pity, his eyes filled with a quiet understanding that resonated deep within you.

The wounds from that old betrayal had never fully healed. They were scars, invisible to the world, but deeply etched into your soul. You had built walls around your heart, brick by careful brick, protecting yourself and your daughter from further pain. The thought of trusting someone again, of letting them into your carefully constructed world, was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Yet, Woozi had chipped away at those walls, piece by piece, with his quiet kindness and unwavering support. He had seen your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that enabled you to navigate the chaos of your life. He had offered a safe harbor, a quiet understanding that made you feel seen, truly seen, beyond the roles you played in the studio.

And so, you had invited him into your home, a tentative step towards allowing yourself to hope again. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of your mind, reminding you of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak.

There he stood, in your doorway, a hesitant smile on his face. The scent of rain clung to his clothes, a reminder of the storm that had mirrored your emotional turmoil the night before. You ushered him inside, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs, a mixture of anticipation and dread.

Your daughter, ever curious and fearless, peeked out from behind your legs, her big, expressive eyes fixed on the unfamiliar figure. She was your masterpiece, your reason for everything, a tiny echo of your own strength and determination. The thought of introducing her to someone new, of allowing another person to become a part of her world, filled you with a protective instinct so fierce it almost choked you.

Woozi, usually so composed and self-assured, seemed awkward, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected encounter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hands clasped behind his back, a silent testament to his own vulnerability.

He knelt down, his gaze meeting your daughter’s, and held out a small plushie – a fluffy, pastel-colored sheep he’d impulsively grabbed from a nearby store. It was a gesture of peace, a silent offering to this tiny, unknown entity.

She frowned, her brow furrowed in suspicion, mirroring your own cautious approach to new relationships. “Mommy said don’t take things from strangers.” Her voice was small but firm, a testament to your consistent teachings, a reflection of the lessons you’d learned the hard way.

A laugh bubbled in your throat, a mixture of amusement and relief. You had raised a cautious and intelligent child. Before you could intervene, Woozi’s voice, usually so measured, softened, taking on a gentle, almost hesitant tone.

“I’m your mom’s friend,” he said, his eyes meeting yours for a brief, reassuring moment, a silent plea for your trust.

Your daughter’s gaze flickered between you and Woozi, seeking confirmation. You nodded, a small, encouraging smile on your face, a silent acknowledgment of the leap of faith you were taking.

Only then did she cautiously reach out and take the plushie, her small fingers gently brushing against his. “Thank you, Zizi,” she mumbled, her eyes still fixed on him, assessing him with the same careful scrutiny you had employed for years.

The nickname, so innocent and unexpected, broke the tension in the room, a gentle reminder of the simple, unadulterated trust of a child. A genuine smile spread across Woozi’s face, a warmth that reached his eyes, a silent promise to be worthy of that trust. In that moment, he was no longer Woozi, the renowned producer, the stoic songwriter. He was Zizi, a friend, a potential figure in this little girl’s world, a chance for you to rewrite the narrative of your past.

The studio, once a realm of pure musical creation, transformed into a covert operation, a fortress of affection guarded by the silent, watchful eyes of Lee Jihoon. He moved with a newfound purpose, a quiet determination that radiated from him like a subtle hum. He became a protector, a silent guardian, his actions driven by a fierce, almost primal instinct to shield you and your daughter from any harm.

He guarded your secret with a fervor that bordered on obsessive, his actions a testament to his growing affection. He didn’t just keep it; he fortified it, erecting an invisible barrier around your privacy. He deflected prying questions with a sharp wit, his eyes flashing a silent warning to anyone who dared to delve too deep. He became a master of misdirection, weaving elaborate tales of late-night studio sessions and urgent deadlines to explain his increasingly frequent absences.

He became a connoisseur of children’s snacks, a silent provider of tiny treasures. He’d surreptitiously slip fruit pouches and organic crackers into his bag, his expression a picture of studied nonchalance. He’d scour toy stores for the perfect plushie, the ideal coloring book, his usually focused gaze softening as he imagined your daughter’s delighted squeals.

But the members, ever perceptive, began to notice the subtle shifts in his behavior. Seungcheol, the leader, the ever-watchful patriarch of their chaotic family, observed Woozi’s increasingly erratic schedule with a furrowed brow. “Jihoon, you’re acting… strangely. You’re always disappearing, you’re hoarding children’s snacks, and you’re radiating an aura of… secretiveness,” he said, his voice laced with concern.

Mingyu, the group’s resident gossip and fashion enthusiast, held up a tiny, sequined jacket, his eyes wide with disbelief. “And this? This is clearly for a miniature diva. Who are you dressing, Jihoon? A tiny influencer?”

Jeonghan, the master of playful manipulation, the orchestrator of subtle chaos, raised an eyebrow, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Lee Jihoon. Confess. Who is this tiny human who has captured your heart? And why are you so… protective?”

Cornered, Woozi sighed, a mixture of exasperation and affection in his eyes. He knew he couldn’t keep the secret forever, not from the men who knew him better than he knew himself. He gathered them in the studio’s lounge, the air thick with anticipation, and told them everything. He explained your situation, your struggles, the quiet strength that had captivated him, and the unexpected joy that had blossomed in your daughter’s presence.

Instead of the teasing and playful jabs he had braced himself for, he was met with a chorus of genuine support, a wave of warmth that surprised even him. Joshua, the romantic, the sentimental soul of the group, clutched his chest dramatically, his eyes wide with emotion. “This is… a masterpiece of human connection! You’re like a secret superhero dad!”

Mingyu, his usual boisterous energy amplified, was practically vibrating with excitement. “This is amazing! We need to throw a welcome party! We can get her tiny designer outfits! I know a guy who makes custom mini jackets!”

Seungcheol, his expression softening, placed a hand on Woozi’s shoulder, his voice filled with genuine affection. “Jihoon, this is your happiness. You’ve found something precious, and we’re all here for you, always. We will protect her, and you, with everything we have.”

The members’ reactions were a testament to their deep bond, their unwavering support for one another. They showered Woozi with questions, eager to learn every detail about your daughter, her personality, her favorite toys. They offered to help in any way they could, from babysitting to building elaborate play forts in the studio.

Woozi, usually so guarded, found himself opening up, sharing anecdotes and stories about your daughter’s infectious laughter, her boundless curiosity, and the way she had transformed his perception of the world. He spoke of your strength, your resilience, the quiet determination that had captivated him, and the way you had built a safe haven for your small family.

But beneath the surface of his newfound openness, a quiet conflict raged within him. He was still grappling with the unfamiliar emotions that had stirred within him, the sense of responsibility and protectiveness that had taken root in his heart. He was a composer of emotions, a weaver of melodies, but he was still learning to navigate the complexities of his own heart.

He was hopelessly, utterly, and completely whipped for you. He’d been harboring a crush for years, admiring your quiet strength and unwavering dedication. Now, seeing you as a mother, as a woman who had faced adversity and emerged stronger, had amplified his feelings tenfold. He found himself wanting to protect you, to cherish you, to erase the shadows of your past.

He loved your daughter, her innocent joy and unwavering trust. And he loved you, your quiet strength, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter. But the fear remained, a persistent whisper in the back of his mind, reminding him of the fragility of trust, the potential for heartbreak. He was still haunted by the idea of repeating the mistakes of the past, of causing you and your daughter pain.

He didn’t answer Seungcheol’s question, the question that hung in the air like a silent challenge. He simply smiled, a small, hesitant smile that held a mixture of hope and uncertainty. He knew that he cared deeply, but the idea of defining it, of labeling it, felt daunting.

The members’ support was a comfort, a reassurance that he wasn’t alone. But the final decision, the leap of faith, was his to take. He was standing on the precipice of a new chapter, a chapter filled with the potential for love and happiness, but also the potential for pain. He was a composer of emotions, but this was a symphony that he was still learning to orchestrate. He needed to find the courage to conduct his own heart, to embrace the love that was blossoming within him, and to trust that he could create a future filled with harmony and happiness.

The quiet rhythm of your evenings had shifted, infused with a new warmth and a sense of gentle companionship. Woozi, or "Zizi," as your daughter affectionately called him, had become a regular fixture in your little home, a comforting presence that filled the space with laughter and quiet understanding. He’d arrive after studio sessions, his eyes tired but his smile bright, ready to engage in elaborate tea parties, build towering block castles, or simply sit quietly, listening to your daughter’s endless stories.

One evening, as you were on a phone call, pacing the kitchen, trying to resolve a last-minute schedule change, Woozi sat on the couch, your daughter nestled beside him, her small fingers tracing the lines on his hand. She was fascinated by his large, capable hands, the hands that created beautiful music, the hands that also built the most impressive block towers.

Then, her small voice, clear and unwavering, broke the comfortable silence. “Zizi, why do you look at my mommy like that?”

Woozi froze, his gaze snapping to her, a blush creeping up his neck. He hadn’t realized his admiration was so transparent. “Like what?” he asked, his voice a little too high-pitched.

She tilted her head, her eyes wide and innocent, yet piercingly observant. “Like she’s your favorite person. Like she’s a star, and you’re watching her shine.”

His ears burned, a wave of heat washing over him. He was a master of words, a composer of emotions, but he was utterly unprepared for the unfiltered honesty of a five-year-old. “You ask too many questions,” he mumbled, trying to deflect her inquiry with a playful scowl.

But your daughter was undeterred. “Don’t hurt her,” she said, her voice suddenly serious, her small hand gripping his.

Woozi’s heart clenched. “Hurt her? What makes you say that?”

“She cries behind closed doors,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, her eyes filled with a wisdom beyond her years. “She thinks I don’t know. But I do.”

A wave of guilt washed over him, a sharp, painful pang. He had witnessed your strength, your resilience, but he hadn’t fully grasped the depth of your pain, the silent battles you fought behind closed doors. He had been so focused on his own feelings, his own fears, that he had overlooked the silent suffering that lingered beneath your brave facade.

He looked at your daughter, her small face etched with concern, and he felt a surge of protectiveness, a fierce determination to shield you both from any further harm. “I would never hurt her,” he said, his voice firm and unwavering.

“Then why do you look at her like that?” she repeated, her eyes searching his.

He sighed, a mixture of exasperation and tenderness in his eyes.

“It’s… complicated,” he began, trying to find words a child could understand.

“Is it like how you look at your guitar?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.

“No, not exactly,” he chuckled. “It’s… more special than that. It’s like… she’s the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard.”

“Does that mean you want to sing with her?”

“In a way, yes. I want to be a part of her song. I want to make her happy.”

“Does she make you happy?”

“She does. She makes me happier than anyone I know.”

“Then you should tell her that.”

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “I will. I promise.”

Your daughter nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Okay,” she said, her voice serious. “But if you make her sad, I’ll tell you off. And I’ll tell everyone.”

Woozi smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. “Deal,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity.

He looked at your daughter, her small face filled with a quiet determination, and he felt a surge of affection, a deep appreciation for her unwavering loyalty. He knew that he had gained not just your trust, but also the trust of your fierce little protector. And he vowed, silently, to be worthy of that trust, to cherish and protect you both with all his heart.

Two years had woven a tapestry of shared moments, the quiet understanding between you and Woozi blossoming into a deep affection. However, the outside world wasn't always kind. The growing closeness between you, a single mother, and Woozi, a respected producer, drew unwanted attention.

Coworkers, fueled by envy and a lack of understanding, whispered behind your back, their words laced with venom. "She's just using him," one would sneer, their voice dripping with malice. "Single moms always have an agenda."

"It's disgusting," another would chime in, their tone laced with disgust. "She's practically throwing herself at him. And he's so blind."

"I heard she leaves her kid with anyone, just to be with him," a third would add, embellishing the lies with a cruel twist. "No wonder she gets so much time off, she's got him wrapped around her finger."

"She's probably just a gold digger," someone would say. "Trying to get a rich man to pay for everything."

"It's so unprofessional. And in the company, too! What a mess."

Woozi overheard these conversations, his usually calm demeanor shattering into icy rage. He heard the cruel remarks, the snide insinuations, and the blatant attempts to undermine your reputation. His eyes, usually warm and gentle, turned cold and hard, his jaw clenched. His voice, usually soft and melodic, became a low, dangerous growl, barely audible. He wanted to confront them, to unleash his fury, but he knew it would only escalate the situation and draw more unwanted attention to you, and fuel the fire they were trying to start. Instead, he acted in the shadows, his methods subtle but effective.

Late one night, an anonymous account on a popular social media platform posted a detailed account of workplace bullying at HYBE. The post described a dedicated employee, a single mother, being subjected to cruel gossip and unfair treatment. It didn’t name names, but the details were specific enough to raise alarm, without being easily traced back. "This employee is constantly being verbally attacked by other employees, who spread lies about her personal life, and her work ethics. They call her names, and make her feel like she is less than human. The company is doing nothing about it. This needs to stop."

The post went viral, sparking outrage and a wave of public support for the unnamed employee. HYBE, facing a potential PR disaster, launched an internal investigation. Within days, several employees were quietly dismissed, their actions deemed unacceptable.

The whispers and rumors ceased. The atmosphere in the studio shifted, replaced by a wary respect. You noticed the change, the sudden shift in the way your coworkers treated you, but you remained unaware of Woozi’s involvement.

One evening, as you and Woozi relaxed on your couch, you scrolled through the social media feed, your eyes wide with disbelief. “Can you believe this?” you exclaimed, showing him the viral post. “Someone actually stood up for this person. It’s amazing!”

Woozi smiled, a quiet, knowing smile that warmed his eyes. “It is,” he agreed, his voice soft.

“I’m so glad someone did this,” you continued, your voice filled with gratitude. “It gives me hope that people still care. And that companies will do something about it.”

Woozi’s smile widened, a flicker of pride in his eyes. He watched you, your face glowing with relief and appreciation, and he felt a surge of satisfaction. He had protected you, silenced your tormentors, and given you a sense of hope, all without you knowing his involvement. The secret made him happy, because he knew he was the reason for your peace, and he was the one that made your life better.

Two years. Two years of stolen glances, of soft touches, of lingering stares that held unspoken promises. Two years of Woozi’s unwavering support, his quiet strength a constant anchor in your life. Two years of him seamlessly weaving himself into your world, into the intricate tapestry of your family, his presence as natural and essential as the air you breathed.

On your birthday, he arrived, not with the usual studio-related gift, but with a bouquet of your favorite flowers, their delicate petals mirroring the fragile hope that bloomed in your heart. Your daughter, ever his tiny accomplice, clung to his leg, her eyes sparkling with excitement. He pulled you aside, his expression serious, his eyes holding a depth of emotion that made your breath catch in your throat.

“I have something to say,” he began, his voice low and deliberate, the words hanging in the air like a whispered secret.

You raised an eyebrow, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “What, you secretly hate me?” you teased, trying to deflect the intensity of the moment with a touch of humor.

He scoffed, a soft smile playing on his lips. “No, idiot,” he retorted, his voice laced with affection.

Then, in one breath, he laid his heart bare, his words raw and sincere. “I love you.”

The world seemed to tilt on its axis, the sounds around you fading into a distant hum. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the unspoken feelings that had been simmering beneath the surface for so long. “Woozi…” you began, your voice barely a whisper, your mind reeling with the weight of his confession.

“I love your daughter too,” he added, his voice filled with a quiet certainty. “I think she loves me more than you do,” he teased, trying to lighten the heavy atmosphere, but his eyes held a sincerity that made your heart ache.

Before you could process the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you, a little voice, clear and unwavering, cut through the tension. “KISS MAMA, ZI!” your daughter yelled, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. You wanted the earth to swallow you whole, to erase the awkwardness of the moment. But then, warm fingers gently tilted your chin up, his touch sending a shiver down your spine.

Woozi’s eyes, usually sharp and focused, softened, their depths filled with a tenderness that made your breath catch in your throat. “I love you,” he whispered again, his voice thick with emotion, his gaze unwavering. “And I want you. Both of you. I want to be a part of your lives, to build a future with you, to cherish and protect you both.”

The vulnerability in his voice, the raw sincerity in his eyes, shattered the walls you had built around your heart. He wasn’t offering a fleeting romance, a casual fling. He was offering a forever, a commitment to you and your daughter, a promise to be a constant in your lives.

Then, finally, he closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken feelings, of shared moments, of a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.

Your daughter squealed, a mixture of delight and playful disgust. “EWWW.”

Woozi chuckled against your lips, his laughter warm and comforting. He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, his expression filled with a quiet joy.

And in that moment, amidst the chaos of your daughter’s playful protests and the lingering scent of your birthday flowers, you felt a sense of peace, a sense of belonging that you hadn’t felt in a long, long time. You felt home. You felt loved. And you knew, with a certainty that warmed you from the inside out, that this was the beginning of something beautiful, a love story written in the quiet moments of shared laughter and unwavering support.

A year later, the quiet rhythm of your little home was a symphony of love and laughter. The once empty spaces were now filled with the warmth of shared meals, the gentle hum of bedtime stories, and the soft glow of family movie nights. Woozi, no longer just "Zizi," but a cherished member of your little family, tucked Munchkin into bed, his large hands gently smoothing the soft blanket around her small frame.

She sleepily grabbed his hand, her eyelids fluttering closed, her voice a soft whisper. “Love you, Zizi.”

His heart melted, a warmth spreading through his chest like a gentle sunrise. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his voice thick with affection. “Love you too, Munchkin.”

He lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on her peaceful face, a silent promise to protect her dreams, to chase away the shadows that lingered in the corners of her young mind. He adjusted the nightlight, ensuring its soft glow illuminated the room, a beacon of comfort in the darkness.

You leaned against the doorframe, a soft smile gracing your lips, your heart overflowing with a love so profound it made your eyes sting with unshed tears. The scene before you, the gentle tenderness between Woozi and your daughter, was a testament to the love you had built together, a love that had blossomed amidst the chaos of your lives.

When Woozi turned, his eyes met yours, a silent conversation passing between you. He walked towards you, his footsteps soft on the carpet, his gaze unwavering. You pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, your lips lingering for a moment, a silent expression of your gratitude, your affection, your unwavering love.

“Love you too,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, the words a gentle caress against his skin.

He pulled you both close, his arms wrapping around you in a warm embrace, his body a comforting presence against yours. The three of you stood there, a small, perfect circle of love, bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight.

In the quiet of your little home, the silence was filled with unspoken words, with the gentle rhythm of shared breaths, with the comforting weight of love. Woozi finally felt at peace, his heart overflowing with a contentment he had never known before. He had found his place, his family, his home.

He thought of the past, the lonely nights spent in the studio, the carefully constructed walls he had built around his heart. He thought of you, your strength, your resilience, the way you had built a world for yourself and your daughter, a world filled with love and laughter.

And he realized, with a certainty that warmed him from the inside out, that he had found more than just a love story. He had found a family, a haven, a place where he belonged. He had found a symphony of love, a melody that resonated deep within his soul, a song that he would cherish for the rest of his life. And as he held you both close, he knew that he was finally home.

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devildomwriter · 3 days ago

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Fun Facts 1041-1050

• MC once cosplayed as Azuki-Tan while Leviathan cosplayed as Ruri-Chan

• After inviting his brothers to the Devildom Symphony Orchestra Lucifer is pleased they are not opposed to the occasional “family outing” when they all agree to come

• When Luke saved people in trouble Mephistopheles was quick to immediately praise him and thought Luke’s humility was very angelic

• On more than one occasion a curse Satan meant for Lucifer has ended up cursing MC instead.

• Mammon sometimes sends MC random numbers to choose from and whatever they pick he uses in bets

• A shelf in the RAD library is dedicated entirely to floating books. Satan wonders if they were to be released all at once, which would float highest.

• MC sometimes cooks dinner for Belphegor when he sleeps past dinner and misses it.

• Barbatos made a document for MC detailing leaf ghosts to help them find one of the elusive creatures.

• Solomon is grateful when MC reminds him of the little things like to put his clothes in the wash or to dry his hair.

• When a movie Satan and MC made together became popular Satan was a little peeved that now everyone would see MC’s smile and not just him.

1031-1040 •

#obey me shall we date #obey me fun facts #obey me fun fact #obey me lucifer #obey me ruri chan #obey me luke #obey me mephistopheles #obey me satan #obey me mammon #obey me belphegor #obey me barbatos #obey me solomon

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cumtastiics · 3 months ago

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EMPTY PROMISES / ch.1

yan batfam. elements of neglect.

join my discord server!!! pls 🙏 here

present time.

You sat on your bed, curled up, while the old vinyl player in the corner of your room screeched from overuse. Not that you noticed.

You wiped your watery eyes, brushing away the tears that streamed down your face, your face hurting from how much you rubbed at it.

The scratchy melody echoed your inner turmoil, a symphony of loneliness and despair. Your gaze drifted to the window, where raindrops raced down the glass, mirroring the tears on your cheeks. Outside, the world moved on, oblivious to the storm raging within your four walls.

Your room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a cage. Faded posters clung to the walls, their edges curling inward as if trying to escape. Dust motes danced in the pale light filtering through threadbare curtains, settling on untouched books and long-forgotten toys. The air hung heavy with the scent of stale dreams and unspoken words.

Downstairs, muffled voices and clattering dishes signaled another family dinner you weren't invited to join. Not that they'd notice your absence. You were a ghost in your own home.

You still remember the first few days you arrived at the manor- it always brought a bitter smile to your face.

You traced the outline of a bat embroidered on your pillowcase, a symbol that should have united you with your family. Instead, it felt like a brand, marking you as an outsider. The emblem mocked you, its wings spread wide as if to fly away, while you were left behind.

Bruce, with his brooding silence and rare, fleeting smiles, was like the manor itself - imposing, full of secrets, and impossible to truly know. Dick was the golden child, the first Robin. Even then, the rest of them were just as loved and cherished. Yet, you weren't.

You hated it.

02/04/20XX, 7 years prior.

“Can I call you father too?”

The words were barely a whisper, but in the silence that followed, they rang louder than any explosion. The table was still, the air thick with an uneasy tension. The question lingered, unanswered, hanging between you and the man who had taken you in.

Bruce didn’t respond right away. His eyes flickered up, only for a moment, and then he returned to his dinner, the clink of his fork on the plate harsh against the silence. His expression never changed. He never looked at you the way he looked at them, the way he looked at Dick, or even Damian—no, not even close. His face was stone, unreadable, like it always was. The walls around him were so thick, you couldn’t even begin to imagine what was behind them. But you had tried. You tried for so long to break through, to get him to see you, to accept you in a way that felt real.

But that was never going to happen.

His voice, when it came, was flat, distant. “Just keep it as Mr. Wayne. It'll be easier that way for both of us.”

Your heart sank, and you quickly looked down, pretending to focus on your own food as if it could distract you from the heavy weight now pressing down on your chest. The others sat quietly, as though this was nothing new. As if this was just the way things were. You weren’t one of them—not really.

Damian, seated at the opposite end of the table, didn’t even glance in your direction. His eyes were fixed firmly on his plate, his posture perfect as always. The others had their places at this table. They had earned their places. But you? You were just a guest. A shadow. An afterthought.

Dick was the first Robin, the one who had earned Bruce’s affection through years of dedication, of trust. You’d always admired him, but it was hard not to resent the way Bruce looked at him—like he was the perfect son, the one who could do no wrong. You weren’t that. You were nothing like that.

There was an emptiness to the way things were, a hollow space at the table that you couldn’t fill no matter how hard you tried. The seat next to Dick wasn’t yours. The place next to Damian wasn’t yours. The seat next to Bruce? That one? That seat would always remain empty for you, no matter how many times you pulled your chair up to it, no matter how many meals you sat through, watching them laugh, watching them talk, watching them be a family.

And you, you were just a stranger in their midst.

You didn’t belong here. You never had. The truth of it stung more than you cared to admit.

The room was too quiet. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioning and the clink of utensils against plates, nothing to fill the silence that had settled around you like a thick fog. You didn’t speak again. What was the point? You had already asked the question. You already knew the answer.

"May I excuse myself?" You whispered, your voice barely audible. You felt yourself about to cry, and you couldn't dare to cry in front of them. You'd be too... Weak.

"You may."

You got up, your nails digging into your palms, trying desperately not to cry. Despite that, you were looking down, knowing well looking up would make it harder for the tears to fall.

You pushed in your chair, walking away. You felt the bile rising in your throat, but you couldn't do anything but walk. You hated them all, they were all stupid, undeserving-

"Master (____)?" Alfred's voice cut in. He was the only one who cared, but sometimes you still wondered if he really did care. His tone was gentle, but there was something else beneath it-concern, maybe, or pity. You didn't know which one was worse.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stand straighter before turning to face him. "Yes, Alfred?"

His eyes, always so knowing, studied you carefully. He didn't need to say anything to make you feel seen, exposed. It was unbearable.

"You hardly touched your meal," he said, nodding toward the barely eaten plate left behind. "Shall I prepare something for later?"

You shook your head. "I'm not hungry."

Alfred didn't press, though you could tell he wanted to. Instead, he simply gave a small nod, stepping aside as if to grant you passage. You took it, walking past him, feeling the weight of the conversation you had just left behind pressing harder on your chest with each step.

The manor was too big. Too cold. Too empty.

Even with all the people in it, all the noise they made, it was hollow. And you... You were just another ghost wandering its halls, unseen and unheard.

You climbed the stairs quickly, your vision blurring as you made your way to your room. The second the door shut behind you, the dam broke. You pressed your back against the wood, sliding down until you were curled up on the floor, your arms wrapping tightly around yourself as silent sobs wracked your body.

Why did you even try? Why did you keep hoping for something that was never going to happen?

Your fingers traced the hem of your sleeve, gripping onto the fabric as if it could ground you, as if it could hold you together when everything else was falling apart. But it couldn't. Nothing could.

You wiped your face roughly, sniffling as you dragged yourself up and onto your bed. Your hands found your pillow, clutching it tightly as you buried your face into it, muffling the sound of your cries. It was pathetic. You were pathetic.

You weren't special in any sort of way like the rest of them, you can admit that. But that doesn't mean they have the right to treat you like you're not even family... Right?

present day, 2 hours prior.

"Alfred," you called while making cookies. "Did you ask... him yet?"

"Yes, I have spoken with your father. He-" Alfred paused for a moment, debating whether he should continue speaking. "He said he was busy and told me we can discuss it later," because the topic was about you. Not because he was busy. Alfred didn't mention that to you though.

"How can I move out then?" You sighed, rubbing your temple despite the flour on your hands. "He knows I'm still a minor, I can't move out without him signing my documents."

You had finished high school two years early with some program. It was to get some acknowledgement in your own house, but you never got that.

Alfred’s expression remained composed, but you saw the way his fingers twitched at your words. He wanted to say something comforting, something that might make you feel less invisible. But there was nothing left to sugarcoat.

“I understand,” he finally said, carefully measuring his words. “However, Master Bruce has made it clear that this conversation is not his priority.”

You let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head as you shaped the dough with unnecessary force. “Of course it isn’t. Nothing about me ever is.”

You knew it was immature to have so much hate towards people who you never spoke with, but that exactly was the problem.

They never spoke with you, and you never knew when they would.

a/n: sorry this was so short! was rushing to get it out n barely edited

taglist: @1mawh0re @amber-content @foggyv-oid @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @ghostdoodlen @luxuryz3 @soriansick

anyone else who asked to be on the taglist isn't tagable.

#yandere #yandere x reader #tw yandere #yandere x darling #yandere x you #yandere male #yandere x y/n #male yandere #angst #yandere platonic #platonic x reader #platonic yandere #yandere batboys #yandere batman #batboys #batfamily #batman #batfam #i am cumtastic

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rafesplaymate · 7 months ago

Text

The Other Woman

Rafe Cameron x Stripper!Reader

݁༉‧₊˚. navigation. ݁༉‧₊˚. masterlist.

warnings: angst. cheating (not on reader). substance use. descriptions of smut. dark themes / adult content.

a/n: there will be no second part

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

“The other woman has time to manicure her nails

The other woman is perfect where her rival fails.”

Her arms feel like the sun on a breezy day. Shining on him and encasing him in warmth while the cool winds prickle at his skin. Her scent like a pheromone that was designed solely to attract him. Her skin like expensive silk under his fingertips, delicate and smooth. Her lips felt like satin, brushing and sponging against his skin, lips and body in a way that was entirely addictive. She was entirely addictive; she was his haven. The luxury between her legs only he had access too. Her arousal was a flavor that could never be matched and that he yearned for when she wasn’t on his tongue. Slipping inside her felt like he had a taste of heaven, something he was entirely dedicated to worshipping. She was a deity he would willingly sacrifice his soul and life to.

“Baby… she keeps calling you.” Whispered out that voice that was like a sweet symphony to his ears and calmed down the ocean of complex emotions that dwelled in his heart. Rafe groaned in disappointment at his moment of peace being interrupted once more, burying his face deeper in the softness of her tummy while her manicured nails grazed his scalp. Feeling the soft pricks of hair under her smooth finger tips, touching him with a delicacy only she knew how to have. He sighed once more before bringing his head up and reaching a hand over to the incessant buzzing next to them in her satin sheets. Watching as Sofia’s contact showed for the 5th time that hour.

Rafe can’t exactly blame her, he promised her a nice dinner. Yet, he got to caught up in the girl who captivated his entire being and the one whose inner legs he finds solace in every night or day he can. Just seeing her glimmering smile or seductive gaze makes his knees buckle. He’s entirely fascinated by her, like a diamond in the rough of people who inhabit the island they live on. She’s unlike anything or anyone he’s ever known, the way she maneuvers her body on stage and glimmers under the club lights. The way he was entirely bewitched by the siren she was. He won’t ever forget the night Topper and Kelce dragged him out to a club he had no interest in being at. Small, yet no conviction in his claims of, ‘I have a girl, bro.’ He’s so entirely grateful he went. Topper’s convincing of, ‘what she doesn’t know won’t kill her, man. Trust there’s this girl there that will drive you insane. She’s got me and Kelce hooked.’ To which Rafe gave a small eye roll and scoff of, ‘any girl with her tits out has your attention.’ Topper only laughed and Kelce along with him before biting back a, ‘but hers are premium.’ As they all toppled into his truck.

That night was fate, and he knew that any woman he met or has yet to meet will pale in comparison to the goddess who’s enthralled his being and keeps him stuck in a perpetual state of desire for her and her alone. The moment he saw her glide across stage, in nothing but glimmering lingerie and wild hair. Her eyes packed on with glitter and pretty lips glossed so enticingly. Her body the kind of thing men carve into stone to keep as a recollection for life. The way she slithered across stage with her eyes set on him and only him. Singling him out while the cheers and hoots of his friends, other club goers and patrons faded into the background. Both of them fascinated with one another. The way she slung herself across his lap with her freed tits pressing into him and her intoxicating perfume swirling around him like an aphrodisiac.

“The other woman enchants her clothes with French perfume.”

He paid for a lap dance that very night and let her help him escape in the private room under glaring, neon pink lights. Running his hands over every inch of her beautiful body as scraped her long nails against his skin and moved sensually across him. That night sealed their fate, and it didn’t take much convincing to let him take her home to Tannyhill. Making out in the back of Topper’s truck while him and Kelce smirked as they watched through the rear-view mirror. Praising their friend and promising to seal their lips when they were dropped off. That night y/n and Rafe brought their bodies and souls together, all night long. Sweat sticking them together as her inner thighs dripped with their mixed arousal. Their lips not leaving any inch of each other‘s bodies undiscovered. He marked her that night with his possession and allowed her to rake her nails down his strong back, calculating in his mind how he’d hide it from Sofia.

After that night any thought of another woman aside from the one under him was gone, his girlfriend included. The unsaid energy bringing their souls together as if they were lovers destined to meet. He licked and snorted lines off her body as he rubbed the powdery substance against her gums. Pouring champagne on her as he licked it up and let it soak his sheets right next to her arousal. She was like an added substance he was quickly growing addicted to and he knew this was an addiction that would never end. He took her apart over the balcony under the stars of the night sky as she whined and whimpered into the warm air. He was king and she would be queen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

Now months later their affair is still going strong, he more often than not finds himself entangled in her at her penthouse he put her into. Vowing to move her into his mansion next. He’s yet find a way to end things with Sofia, he knows y/n is the one he wants to settle with. He wants everything with her. Aside from the passion that connects them physically it’s the understanding of their minds that really links them together. She understands him, she loves him in all his dark glory. Allowing him to be himself without feeling the need to try and fix him. Her understands her, in all her shady grandeur. They’re just as fucked up as one another; she’s not ashamed of who he truly is. She doesn’t keep him from changing either, she grows alongside him as the learn to love one another beautifully.

Rafe tells her about his dad, the pogues, even the yearning he has to reconcile with his sister. He cries to her and lets her hold him as he sobs into her naked chest, feeling her kiss his tears away. She always whispers soft, ‘let it out, baby. it’s okay, I’m here.’ Consoling him with gentle caresses and kisses. He feels guilt, guilt for keeping her in the shadows of secrecy. Yet, he’s not ready for the universe they’ve built for themselves to come to an end. He doesn’t want to share her with the world, he’s selfish and wants her all to himself. He keeps her locked away in the luxurious penthouse he’s granted her and has even taken her out of the club by providing for her. She’s his hidden gem, he knows it hurts her. It hurts him too.

He finds it difficult to end things with Sofia. Her softness and kindness to him never forgotten. He’s still fond of the girl who was there for him when no one else was. Who listened to him cry and his grieving words as he spread his father’s ashes into the ocean. Sofia is familiar, she’s routine. She’s comfortable in a different way and he doesn’t want to let it go. He knows he deeply adores y/n, he loves her with every fiber of his being. But he loved Sofia first, she’ll always have a place in his heart for the kindness and love she granted him when he needed it most. That’s why he leaves y/n every morning to go back to her. He knows it’s cowardly; he knows it’s completely selfish. He can see the tears falling from her closed eyes as she pretends to be asleep while he softly walks around the bedroom as to not wake her when he leaves in the mornings. He always knows she’s awake. Especially when he presses a kiss to her forehead as he softly strokes her hair. Promising with a whisper to her skin that he’ll be back and that he loves her. He’ll always go back for her, he’ll always go back to her.

When he greets Sofia, she looks at him with those pretty doe eyes that are so different yet just as beautiful as the ones he’s grown accustomed to love. Natural lashes in comparison to y/n’s pretty extensions he pays for. They’re both so beautiful, yet so different to him. Especially in the way they hold his gaze. When he kisses Sofia it’s not quite as intoxicating, yet he likes it nonetheless. Her scent not as addictive but he still finds himself burying his nose into her neck as he hugs her. While Sofia is all earthly beauty, y/n is pure glamour. Sofia is soft, meek, not a touch of makeup kisses her pretty face. Whereas y/n is more resilient, durable and she has to be in the line of work she succumbed to. With the way of life she lived. Her gorgeous face accentuated by flawlessly done makeup. He doesn’t think she needs it, but he loves it nonetheless. Sofia’s nails are always blunt and rarely polished, y/n’s nails always have a nicely perfected manicure. Sofia loves sandals and sneakers, y/n loves wedges and heels. Sofia’s lips always moisturized with chapstick, y/n lips always glimmering with gloss. He likes how different they are from their personalities to their styles. They’re like day and night. Polar opposites so beautiful in their own right. He’s a selfish, selfish man. He knows one day he’ll have to choose, but for now….he holds both hearts in the palm of his hand. Only one of them is feeling the stabbing pain of abandonment and pining the other has the pleasure of not being subjected too. He knows it, yet he can’t help it. Sofia is pure routine, y/n is his passion. Being with her is like being inebriated. Like an adrenaline rush he always craves, that he loves. He lives for it.

“And when her old man comes to call

He finds her waiting like a lonesome queen.

‘Cause to be by her side

It's such a change from old routine.”

Y/n waits, she always will. She knows he’ll be back. She’s begged him to stay, but he never does. Just a quick promise of his awaited return as his fully clothed body steps to her naked one which is kneeling in the satin sheets. A representation of the vulnerability she’s subjected herself to just for his approval. Her long lashes clumped with tears as her chin wobbles. He thinks she looks so beautiful like this; the dark part of him liking the way she longs and whines for him. He always gives her chin a quick pinch as he pulls away from their kiss and steps out of the bedroom. Y/n always falls back into the sheets as the tears that watered in her lash line fall down her smooth cheeks. Listening to his footsteps farthering and ultimately the front door closing shut as he leaves her once more.

She knows why, she knows what she is. A secret, a mistress. His side girl. She can’t help it; the desire she has for him overcoming her self worth and respect for his girlfriend. She feels the grief that fills her body every time he leaves, only to disappear every time he returns. She can’t bring herself to end it. Can’t bring herself to leave him alone, or give him an ultimatum that it’s me or her. She knows it’s pathetic, yet she can’t bring that thought to overcome the undying love she’s developed for him. So she does as he wants, she waits for him. She always will. When her body lays back down, and she’s sure he’s gone. Only then is when she lets the overwhelming hurt leave her body in sobs of pure anguish as she lets sleep overtake her body. Succumbing to the fatigue of a heart that is continually broken.

“The other woman will always cry herself to sleep

The other woman will never have his love to keep.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁༉‧₊˚.

a/n: was feeling angsty tn ugh. i hope you all enjoy, pls let me know your thoughts! muah!

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wosov · 11 days ago

Text

Not tired, just done

word count - 3k

trigger warnings - very poor mental health, autistic burnout, self harm mention, suicide attempt - do not read if you will be triggered -prioritise your own mental health please-

summary - you are a young breakthrough star for both Arsenal and the Lionesses but nobody truly knows how far your demons go.

______________________________________________________________

The roar of the crowd was a symphony you had learned to conduct. Each cheer, each groan and each drumming beat of expectation. You used it, you channelled it and turned it into fuel that spurred you on in big games. At eighteen, you were already a force to be reckoned with, a standout academy player and rising star within the Arsenal women's first team and a breakthrough player in the Lionesses squad.

But behind the fierce exterior, fancy footwork and ability to break down plays in seconds was a struggling teenager. For years you had built a mask, a personality that would see yourself protected from hurtful comments or judgemental looks. Your parents had been the first people to make her realise that the world is unkind to people who are perhaps different to the norm. After you were told to leave your childhood home after your diagnosis of autism and adhd.

The exterior everybody else sees is a carefully constructed algorithm of observed behaviours, a constant calculation of what to say, how to react and ways to blend in. The only person who truly understood who you were, was the psychologist employed by Arsenal football club. Dr Greene was her name and she had known you for just over 3 years, when you first made the transition from academy to professional football.

The routines were the anchors in your life. Everyday was meticulously planned; wake up at 06:00 and make a protein shake (same bottle every time) then go for a light jog - same route, past the park every time. Back home for breakfast using the same oat milk with cereal to then get in the car with your pre-packed training bag to drive to training. Park in the same spot and walk through the doors for exactly 08:00 to enjoy some quiet time before the rest of the team walk through the doors ready for training at exactly 09:30.

The pressure of expectation, the relentless media scrutiny nitpicking every aspect of you apart. It was all becoming too overwhelming and lately the familiar comfort of your routine had begun to feel less like an anchor and more like a heavy weight. A weight that dragged you below the surface and drowned you.

You weren't quite sure when you had actually started to spiral. The self harm, a dark secret you have battled since your early teens had started to resurface. What had started out as pinches to your arms and thighs had turned into cuts. Strategically placed so as to not arouse suspicion. And your teammates were none the wiser.

You couldn’t really blame them you supposed. Afterall, you had dedicated your life to blending into the background, to being a figment of the crowd and you were good at it. You gave the odd smile at your teammates' jokes and spoke when you were spoken too. But you never started a conversation yourself unless it was about football tactics or strategies.

However there was one teammate who managed to see more than the others.

Beth had been there learning how to coach in the academy when you were still playing there. She was the one who brought your name up with Jonas and set the ball rolling for you to come up into the first team. She saw the talent in you and knew you were gonna go far.

The beginning of the end started on a regular monday. You had woken up with the usual weight crushing your chest but for some reason you couldn’t get out of bed.

You reached for your phone and invented a fake illness to buy yourself a few days with your manager. But that was it, no other messages to any of your teammates. You didn’t really feel the need to, which is why you were shocked when you received a message from Beth asking how you were.

You were a little confused, but nevertheless you replied. Brief but concise, saying you just needed some time to rest and get better, which seemed to settle Beth’s mind a bit.

She was the one teammate who was overly concerned when you suddenly broke your routine. You hadn’t a day off for the first time since coming up into the senior team and maybe since playing in the academy (but Beth couldn’t be absolutely certain about that). What made Beth even more worried was the lack of messages from you. Knowing you were the type of person who would stress about being late and missing the first five minutes of practice.

“She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You are being way too dramatic” Lia joked. After noticing Beth staring at her phone whilst chewing her nails.

“Yeah or she is hungover and being sneaky about it! She is 18 afterall.” Kyra rebutted back trying to put Beth’s mind at ease.

It wasn't until Dr Greene came looking for you after you had missed your weekly session on Thursday morning. It was something so out of character for you that it had Dr Greene extremely worried for your wellbeing. Especially when she found out you had been missing from training due to ‘potentially eating something gone off’ according to the message Jonas received.

So worried that she headed to the gym whilst the rest of the team was in there stretching and asked for a word. It was as if by some good luck that on her way there she found Leah, Beth and Kim walking down the corridor.

Dr Greene, bound by confidentiality, couldn't reveal much but the tremor in her voice spoke volumes. “I think someone should check on her… Just in case.”

Panic instantly surged through Beth, knowing she should have trusted her gut feeling and when Leah was being given her address by Dr Greene, Beth was already halfway to Kim’s car, running as if her life depended on it, or yours.

Pulling up to your house was weird. It made Leah, Beth and Kim realise that they had never actually been there. You had never invited the team around for bonding nights nor just a quiet dinner.

Beth was the first one out of the door and the first one to reach your front door. Hammering her fists on it as if to open it. Kim and Leah soon followed and Kim soon got to work searching for a spare key.

Leah was the first to shove Beth out of the way and start kicking the door down. On any other day it may have been seen as dramatic but the therapists words were on repeat in all of their heads, and within 3 hard kicks your front door was off its hinges.

Your house was quiet, eerily quiet as the three players made their way through your living room. Your living room curtains were drawn and everything was meticulously tidied away, likened to a showroom. Your name was shouted out by all three women as they split up to cover ground quickly. It was Kim who found your letter. The beautifully tragic letter that was sure to break the heart of anyone who read it. But what stunned Kim the most is the way you had addressed it. There was no name, nobody you wanted it to go to, just written on the front on the envelope was ‘To whomever it concerns’.

That put the fear of god into Kim as she screamed for Leah and Beth to join her.

They found you in the bathroom, eyes vacant, skin pale and an empty bottle of pills on the side to confirm their worst fears. Leah was the first person to run to you as Kim rang the ambulance. Meanwhile Beth was stood, frozen in shock.

The ambulance arrived quickly, sirens shattering the quiet atmosphere of your suburban neighbourhood and it was quickly confirmed that it was too late. Too late for any hopes of saving you. You were gone.

The news spread like wildfire through the team and staff first. Nobody was left unscathed by the news of your death and left the team in particularly grieving in different ways.

Leah, for example, used self reflection a lot and sometimes after training she would sit and stare at your old spot in the changing room, particularly at the peg where your football kit used to hang. She would think about the person you would’ve grown up to be, the footballing accolades you would’ve achieved.

Kim became a mother of sorts, helping everyone else out and organising rotas for everyone to have multiple sessions a week with a therapist. She organised for there to be a memorial garden for you at the training ground. A quiet place of reflection staff and players alike could go to, to sit, remember and talk about you.

Beth was more willing to bury her head in the sand and pretend everything was fine. Like you weren’t dead, like you were just on holiday and coming back soon. She kept everything you had left at the training centre in the place you left it. Down to your favourite water bottle.

It hit the newspapers and social media next, and soon posts of sorrow were made online. The outpouring of love, the memorial messages and the candlelit vigils outside the Emirates.

The interviews with your former coaches, tear-streaked fans in the stands, the silence held before kickoff and black armbands at the next match all held the same message. It was just too late.

The funeral was a sorrowful affair. The streets were lined with faithful football supporters and fans of yours.

Afterall, the news of your death had travelled far and fast. It had made front pages across the UK and appeared in foreign headlines as well. “England’s Star Girl Dies at 18,” read one tabloid. “Arsenal Prodigy Found Dead in Tragic Circumstances,” another. Journalists scrambled to piece together who she was, to trace the arc of your career, and speculate on the causes behind the tragedy. Everyone wanted a piece of the story — not because they knew you, but because it sold.

There were some young girls clutched footballs and photos, their wide eyes betraying confusion, as if trying to make sense of the fact that you were no more. As the team pulled up to the church where your service was being held, Beth couldn’t help but admire just how many people had come out to pay their respects. But the thing that caught her eye the most was the fact that there were several people clinging football shirts in one hand and a permanent marker in the other as if to demand a signature like they were at a football match.

For a week or two, you were the talk of the town. You were everywhere,

Social media was flooded with tributes: edits of your goals and special moments from both club and country, photos of you celebrating in red and white, quotes pulled from post-match interviews and promotional campaigns. Hashtags trended. Influencers posted about mental health. The club released a carefully-worded statement, followed by a sombre montage that aired before kickoff at the next match. There was a minute’s silence. A black armband. A tweet from the FA.

But after a few weeks of apparent mourning online, things had gone back to normal. The posts dried up. The headlines turned to new transfers, league standings, the next rising star. Your name began to fade from the trending list, pushed down by the algorithm’s ever-churning hunger for fresh content. The digital mourning soon became archived, another “memory” in people’s feeds.

But for those who knew you personally, nothing had returned to normal. And in truth, it probably never would.

Not for Dr Greene, who couldn’t stop replaying every session, every sign she might have missed.

Not for Kim, who had read the letter more times than she could count, searching for something she could have done differently.

Not for Leah who still couldn’t drive past your street without feeling sick.

Not for Beth, who believed deep down she truly could have saved you.

And not for the empty chair in the dressing room. The peg that remained untouched. The silence that followed every mention of your name.

In the days following the funeral, the team returned to training, as beyond your death the football season was still continuing, but something fundamental had shifted. The energy was fractured. Conversations were shorter, silences heavier, and your absence felt like a gaping wound no one could stitch shut.

Although Kim, bless her heart, would try. She took it upon herself to become the glue of the team. She organised group check-ins on Wednesdays — nothing mandatory, just space. A quiet room in the training centre with tea, a selection of biscuits and a stack of blank cards where players could write memories or just sit in silence. Some days it was full. Other times, it was just her.

As well as that, she also arranged for the club psychologist to offer more one-on-one sessions, and created rotas for the players to sign up. She sent check-in texts. She stayed late to talk, to listen, to hold space. If someone cried during a drill, she didn’t flinch. If someone snapped during a meeting, she absorbed it, as if to stop the grief from spreading.

Beth, however, was the first to unravel.

At first, it was subtle, she stopped staying behind to joke in the changing room, and stopped replying in the group chat. Then came the silence. Cold, echoing silence when her teammates tried to check in. She couldn’t bring herself to look any of them in the eye. Because every time she did, all she could hear was that moment in the locker room — “She’s probably just come down with a cold or something. You’re being dramatic.”

The words haunted her. They followed her around like a persistent shadow.

The argument happened in the carpark after training, breaking through the quiet that usually followed after a session full of silent drills and strained conversations. Beth was already halfway to her car, keys clenched in her fist, jaw tight, when Leah called out.

“Beth, wait—can we talk?”

Beth stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “What’s there to talk about?”

“I just…” Leah took a few steps closer, her voice soft but urgent. “I want to be here for you.”

Beth let out a bitter laugh and finally turned. “Now you do?”

Leah flinched. “Beth—”

“No,” Beth cut her off, her voice rising. “You don’t get to be here now like that fixes anything. You don’t get to act like this is something we’re all getting through together. Because it’s not. She’s gone. And you—you—talked me out of checking on her when it could have made a difference.”

Leah’s eyes widened, but Beth kept going, her voice trembling with fury and guilt.

“I knew something was wrong. I felt it. She never missed training. Never took a day off. I told you something didn’t feel right, and you made me feel like I was being overbearing. Like I was just paranoid.”

“Beth…” Leah’s voice cracked.

“No,” Beth snapped. “I should’ve gone to her house the first day she called in sick. I should’ve trusted my gut. But I listened to you. To all of you. And now she’s dead.”

Leah stepped forward, desperate. “You think I don’t blame myself too? You think I don’t go over every conversation I ever had with her, every moment I brushed something off, laughed at the wrong time, stayed silent when I should’ve asked more?”

Beth’s expression didn’t soften. “You didn’t know her like I did.”

“I know I didn’t,” Leah said, her voice almost a whisper. “I didn’t see her the way you did. But I cared. God, Beth, I cared so much, and I didn’t show it in the right way. I know that. But don’t push me away because I made a mistake. We all did.”

Beth shook her head, eyes full of grief and rage. “It wasn’t just a mistake, Leah. It was her life. You all acted like I was being too intense, like I was smothering her. And now you want to sit with me in grief, like this is something we all share?”

She stepped back. “You don’t deserve to grieve for her the way I do.”

Leah froze. The words landed like a slap. Her throat tightened, but she didn’t walk away. She refused to leave another of her teammates and friends alone in their pain.

“Just let me be here,” Leah said, her voice hoarse. “Please. I wasn’t there for her. And I will regret that for the rest of my life. Don’t let me make the same mistake again with you.”

Beth’s eyes flickered. She wanted to scream again, to throw the guilt back in Leah’s face — but her chest just hurt. Everything just hurts.

“She died Le, she fucking died alone thinking nobody cared about her.” Beth managed to whisper out.

She didn’t say anything else. She just turned, opened her car door, and got in, and Leah stood there in the fading light. Staring at the empty space where your car used to be.

And for the first time in days, she let herself cry.

______________________________________________________________

Hope you guys enjoyed it!

sorry for the sudden hiatus, I just had a lot of stuff going on in my life but I am hoping to be back now and taking requests.

#woso imagine #woso x reader #leah williamson #wosov #arsenal wfc #lionesses #arsenal women #beth mead #kim little #lia walti #kyra cooney cross #original character #leah williamson x reader #beth mead x reader #kim little x reader #arsenal wfc x reader #lionesses x reader #lionesses imagine #arsenal women x reader

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z0mbiezbite · 6 months ago

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Modern Dedication (Draft)

Yandere Gotham x M!reader

Warning: these fanfic are gonna be for freaks by freaks. Also bad spelling and punctuation - this was posted for I can weed out anything unnecessary.

(Y/n) pulled a pack of Marlboros from inside his suit pocket. “Cigarette?”

A person was by his desk with a body of a battle axe and a cape that pools like a melted candle - Batman. chitty chitty bang bang, Batman. “The Joker, where is he?

(Y/n) struck the cigarette in his mouth, disinterested, “I’m not his keeper, babes.”

“A week before he escapes, the only outgoing mail he sends is addressed to you.” He said, and threw a stack of letters on (Y/n)’s desk - unintelligible and informal.

It was hardly evidence of anything. It only stressed that (Y/n) is one of the few who put up with the Joker’s insanity and Batman knew it. He had a sinking suspicion, Vengeance came for a different reason.

Quite foolishly, (Y/n) asked “Is a client not allowed to talk to their lawyer?” As his cigarette smoke blew over his shoulders like a locomotive.

"Your client is about to commit a crime. Legal confidentiality doesn’t protect you here.” Of course like all things that had to do with the Joker, the letters were incriminating.

Resigning himself, (Y/n) crossed his legs and pinched the bridge of his nose, “And you want me to...”

“Find him. He responds to you.” His voice held a slightly accusatory tone.

“Gross. Why’d you phrase it like that?”

“(Y/n).” Batman studied him with steal eyebrow only given to seasoned detectives. (Y/n) could practically feel Batman’s palpating anger.

Truthfully, (Y/n) didn’t find his particular reason a big deal, people die everyday whether from a stroke or strangulation from a clown. However, he knew Batman roughly cared and that was enough to throw a dog a bone.

“Alright, Alright.” (Y/n) held up a conciliatory palm. He reached for a pen in a cup on his desk and wrote laboriously on a note sheet; 50 W 33rd St. The ink was still wet and the hand writing, masculine.

He gave the note to Batman. “It’s a strip club” (Y/n) said “He goes there sometimes to blow off steam.”

(Y/n) unceremoniously tacked on, “You’ll like it there. They have big chested hard bodies that you can bury yourself in.”

Rather violently, Batman fisted his tuxedo in his hands. (Y/n) could hear his chair crackle underneath the weight. “You’re revolting. People are going to die.”

(Y/n) tried to animate his face in symphony. “Like that shit heel, Jason, did?”

That seemed to get him. Batman lunged his fist forward so hard and fast, (Y/n) felt his broad latex knuckles hit the back of his brain. His head dipped in a thunderbolt of pain with his broken nose and busted lip and a fury on his tongue,

“Fuck! You ass-“

(Y/n)’s frenzied sentence cut off jaggedly as Batman knuckled deep into his lapel once more and smashed their lips together in a ferocity that always seemed to always catch (Y/n) off guard.

Batman has always been restrained and aloof, a caution that comes with being vigilante. But now, from this close, (Y/n) could see the way Batman’s muscles worked, the flex of his shoulders - not out of shyness nor shame, but desire that only his skin could keep inside.

When they parted with hot and heavy breath, Batman, acutely missing (Y/n)’s cocaine tint tongue, said, “You owe it to me to find him.”

And, (Y/n), utterly dazed, licked his bloodied lip and said “You know how to keep a man wanting, bats.” then dipped his head in for another kiss.

The way Batman’s tongue lapped at the sliced skin of his bruised lip - (Y/n) knew he was a man possessed.

#batman #yandere #yandere batman #bruce wayne #yandere dc #yandere batfam #batfam #x male reader #male reader #x reader

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bullet-prooflove · 29 days ago

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Do Over Day: Andrew 'Pope' Cody x Reader (NSFW)

Tagging: @kmc1989 @fadeinsol

Companion piece to:

Crazy (NSFW) - Pope's always been crazy but now he's also a man in love.

Tomorrow - Pope's family always fuck up the good in his life.

Do Over Day starts with oral sex, with Pope’s face buried between your thighs because he’s determined to make up for the sins of the previous day. There has never been a man as dedicated to your pleasure as him, his pursuit of your ecstasy is relentless, a pathological need to ruin you for any other man.

His tongue traces delicate circles over your clit as his fingers press against that sweet spot, the one that makes you say his name in that pretty way of yours.

You don’t call him Pope, you call him Andy. It makes him feel normal, like he’s a man worthy of your time, your affection.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, grasping his dark curls and that sensation, it has him grinding his dick against the mattress. He chases your hitched breathes, those loud moans all the way to nirvana, until you’re coming all over his face and then he laps up that honey like it’s his birthday all over again, savouring every drop of your rapture.

He kisses a trail back up your body, through that khaki t-shirt of his you wore to bed last night until he settles between you thighs. Your hands smooth down his back, caressing the scars etched into his skin before delving underneath the elastic of his boxers.

“No.” He mumbles against your collarbone and you still your exploration because it’s too much sometimes, especially after everything he’s been through with prison. “I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh Andy.” You whisper, your lips brushing over his temple. “Are you still punishing yourself for yesterday?”

He doesn’t speak, instead he huffs as he buries his face into the curve of your throat, his body draped over you like a weighted blanket.

“You don’t have to do that with me.” You murmur into his ear, your teeth grazing over his ear lobe, tugging lightly and he arches against you as a wildfire erupts through his nerve endings. “You don’t have to pay penance or make up for anything, you just have to be you, the man I love.”

“Say it again.” He groans, his cock leaking at the sound of those words.

“I love you Andy.” You murmur as he shoves down his boxers, his dick springing free. “I love how fierce you are, how passionate, how you love with your whole heart…”

He enters you then and the noise you make, it’s like a goddamn symphony in his ears as he fills you with every inch of him. Your thighs lock around his waist, drawing him deeper and his mouth captures yours, swallowing down your moans as he begins to thrust. Every single stroke feels like heaven, every second inside you a peaceful bliss. Your hand seeks out his, fingers entwining and it’s that moment of connection that tips him over the edge, that thread of intimacy.

He comes with you, his release spilling inside you in white hot spurts as you climax all over his cock. You’re beautiful, in that moment you always are. All flushed skin and bright eyes, like he’s staring into paradise itself.

“You know I can’t say I love you.” He whispers, his thumb tracing over the apple of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. Those words, they’re too loaded to leave his mouth, they’re the ones he’s forced to say to his mother, unwillingly torn from his lips despite the damage she’s done to him, the monster she’s turned him into. “But I will tell you that you complete me, that there has never been a person on this earth that I have cared for more than you.”

“I know.” You promise him, his head comes to rest on your chest, his ear pressed against your heart. Your fingers comb lightly through his curls and he sighs contently, listening to the reassuring thud. “Trust me Andy I know.”

Love Pope? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#andrew cody #andrew cody x reader #andrew pope cody #pope #pope x reader #andy pope cody #andy pope cody x reader #animal kingdom #pope animal kingdom #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew pope cody x reader #shawn hatosy

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julietsf1 · 5 months ago

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Factory Reset - Franco Colapinto x Engineer!Reader

summary: After a major crash, Franco Colapinto is sent to the Williams factory to work alongside the engineers repairing his car. Tensions run high as he’s forced to confront the realities of their work and the sharp wit of performance engineer Y/N. What begins as a clash of worlds becomes an eye-opening experience for both. (6k words)

content: overconfident Franco; smart but salty Y/N; 3rd person POV; written by someone who doesn't know much about engineering lol it's the vibes that count innit

an: Sorry for disappearing cuties! I had some unexpected work obligations but will be uploading all my WIPs today! thanks for sticking around <3

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The tension in the Williams Racing debrief room was almost as palpable as the screeching halt Franco Colapinto’s car had come to in Las Vegas. The crash had been spectacularly disastrous, with debris scattered across the strip like confetti. And now, here he was, summoned not to a glamorous event or strategy meeting but to a mandatory visit to the Williams factory in Grove. Franco couldn’t remember the last time he felt this much dread walking into a building.

James Vowles stood at the head of the room, his usual calm demeanor carrying an edge of authority that demanded attention.

“We’re implementing a new initiative,” James began, his sharp eyes darting between Franco and the engineers gathered. “To strengthen team spirit and accountability. After a crash like the one in Vegas and our previous years with many crashes, it’s crucial to recognize that Formula 1 isn’t just about what happens on track. It’s also about the people who make it all possible behind the scenes.”

Franco leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. He wasn’t a fan of the lecture tone, but he wasn’t about to interrupt.

“This initiative,” James continued, “involves drivers spending time at the factory. Working alongside the team. Seeing firsthand the hours, the sweat, and the dedication it takes to repair the damages—damages that fall under the cost cap.”

There it was. The thinly veiled jab. Franco sat up straighter, his jaw tightening.

“I’m sure we all agree,” James said with a smile that wasn’t entirely warm, “this will benefit everyone. Franco, you’ll spend the next three days with us here in Grove.”

The engineers in the room exchanged glances. Some smirked, others looked indifferent, but one person in particular didn’t even bother to mask her displeasure. Y/N, one of the team’s senior performance engineers, leaned back in her chair, arms folded, with an expression that screamed, “Of course it’s him.”

Franco noticed her immediately. He’d seen her around the garage before but had never exchanged more than a brief nod. Now, as her steely eyes bore into him, he felt the weight of the animosity she clearly didn’t bother to hide.

“Any questions?” James asked, breaking the silence.

Franco raised a hand half-heartedly. “Yeah. What exactly am I supposed to do for three days?”

James smiled, his tone sharper than the words themselves. “Learn.”

…

The hum of machinery filled the Williams factory, a symphony of clanging metal, whirring drills, and distant chatter. Franco stood awkwardly at the edge of the main floor, dressed in a team-issued polo and jeans, feeling painfully out of place. Engineers bustled past him with purpose, pushing carts laden with parts or gesturing at detailed schematics. Everyone seemed to know where they were going—everyone but him.

Y/N emerged from a row of workstations, a tablet tucked under her arm and a look of mild irritation on her face. Her presence was commanding, despite her relatively small stature among the towering racks and machinery. When she spotted Franco, her expression tightened further, as if this entire ordeal was a personal inconvenience.

“Right,” she said, stopping in front of him. “Let’s get this over with.”

Franco raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel welcome.”

Y/N didn’t bite. Instead, she thrust the tablet toward him. “Here’s your schedule for the day. You’ll shadow me for the morning. Try to keep up.”

“Keep up?” Franco smirked, taking the tablet. “I’m an F1 driver. I think I can manage.”

She didn’t even look back as she turned on her heel. “We’ll see.”

The morning was a whirlwind of tasks that Franco barely understood. Y/N walked him through the telemetry department, where engineers analyzed data from his car. The lead analyst, a middle-aged man named Paul, greeted Y/N warmly but barely spared Franco a glance.

“So this is the data from Vegas,” Y/N said, pulling up a graph on one of the monitors. “See these spikes here? That’s where you oversteered.”

Franco squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the jagged lines. “Okay, but in my defense, the rear was completeshit by that point.”

Y/N shot him a sharp look. “In your defense? Do you know how much work it took to rebuild the floor after that?”

Paul cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the tension. “It’s not all bad,” he interjected. “We did get some valuable data—”

“Valuable data doesn’t fix a wrecked car,” Y/N cut him off, her eyes still on Franco. “Next time, maybe don’t treat the car like it’s disposable.”

Franco clenched his jaw. He was used to criticism from team principals or the media, but this felt different—more personal. “I don’t crash on purpose, you know,” he muttered.

Y/N turned back to the screen. “Could’ve fooled me.”

The tour continued through the machine shop, where technicians were crafting replacement parts, and the aerodynamics lab, where wind tunnel models were being adjusted. Franco noticed that while most people greeted Y/N with respect, their reactions to him ranged from polite nods to outright indifference.

By the time they reached the assembly area, Franco was bristling with frustration. “Is everyone here always this friendly, or is it just me?”

Y/N glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “They’re busy. Unlike you, they don’t have time to play the victim.”

Franco stopped walking, forcing her to turn around. “What’s your problem with me?”

“My problem?” Y/N folded her arms, her voice low but pointed. “You think this team exists to make you look good on Sundays. But for us, this is our life. Every crash, every mistake, it’s hours of extra work. Late nights. Missed weekends. Let alone you blaming it all on the car every time. So yeah, excuse me if I’m not rolling out the red carpet for you.”

Franco opened his mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he fell silent and followed her as she led him to the next department.

The afternoon brought more hands-on tasks. Y/N handed Franco a wrench and pointed to a disassembled gearbox. “Think you can manage this?”

“Depends,” Franco said, inspecting the gearbox. “What’s the record time for putting one of these together?”

“This isn’t a race,” Y/N snapped, but there was a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

Franco worked diligently, occasionally asking questions that Y/N grudgingly answered. By the end of the day, the gearbox was reassembled, and Franco felt a small sense of accomplishment—though Y/N didn’t offer any praise.

As they packed up, Franco noticed her pause by one of the workbenches, her expression softening as she examined a photo taped to the wall. It showed a younger Y/N during her internship at McLaren, laughing with Daniel Ricciardo and Lando Norris.

“You worked at McLaren?” Franco asked, genuinely curious.

Y/N nodded without looking at him. “Internship during uni. Best year of my life.”

“Let me guess,” Franco said. “You were one of Danny Ric’s ‘shoey’ victims?”

Y/N laughed, a sound that surprised them both. “Only once. But it was worth it.”

For a moment, the tension between them eased. Then Y/N’s phone buzzed, and she glanced at the screen. “Back to reality. See you tomorrow, Colapinto.”

As she walked away, Franco found himself smiling despite himself.

…

The second day at the Williams factory was already shaping up to be a long one. Franco arrived earlier than expected, determined not to let Y/N accuse him of slacking off. The factory came alive with distant murmur of conversations slowly filling the space. He leaned against the telemetry lab doorframe, holding a cup of coffee that smelled like it had been brewed by an engineer experimenting with car oil, waiting for Y/N to show up.

When she finally appeared, cradling a steaming cup of tea and glancing down at her tablet, Franco couldn’t help himself. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Y/N looked up, unimpressed. “You’re early. Trying to win points or just lost?”

“Maybe I just enjoy our morning chats,” Franco replied, grinning over the rim of his coffee cup. “Your warmth really sets the tone for the day.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but there was a flicker of amusement behind her usual sharpness. “If sarcasm counts as effort, you’re doing great.”

The morning routine started where the conversation with Paul had left off the previous day: telemetry analysis. Franco was seated in the simulator cockpit while Y/N pulled up detailed graphs of his Vegas laps, pointing out each mistake with the precision of a scalpel.

“See this spike here?” she said, her finger hovering over the screen. “That’s where you decided braking wasn’t necessary.”

“I didn’t decide that,” Franco countered, leaning forward to study the data. “The rear was loose, and I had to adjust—”

“You overcompensated,” Y/N interrupted, highlighting another section. “Instead of making a gradual adjustment, you panicked. A car doesn’t respond well to panic.”

Franco frowned, leaning back in the seat. “I didn’t panic.”

Y/N turned to face him, her gaze piercing. “You’re telling me plowing into the barrier was part of the plan?”

For a moment, Franco stared at her, at a complete loss for words. Then he laughed, the tension easing slightly. “You know, you’d make a great drill sergeant.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said dryly, though the faintest hint of a smirk played on her lips.

By lunchtime, Franco had decided to stop avoiding the canteen drama and instead followed Y/N to her usual table. She sat with a group of engineers, all engaged in animated conversation about the latest updates to the floor design. Franco tried to follow along, but the technical jargon quickly became overwhelming.

“You look lost,” Y/N said, leaning toward him. Her voice was low enough that only he could hear. “Too many big words?”

Franco smirked, stealing a chip from her tray. “Just biding my time. Waiting for you to talk about something interesting.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop him from taking another chip. “Bold move.”

“I can be bold,” he said, popping the chip into his mouth.

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched upward, betraying her amusement.

…

At four o’clock sharp Y/N stood by the sideline of the nearby paddle court, tapping her racket against her leg and scanning the group of engineers gathering for the weekly game. It was her favorite way to let off steam after a long week - competitive enough to keep her engaged but lighthearted enough to remind her that work wasn’t everything.

“Where’s Ethan?” someone asked, voicing the question on her mind.

Y/N’s usual partner was nowhere to be seen. A quick check of her phone confirmed it: Ethan had bailed last-minute with a text about a migraine and a sincere promise to make it up to her next week.

“Great,” Y/N muttered under her breath. Without a partner, she’d be sitting this one out.

“Problem?” Franco’s voice cut through the crowd, his grin as smug as ever as he leaned against the court’s railing.

Y/N turned to him, crossing her arms. “Ethan flaked. No partner, no game.”

“Shame,” Franco said, though he didn’t sound particularly sorry. “Guess you’ll just have to cheer from the sidelines.”

Y/N glared at him, but before she could retort, he held up his hands in mock surrender.

“Or,” he continued, “I could step in. You know, save the day.”

She snorted, looking him up and down. “You? Save my day?”

“Hey,” Franco said, grabbing a spare paddle from the bench. “I’m more coordinated than I look.”

“That’s a low bar,” Y/N shot back, but her lips twitched as if suppressing a smile.

“You need a partner,” Franco said, spinning the paddle in his hand. “I’m offering. Unless you’re too scared I’ll outplay you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, but the thought of sitting out was more annoying than the idea of teaming up with him. “Fine,” she said, pointing at him with her paddle. “But if you screw this up, I’m never letting you live it down.”

The first few minutes were rocky. Franco’s confidence far outstripped his paddle skills, and Y/N found herself darting across the court to cover his missed volleys.

“Are you actually trying?” she called after him when he completely whiffed a return.

“Relax,” Franco said, jogging back to his position. “I’m just warming up.”

“You better warm up fast, I have a competition ranking to keep up,” she snapped, returning a wicked shot from their opponents.

But to her surprise, Franco adjusted quickly. His natural athleticism took over, and soon he was diving for impossible shots and landing them with a flourish that almost made Y/N forget his rough start.

“Not bad,” she admitted after he scored their first point with a sharp return.

“Not bad?” Franco said, feigning offense. “That was textbook genius.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” Y/N said, though she couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips.

As the match progressed, Y/N found herself enjoying their unlikely partnership. Franco’s energy was infectious, and his relentless determination to win made her laugh more than once.

“Nice shot!” he shouted after one of her perfectly placed lobs.

“Thanks,” she replied, her voice tinged with mock sweetness. “Try not to ruin it.”

“I’m carrying this team,” Franco said, panting as he prepared for the next serve.

“Only thing you’re carrying is that big head of yours,” Y/N muttered, but the teasing tone softened her words.

At some point, a stray ball sailed out of the court, bouncing into the parking lot. Franco volunteered to fetch it, jogging off while Y/N leaned against the net to catch her breath.

James Vowles strolled over from the sidelines, hands in his pockets and a wide smile on his face.

“Not bad out there,” James said, nodding toward the court. “You’ve got Franco moving, at least.”

Y/N laughed, brushing a stray hair from her face. “He’s not as useless as I thought. Still reckless, though.”

James chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “You know, it’s good to see him having fun. It’s been a rough season—rookie pressure and all that. Moments like this are rare for him.”

Y/N glanced toward Franco, who was bent over retrieving the ball. His usual bravado seemed lighter today, less forced. She’d never thought about how intense the pressure must be for him.

“He hides it well,” Y/N said softly.

James nodded, still smiling. “He does. Sometimes I forget how young he still is.”

When Franco jogged back onto the court, tossing the ball into the air with a cocky grin, Y/N felt a twinge of sympathy she hadn’t expected.

“Ready?” Franco called, positioning himself for the next serve.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” Y/N replied, her voice softer than before.

Franco’s serve caught her off guard. It was precise and powerful, skimming the net and clipping the edge of the line.

“Nice serve,” Y/N said, the words escaping before she could think better of them.

Franco froze mid-smile. “Did you just compliment me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” she said quickly, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks.

The rest of the match passed in a blur of fast volleys and laughter. Y/N found herself encouraging Franco more often, and he responded by playing even better, his confidence growing with every point.

By the time they won—21 to 17—they were both breathless and grinning.

“Good game,” Franco said, holding out his hand.

Y/N shook it, her grip firm. “Not terrible.”

“Coming from you, I’ll take that as glowing praise,” Franco said, his grin widening.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said, though her tone was more teasing than cutting.

As the match wrapped up and the court cleared, Y/N crouched down to zip her bag, her mind still buzzing with the game’s energy. She couldn’t help but replay the last few points in her head—the unexpected precision of Franco’s serve, the way he’d thrown himself into every volley, and, perhaps most surprising, how well they’d worked together. It wasn’t something she’d anticipated when she grudgingly let him join her earlier.

Franco, standing a few feet away, adjusted the strap of his bag and hesitated. He glanced at Y/N, his usual cocky grin nowhere in sight. Instead, his expression was softer, more sincere, as though he was wrestling with what to say.

“Thanks for letting me play,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual. It wasn’t just a throwaway comment—it carried a weight Y/N hadn’t expected.

She paused, straightening up and meeting his gaze. For a moment, she wasn’t sure how to respond. Franco wasn’t looking at her with his usual smirk or playful glint. There was something vulnerable in his eyes, something she hadn’t seen before. Gratitude, maybe, or relief.

I should be thanking you,” she said simply, her tone gentler than usual.

Franco blinked, as though her words had surprised him, and for the first time since he’d arrived at the factory, he looked almost shy. He nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder and stepping closer.

“Seriously,” he added, his voice a little firmer now. “I needed that. It’s been… a lot lately. You didn’t have to let me join, but you did. So, thanks.”

Y/N studied him, her sharp instincts catching the subtle way his shoulders relaxed, the way he shifted his weight like he wasn’t used to opening up. This wasn’t the brash rookie who crashed cars and cracked jokes at every opportunity. This was someone who carried more than he let on—someone who, despite his flaws, was trying.

Her reply came almost automatically, her voice softer than she expected. “Well, don’t let it go to your head.”

But there was no edge to her words this time, no undercurrent of sarcasm. It was the kind of teasing that felt less like a wall and more like an olive branch.

For the first time, she didn’t see him as just the reckless rookie who kept wrecking her hard work. He was something more—someone navigating a high-pressure world, someone trying to find his place just like everyone else. And, Y/N realized, he wasn’t half-bad at it when he let himself breathe.

Franco smiled—an easy, genuine smile that lit up his face in a way that was, dare she admit it, a little endearing. “Careful,” he said, his tone regaining its usual playfulness. “Keep this up, and I might start thinking you like me.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” she shot back, though her lips twitched into a faint smile of their own.

As they walked out of the court together, their banter trailing into the evening air, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like something had shifted. Maybe, just maybe, Franco Colapinto wasn’t as bad as she’d thought.

…

The hum of the factory felt louder than usual the next morning, or maybe it was just the lingering buzz from the paddle game. Y/N sat at her workstation, staring at the detailed telemetry graphs on her screen but not entirely focused on them. She couldn’t stop thinking about Franco—not in the way she was used to, with irritation bubbling under the surface, but something else. Something softer.

“Morning,” a familiar voice called, jolting her out of her thoughts.

Franco leaned against the edge of her desk, his trademark grin firmly in place. He was holding a cup of coffee—factory brew, by the looks of it—and looked annoyingly chipper for someone who had spent the previous day sprinting across a court.

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?” Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow but unable to keep the amusement out of her tone.

“Probably,” Franco replied, setting the coffee down on her desk. “But I figured I’d start with you.”

Y/N eyed the cup suspiciously. “What’s this?”

“Peace offering,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Figured I owed you for carrying me in paddle yesterday.”

Y/N snorted, picking up the cup. “You’re lucky I like caffeine.” She took a cautious sip, then looked up at him. “Still terrible coffee, though.”

“Hey, I tried,” Franco said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

The morning flew by in a blur of meetings and simulations. Franco had started shadowing her more closely, asking questions that, to her surprise, weren’t entirely stupid.

“So, this graph,” Franco said, leaning over her shoulder as she pulled up data from one of the wind tunnel tests. “What does this spike mean?”

“It means the airflow over the rear wing is separating,” Y/N explained, highlighting the section with my cursor. “See this spike? That’s where the turbulence is disrupting the downforce. Less downforce means less grip, especially through the high-speed corners.”

Franco leaned in, squinting at the data. “So that’s why we were losing time through Sector 2 at Interlagos—the Esses and that long left-hander?”

Y/N glanced at him, impressed despite herself. “Exactly. Nice to see you’ve been paying attention for once.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Franco said, grinning.

Their banter flowed more easily now, the sharp edges of their earlier exchanges softened into something almost friendly. Almost.

During their mid-morning coffee break, Y/N found herself sitting with Franco at one of the smaller tables near the canteen window. She usually avoided these moments, preferring to spend her breaks with other engineers or, more often, alone. But today, she didn’t mind the company.

“So,” Franco said, leaning back in his chair. “How’d you end up here, anyway?”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Here, as in Williams? Or here, as in motorsport?”

“Motorsport,” Franco clarified, taking a sip of his coffee. “You don’t exactly seem like the type to spend your weekends watching races.”

Y/N chuckled. “You’d be right about that. My dad was obsessed with cars, though. Used to take me to karting tracks when I was a kid. At first, I hated it—too loud, too smelly. But then I started paying attention to the mechanics, how everything fit together. It just… made sense.”

Franco tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “And that led you here?”

“Eventually,” Y/N said, shrugging. “I studied engineering, did an internship with McLaren during uni. That’s when I realized this wasn’t just some childhood fascination. It was what I wanted to do.”

Franco nodded, his voice quieter now. “Well, you’re really good at it. I hope you know that.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Thanks, Franco,” she said softly, a small smile tugging at her lips.

The afternoon was hectic. With the car rebuild still behind schedule, the factory floor buzzed with a sense of urgency. Y/N was stationed at one of the workbenches, assembling a new rear suspension with a few other engineers, when Franco wandered over.

“Need a hand?” he asked, pulling up a stool beside her.

“Can you tell the difference between a torque wrench and a spanner?” Y/N asked without looking up.

“Not yet,” Franco admitted, resting his chin on his hand. “But I’m a fast learner.”

Y/N sighed but handed him a tool anyway. “Fine. Hold this. And don’t drop it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Franco said, mimicking a salute.

Despite her initial reservations, Y/N found herself enjoying his presence. He asked questions, paid attention to her answers, and even managed to make her laugh a few times. By the end of the day, she was surprised at how much they’d gotten done—and how much lighter the workload had felt with him around.

As the factory began to wind down for the evening, Y/N was packing up her tools when Franco appeared beside her, hands in his pockets and a lopsided smile on his face.

“Busy tomorrow?” he asked.

“Probably,” Y/N replied, zipping up her bag. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Franco said, his tone casual. “Figured I should plan my day around annoying you as much as possible.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Good luck with that.”

As they walked out of the factory together, the air between them felt lighter, less charged with the tension that had defined their earlier interactions. For the first time, Y/N found herself looking forward to the next day—not just for the work, but for the company.

…

The pub was crowded, buzzing with the energy of Williams team members finally letting loose after a grueling week. Laughter echoed off the wooden beams, glasses clinked, and the occasional burst of cheering from the engineers at the dartboard carried through the room. Franco sat at a high table with James Vowles and a handful of other engineers, a pint of beer in front of him, untouched.

“So there I was,” one of the engineers was saying, his hands gesturing wildly, “under the car, trying to weld the damn thing back together while the rear wing’s hanging on by duct tape—”

James chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like just another Tuesday.”

Franco forced a smile, but his mind was elsewhere. He could still hear the faint hum of the factory in his head, see the way Y/N’s brow furrowed as she focused on her work. He had no doubt she was still there, surrounded by telemetry data and spreadsheets, hunched over some impossible task to get the car ready for Qatar.

“Franco!” James called, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You’re quiet tonight. That’s not like you.”

Franco shrugged, lifting his pint and taking a sip just to appease him. “Just tired.”

James tilted his head, studying him with a faint smile. “You’ve been spending too much time in the factory. It’ll do that to you.”

“It’s not so bad,” Franco said, setting his glass down. “The coffee is shit though.”

James’s smile grew, but he didn’t press further. Another round of laughter from the group filled the silence, but Franco found himself restless. He glanced at the time on his phone and then at the door.

“Back in a bit,” he said abruptly, grabbing his jacket.

“Running off already?” James teased, but Franco didn’t answer. He was already weaving his way through the crowd, his mind made up.

The factory was eerily quiet when Franco returned, the once-bustling floor now deserted save for the faint hum of machinery. The lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the empty workstations. He made his way to the telemetry department, navigating the maze of desks and monitors like he belonged there - which, after the past few days, he almost did.

He found her exactly where he expected: sitting at her workstation, her face illuminated by the glow of her screen. Her hair was slightly mussed, one hand absently running through it as she scrolled through what looked like another mountain of data. There was an empty coffee cup on her desk, and a faint crease on her forehead betrayed her exhaustion.

Franco paused, watching her for a moment. She looked so focused, so determined, and it struck him how much effort she poured into her work. Not just effort – her whole heart.

He cleared his throat softly, not wanting to startle her too much. She glanced up, her eyes widening in surprise when she saw him standing there.

“Franco?” she said, setting her stylus down. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at the pub.”

“I was,” he admitted, holding up two brown takeout bags. “But it was boring without someone yelling at me every five minutes.”

Y/N blinked, clearly caught off guard. “And you brought… food?”

“Figured you’d still be here,” he said, stepping closer and setting the bags down on the edge of her desk. “You’ve probably been here all night, haven’t you?”

“I’ve got work to do,” she replied, as though that explained everything.

“Yeah, and you’ve also got to eat,” Franco said, pulling up a chair and sitting down beside her. “So I’m here to make sure you don’t keel over from starvation. You’re welcome, by the way.”

She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, to his surprise, she let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously thoughtful,” Franco corrected, grinning.

They unpacked the food, and Y/N couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture despite herself. The noodles were still warm, the comforting aroma filling the small space around them. She took a bite, her stomach growling in approval.

“This is surprisingly good,” she admitted, glancing at him.

“You’re welcome,” Franco said, digging into his own container.

For a while, they ate in comfortable silence, the tension between them replaced by an unexpected ease. Franco leaned back in his chair, watching her with a curious expression.

“You really don’t stop, do you?” he asked, nodding toward her screen.

Y/N shrugged, setting her chopsticks down for a moment. “Deadlines don’t stop. Someone has to keep the car running.”

He tilted his head, studying her. “Why do you do it?”

The question caught her off guard. She hesitated, then sighed. “Because it matters. It’s not just about the car—it’s about the people. Everyone here gives their all to make sure we succeed, and I don’t want to let them down.”

Franco nodded slowly, his gaze steady. “You’re really one of a kind, you know.”

Y/N blinked, startled by the sincerity in his voice. “Thanks,” she said softly.

“Seriously,” he added, his voice quieter now. “It’s incredible what you do here.”

She smiled, a faint blush creeping into her cheeks. “It’s not glamorous, but it’s worth it.”

As the meal wound down, Y/N turned back to her screen, scrolling through the data she’d been working on before Franco arrived. Her fingers danced across the keyboard, but her mind wasn’t entirely on the numbers. She could feel him beside her, his presence surprisingly steady and not as intrusive as she would’ve thought a few days ago.

Franco, meanwhile, hadn’t moved. Instead, he pulled his chair closer, resting his elbows on the edge of the desk as he watched her work. The soft glow of the monitor lit her face, highlighting the faint creases on her forehead and the small, almost invisible smudge of grease on her temple.

“You really don’t stop,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Not when there’s this much to do,” she replied without looking at him.

“Still,” he said, his tone quieter now. “You’re doing all of this, late into the night, and you’re not even asking for help.”

Y/N glanced at him, her brows furrowing. “Because there’s no point. If I want it done right, I might as well do it myself.”

Franco tilted his head, his gaze unwavering. “That’s not true. You just don’t let people try.”

Her hands stilled over the keyboard, his words striking deeper than she expected. She turned to him fully, her lips parting as if to argue, but the look in his eyes stopped her. There was no teasing, no arrogance - just genuine concern.

“You don’t have to carry all of it alone,” he said softly.

Her breath hitched, the words lodging themselves in her chest. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him, her mind racing. He was so close now, close enough that she could see the faint stubble on his jaw, the tiredness in his green eyes, and the way his shoulders seemed more relaxed than usual.

“Do you need help?” he asked suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

She blinked, his question pulling her back into the moment. “You? Help with this?”

“I’m serious,” Franco said, his grin reappearing, though it was softer now. “I’m good at following orders. Well, sometimes.”

She smiled faintly, shaking her head. “I appreciate it but highly doubt you’d be any use here.”

“Try me,” he said, leaning forward slightly, his tone playful but laced with something deeper.

Y/N opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, his hand moved toward her. He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against her temple as he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a jolt through her all the same.

Her breath caught, and for a moment, time seemed to slow. His hand lingered near her face, his eyes locked on hers with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. The usual sharp retorts and witty comebacks she relied on were suddenly out of reach, replaced by a charged silence that felt heavier with each passing second.

“Franco…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Just tell me what you need,” he murmured, his tone steady but impossibly soft.

Her heart pounded, her chest tight with a mix of emotions she couldn’t quite name. The walls she’d kept firmly in place all week seemed to crack, piece by piece, under the weight of his gaze.

And then, before she could second-guess herself, she leaned in.

The kiss was slow at first, almost hesitant, her lips brushing against his in a way that felt more like a question than a statement. But the moment his hand came up to cup her jaw, his fingers warm against her skin, the hesitation melted away. She tilted her head, her hands instinctively gripping the front of his jacket to pull him closer.

Franco responded in kind, his lips moving against hers with a surprising gentleness that caught her off guard. There was no urgency, no rush - just a quiet intensity that left her breathless. The air between them crackled with the kind of tension that had been building for days, unspoken and simmering just beneath the surface.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/N’s eyes fluttered open, her breath coming in uneven bursts. Franco was staring at her, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief, as if he couldn’t quite process what had just happened.

“Well,” he said after a moment, his voice huskier than usual. “If I knew takeout was all it took—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted, her voice firm but laced with amusement.

A grin spread across his face, the kind that made his green eyes crinkle at the corners. “Noted.”

Y/N shook her head, but there was no hiding the smile tugging at her lips. She turned back to her screen, though the work in front of her suddenly felt far less urgent. The weight of the week wasn’t gone, but it had shifted, lightened in a way she hadn’t thought possible just hours ago.

Beside her, Franco leaned back in his chair, his presence steady and unassuming. For the first time, Y/N didn’t mind him being there—not in the slightest.

…

The Williams garage in Qatar buzzed with the familiar energy of a race weekend. Mechanics hurried from here to there, engineers huddled around monitors, and the drivers moved through their routines with laser focus. But amidst the usual chaos, Y/N felt strangely at ease - a rare calm she hadn’t experienced in years of working in motorsport.

She stood near the garage entrance, tablet in hand, scrolling through last-minute setup notes for the car. It was a crisp, clear evening, and the desert air carried a cool breeze that contrasted with the heat of the track.

“Looking for me?”

Y/N didn’t even have to turn around. Franco’s voice, smug but undeniably warm, was unmistakable.

“You wish,” she replied without missing a beat, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Franco stepped into her peripheral vision, his race suit unzipped and hanging around his waist. His green eyes sparkled under the fluorescent paddock lights. “Well, if you weren’t, I’m a little disappointed.”

She finally looked up, tilting her head. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on the race? You know, doing the thing we all worked so hard to make possible?”

“I am focused,” he said, leaning casually against the wall. “Just… multitasking. Driver prep and talking with my favorite engineer - it’s all about balance.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, though her smile didn’t fade. “If you’re trying to charm me, it’s not working.”

“Who says I’m trying?” Franco countered, his grin widening.

Y/N shook her head, turning back to her tablet. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah,” Franco said, his voice softer now, “but you kind of like that about me.”

Y/N snorted softly, pretending to focus on the setup notes. “Delusional as ever.”

Franco leaned in closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Call it what you want, but I think I’m growing on you.”

She tilted her head, arching a brow. “More like you’re wearing me down.”

“Same thing,” he said with a grin, stepping back slightly but not leaving.

“You ready for this?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Franco shrugged, his grin softening into something more earnest. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

She studied him for a beat, noting the slight tension in his posture and the way his fingers tapped lightly against his thigh. Beneath the bravado, there was a trace of nerves—small, but there.

“Hey,” she said, lowering her tablet and meeting his gaze. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got this.”

Franco’s eyes softened, and for a moment, his usual smirk faded. “Coming from you, that actually means a lot.”

“Good,” Y/N said simply, her lips curving into a small smile.

The sound of an engine roaring to life in the garage snapped them both back to reality. Franco straightened, tugging at the collar of his race suit and exhaling deeply.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he said, his voice softer this time, though there was still a faint smile playing on his lips.

Y/N didn’t look up from her tablet, her fingers flying over the screen as she reviewed another set of setup notes. “Good. Try to avoid the barriers, would you?”

Franco chuckled quietly, stepping closer until he was just beside her. “You always know how to motivate me, don’t you?”

She finally glanced up, tilting her head. “Do you really need a speech? The car’s ready, the data’s solid, and you’re…” She paused, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “You’re as ready as you’ll ever be.”

“That almost sounded supportive,” Franco said, his grin warming.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Y/N replied, shaking her head lightly before looking back at her screen.

Franco lingered, his hands resting lightly on the edge of her desk. “You know, you could just wish me good luck. It’d be nice to hear.”

Y/N sighed theatrically but set her tablet down, looking up at him again. “Fine. Good luck, Franco. Now go make it count.”

His smile softened, and for a moment, he seemed to hesitate. Then, with a quick glance toward the bustling garage behind them, he leaned down and kissed her—a quick, warm kiss that caught her completely off guard.

From across the garage, a few engineers burst into laughter and cheers. “Woo, Colapinto!” someone shouted, and another voice chimed in, “About time!”

Y/N’s face flushed instantly as she pulled back, her eyes wide. “Franco—”

“Hey, they said it, not me,” Franco said with a small laugh, holding his hands up as if to plead innocence. But his voice had softened even more now, his gaze lingering on her with something closer to gratitude. “You look cute with those red cheeks.”

She blinked, her blush deepening, but she managed to recover quickly enough. “You’re lucky I have work to do, or I’d make you regret that.”

“You’ll miss me out there,” he teased gently, stepping back toward the car. He turned just before climbing in, his grin more genuine now. “I’ll make sure your hard work shines.”

Y/N shook her head, picking up her tablet again to distract herself from the lingering warmth on her cheeks. As the car rolled out of the garage, she caught herself smiling - just for a moment - before diving back into her work.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath, though there was no mistaking the fondness in her tone.

#f1 x reader #fc43 x reader #franco colapinto #franco colapinto x reader #franco colapinto imagine #franco colapinto fanfic #f1 fanfic #formula one

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bratzkoo · 7 months ago

Text

yours, always and forever | jeonghan

Author: bratzkoo | beta read by: @spnyin Pairing: perfumer! jeonghan x estrange wife! reader Genre: fluff, angst Rating: PG-15 Word count: 5.9k Warnings/note: went on a shopping trip with my mom and i cried when i smelled rose kabuki by dior. Happy National Boyfriend's Day to our boyfriend, Jeonghan.

summary: Perfumer Yoon Jeonghan took the Perfume industry by storm with his intriguing perfume names that seems to be inspired by one specific person which makes the industry question, who is he even naming his creations after? Only Y/N, Jeonghan’s estrange wife knows the answer.

taglist (hit me up if you wanna be added): @escoupseu , @yanabaaaaaaarysheva , @spnyin , @sousydive , @gyuguys , @gyubakeries

requests are open, but you can just say hi! | masterlist

The soft glow of the setting sun painted the New York skyline in hues of gold and pink, a stark contrast to the sleek, modern interior of the penthouse apartment where Yoon Jeonghan stood, gazing out at the city he'd conquered. In his hand, a delicate crystal glass held a swirl of amber liquid, its aroma mingling with the lingering scents that always clung to him—a symphony of olfactory notes that had become his signature.

Jeonghan took a sip of his drink, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. His eyes, dark and intense, reflected the city lights beginning to twinkle in the twilight. At thirty-two, he was at the pinnacle of his career, a prodigy in the world of perfumery, and the toast of the fashion and beauty industries. For the third year in a row, the title of Perfumer of the Year sat comfortably on his shoulders, a crown he wore with a mixture of pride and nonchalance that only added to his allure.

The gentle ping of his phone drew his attention away from the view. Another congratulatory message, no doubt. They had been pouring in all day, ever since the announcement of his latest triumph. Jeonghan ignored it, choosing instead to walk over to his workspace—a sprawling, custom-designed lab that took up nearly half of his living area.

Here, amidst the orderly chaos of beakers, pipettes, and countless vials of essences and extracts, was where the magic happened. This was where he crafted the scents that had taken the world by storm, perfumes that didn't just smell divine but told stories, evoked memories, and stirred emotions in ways that left critics and consumers alike in awe.

Jeonghan's fingers trailed over the labels of his latest collection, a small smile playing on his lips as he read each name aloud:

"You, in the Garden."

"You, in Greece."

"You, in the Club Holding Your Favorite Drink."

"You, in New York."

Each name was a whisper of the past, a fragment of a story that the public could only guess at. And guess they did. Entire forums were dedicated to deciphering the meaning behind Jeonghan's enigmatic perfume names. Who was this mysterious 'you'? A lover? A muse? A figment of the perfumer's vivid imagination?

Speculation ran rampant. Some theorized it was a marketing ploy, a clever way to personalize each scent for the wearer. Others believed Jeonghan was leaving breadcrumbs, telling his own story through these olfactory chapters. The more romantic souls insisted it was an ode to a lost love, each perfume a memory crystallized in scent.

If only they knew.

Jeonghan's smile faded as he picked up the bottle of "You, in New York." The weight of it in his hand felt heavier than it should, laden with memories he both cherished and tried to forget. He uncapped it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply.

Notes of crisp apple and bergamot gave way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by a base of sandalwood and vanilla. But beneath these carefully orchestrated notes lay something else, something only he could detect—the ghost of her perfume, the one she wore on that last night.

Across the city, in a modest but charming brownstone in Brooklyn, Y/N sat cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by discarded wrapping paper and birthday cards. The celebration had been small but joyful, a gathering of the close friends who had become her support system over the past few years. As the night wound down and the last guest departed, she found herself alone with her thoughts and the pile of gifts yet to be properly examined.

One box in particular caught her eye. It was elegant, wrapped in matte black paper with a single silver ribbon. There was no card, no indication of who it was from. Curiosity piqued, Y/N carefully untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper.

Her breath caught in her throat as she revealed the contents. Nestled in a bed of black satin was a bottle she recognized all too well, even though she had never held it before. The clean lines of the glass, the minimalist label with its distinctive handwritten font—it was unmistakably one of Jeonghan's creations.

With trembling hands, Y/N lifted the bottle. "You, in New York," she read aloud, her voice barely above a whisper. A humorless laugh escaped her lips. How fitting, how cruelly ironic that of all his perfumes, this would be the one to find its way to her.

New York. The city where dreams came true and hearts were broken. The city where, five years ago, she had celebrated her last birthday with Jeonghan. It had been magical—a surprise weekend getaway, a whirlwind of Broadway shows, candlelit dinners, and long walks through Central Park. It was the last time she remembered feeling truly, incandescently happy.

It was also the weekend that marked the beginning of the end.

Y/N uncapped the bottle, hesitating for just a moment before bringing it to her nose. The scent hit her like a wave, transporting her instantly back to that weekend. She could almost feel the crisp autumn air on her skin, hear the bustling streets, see Jeonghan's smile as he pulled her close on top of the Empire State Building.

Unbidden, tears began to fall, leaving glistening trails down her cheeks. Five years. Five years since she had spoken to him, seen him, been in the same room as him. And yet, with one carefully crafted scent, he could still reach across that divide and touch her very soul.

They weren't divorced—the paperwork sat untouched in a drawer in her study, a task neither of them seemed able to bring themselves to complete. But they might as well have been strangers for all the communication that passed between them. Estranged was the word the media used when they bothered to mention her at all. Jeonghan's mysterious wife, who had disappeared from the public eye as swiftly and suddenly as Jeonghan had risen to fame.

Y/N set the bottle on her nightstand, unable to put it away but unwilling to hold it any longer. She reached for her phone, scrolling through the countless birthday messages until she found the one she was looking for. It was from her best friend, Mina:

"Hey birthday girl! Hope you loved all your gifts. That last one... the perfume. I hope it wasn't too much. When I saw it, I just thought... well, maybe it was time. You can't run from the past forever, Y/N. Call me if you need to talk. Love you!"

So it had been Mina. Y/N wasn't sure whether to thank her friend or curse her for this unexpected trip down memory lane. She fell back onto her pillows, staring at the ceiling as her mind raced.

Did Jeonghan know his perfume had found its way to her? Did he still think of her when he created these scents? Was she the 'you' in every bottle, or had someone else taken her place in his heart and his art?

Questions she had buried for years bubbled to the surface, demanding attention. Y/N closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and provide a temporary escape. But the scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a persistent reminder of all that had been and all that was lost.

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Jeonghan had moved from his lab to his home office. The wall opposite his desk was covered in framed magazine covers and articles, a testament to his meteoric rise in the industry. His eyes, however, were fixed on a single frame tucked away in the corner of his desk. It was turned face down, but he knew every detail of the photograph it held—him and Y/N, laughing and in love, on their wedding day.

He reached for it, hesitating for a moment before picking it up and turning it over. They looked so young, so full of hope and dreams. Jeonghan traced the outline of Y/N's face with his finger, wondering not for the first time where she was, what she was doing, if she ever thought of him.

A notification on his computer screen drew his attention. It was an email from his publicist, marked urgent:

"Jeonghan,

The press is buzzing about your win and the launch of 'You, in New York.' Vogue wants an exclusive interview, and they're particularly interested in the inspiration behind your perfume names. I've held them off so far, but we need to give them something. The mysterious artist angle only works for so long.

Also, there's been some renewed interest in your personal life. A few gossip blogs have dug up old photos of you and Y/N. Nothing scandalous, but we should be prepared for questions.

Let me know how you want to handle this.

- Somin"

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, a frown creasing his brow. He had known this day would come eventually. The perfume industry thrived on stories, on the personalities behind the scents. He had managed to maintain an air of mystery for years, letting his creations speak for themselves. But now, with his continued success and the increasingly personal nature of his perfume names, the world wanted more.

How could he possibly explain the truth? That each perfume was a love letter, a memory, a piece of his heart poured into a bottle? That 'You, in the Garden' was born from lazy Sunday mornings spent in their tiny apartment's rooftop garden, Y/N's laughter mingling with the scent of herbs and flowers? That 'You, in Greece' captured the essence of their honeymoon, sun-kissed skin and salty air and the intoxicating feeling of being young and in love?

And 'You, in New York'... Jeonghan's gaze drifted back to the photograph. Their last happy moment, preserved in glass and scent. He had poured every ounce of his skill into that perfume, trying to capture not just the smells of the city, but the feeling of that weekend—the joy, the love, and the bittersweet edge of what was to come.

He picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Y/N's contact. He hadn't deleted it, couldn't bring himself to erase that last tangible connection. But he hadn't used it either, not in five long years. What would he even say?

"I'm sorry"?

"I miss you"?

"Every scent I create is a desperate attempt to hold onto the memory of us"?

Jeonghan set the phone down, leaving the call unmade. Instead, he turned back to his computer and began to type a response to his publicist:

"Somin,

Set up the Vogue interview. I'll give them the story they want.

As for my personal life, it remains personal. No comments on old photos or relationships.

- Jeonghan"

He hit send before he could second-guess himself. It was time to give the public a peek behind the curtain, to feed the curiosity that had been building for years. He would craft a story, something romantic and mysterious enough to satisfy the masses without revealing the raw, painful truth.

After all, isn't that what he did best? Create beautiful illusions, capture feelings in a bottle, tell stories through scent? This would just be another performance, another carefully constructed facade.

But as Jeonghan stood to pour himself another drink, his eyes fell once more on the photograph of him and Y/N. For a moment, the mask slipped, and a look of profound sadness crossed his face. All the success, all the accolades, all the adoration from fans around the world—none of it filled the Y/N-shaped hole in his heart.

In the quiet of his luxurious apartment, surrounded by the fruits of his success, Yoon Jeonghan—three-time Perfumer of the Year, creator of the most sought-after fragrances in the world—had never felt more alone.

As the night deepened, two souls on opposite sides of the city lay awake, each haunted by memories and might-have-beens. The scent of "You, in New York" lingered in the air, a fragrant bridge across the chasm that separated them. Neither knew that this birthday, this perfume, this moment of remembrance, was about to set in motion a chain of events that would force them to confront their past and decide their future.

The sleek, modernist interior of Vogue's New York office buzzed with nervous energy as staff scurried about, making last-minute preparations. Today was no ordinary day—they were about to interview Yoon Jeonghan, the enigmatic perfumer who had captivated the fashion world with his mysterious creations.

Jeonghan sat in the makeup chair, his eyes closed as the artist applied a light touch of powder to his already flawless skin. He exuded an aura of calm, but beneath the surface, his mind raced. This interview was a calculated risk, a chance to satisfy the public's curiosity while maintaining the mystique that had become his trademark.

"Mr. Yoon, we're ready for you," a young assistant called, clipboard clutched to her chest.

Jeonghan opened his eyes, meeting his reflection in the mirror. He adjusted his tie—a deep, midnight blue that brought out the intensity of his gaze—and stood. With a deep breath, he stepped into the lion's den.

The interviewer, a sharp-eyed woman named Clara, greeted him with a professional smile. "Mr. Yoon, thank you for joining us. Shall we begin?"

As the cameras rolled, Clara launched into her questions, starting with the safe and expected before gradually probing deeper.

"Your latest fragrance, 'You, in New York,' has taken the world by storm," Clara said, leaning forward slightly. "Can you tell us about the inspiration behind it?"

Jeonghan's lips curved into a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "New York is a city of dreams and memories," he began, his voice smooth and measured. "I wanted to capture the essence of a perfect moment in time—the crisp air of a fall evening, the excitement of possibility, the bittersweet beauty of a fleeting experience."

"And the 'you' in the title?" Clara pressed. "Your fragrances all seem to be addressing someone specific. Is there a story there?"

For a fraction of a second, Jeonghan's composure slipped. A flicker of something—pain? longing?—crossed his face before the mask slid back into place. "The 'you' is everyone and no one," he said carefully. "It's the wearer of the perfume, the object of desire, the memory of a love lost or yet to be found. I believe that the most personal stories are often the most universal."

As the interview continued, Jeonghan wove a tale of inspiration drawn from travels, fleeting encounters, and imagined romances. It was a beautiful story, crafted as carefully as his perfumes. But those who knew him best might have noticed the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers occasionally twitched as if reaching for something—or someone—just out of grasp.

---

The publication of the Vogue interview sent shockwaves through the fashion and beauty world. Social media exploded with theories and interpretations of Jeonghan's words. Fan forums dissected every sentence, looking for hidden meanings and clues about the mysterious muse behind his creations.

@ScentObsessed tweeted: "OMG, did you catch how his voice changed when talking about 'You, in New York'? There's definitely a real story there! #YoonJeonghan #PerfumeMystery"

A popular beauty vlogger released a 20-minute video analyzing Jeonghan's body language during the interview, claiming to have spotted at least five instances where he seemed to be holding back tears.

Even serious fashion critics couldn't resist speculating. A piece in WWD posed the question: "Is Yoon Jeonghan's entire oeuvre an olfactory autobiography? The clues hidden in his fragrances."

---

Across the city, Y/N sat at her kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold beside her as she stared at her laptop screen. The Vogue article was open, Jeonghan's face looking back at her from a series of artfully shot photographs.

She had promised herself she wouldn't read it. Had sworn she was past all this, that she had moved on. But curiosity—and perhaps something deeper, something she wasn't ready to name—had gotten the better of her.

Now, as she read his carefully crafted words, Y/N felt a complex mix of emotions churning inside her. Anger at the half-truths, sadness at the memories his words evoked, and a traitorous flutter of her heart at the moments where she could see through his facade to the man she once knew so well.

A knock at the door startled her out of her reverie. Y/N closed the laptop quickly, as if hiding evidence of a crime, before going to answer.

"Ms. Y/N?" A woman with a press badge stood in the hallway, notepad in hand. "I'm Mia from Style Weekly. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about Yoon Jeonghan's latest interview."

Y/N felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about," she said, moving to close the door.

The reporter's foot blocked the doorway. "Please, just a moment. Your connection to Mr. Yoon is a matter of public record. Surely you must have some insight into the inspirations behind his work?"

"No comment," Y/N managed, her voice strangled. She pushed the door closed with more force, hearing the reporter's muffled protests from the other side.

Leaning against the door, Y/N slid to the floor, her heart pounding. It was happening again. The life she had carefully rebuilt, separate from Jeonghan and his world of glitz and glamour, was threatening to crumble around her.

---

In his penthouse, Jeonghan paced back and forth, phone pressed to his ear. "Somin, I thought we agreed to keep my personal life out of this," he said, frustration evident in his voice.

His publicist's calm tones came through the speaker. "Jeonghan, we did our best, but you have to understand. The public is hungry for this. Your story, the mystery—it's what sells. The interview was a huge success."

"At what cost?" Jeonghan muttered, more to himself than to Somin.

After ending the call, he walked to his workspace, surrounded by the tools of his trade. His fingers trailed over the bottles of his creations, lingering on "You, in New York."

For a moment, he allowed himself to remember—truly remember, not the sanitized version he had presented to the world. He saw Y/N's smile as they watched the sunset from the Top of the Rock, felt the warmth of her hand in his as they strolled through Central Park.

Almost without conscious thought, his hand reached for his phone. Y/N's contact information stared back at him, unchanged after all these years. His thumb hovered over the call button.

A war raged inside him. The desire to hear her voice, to explain, to apologize, warred with the fear of rejection, of reopening old wounds.

In the end, he set the phone down, the call unmade. But the desire, the need, lingered.

---

"Y/N, have you seen this?" Mina's voice came through the phone, excitement evident. "Jeonghan's Vogue interview. Girl, he's talking about you."

Y/N sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Mina, please. You know I don't want to hear about—"

"No, listen," Mina interrupted. "He talks about a moment in New York, watching the sunset from a rooftop garden. That was you two, wasn't it? On your last birthday together?"

Y/N's breath caught. She remembered that evening with painful clarity—the golden light, the gentle breeze, the feeling that everything was perfect. It was mere days before it all fell apart.

"It doesn't matter," Y/N said, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Honey," Mina said gently, "I think it does. He's been telling your story all along, in every bottle. Maybe... maybe it's time to tell yours."

After hanging up, Y/N found herself once again staring at the bottle of "You, in New York." She uncapped it, letting the scent envelop her. In that moment, she allowed herself to truly feel everything she had been suppressing for years.

The realization hit her like a wave: Jeonghan hadn't forgotten. Every perfume, every story, was a message in a bottle, cast out into the world in hopes that someday, somehow, it would reach her.

---

The charity gala was in full swing, the cream of New York society mingling amidst the glittering decor of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Jeonghan moved through the crowd, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries, the perfect image of the successful artist.

He was in the middle of a conversation with a fashion designer when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with an old friend—one he shared with Y/N.

"Jeonghan," the friend said, a strange mix of emotions playing across their face. "It's been too long."

As they talked, catching up on the years that had passed, Jeonghan found himself hungry for any scrap of information about Y/N. He tried to be subtle, but his old friend saw right through him.

"She's doing well, Jeonghan," they said softly. "She's strong. But... I think she misses you too."

The words hit Jeonghan like a physical blow. He excused himself, making his way to a quiet corner of the museum. His carefully constructed world felt like it was shifting beneath his feet.

Across the city, Y/N was experiencing a similar upheaval. A mutual friend had let slip that Jeonghan had asked about her, that he still kept a photo of them on his desk.

As the night wore on, both Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves standing at a crossroads. The walls they had built, the distance they had maintained, suddenly seemed more like obstacles than protection.

Unbeknownst to each other, they both reached for their phones at nearly the same moment. Fingers hovering over screens, hearts pounding, they stood on the precipice of a decision that could change everything.

In the air, the faint scent of "You, in New York" lingered, a reminder of what was lost and what, perhaps, could still be found.

The stage was set. The next move was theirs.

The Autumn chill nipped at Y/N's skin as she stood outside the small café, her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. Her eyes darted nervously up and down the street, searching for a familiar face she hadn't seen in years. Her heart raced, a mix of anticipation and fear coursing through her veins.

She almost jumped when her phone buzzed. A text from Jeonghan: "I'm here."

Y/N's breath caught in her throat as she spotted him rounding the corner. Jeonghan looked much the same as she remembered, yet somehow different. His hair was styled differently, and he carried himself with a weariness that hadn't been there before. But his eyes—those eyes that had once looked at her with such love—were as intense as ever.

Their gazes locked, and for a moment, the busy New York street faded away. It was just the two of them, standing on opposite sides of a chasm five years in the making.

Jeonghan reached her first, stopping a few feet away. "Y/N," he said, his voice a mix of relief and uncertainty.

"Jeonghan," she replied, surprised at how steady her own voice sounded.

An awkward silence fell between them, years of unspoken words and suppressed emotions creating an almost tangible barrier.

"Should we..." Jeonghan gestured towards the café, and Y/N nodded, grateful for the suggestion.

Inside, they found a quiet corner booth. The warm, coffee-scented air was a stark contrast to the tension between them. They ordered—an Americano for him, a latte for her, just like old times—and then faced each other across the small table.

"You look well," Jeonghan said, his fingers fidgeting with a sugar packet.

Y/N managed a small smile. "So do you. I... I've seen your interviews. Congratulations on all your success."

Jeonghan's face tightened almost imperceptibly. "Thank you. I hear you're doing well too. Teaching, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah, literature at NYU. It's... it's good."

Another silence fell, heavier this time. Y/N took a sip of her latte, using the moment to gather her thoughts.

"Why did you want to meet, Jeonghan?" she finally asked, setting her cup down perhaps a bit too forcefully.

Jeonghan looked up, meeting her gaze directly for the first time since they sat down. "I... I missed you, Y/N. Every day for five years, I've missed you."

The raw honesty in his voice caught Y/N off guard. She felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes and blinked them back furiously.

"You missed me?" she repeated, a hint of bitterness creeping into her tone. "You're the one who left, Jeonghan. You chose your career over us."

Jeonghan flinched as if he'd been slapped. "I know," he said softly. "And I've regretted it every day since."

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, familiar bottle. Y/N's breath hitched as she recognized it—"You, in New York."

"Every scent, every name," Jeonghan continued, his voice thick with emotion, "they were all for you. About you. My way of holding onto what we had, what I threw away."

Y/N stared at the bottle, memories flooding back. The laughter, the love, the pain—it all came rushing back in a dizzying whirl.

"I thought I was protecting you," Jeonghan said. "The pressure, the spotlight—it was destroying us. I thought... I thought if I let you go, you could have a normal life. Be happy."

"That wasn't your choice to make," Y/N said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You should have talked to me. We could have figured it out together."

Jeonghan nodded, running a hand through his hair in a gesture so familiar it made Y/N's heart ache. "I know that now. God, Y/N, I know. I was young and stupid and scared. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I was just a coward."

Y/N felt the walls she'd built around her heart begin to crumble. She reached out, almost unconsciously, and took the perfume bottle from Jeonghan's hand. As she did, their fingers brushed, sending a jolt of electricity through both of them.

"I tried to hate you," Y/N admitted, her thumb tracing the label of the bottle. "I tried so hard to forget, to move on. But then I'd catch a whiff of one of your perfumes, or see your face on a magazine cover, and it all came flooding back."

Jeonghan leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "I know I have no right to ask this, but... is there any chance? For us? I'm not the same man I was five years ago. I've learned, I've grown. And I know now that nothing—no amount of success or fame—means anything without you."

Y/N closed her eyes, feeling tears slip down her cheeks. When she opened them again, she saw that Jeonghan's eyes were also wet.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "You hurt me, Jeonghan. Deeply. That's not something that can be fixed with a conversation and some pretty words."

Jeonghan nodded, his face falling. But before he could speak, Y/N continued.

"But... I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss you too. That I didn't still love you, despite everything."

Hope bloomed in Jeonghan's eyes. "So... what does that mean?"

Y/N took a deep breath. "It means... it means maybe we can try. Slowly. No grand gestures, no rushing back into things. We need to relearn each other, rebuild trust. Can you do that?"

Jeonghan reached across the table, gently taking Y/N's hand in his. The familiar warmth of his touch sent a shiver down her spine.

"Y/N, I would wait a lifetime if that's what it took. We'll go as slow as you need. I just... I just want a chance to make things right."

For the first time since they sat down, Y/N felt a genuine smile tugging at her lips. "Okay," she said softly. "Let's try."

The gentle spring breeze carried the scent of cherry blossoms through Central Park, where Jeonghan and Y/N walked hand in hand, their steps slow and purposeful. Two years had passed since that fateful night when they both reached for their phones, finally bridging the gap that had separated them for so long.

"I still can't believe we're here," Y/N said, squeezing Jeonghan's hand. "Sometimes I think I'll wake up and find it was all a dream."

Jeonghan brought her hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on her knuckles. "If it's a dream, then I never want to wake up," he replied, his eyes shining with emotion.

They found a quiet bench overlooking the lake, the same spot where they had sat years ago, planning their future together. Now, older and wiser, they sat again, the weight of their shared history and renewed love settling comfortably between them.

"The launch is tomorrow," Jeonghan said, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Are you ready?"

Y/N took a deep breath, nodding. "As ready as I'll ever be. It's still surreal, you know? Being back in this world, but on my own terms this time."

The past two years had been a whirlwind of rediscovery and healing. After their reconnection, Jeonghan and Y/N had taken things slowly, rebuilding trust and relearning each other. Y/N had been adamant about maintaining her independence, refusing to be swallowed up by Jeonghan's world as she had been before.

To everyone's surprise—including her own—Y/N had discovered a talent for perfumery. What had started as curious questions about Jeonghan's process had evolved into a genuine passion. Under his guidance, she had begun to create her own scents, her natural intuition complementing Jeonghan's technical expertise.

And now, tomorrow, they would launch their first collaborative perfume.

"I have something for you," Jeonghan said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a small, elegant bottle, its contents shimmering in the afternoon sun.

Y/N gasped, recognizing the prototype they had been working on. "Is this...?"

Jeonghan nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "The final version. I wanted you to be the first to see it—to smell it."

With trembling hands, Y/N took the bottle. The label read "Essence of Us" in Jeonghan's distinctive handwriting. Below it, in smaller letters: "By Jeonghan & Y/N."

She uncapped the bottle, bringing it to her nose. The scent enveloped her immediately—bright citrus notes of bergamot and lemon, giving way to a heart of rose and jasmine, grounded by warm sandalwood and a hint of vanilla. But there was something more, something uniquely them—a note that spoke of long nights of conversation, of laughter shared over coffee, of gentle kisses and whispered promises.

Tears welled up in Y/N's eyes. "It's perfect," she whispered.

Jeonghan wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. "It's us," he said simply. "All of us. The good, the bad, the journey we've taken."

As the sun began to set, painting the sky in hues of pink and gold, Jeonghan and Y/N sat in comfortable silence, the scent of their creation lingering in the air around them.

The launch event for "Essence of Us" was the talk of the fashion world. Held in the same New York hotel where Jeonghan and Y/N had celebrated her last birthday before their separation, it was a poignant reminder of how far they had come.

Cameras flashed as Jeonghan and Y/N stepped onto the red carpet, a united front. Y/N, dressed in a flowing gown that shimmered like liquid silver, looked every inch the confident co-creator, a far cry from the woman who had once hidden in Jeonghan's shadow.

Inside, the room was transformed into a sensory wonderland. Different stations represented the various notes of the perfume, allowing guests to experience each element individually before sampling the final product.

As the crowd mingled and the excitement built, Jeonghan clinked a glass, calling for attention. The room fell silent, all eyes turning to the stage where he and Y/N stood.

"Thank you all for being here tonight," Jeonghan began, his voice carrying easily through the room. "This launch is special for many reasons, but none more so than the fact that it represents not just a new scent, but a new chapter."

He turned to Y/N, love evident in his gaze. "For years, my perfumes told the story of what I had lost. They were messages in bottles, cast out into the world in the hope that someday, they might find their way back to the one who inspired them."

Y/N stepped forward, taking Jeonghan's hand. "And I heard those messages," she continued, her voice strong and clear. "Even when I tried not to listen, even when I thought that chapter of my life was closed forever. They called to me, reminding me of a love that never truly faded."

Together, they unveiled the perfume—an elegant bottle that seemed to capture the light, refracting it into a thousand tiny rainbows.

"'Essence of Us' is more than just a perfume," Jeonghan said. "It's a testament to the power of love, of forgiveness, of second chances. It's the scent of two people who lost their way, only to find that all paths led back to each other."

Y/N nodded, adding, "It's also a new beginning. A declaration that our story isn't just about the past, but about the future we choose to create together."

As the crowd applauded and the first samples of "Essence of Us" were distributed, Jeonghan and Y/N shared a private smile. They had poured their hearts into this creation, distilling years of love, loss, and rediscovery into a single, perfect scent.

Months later, as "Essence of Us" continued to top bestseller lists and garner critical acclaim, Jeonghan and Y/N found themselves back in their favorite spot in Central Park. The trees were ablaze with autumn colors, a crisp breeze carrying the promise of winter.

"I've been thinking," Jeonghan said, his tone casual but his eyes betraying a hint of nervousness. "About the future. About us."

Y/N looked at him curiously. "Oh? And what have you been thinking?"

Jeonghan took a deep breath, reaching into his pocket. "I've been thinking that maybe it's time for a new scent. Something... permanent."

He pulled out a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a stunning ring. The design was unique—a delicate gold band that twisted into the shape of an infinity symbol, set with tiny diamonds that caught the light like drops of perfume.

"Y/N," Jeonghan said, his voice thick with emotion, "will you marry me? Again? For real this time, for always?"

Tears sprang to Y/N's eyes as she nodded, too overwhelmed to speak. As Jeonghan slipped the ring onto her finger, she finally found her voice. "Yes," she whispered. "Forever and always."

They sealed the promise with a kiss, the scent of "Essence of Us" mingling with the crisp autumn air. As they broke apart, both laughing and crying, Jeonghan's eyes lit up with that familiar spark of inspiration.

"I think I know what our next perfume will be called," he said, grinning.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, a smile playing on her lips. "Oh? Do tell."

Jeonghan pulled her close, whispering in her ear: "You, Forever and Always."

And as they walked hand in hand through the park, already discussing notes and accords for their new creation, both Jeonghan and Y/N knew that this—their love, their passion, their shared creativity—was the most intoxicating scent of all.

399 notes · View notes

minhosbitterriver · 9 months ago

Text

────* ˚ ✦ CAUGHT IN THE ACT ( stray kids )

❛ The reactions of each member of Stray Kids' Hyung line when they're caught kissing you by another member.

𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐤𝐢𝐝𝐬 + gender neutral reader ೯ ( 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 )

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 8.0k 𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞: 32 mins

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ミ This was honestly so much fun to write! Reblogs and feedbacks are always appreciated! Requests are currently open! ── ( 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 )

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Getting caught kissing, established relationship for every member, let me know if I missed anything!

( 𝐠𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ) ( 𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 & 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 ) ( 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ) ( 𝐭𝐢𝐩 𝐣𝐚𝐫 )

HYUNG LINE | MAKNAE LINE

방찬 ── BANG CHAN.

You stepped into the familiar recording studio, the dim lights casting a soft glow on the walls adorned with musical equipment and notes scribbled in haste. A paper bag filled with snacks and drinks dangled from your hand, its weight a comforting reminder of your routine visits. Your smile radiates warmth as your eyes meet Chan's, who sat hunched over the mixing console. His gaze lifted, revealing a flicker of gratitude despite the heavy shadows of exhaustion under his eyes.

He returned your smile, a faint but genuine curve of his lips that spoke volumes about his weariness. You chose silence, understanding the unspoken need for peace in this creative sanctuary. With gentle steps, you crossed the room, your presence a soothing balm to his fatigue. Leaning down, you placed a tender kiss on his head, a simple gesture of affection that momentarily lifted the burden from his shoulders.

Reaching into the bag, you retrieved a pack of chips and a bottle, offering them to Chan with a reassuring touch. He accepted them gratefully, his fingers brushing against yours in a brief but intimate exchange. You then settled into your usual spot on the leather couch behind him, its familiar creases and scent a comfort in this shared space. With your phone in hand, you prepared to keep yourself entertained, a quiet guardian of his creative process. The studio's ambient hum and the soft rustle of snack wrappers became the soundtrack to this intimate moment, a testament to the silent support that flowed between you.

This had become your usual routine—a cherished ritual that intertwined your lives with comforting regularity. Every other day, you would find yourself here, in the sanctuary of the recording studio, offering your quiet companionship while he immersed himself in his work. Your role was not merely to be present but to eventually coax him away from his intense focus, ensuring he returned home with you for the rest he so desperately needed.

Tonight was no different. You nestled into the familiar embrace of the leather couch, your fingers idly scrolling through social media, a soft glow from your phone illuminating your face. The ambient sounds of the studio enveloped you, a symphony of creativity and dedication. The rhythmic tapping of buttons, the soft click of switches, and the occasional hum of equipment blended into a soothing background noise.

Every now and then, a sigh of frustration would escape Chan's lips, a testament to his tireless pursuit of perfection. You glanced up occasionally, observing the furrow of his brow, the determination etched in his features. His passion was palpable, filling the room with an electric energy that made your heart swell with pride and tenderness.

Despite the ambient hum and your digital distraction, you were attuned to his every move, ready to step in when the time came. The silent understanding between you both was a testament to the deep bond you shared—a bond forged in these moments of mutual support and quiet companionship. This was your routine, a beautiful dance of dedication and care, ensuring that amidst the whirlwind of his creative storm, he found a safe harbor in your presence.

Eventually, Chan wheeled around in his chair, his gaze locking onto you as you lay sprawled across the couch, indulging in a handful of sour gummies. His eyes softened, the weariness momentarily giving way to a tender appreciation for your presence. For a brief moment, he remained still, simply observing you with a small, tired smile.

Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he lifted himself from his seat, the soft creak of the chair punctuating the silence. Each step he took toward you seemed to carry the weight of his exhaustion, yet there was a lightness in his eyes as he approached. Without warning, he let his body drape over yours, the suddenness of it eliciting a startled yelp from your lips.

His warmth enveloped you, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the sweet tang of the gummies you were eating. You quickly dissolved into giggles at his playful actions, your arms instinctively wrapping around his torso in a protective embrace. His presence was a comforting weight, grounding you both in this shared moment of intimacy.

The world outside the studio walls faded away, leaving just the two of you cocooned in a bubble of tranquility. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours, a rhythmic reminder of his presence. Your fingers traced gentle patterns on his back, offering silent reassurance as he melted into your embrace. This was your sanctuary, a haven where exhaustion and stress gave way to love and connection, a beautifully ordinary moment made extraordinary by the simple act of being together.

“Break time?” you asked softly, your voice a gentle melody in the quiet room. Chan responded with a low grunt, his exhaustion evident in the simplicity of his reply. A light giggle escaped your lips, the sound a soft, comforting echo in the studio.

Reaching up, your fingers threaded through the strands of his hair, finding their way to the back of his head. With practiced ease, you began to scratch gently, your touch tender and soothing. Almost immediately, a contented hum rumbled from his chest, a sound that spoke of deep appreciation and relief.

His eyes fluttered closed, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting away under your gentle ministrations. You could feel the subtle shifts in his posture, each exhalation a testament to the comfort he found in your presence. This simple act, a small gesture of care, held a profound intimacy that words could not capture.

The room seemed to cocoon you both, the dim light casting soft shadows that danced along the walls. Each scratch of your fingers was a lullaby, a tender reminder of the bond you shared. In this moment, amidst the ambient hum of the studio and the quiet hum of his contentment, time seemed to slow, allowing you to savor the tranquility of your connection.

His breathing deepened, a silent testament to the trust he placed in you, and you continued your gentle caress, your heart swelling with affection. This was your sanctuary, a place where words were unnecessary, and the simple act of touch spoke volumes.

After a while, you were almost surprised to hear him speak. His voice broke the silence, soft and drowsy, since you had been convinced he had fallen asleep on top of you.

His breathing had slowed, and his weight had settled comfortably against you, creating a warm, enveloping cocoon. The gentle rise and fall of his chest against yours had lulled you into a tranquil state, where the world outside seemed a distant memory.

“Good day today?” he murmured, his words a tender vibration against your skin. The question carried a quiet intimacy, a bridge between the waking world and the serene bubble you both inhabited.

You blinked, the unexpectedness of his voice pulling you from your reverie. A smile curled at your lips as you looked down at him, your fingers stilling momentarily in his hair. The soft light from the studio cast a gentle glow on his face, highlighting the subtle lines of fatigue that framed his eyes.

“It was alright,” you answered with a weak shrug, your eyes remaining fixed on the ceiling. The subtle patterns in the plaster seemed to shift and dance as you reveled in the closeness between the two of you, his warmth a comforting presence against your body.

As you lay there, you felt the weight of the day begin to lift, the quiet intimacy of the moment creating a sanctuary from the world outside. The soft rise and fall of his breathing against you was a soothing rhythm, grounding you in the present.

“I mostly kept to myself today,” you continued, your voice a soft murmur in the tranquil room. “It just felt like such a long day for some reason.”

Your words hung in the air, a quiet confession that carried the weariness of the hours you had endured. Each moment of solitude, each minute that had dragged on, seemed to dissipate now in the comforting embrace of his presence.

Chan shifted, adjusting his position to place his weight on his forearms, which were now on either side of your head. This allowed him to lean back slightly, creating just enough space to gaze down at your face. The closeness of his presence, combined with the tenderness in his eyes, sent a flutter through your heart.

The dim light of the studio cast gentle shadows across his features, softening the lines of exhaustion and highlighting the quiet strength in his expression. His gaze held a mixture of empathy and understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the weariness you both shared.

“It really did feel like an unnecessarily long day for me, too,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that resonated in the small space between you. The words carried a weight of shared experience, a bond forged through mutual understanding and silent support.

His eyes traced the contours of your face, lingering on the subtle nuances of your expression. You could feel the connection between you deepening, each unspoken thought and emotion passing effortlessly between you. His proximity, the warmth of his body, and the gentle cadence of his words created a cocoon of intimacy that enveloped you both.

As you looked up at him, you could see the flicker of vulnerability in his eyes, a mirror to your own feelings. The shared acknowledgment of the day's trials brought a sense of comfort, a reminder that you were not alone in your struggles.

The room seemed to fade into the background, the ambient sounds of the studio becoming a distant hum. All that mattered in this moment was the quiet exchange between you, a sanctuary of understanding and support. His presence, so close and so tender, was a balm to the fatigue that had weighed heavily on you both throughout the day.

You reached up, your fingers gently brushing against his cheek, a silent gesture of reassurance and affection. His eyes softened even further, and a small, grateful smile played at the corners of his lips. In this moment, the long day seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your connection and the promise of shared solace.

The hand that had been tenderly scratching his hair now shifted to cup his cheek, your fingers tracing the delicate curve of his jaw. The touch was gentle, filled with a warmth that only deepened the connection between you. Chan immediately leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as he savored the contact, a soft smile gracing his lips.

His skin felt warm against your palm, and you could sense the quiet gratitude in the way he pressed closer, finding comfort in the simple gesture. The room around you seemed to hold its breath, the ambient hum of the studio fading into the background as the moment stretched between you.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Chan leaned down, his breath mingling with yours in the intimate space. His eyes met yours for a fleeting second, a silent exchange of affection and understanding, before he pressed a gentle kiss onto your forehead. The contact was tender, imbued with a sweetness that made your heart swell.

As his lips brushed your skin, your eyes fluttered closed, the world around you dissolving into a haze of warmth and closeness. The kiss lingered, a silent promise of care and support that wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. You could feel the soft exhalation of his breath, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and the unspoken words that filled the space between you.

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity of quiet connection. Your senses were heightened, every detail of the moment imprinted in your memory—the gentle pressure of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the soothing cadence of his presence. It was a moment of pure, unadulterated intimacy, a sanctuary of love and understanding that transcended the weariness of the day.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes opened slowly, meeting yours with a gaze that spoke volumes. There was a softness there, a tenderness that mirrored your own feelings, and in that shared look, you found a renewed sense of strength and comfort. The weight of the day seemed to lift, replaced by the warmth of his presence and the promise of more moments like this, filled with love and quiet understanding.

“I missed you so much,” he murmured, his voice a gentle whisper that seemed to reverberate through the quiet studio. He tucked his head into the crook of your neck, seeking solace in the warmth and familiarity of your embrace. His breath, warm and steady, brushed against your skin, sending a shiver of tenderness down your spine.

You could feel the sincerity in his words, each syllable carrying the weight of his longing and affection. The closeness of his body against yours, the way he nestled into you as if finding his way home, spoke volumes about the depth of his feelings. It was a quiet confession, one that wrapped around your heart and made it swell with love.

“All I could do was watch the time until you finally joined me here,” he continued, his voice a soft rumble that seemed to melt into the air around you. His words painted a vivid picture of his anticipation, the minutes and hours stretching out endlessly as he waited for the moment you would walk through the door.

The imagery of his longing played in your mind, each tick of the clock echoing his silent wish for your presence. You imagined him glancing at the time, his thoughts drifting to you with each passing minute, the studio filled with the hum of his work yet missing the comforting presence that only you could bring.

Your hand moved to gently stroke his hair, your fingers weaving through the soft strands as you offered silent reassurance. The tactile connection was a balm to both your souls, a physical manifestation of the love that flowed between you. His body relaxed further into yours, the tension of the day gradually melting away as he found peace in your embrace.

The room around you seemed to fade into the background, the dim light casting gentle shadows that danced along the walls. It was as if the world had shrunk to encompass only the two of you, a cocoon of intimacy where time moved at its own pace. The rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart against yours, created a symphony of togetherness that filled the space with warmth and connection.

As you held him, your heart echoed his sentiments. The hours apart had felt like a lifetime, each moment tinged with the anticipation of being reunited. Now, in the quiet sanctity of the studio, you reveled in the simple joy of being close, of sharing the same breath and heartbeat. This was your haven, a place where love and longing intertwined, creating a tapestry of moments that were as beautiful as they were fleeting.

A blush crept onto your cheeks, a rosy bloom spreading warmth through your skin as his words settled in your heart. Your smile widened, a reflection of the joy and affection that welled up within you. As Chan leaned back to face you once more, his eyes met yours with a gaze that spoke of longing and love.

Without hesitation, you leaned up to capture his lips in a kiss, the movement swift and eager. The initial touch was tender, a sweet brush of connection, but almost unconsciously, you found yourself deepening the kiss. The world around you seemed to blur, the boundaries of the studio fading into insignificance as you lost yourself in the moment.

Chan responded with equal passion, his lips moving against yours in a dance of fervor and intimacy. Each kiss, each caress, was a silent declaration of the emotions that words could not fully convey. The heat of the kiss ignited a spark that spread through your veins, a fiery rush of desire and affection that left you breathless.

As your lips melded together, you could feel his fingers busying themselves, threading through your hair with gentle yet deliberate movements. The sensation sent shivers down your spine, each touch a soothing balm and an electric thrill all at once. His fingertips traced patterns along your scalp, weaving through the strands of your hair in a tender, almost reverent manner.

The kiss deepened further, your senses heightening with every passing second. You could taste the lingering sweetness of his breath, feel the warmth of his skin, and hear the faint rustle of clothing as you both shifted closer. The world outside ceased to exist, the only reality the intoxicating blend of your shared breaths and the soft hum of the studio in the background.

Time seemed to stretch, each moment expanding to hold the fullness of your connection. Your heart raced, its beat a rhythmic echo of the passion that thrummed between you. The kiss was a symphony of emotions, a harmonious blend of love, desire, and an unspoken promise of togetherness.

Just as the kiss began to deepen, an unexpected sound shattered the moment—the door creaking open with an almost comical slowness. The intrusion was abrupt, and both of you were startled from your intimate cocoon. Chan, reacting instinctively, tried to detach himself from you with haste, his sudden movement sending him rolling off the couch.

The transition was less than graceful; he landed rather harshly on the floor beside you, the impact eliciting a low groan from him. He grimaced, immediately starting to rub his lower back in an attempt to soothe the jolt of pain from the fall. The couch, once a haven of warmth and affection, now stood empty and slightly disheveled, a testament to the sudden disruption.

Your eyes shifted to the doorway, where Jisung stood frozen for a split second, his own eyes wide with shock at the scene before him. The surprise in his expression was fleeting, quickly giving way to a playful smirk. His eyebrows wiggled suggestively as he leaned casually against the doorframe, his gaze dancing with mischievous amusement.

The contrast between the intense moment you had shared and the lightheartedness of Jisung's entrance was jarring. As the initial surprise subsided, the atmosphere shifted from one of intimate connection to one of awkward hilarity. The room, now filled with the soft chuckles of Jisung and the embarrassed, lingering blush on your cheeks, felt distinctly different.

You and Chan exchanged glances, your faces flushed with a mix of embarrassment and amusement. Chan’s attempt to regain composure while still rubbing his sore back added to the scene’s comedic effect. In the midst of the disruption, the warmth of the moment seemed to dissipate, replaced by the easy camaraderie of Jisung’s teasing presence.

“I can come back later,” Jisung said, his voice carrying an unmistakable hint of playful suggestion. The words lingered in the air, charged with an amused undertone that made it clear he was fully aware of the scene he had just interrupted.

You responded with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, a playful gesture that contrasted sharply with the initial embarrassment. Your smile, though slightly flushed, held a warmth of shared amusement. The gesture was both a dismissal of the teasing and a silent acknowledgment of the lighthearted banter Jisung was introducing.

Chan, still seated on the floor, let out a soft scoff, the sound a mixture of mild frustration and reluctant humor. His expression, though slightly exasperated, softened as he met Jisung’s teasing gaze. The contrast between the seriousness of the moment and the levity Jisung brought was palpable, and Chan’s reaction spoke to the blend of embarrassment and begrudging acceptance of the interruption.

“Did you need something?” Chan inquired, his voice a mixture of curiosity and residual embarrassment as he pushed himself up from the floor. With a slight wince and a careful stretch, he made his way back to his chair, resettling into the spot he had vacated moments before.

Jisung stepped into the studio, his presence marked by the purposeful stride and the iPad clutched in his hand. He took a seat in one of the empty chairs, his movements deliberate and focused, a contrast to the playful banter that had just filled the room. The iPad, held like a cherished artifact, seemed to hum with the promise of creative endeavor.

“Yeah,” Jisung began, his tone shifting from teasing to serious. The change was palpable, and the lightness that had accompanied his entrance melted away, replaced by a more earnest demeanor. He glanced down at the device in his hands, the weight of his words evident in the subtle tension of his posture.

“I just finished writing this song,” he continued, his voice laced with a hint of frustration. “I thought I might ask you for some feedback.” His gaze met Chan’s with a mix of anticipation and concern. “I’m struggling to find the melody for it, though.”

The request hung in the air, a testament to Jisung’s dedication and the challenge he faced. The room, once charged with the intimacy of your earlier exchange, now buzzed with the promise of collaboration and the earnest pursuit of creative refinement. Chan’s expression shifted to one of thoughtful consideration, his earlier amusement giving way to the focused attention that Jisung’s request deserved.

As Chan prepared to listen, the studio seemed to take on a new energy, one of shared purpose and artistic exploration. The casual comfort of the space, with its soft lighting and the scattered remnants of your earlier moment, now became a haven for the exchange of creative ideas and constructive feedback.

이민호 ── LEE MINHO.

The only sounds that punctuated the tranquil evening were the soft clinks of ceramic and glass as they met and departed in gentle harmony. Minho's hands moved deftly in the soapy water, each dish emerging clean from the frothy embrace of the sink. He would pass the polished plates and gleaming utensils to you with practiced ease, and you would then guide them through a final rinse, the clear water cascading over them like a delicate waterfall.

This rhythmic dance of choreographed movements unfolded in a serene cocoon of silence, where each clink and splash became a soothing symphony of domestic tranquility. The dim light from the overhead fixture cast a warm, golden glow, illuminating the quiet intimacy of the moment.

You leaned closer, resting your head lightly upon Minho’s shoulder, finding solace in the gentle rise and fall of his breaths. The simple act of watching him, so absorbed in his task, filled you with a deep sense of contentment. The harmony of your shared routine seemed to weave a thread of comfort through the evening, binding you both in a quiet, unspoken connection.

Minho had prepared a sumptuous feast, each dish a testament to his culinary prowess. The table was adorned with a vibrant spread of delectable creations, each plate a masterpiece in its own right. As the meal began, the room was alive with a symphony of laughter and lively chatter, the air thick with the aroma of spices and savory delights. The members gathered around, their faces illuminated by the warm light of the overhead lamp, their voices weaving a tapestry of animated conversations.

But now, as the final morsels were savored and the last sips of wine enjoyed, a tranquil silence had settled over the room. The clamor of exuberant laughter had given way to a peaceful hush, the once-bustling table now a haven of contented quiet. The lingering scents of the meal mingled with the soft hum of satisfaction, creating an atmosphere of serene afterglow. Everyone leaned back in their chairs, basking in the lingering warmth of good food and even better company.

The plan had been simple and straightforward: you would take on the task of washing the dishes while Minho, who had diligently prepared the meal, would enjoy a well-deserved rest. Yet Minho, with his unwavering determination, had other ideas. His refusal to let you tackle the chore alone was as steadfast as it was endearing.

With a warm, insistent smile, Minho proposed that you both share the task, transforming the mundane chore into a collaborative effort. His eyes sparkled with a mix of stubbornness and affection, a look that left little room for argument. Despite your initial reluctance and the mild exasperation that accompanied it, you found yourself yielding to his gentle insistence.

The prospect of working side by side, immersed in the rhythmic clinks of plates and the soothing warmth of soapy water, began to take on a new charm. Minho’s determination to be your partner in this small yet significant task softened your resistance, allowing you to embrace the shared experience with a touch of reluctant but genuine fondness.

As Minho passed you the final cup he had washed, the delicate glass cool and smooth in your hands, he turned his attention to rinsing his own hands. The kitchen was bathed in a soft, amber glow from the overhead light, casting gentle shadows that danced across the room. He dried his hands with a kitchen towel, the fabric absorbing the last traces of moisture with a quiet efficiency.

Watching you with a tender gaze, his sharp features softened into an expression of serene affection. The contrast of his usual intensity with this gentle demeanor created a moment of profound intimacy. As you felt the lightest brush of his lips on the crown of your head, a shy smile unfurled on your lips, a silent acknowledgment of the warmth and closeness between you.

After you had finished rinsing the last cup, Minho reached out, offering you the towel he had used. The gesture, simple yet laden with care, spoke volumes of his desire to share this small, endearing ritual. His touch lingered with a quiet intimacy, as if the act of handing you the towel was another way of weaving a thread of connection into the fabric of your shared evening.

"Dinner was delicious, as always, my love," you murmured with a contented sigh, letting the kitchen towel slip from your fingers and fall gently to the floor. You moved closer, enfolding him in a tender embrace. Your arms wrapped around his lean torso, drawing him into the warmth of your affection.

Resting your chin on his chest, you tilted your head upwards to gaze at him with adoration. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek provided a soothing backdrop to your heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you," you whispered softly, your voice a tender caress against the quiet of the evening. In that moment, the simple act of holding each other spoke volumes, a silent testament to the depth of your shared love and appreciation.

A playful twinkle sparkled in his eyes as he looked at you, his smile radiating warmth and affection. His fingers, gentle and reassuring, wove through your hair with a tender touch, as if savoring the moment of closeness.

"I’m glad you enjoyed the meal," he murmured, his voice a soft caress against the quiet. The sincerity of his words was mirrored in the affectionate way he stroked your hair, his touch both soothing and intimate. In that shared, tranquil moment, his gaze and gentle gestures spoke volumes about the care and joy he found in seeing you content.

What began as a fleeting, tender kiss on your cheek had swiftly transformed into a fervent embrace of lips. The gentle touch of his lips ignited a spark, leading to a passionate kiss where your tongues engaged in their well-practiced dance, exploring and intertwining with a fluid grace.

His hands cradled your face with an exquisite tenderness, as though he feared that any more pressure might shatter the delicate connection between you. The way his fingers caressed your cheeks, with such gentle reverence, conveyed a deep sense of reverence and care. Each touch seemed to convey an unspoken promise, a silent pledge to cherish and protect the fragile beauty of the moment.

“Oh—!” A sudden, startled yelp pierced the air, shattering the intimate bubble that had enveloped you and Minho. Heads whipped around in unison to find Yongbok standing at the kitchen entrance, his expression a mix of surprise and awkward hesitation.

He lingered at the threshold, caught between the decision to either step into the room or retreat to the safety of the living room. His stance, poised mid-step with uncertainty written across his face, underscored the unexpected intrusion into what had been a moment of tender privacy.

"Ah," Minho exhaled with a playful whine, his head tilting to the side as if weighed down by exaggerated exasperation. He squeezed his eyes shut, the corners of his mouth curving into a mock frown that was both endearing and dramatic.

"I can’t seem to have a moment of solitude in here," he lamented, his tone laced with a humorous undertone. The theatrics of his gesture and the melodramatic sigh added a layer of lightheartedness to the interruption, making his feigned annoyance all the more charming.

A deep blush colored Yongbok’s cheeks as he bowed his head slightly, offering a silent apology that spoke volumes. His embarrassment was palpable, yet he moved with a purposeful grace, stepping into the kitchen with a mix of shyness and determination.

He made a beeline for the freezer, his movements quick and somewhat furtive. With a swift motion, he retrieved a brand new tub of ice cream, the cool container a stark contrast to the warmth of his cheeks. As he slipped back toward the door, his voice broke through the quiet with an embarrassed yet earnest, “Sorry!” His hasty retreat, accompanied by the muffled sound of the freezer closing, left a lingering trace of his red-faced mortification.

You couldn’t help but chuckle at the unfolding scene, the sound a soft ripple of amusement in the otherwise quiet room. Your hands gently rested on Minho’s biceps, feeling the subtle strength beneath his shirt as you turned to face him once more.

Minho was already gazing at you with a look that combined mischief and amusement, his eyes sparkling with a playful light that drew you in. The sight of his tender, yet mischievous expression made your heart flutter, an involuntary blush creeping across your cheeks. The warmth of your blush contrasted with the coolness of the evening, adding a delightful layer to the already enchanting moment.

“Should I escort everyone who doesn’t reside here out?” Minho mused aloud, his index finger tapping thoughtfully against his chin. The gesture was deliberate, a small ritual of contemplation as he considered the crowded scene around him.

He sighed softly, his gaze drifting towards you with a mix of longing and humor. “I’d really appreciate a moment of solitude with my lover,” he continued, his voice tinged with playful exasperation. The desire for privacy was clear in his words, a heartfelt wish for a brief respite from the throng of people that seemed to encircle you both.

Your cheeks flushed deeper at his remark, the warmth of your blush spreading as you playfully slapped his chest with a gentle, teasing motion. “No, I actually enjoy having them here,” you replied, your voice carrying a soft, affectionate tone.

Minho’s reaction was swift and dramatic—he pouted, a look of mock offense crossing his features. His expression was almost comically wounded, adding a layer of endearing charm to his demeanor. “You love them here, too,” he retorted, his voice tinged with a hint of playful reproach. “We don’t get many chances to spend time like this, surrounded by everyone we care about.” His words carried a mix of sincerity and affection, highlighting the rare and cherished moments of togetherness amidst the lively company.

Though Minho recognized the truth in your words, he couldn’t resist the dramatic flair of throwing his head back in an exaggerated display of exasperation. The gesture was both theatrical and endearing, a playful prelude to the amused smile that soon graced his lips as he turned back to face you.

With a gentle peck on your forehead, his affection was palpable and tender, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes. Minho then shifted slightly, subtly encouraging you to step back and make room for him to maneuver. Together, you both ventured back into the living room, where the lively banter of the other members filled the air. Their animated debate over which movie to watch created a backdrop of joyful chaos, adding a touch of familiar, comfortable noise to the evening’s unfolding scenes.

서창빈 ── SEO CHANGBIN.

As you stepped into the familiar confines of the gym, the echo of your footsteps reverberated through the empty space. The dim lighting cast a soft glow on the rows of pristine equipment, all neatly aligned yet untouched, giving the place an almost ethereal quality. It was a sanctuary of solitude, the usual clamor replaced by a serene silence, the gym technically closed to the public. But Changbin, with his special privileges, had always been an exception.

Changbin's eyes sparkled with curiosity as he turned to you, a playful smile dancing on his lips. "What are you going to be working on today?" he inquired, his voice gentle yet brimming with enthusiasm.

You took a moment, savoring the tranquility, before taking a swift sip from your water bottle. "Today, I’ll focus on my arms and chest," you replied, your voice steady and resolute. "But I’m starting with cardio."

Changbin nodded, his expression one of approval and understanding. Leaning in, he pressed a tender kiss onto your cheek, the warmth of his lips lingering like a delicate whisper. He then gently nudged you towards the treadmill, his touch both encouraging and affectionate. "Today's leg day for me," he declared with a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with determination.

As you began your workout, the rhythmic hum of the treadmill filled the air, blending seamlessly with the soft rustle of your movements. The gym, though silent and still, seemed to come alive with the shared energy and quiet companionship, a testament to the unspoken bond you and Changbin cherished.

Just like that, you both found yourselves immersed in your own worlds, each movement and breath synchronizing with the rhythm of your workouts. The gym seemed to fade away, leaving only the steady cadence of your heartbeats and the pulsating energy of your exertion.

Your large headphones enveloped your ears, cocooning you in a bubble of high-energy music. Each song, meticulously selected for its invigorating beat, propelled you forward, every stride on the treadmill matching the tempo of the powerful tunes. The music was your fuel, igniting your determination and driving you through each passing minute.

Meanwhile, Changbin was equally engrossed in his routine, his focus unwavering as he pushed through the burn of leg day. The clang of weights and the soft thud of his movements created a rhythm of their own, a testament to his dedication and strength.

When the thirty minutes finally elapsed, you both reconvened, seeking each other's presence for a much-needed respite. Your breath came in shallow pants, the exertion evident in the slight sheen of sweat glistening on your skin. The treadmill had tested your endurance, leaving you flushed and glowing with the heat of your efforts.

Changbin, too, bore the marks of his intense workout. His face was flushed, and beads of perspiration trickled down his temples. He lifted his water bottle, tilting it back to down a generous portion of the cool liquid, the refreshing sensation bringing a momentary relief from the heat.

As you caught your breath, the shared silence was comforting, a mutual understanding that needed no words. The gym, still hushed and serene, felt like a haven where both of you could push your limits and find solace in each other’s presence.

"I was watching you while you were running," Changbin remarked after wiping his mouth, his tone carrying a playful edge that made you smirk. His dark eyes sparkled with a mix of admiration and mischief as he continued, "You look so good, it’s not even remotely funny or fair."

You couldn't help but scoff, rolling your eyes at him, but the warmth in his gaze made it impossible to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. Stepping closer to your boyfriend, you felt a surge of affection. The scent of his cologne mingled with the fresh, clean aroma of the gym, creating an intimate bubble around you both.

In one swift motion, you captured his lips with yours, the kiss light and teasing. You giggled, delighting in the surprised look on his face as you pulled away before he had a chance to react. His pout was adorable, a mixture of mock annoyance and genuine desire.

Not one to be outdone, Changbin leaned down, closing the distance between you. His lips found yours again, this time more firmly, conveying a deeper passion and a hint of possessiveness. The kiss was a promise, a silent affirmation of his feelings, and you responded in kind, melting into the moment.

The gym, with its quiet solitude and dim lighting, faded into the background. All that mattered was the connection between you two, the electricity in the air as your lips met and parted. It was a stolen moment of tenderness and playfulness, a testament to the unique bond you shared.

As you should have expected, Changbin wasted no time in reaching up to cradle your face, his fingers tender yet firm against your skin. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, and his intent was clear: he wanted to deepen the kiss, to lose himself in the moment with you.

The world seemed to fade away as his lips moved against yours, each touch a testament to his longing. However, before the kiss could escalate, a sudden, sharp sound shattered the tranquility. The door banged open with a loud thud, startling you both apart, your hearts pounding not just from the exertion but from the abrupt interruption.

You and Changbin turned simultaneously, eyes wide with surprise and a hint of annoyance, to find Jeongin standing by the door. His expression was a mixture of embarrassment and amusement, a sheepish smile spreading across his face as he took in the scene.

"I'm sorry," Jeongin began, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I didn't know you guys would need some time—"

He hesitated, glancing between you and Changbin, the awkwardness of the situation apparent. The silence stretched for a moment, thick with unspoken words and the remnants of the interrupted kiss.

Jeongin's smile turned a bit more genuine as he added, "I can give you five minutes to finish, though."

The jab had you cackling, the sound echoing through the gym. Changbin, however, feigned offense, playfully yelling, "Hey! I can last a hell of a lot longer than some measly five minutes!" He huffed dramatically, his pout exaggerated to drive home the point. Jeongin laughed, shaking his head slightly, amused by the spectacle.

"What are you even doing here?" Changbin asked after a beat of silence, curiosity piqued.

Jeongin cocked his head to the side, his expression almost puzzled. "You…we agreed I’d meet you here tonight to work out…" His words trailed off, the memory slowly dawning on him as he spoke.

As if struck by sudden realization, Changbin gasped theatrically, slapping his palm against his forehead. "That’s right! I’m sorry, come in." His apology was earnest, his eyes reflecting a mixture of guilt and amusement.

"Oh, I’d rather not be a third wheel, thank you very much," Jeongin teased, a playful glint in his eyes. You rolled your eyes at him, unable to suppress a smile. The banter was light-hearted, a testament to the easy camaraderie between you all.

Changbin, on the other hand, wasn't about to let his friend off the hook that easily. "Oh, no you don’t!" he called out, his voice booming through the gym. He rushed forward, grabbing Jeongin by the shirt as he attempted to leave, pulling him back into the gym with surprising strength.

Jeongin's protests were half-hearted, more amused than anything else. The scene was almost comical, the gym’s solemnity broken by your laughter and the playful antics of your friends. It was a moment of shared joy, a reminder of the bonds that held you together even in the most mundane of settings.

황현진 ── HWANG HYUNJIN.

You whine softly, your voice barely above a whisper, as you press your hand against Hyunjin's forehead to push him away. His persistence is unwavering, though, and he keeps returning with puckered lips and mischievous eyes that sparkle with playful intent. The soft glow of the television casts a warm hue over the room, illuminating his features and accentuating the twinkle in his eyes.

For quite some time now, Hyunjin had been trying to capture your lips with his own, his attempts at stealing kisses becoming increasingly daring. Yet, your focus remained steadfast on the movie playing on the screen. The film’s storyline had finally ensnared your attention, and for once, you wanted to see it through without distractions. You couldn't help but feel a bit guilty, knowing how much Hyunjin craved these intimate moments, but the timing just didn't feel right.

Besides, the living room of the apartment he shared with his roommate, Changbin, didn’t seem like the ideal setting for such affection. The thought of indulging in romantic gestures here, even with the knowledge that Changbin was away at the gym, felt unsettling. The echo of his presence lingered in the air, and the mere idea of it dulled the allure of Hyunjin's advances. The movie provided a convenient shield, a reason to resist the pull of his playful charm, as you both sat close yet worlds apart on the couch.

"Come on," Hyunjin complained, his voice tinged with a playful whine as he pouted, his lips forming a perfect, exaggerated curve. The sight of him like this, with his bottom lip jutting out and his eyes wide with mock disappointment, sent a ripple of amusement through you. Unable to suppress a giggle, you found his expression irresistibly adorable, a stark contrast to his usual confident demeanor.

"Just a little bit, and then I'll leave you alone," he pleaded, his tone a mixture of enticement and surrender. His persistence was endearing, a testament to his desire for your attention and affection. You sighed theatrically, rolling your eyes with feigned exasperation at his dramatic antics, yet a smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. Hyunjin's charm was a force to be reckoned with, and even in moments like these, he knew exactly how to push your buttons.

"The movie is almost done," you stated, glancing at the television screen and pointing with the remote in your hand. The film's climax was nearing, and you couldn't help but feel a mix of anticipation and relief. "Once the movie is done, I'm all yours — fair?" Your words hung in the air, a promise of undivided attention once the credits rolled.

Hyunjin huffed in playful defeat, his breath escaping in a soft, theatrical exhale. With a resigned nod, he agreed, then settled himself comfortably on the couch, laying his head on your lap while his feet dangled off the armrest. The weight of his head on your thighs felt familiar and comforting. A chuckle escaped your lips as you unpaused the movie, your fingers instinctively weaving through his long, silken hair, the strands slipping like liquid gold between your fingertips.

There was something endearing about Hyunjin's behavior, how he could be so clingy and needy despite his usual claims of not being a fan of physical affection. It amused you endlessly, this dichotomy of his personality, and you couldn't help but smile at the contrast. His presence was a delightful distraction, one that added a layer of warmth and intimacy to the moment.

As the movie continued to play, you found yourself getting drawn back into the plot, though not without the occasional commentary meant to elicit laughter from Hyunjin. Your whispered remarks and shared giggles created a cozy cocoon of companionship, the outside world fading away as you reveled in the simple pleasure of being together. Each touch, each laugh, each whispered word added another stitch to the tapestry of your shared moments, weaving a bond that felt unbreakable.

When the movie finally came to an end, you barely had a moment to register the closing credits before Hyunjin practically launched himself at you, his lithe form straddling your lap with an impish grin lighting up his face. His eyes sparkled with a playful mischief, and without warning, he began to pepper your face and neck with a flurry of kisses. Each feather-light touch sent delightful shivers down your spine, and you couldn't help but giggle loudly, the sound filling the room with infectious joy.

Despite your best efforts to push him away, your attempts were half-hearted at best, your resolve weakened by the sheer delight of his affectionate onslaught. Hyunjin, ever the tease, quickly caught your wrists in his grasp, pinning them securely to his lap. His grip was firm yet gentle, and his eyes danced with laughter as he resumed his barrage of kisses. The sensation of his lips against your skin, warm and insistent, left you breathless and giddy.

You wriggled and squirmed beneath him, your laughter rising in pitch as you became a squealing, giggling mess. The room seemed to blur around you, the only clarity being the closeness of Hyunjin, the feel of his body pressed against yours, and the sound of his laughter mingling with your own. His kisses were relentless, each one a playful declaration of his affection, and no amount of squirming seemed to deter him.

In that moment, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only you and Hyunjin, caught in a whirlwind of shared laughter and tender kisses. Your attempts at defense were futile, each wriggle and squeal only serving to encourage him further. Yet, beneath the playful struggle, there was a profound sense of happiness, a blissful contentment that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

Lost in your own bubble of joy and affection, neither of you noticed when Changbin returned from the gym. He stood silently by the doorway, his phone poised in front of his face, capturing the endearing chaos unfolding before him. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he recorded the scene, amused by the playful display of intimacy.

It was only when you turned your head and caught sight of him that a startled yelp escaped your lips. The sound jolted Hyunjin from his revelry, his expression shifting from delight to confusion. "Hey! What are you doing? Are you filming?" you asked with a mixture of surprise and annoyance. The sudden shift in your tone finally alerted Hyunjin to his roommate’s presence.

Changbin’s boisterous laughter erupted, filling the space with a rich, hearty sound. He quickly turned off his phone and shoved it into his pocket, but not before Hyunjin had leapt from your lap, his face a mix of mock outrage and concern. “That’s an invasion of privacy!” Hyunjin declared with exaggerated drama, his voice ringing through the room.

Your laughter mingled with Changbin’s as you shot Hyunjin a teasing look. “Baby, we’re in the living room. This is not a private space for you to be saying that.” Hyunjin’s face fell into a pout, his lower lip jutting out as he glanced at you.

“Whose side are you on, huh?” he asked, a playful edge to his tone.

Changbin, clearly entertained by the bickering, shook his head with a chuckle as he turned and made his way towards his bedroom. His amusement lingered in the air, a lighthearted reminder of the everyday warmth and camaraderie that filled the apartment. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you and Hyunjin to continue your playful exchange, the echo of laughter still dancing in the room.

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fictionally-driven · 1 year ago

Text

Bruises and Blossoms

Pairing: Jiyan x f! Midnight Rangers reader Word count: 3165 words Trigger warnings: Injuries, mentions of blood, violence, mentions of death. Plot: Jiyan is gravely injured and saved by the resilient and resourceful field medic, (Y/N), whose unwavering dedication and quick thinking catch his eye amidst the chaos of war.

Author Note: I have been writing fics about WuWa characters developing feelings for someone. I could not help but indulge in this after playing WuWa from the past few days. If you liked it, then reblogs are appreciated, Thank you!

The battlefield was a symphony of chaos, the air thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid stench of smoke. Tacet Discords, their dark forms swirling like a malevolent storm, descended upon them. Jiyan led his troops into the fray against the looming threat to Jinzhou and Huanglong. His blade cut through the fog on the enemy with lethal precision.

But the Tacet Discords were relentless, their numbers seemingly endless as they swarmed over the battlefield. It felt like an other outbreak was on the verge of breaking through and Jiyan was resolved to quell it before it got to that point. Jiyan fought with all his strength, his heart pounding with adrenaline as he pushed himself beyond his limits to protect his troops from the brunt of the attacks.

Suddenly, amidst the chaos, a joint attack from the Crownless and the Tempest Memphis caught Jiyan off guard. Despite his best efforts, he found himself overwhelmed, his vision blurring as pain seared through his body. Blood filled Jiyan's mouth as he struggled to maintain his footing, his ears ringing with the clamor of battle. But even in the midst of his pain, he refused to yield, his determination unwavering as he faced his enemies head-on. Slaying the crownless, Jiyan collapsed to his knees, trying to catch his breath and recover. Black spots emerged in his vision and he shook his head, trying to remain focused. Amidst the chaos, a familiar voice cut through the din, pulling him back from the brink of darkness.

An on-field medic approached at Jiyan's side "General! focus on me," she urged, her voice firm yet comforting as she assessed his injuries. Her hands moving with practiced precision as she tended to his injuries with the supplies she was carrying. "Let me patch you up."

But Jiyan, his resolve as strong as ever, swatted her hand away. He insisted that he was fine, his voice strained with pain. "There are others who need your help more than I do," he protested, his gaze flickering with concern for his troops. “I’ll be alright.”

Yet the medic, undeterred by Jiyan's protests, remained steadfast in her resolve. "You need medical attention, General," she insisted, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Let me do my job."

"I'm not leaving you like this," She retorted, her tone firm as she continued to patch up Jiyan's injuries. "No man left behind, remember?"

As she outlined Jiyan's injuries in her terminal, recording and transmitting the message to the infirmary, she detailed the extent of his wounds. "He's broken his arm, sustained a deep femoral artery laceration, and has multiple contusions and abrasions," she reported, her voice steady despite the urgency of the situation. "We'll need a transfusion and surgical intervention."

With practiced efficiency, she stabilized Jiyan's broken arm, carefully wrapping it in a makeshift splint to prevent further injury after removing his signature midnight green gardebras. Administering pain medication, she sought to alleviate his discomfort, her hands moving with gentle precision as she worked.

As she wrapped a tourniquet around his open wound to stem the bleeding, she barked commands to the surrounding troops, directing them to cover their path back to the infirmary. "We need a clear path, now!" She pointed to two soldiers. “You two. Cover for me and the general till we make it to the infirmary. Take defense positions at the back.” She then points to another soldier beside them. “You take the front. What? Do I look like I have sprouted two horns? Move. Now!” With Jiyan's uninjured arm draped around her, she lifted the general up, staggering a bit due to his weight before stabilizing herself.

Despite his delirium from the pain and blood loss, Jiyan couldn't help but notice the warmth of her presence, her lively nature. "You're like a whirlwind, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice laced with admiration as she dragged him towards the relative safety of the infirmary.

Despite the chaos and confusion of the battlefield, Jiyan finds himself drawn to the medic at his side. Was she glowing? He couldn't help but wonder as he struggled to keep up with her brisk pace. How could someone be so beautiful, almost amidst the carnage of war? Though the scent of blood and smoke filled his senses, he could still smell was the antiseptic and medicines that she had used on him, comforting him. As she dragged him towards the infirmary, Jiyan weakly protested against her, insisting that he would be fine. She seemingly ignored his words, only to focus on the task at hand. And in that moment, as he clung to her for support, Jiyan knew that he was in good hands.

Inside the infirmary, the harsh lights made everything seem too bright and painful. Jiyan was gently lowered onto the bed, his muscles screaming in protest with each movement. Through bleary eyes, he watched as the medic busied herself. Jiyan’s eyes fixed on her, noting the blood, his blood, smeared on her skin and on her clavicle. He noticed the small injuries that marred her too. Her hair, disheveled from the chaos, fell out of place from its tie, framing her face. With his uninjured hand, he reached out and tucked a stray strand behind her ear, his touch lingering for a moment. “You are injured too. Make sure to get it patched.”

She glanced at him, a mix of frustration and tenderness in her eyes. "You need to rest, General," she admonished, her voice soft yet firm. "Let us handle the battlefield for now. Your troops need you to recover."

Jiyan managed a weak smile, his vision blurring again. "You... you're quite something," he murmured, his voice trailing off. “What is your name, soldier?”

She stood up, her expression softening as she looked down at him. "And you're quite stubborn," she replied, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Take care and recover soon. Your troops have got this, and you need to focus on resting." She wiped his blood off her using a few wet wipes as more medics gathered to tend to the general. “My name is (Y/N).” She said, as the medics began working on treating him.

Jiyan managed a weak smile, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you, (Y/N)." he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"You're welcome," she replied, still smiling. “Let the medics tend to you. I’ll be off now.”

As she turned to leave, her figure was haloed by the harsh light, making her seem almost ethereal. Jiyan watched her go, the scent of antiseptic and the warmth of her presence lingering even as he drifted into unconsciousness.

Days had passed since the chaotic battle, and Jiyan, who transferred to the hospital in Jinzhou city was gradually recovering. His body, still wrapped in bandages and dressings, bore the marks of the intense skirmish. His broken arm was securely cast, the deep laceration on his hip stitched and bandaged, and the myriad of contusions and abrasions were cleaned and dressed. The medics had done their job well, but amidst their care, Jiyan's mind lingered on one thought: the medic who had saved him.

(Y/N), she had said her name was. She hadn't served directly under him before, always stationed at a distant outpost. The recent upheavals had brought many changes to their forces, including her reassignment to the Northern border of Huanglong. He'd learned through her records that she was exemplary, her combat skills and medical background making her a perfect fit for an on-field medic. Jiyan knew he needed to thank her, not just for her skillful treatment, but for her unwavering determination to save his life.

Her image was etched into his mind: her firm yet gentle hands tending to his wounds, her unwavering resolve, and that fleeting moment when he had tucked a stray strand of her hair behind her ear. Despite the pain and blood loss, he remembered the warmth of her presence

The Tacet Discord outbreak from that fateful day had been contained, though at a grave cost. Several lives had been lost, each one a heavy burden on Jiyan's heart. As he regained his strength, he prepared himself for a somber duty he never neglected: honoring the fallen. With a pouch of Emortia seeds in his hand, Jiyan made his way to Knell Square, the hallowed ground where he planted these seeds to commemorate the soldiers who had perished in battle.

Stepping out into the streets of Jinzhou, Jiyan felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him. The city was alive with activity, but he sought solace in the quieter parts. His path took him away from the bustling marketplace, past the familiar landmarks of the city, and towards Knell Square.

As Jiyan approached the square, the familiar sight of Emortia flowers greeted him, their delicate petals swaying gently in the breeze. He paused for a moment, taking in the serenity of the scene, his heart heavy with the names and faces of the comrades he had lost. But then, his gaze caught sight of a solitary figure standing by the flower bed, lost in thought.

(Y/N) stood there, her posture relaxed yet somehow somber. She seemed absorbed in the sight of the flowers; her eyes distant as if she were communing with the spirits of those who had passed. The soft light of the late afternoon cast a gentle glow on her, highlighting the subtle strength and grace that had left such an impression on him.

Jiyan's heart skipped a beat as he watched her. He hadn't expected to run into her here, and the sight of her brought back a flood of memories from the battlefield. He wondered what she was thinking about, what memories or emotions had drawn her to this quiet place. He took a moment to observe her, the way her eyes seemed to soften as she looked at the flowers, the way her hands gently brushed against the petals. He cleared his throat, stepping beside her. "I didn’t expect to run into you in Jinzhou."

(Y/N) turned to him, a gentle smile forming on her lips. "General Jiyan," she greeted, her voice soft. “I see that you are recovering quickly.” She turned back to the flowers. “I was here to collect some personal supplies and stopped by to admire these flowers. They are quite beautiful, aren’t they?”

Jiyan nodded, stepping closer to stand beside her. "They do. Each one represents a life, a sacrifice. It's a way for me to remember and honor them. I plant these seeds for the rangers who lost their lives." he said quietly.

She looked back at the flowers; her expression thoughtful. "These flowers... they carry so many memories…”

There was a moment of silence between them, the weight of their shared losses hanging in the air. Jiyan took a deep breath, summoning the words he had been wanting to say. "Thank you," he began, his voice earnest. "For saving me that day. I owe you, (Y/N)."

(Y/N) waved a hand dismissively, but there was a twinkle in her eye. "I was just doing my duty, General. But next time, let me do my job without fighting back.” There was a hint of frustration in her eyes. “You of all people should know that without a general, the army would have fallen into disarray."

Jiyan felt a pang of sheepishness at her words, but he nodded in acknowledgment. "You're right," he admitted. "I was stubborn. But so were you. Your quick thinking and actions saved me. Your efforts will be formally acknowledged."

A soft chuckle escaped her lips as she shook her head. "No need for formalities, General. Knowing that you're alive and well is enough for me. I don't want praise," (Y/N) said, her voice firm yet soft. "I didn't do it for the recognition. I did it because it's my duty, and I want to be more efficient in that duty. I could have saved more lives that day if I was better."

Jiyan nodded slowly. "I do. It's a heavy burden, knowing lives depend on your actions. But that's also what makes it so important."

(Y/N)'s eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition flashing in them. "That's right. You were a medic before you became a general. I'd almost forgotten about that."

Jiyan smiled faintly. "It's not something I talk about often, but it's a part of who I am."

She gave him an incredulous look, almost looking offended. “You, of all people, should know better than to resist treatment on the battlefield! Next time, I'll tie you up if I have to."

A chuckle escaped Jiyan before he could stop it, and (Y/N)'s eyes widened in surprise. "Something the matter?" he asked, bemused.

She shook her head, a look of astonishment on her face. "I don't think I've ever heard you chuckle before," she said, her voice filled with wonder. "It suits you more than your usual frown and scowl."

Jiyan was momentarily stunned by her words. He wasn't used to such candid observations about his demeanor. "I suppose I should thank you for that," he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

(Y/N) returned his smile, her gaze focused on the sky for a moment, "I'll leave you to your moment with the flowers, General," she said, stepping back to give him space.

As she began to walk away, Jiyan found himself not wanting her to leave just yet. "Wait," he called after her, his voice catching slightly. "Would you... would you help me plant these seeds?"

(Y/N) turned back, her smile widening as she walked back to him. "Of course, General. I'd be honored."

They knelt together by the flower bed, the pouch of Emortia seeds in Jiyan's hand. He handed a few seeds to (Y/N), their fingers brushing lightly. Together, they dug small holes in the soil, carefully placing the seeds within.

"Each seed represents a life," Jiyan said quietly, his voice filled with reverence. "A sacrifice that must never be forgotten."

(Y/N) nodded, her eyes reflecting the same solemn respect. "And each flower that blooms is a reminder of their bravery and our duty to honor them."

They worked in silence for a while, the act of planting the seeds almost meditative. The gentle rustling of the flowers and the distant sounds of the city created a peaceful backdrop to their task.

As they finished planting the last of the seeds, Jiyan looked at (Y/N), admiration evident in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, his voice sincere. "For everything."

(Y/N) smiled, her lively spirit shining through once more. "You're welcome, General. And thank you for your service. We all rely on your strength and leadership."

With the seeds planted, they stood together, taking a moment to appreciate the serene beauty of Knell Square. The Emortia flowers swayed gently in the breeze, their delicate petals a symbol of hope and remembrance.

"I should be going," (Y/N) said softly. "But if you ever need someone to tie you down for treatment again, you know where to find me, General."

Jiyan chuckled, a genuine smile breaking across his face. "I'll keep that in mind," he replied. “And please, call me Jiyan.”

“Jiyan…” She repeated, nodding at him. “Alright then, I’ll do just that.”

As (Y/N) repeated his name, a warm feeling spread through his chest. He didn't want her to leave just yet. There was something about her presence that he found comforting, something that made him want to know more about her.

He recalled Mortefi's words, a dear friend who often chided him for being too stoic and reserved. "You need to put yourself out there, Jiyan. Go on dates, meet new people, relax a little. Stop being a tragic brooding hero all the damn time and go live your life."

Jiyan had never thought he desired companionship. After all, the Jué had entrusted him with a duty, a responsibility that he had always taken seriously. But this woman, (Y/N), had come out of nowhere, stirring feelings within him that he had never felt before. It made him yearn for more and all he wanted was to be the subject of her attention at the moment.

Summoning his courage, Jiyan hesitated for a moment before calling out to her, his voice slightly awkward. "Um, (Y/N), wait!"

She turned back, a curious expression on her face as she regarded him. Jiyan stumbled over his words, his cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. At this very moment, he felt as if he would rather fight a horde of the Crownless than speak his mind. "I, uh, I was wondering if... if it would be alright for us to, um, go out for a nice dinner? And maybe catch a lion dance performance after?"

(Y/N) turned back, a slight smile playing on her lips as she observed Jiyan's flustered state. "Are you asking me out on a date, General?" she teased, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Jiyan hesitated, first blurting out. “N-no…that’s...” He immediately corrected himself. "I... uh... yes, I suppose I am," he admitted, his voice slightly uncertain. "If... if that's not out of line, I mean. I'm sorry, I should probably let you be..."

(Y/N) giggled, the sound light and musical, easing some of Jiyan's anxiety. "It's endearing to see the General so flustered," she said, her tone gentle and kind. “I’d like to see more of this side of yours, Jiyan.” She met his gaze, still amused. “So yes, I'd like to go on this date if you're still up for it."

Relief flooded through Jiyan, mingled with a newfound sense of excitement. He hadn't expected her to say yes, but now that she had, he couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness. “Yes. It... Its settled then.”

(Y/N) nodded, her smile warm and inviting. "Alright then, Jiyan. When and where?"

Jiyan thought for a moment, his mind racing. "There's a lovely restaurant near the theatre. How about we meet there at seven tonight or is that too soon...?"

"Seven sounds perfect," she agreed. "I'll see you then."

As they exchanged contact information on their terminals, Jiyan's heart thudded in his chest, a mixture of nerves and excitement coursing through him. He watched as (Y/N) took off, her graceful form moving with purpose, and he couldn't help but admire her even more. With a final wave and a cheerful reminder to take care, she disappeared into the bustling city streets, leaving Jiyan standing there with a smile playing on his lips.

His gaze lingered on the spot where she had vanished, the memory of her infectious laughter and warm smile etched into his mind. For a moment, he placed his uninjured hand on top of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his palm. Yes, even he, General Jiyan, renowned for his stoicism and unwavering dedication to duty, found himself looking forward to tonight and the possibility of many more nights spent in (Y/N)'s company.

WuWa Masterlist

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