#but understand..... it's important to me...

[mortisghost]

About the OFF Prologue

Thank you very much to everyone who played the Off demo! We're delighted that the response was so numerous and enthusiastic. Your comments and feedback will be invaluable to the team for the final phase of development.

Regarding the feedback that focuses on differences from the original version, which often necessarily involves the new soundtrack, but also a few other small changes : I can easily understand the difficulty some of you have in appreciating elements that replace those you've known and are attached to. But I want to remind you first and foremost that this version doesn’t intend to replace the previous one, which remains and will always remain available for free to everyone. At no point there's any intention of "removing" - one way or the other - the Alias ​​Conrad Coldwood soundtrack, which is a very important part of the atmosphere of the original experience. Constraints forced us to choose to offer you this new soundtrack, which should be seen as another musical dressing for the world of Off, and not as a "final edition," canceling the previous one.

Moreover, the creative process for this new soundtrack was not solely driven by an attempt to recreate the exact same atmospheres as the original. I personally asked the artists to maintain a certain degree of freedom, and thus avoid falling into the somewhat impossible exercise of identically recreating existing atmospheres. As an artist myself, I thought it was more interesting to give the musicians a certain amount of room for expression and interpretation, not only so that the pieces they compose are interesting in themselves, and not just as reproductions, but also because I believe this is one of the aspects that makes the experience of this new version surprising and interesting.

I also know that for several of the excellent artists tasked with creating new music for this version, it was a source of rather intense pressure! Everyone on the team loves the original game, and knows how important its soundtrack is.

All that being said, the Dedan battle theme, which seems to have been a specifically controversial point, will most likely receive some changes between now and the final release.

Finally, I've read a few times about Toby Fox's supposedly dominant role on the team. Please believe that, as involved as he is in the game's development process, not only does he have no final decision-making power (which is more in line with my position), but he also works with us with enormous respect (and fear) for the source material. Of the entire team, I think he's the one who felt the most pressure from the fans, and still does. I ask you, please, to be assured of his sincere involvement and humble devotion to the project and to the batter's messianic quest.

The idea of ​​replacing the dopefish with the dog from Undertale was mine, as the green fish is copyrighted; we were afraid Apogee would annoy us.

Well, that's all for now. I hope you're all well, thank you again for your support and your thousands of encouraging comments. I hope you'll like the final version!!

Have a great day everyone, go play Deltarune; my boss forced me to tell you.

Bye

[cressidagrey]

The Brush Off

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: 5 Times people flirt with Felicity and 1 time Oscar sees it happen. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 Also, check out my new divider!

School Library, Haileybury

Felicity was tucked into her usual corner of the school library — second floor, far left, just behind the dusty shelf of outdated atlases no one ever touched. It was quiet there. Untouchable. Sacred.

Her legs were curled under her in a frankly illegal way that made the librarian twitch every time she passed by. 

But Felicity didn’t care. She had more important things to worry about. Like finishing her own chemistry coursework, writing the conclusion to her robotics team report, and, most importantly, rescuing Oscar’s history grade from what could only be described as a stylistic disaster.

Her copy of The Selfish Gene sat open next to a packet of sticky notes and five highlighters arranged in rainbow order. Oscar’s essay draft was sprawled beside it like a corpse in need of resuscitation.

 She was six pages in.

 She had already marked five run-on sentences, circled three historical inaccuracies, and scrawled “comma splice?” in angry red ink on the header. Next to that, she’d added, in smaller print: “This is a run-on sentence and also a war crime.”(This was three lines after “I am not sure if child labour can be considered a “perk” of the industrial revolution, Oz.”)

She was muttering to herself about how Oscar consistently forgot the difference between a primary and secondary source when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hey,” a voice said. “You always sit here?”

Felicity glanced up — just barely — and immediately clocked the newcomer.

Mateo.

The Spanish exchange student.

Hair swoop. Too much cologne.

He had the vibe of someone who thought reading The Secret History made him profound. Like the kind of guy who bought Moleskines but didn’t write in them. Like a walking Instagram profile captioned “Fluent in Nietzsche.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just scribbled a note in Oscar’s margin (“use a stronger thesis here or face the wrath of every historian who’s ever lived”).

“On Wednesdays, yes,” she replied eventually, eyes still on the page.

Mateo didn’t take the hint.

He leaned in a little too close. She caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and already regretted not bringing headphones.

“What are you working on?”

She lifted Oscar’s paper slightly, as if it were obvious. “This.”

He squinted. “You’re helping a friend?”

“This is my boyfriend’s essay.”

Mateo’s face lit up, but not with recognition — with opportunity. “Wow. You’re that good a friend?”

Felicity blinked. “I’m that good a girlfriend.”

He paused. Smiled like she’d just told a cute joke at a party. “Sure. But, like, if you ever wanted to… hang out? Or study together? I’ve been struggling with philosophy.”

She stared at him. “You’re struggling with philosophy?”

He nodded eagerly. “It’s so dense, you know?”

“You mean… reading?”

He chuckled. “I just thought it might be easier with someone like you. Someone sharp. Smart.”

She just stared at him. 

Still, he didn’t leave. “I’m just saying, if you ever get bored of helping your boyfriend… I wouldn’t mind a little attention.”

That’s what made her pause.

Because for a moment, Felicity genuinely didn’t understand what he meant.

Attention? What kind? Did he want her to edit his essay, too? Help him structure his arguments?

Was this a mentorship request? A tutoring thing? Was he trying to hire her?

Because from where she was sitting — wearing one of Oscar’s sweatshirts over her school uniform with her hair up in a pencil-stabbed bun, ink smudged on her fingers… There was no way this boy was flirting with her.

She finally looked up, expression flat. “I’ve been with my boyfriend for two years. I rewrite his footnotes. I know the number of his racing sim’s USB ports by memory. You think I have time for recreational idiocy?”

Mateo blinked. He stammered something that might’ve been “Sorry” or “Your loss” or possibly just the start of a philosophy quote he didn’t finish.

Then he turned and slunk away, disappearing into the nonfiction aisle like a man who needed to Google what a footnote was.

Felicity exhaled slowly, turned back to Oscar’s essay, and drew a tiny skull next to a sentence about Napoleon.

Ten minutes later, Oscar appeared — bottle of water in one hand, hoodie sleeves half-pushed up, curls slightly mussed.

“Hey,” he said, flopping into the seat beside her and nudging her ankle under the table.

Felicity didn’t even blink. She just slid his paper across the table.

“Yours,” she said, tone dry. “Try not to get seduced by misused commas.”

Oscar grinned, leaned over, and kissed her temple.

***

Engineering Library, Imperial College London

The engineering library at Imperial had a very specific kind of silence — dense, utilitarian, and just slightly stressed. 

It didn’t have the hushed reverence of a humanities space or the open nervous energy of undergrads cramming in a group. No. This room buzzed with tension.

It smelled like soldering fumes, pencil shavings, leftover caffeine, and the faintest echo of ambition-turned-despair.

Most students had packed up hours ago, but Felicity remained in her fortress of design textbooks, open CAD diagrams, three kinds of scrap paper, and a crumpled granola bar wrapper that she’d been meaning to throw away for at least forty-five minutes. Her water bottle was dangerously low, her laptop fan sounded like it was preparing for lift-off, and her cursor had been blinking in the same spot on her thermal stress simulation for the last twenty-seven minutes.

She wasn’t stuck. She was just… tired.

Tired in the bone-deep way only a mechanical engineering student in her second trimester could be.

She shifted slightly, legs curled beneath her, one hand resting absently on the curve of her bump. Not because it hurt — not tonight — but because Beatrice had just kicked her in the ribs again, like she was trying to crawl out through Felicity’s diaphragm.

Her phone buzzed next to her laptop:

Oscar: Don’t forget dinner. Please. You always forget when your sim models hate you. 

She smiled faintly but didn’t reply. Not yet. She still had heat sink values to triple-check.

That was when it happened.

A voice—too close, too casual—sliced through the stillness.

“Hey.”

Felicity looked up, blinking.

A guy was standing across the table. Probably mid-twenties. Tall, in that I stretch for photos, way. Crisp haircut. Slim jeans. Water bottle with a “No Bad Vibes” sticker on it — ironic, because he was currently radiating intrusive energy like a malfunctioning microwave.

He didn’t wait for permission. Just slid into the chair opposite hers like this was a first date she didn’t know they were having.

“I saw you in Thermo this morning,” he said. “That fluid mechanics question you asked? Insanely clever. I was going to say something after class, but you ducked out too fast.”

Felicity blinked at him. “I had a tutorial.”

“Oh, right,” he said. “Should’ve guessed. You seem like you’ve got everything scheduled down to the second.”

“I also needed chips,” she added, because both things were true.

He laughed like she’d made a joke. “You seem intense. I like that. Women in engineering? You don’t see that every day. Rare combination of intimidating and hot.”

She stared at him.

The words rolled around her brain like loose screws.

What… did he want?

Was this a compliment? An insult? An offer?

She was six months pregnant, her knees hurt, her thesis was trying to kill her, and she was wearing Oscar’s hoodie with a faint grease stain across the front.

What exactly was the goal here?

“I mean—don’t get me wrong,” he rushed on, clearly sensing the silence and trying to recover. “You’ve just got that… serious vibe. Like the kind of girl who rewires her own dishwasher.”

“I did,” she said flatly. “Last week.”

He blinked. “Seriously?”

“And the kettle. And Oscar’s sim pedal when it failed under full brake.”

There was a beat.

“…Who’s Oscar?” he asked, smirking now. “Your roommate?”

Felicity paused.

And for a moment—just a moment—she considered laughing.

Then she closed her laptop slowly. Deliberately.

“Oscar’s my husband.”

The guy blinked.

Stood up slowly. Her hoodie shifted, and with it, the full curve of her pregnancy became unmistakably obvious. Not theoretical. Not ambiguous. Imminent.

The guy’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

She adjusted the hem of her sweater, not breaking eye contact, slung her bag over one shoulder, and smiled — cold, clean, efficient.

“If you’re gonna flirt with a mechanical engineer,” she said, “maybe do a better job at observational diagnostics.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked like he wanted to apologise and also vanish into the carpet tiles.

Felicity didn’t wait for a response.

***

Trinity College, Oxford

By the time Felicity Piastri was twenty-one, she had two things down to a science:

How to balance a toddler on her hip while rewriting entire sections of a doctoral thesis.

The exact number of times she could ignore the same man before it became a full-blown academic experiment.

Her Oxford doctoral project - Reinforcement Through Flexibility: Dynamic Adaptation in Composite-Structured Performance Environments. - had technically been finished for weeks. The simulations were done, the modelling locked in, her conclusions tight and triple-sourced. Now she was just revising. Editing. Wrangling footnotes into submission while Bee tried to paste glitter stickers into the margins of her printed draft.

She did almost everything from home.

The only reason she even stepped foot into Oxford was for fortnightly supervision meetings with Dr. Green, who was brilliant, terrifying, and the only person Felicity would willingly leave the house (and her toddler) for.

Which was, unfortunately, where Nathan lived.

Nathan — Dr. Green’s personal assistant — had been a PPE student once upon a time, which explained a lot. Somehow, he’d wheedled his way into a departmental admin role despite not knowing the difference between a torque curve and a coffee stain. His talents included:

Misfiling room bookings.

Brewing tea that tasted like despair.

Flirting with Felicity like it was something he was being graded on.

The first time he tried it, she’d thought it was just bad small talk. She gave him the benefit of the doubt. He seemed the type to flirt accidentally, the kind of man who said “babe” to baristas and thought it made him charming.

The second time, she was slightly annoyed.

By the fifth, she had moved on to anthropological interest. 

How did he not see the wedding ring? The child’s drawings poking out of her folder? The exhaustion of someone whose idea of a wild Friday night was installing firmware updates for fun?

Today, she arrived two minutes early for her meeting. She’d barely stepped into the department lobby when he spotted her.

“Dr. Green is running a bit late,” Nathan announced, standing up from behind the reception desk like he was emerging for a curtain call. “But I can keep you company if you like.”

Felicity barely paused. “She’s not. She still has 2 minutes till our appointment time.”

He grinned like she’d just flirted back. “You know, I was thinking the other day… you never hang around after your meetings. You always rush off.”

“Yeah,” she said, expression unreadable. “Because I have a toddler. And a dissertation. And a husband. In that order.”

Nathan winced theatrically. “Oof. Brutal.”

She offered him a smile that wasn’t one. “Sorry. Was that too reality-based?”

Still, he pressed on, leaning against the desk like he thought he was on the cover of GQ.

“Still,” he said, “it’d be nice to talk about something other than drivetrain mapping sometime. Maybe grab a drink?”

Felicity blinked. Twice.

It wasn’t the first time he’d suggested it. But somehow, today, it caught her even more off guard.

“You’re asking me,” she said slowly, “a��married mother of one, who is actively finishing a thesis and hasn’t eaten a full sit-down meal in two days, to go get drinks with you?”

He laughed, like she was being ridiculous.

“I didn’t think you’d take it that seriously. We could just talk—”

“About what?” she asked, genuinely baffled. “What, precisely, do you think I have in common with a man who once told me Elon Musk was just misunderstood?”

Nathan blinked.

Felicity continued. “Do you want help with your CV? Is this about office gossip? Are you confused and trying to network with me through reverse psychology?”

“I just meant—”

“I’m not trying to be rude,” she said, eyes narrowing in thought. “I genuinely don’t understand what outcome you’re envisioning here. Do you think I’m going to cheat on my husband with the guy who can’t pronounce ‘aerodynamics’ without swallowing the word halfway through?”

He flushed slightly. “You don’t have to be mean.”

“I’m not. I’m being efficient.”

The door to the inner office opened before he could reply. Dr. Green appeared, breathless and balancing two takeaway coffees in one hand and a folder in the other.

“Felicity, I’m so sorry. The grant committee meeting ran over. Here—” She handed over one of the cups. “Decaf oat, right? And I pulled the new journal submissions for you. There are a few I thought might intersect with your secondary chapter on hybrid systems.”

Felicity smiled as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I already reviewed the three most relevant ones and emailed you a summary chart with citations.”

Dr. Green blinked. “Of course you did.”

Nathan blinked, too, but for entirely different reasons. 

Felicity turned back to him just before following her professor inside.

“Oh, and Nathan?”

“…Yes?” he said, still — somehow — hopeful.

She raised her left hand and tapped the wedding band with one finger. “This wasn’t a joke.”

And then she shut the office door behind her like it was a verdict.

The Door Handle Aisle of Homebase, Woking

Oscar was off racing.

Felicity was elbow-deep in a bathroom renovation.

Not the Pinterest kind.

Not the “new towels and scented eucalyptus and a little bamboo ladder for the aesthetic” kind.

No, this was the “rip out the vanity with a crowbar and discover the wall behind it had been sealed with hope and duct tape” kind.

The kind of renovation that required full battle gear: dust mask, gloves, safety goggles, and the controlled fury of a woman who had read the plumbing manual twice and did not need a man explaining pipe fittings to her.

And because she was who she was — stubborn, competent, and wildly intelligent— Felicity hadn’t hired anyone.

She could do it herself.

And she would.

Which meant… many, many trips to the hardware store.

The staff had started to recognise her by mid-April. A couple of them even learned to duck when she walked in, in case she asked for a specific size of tap washer they didn’t carry. But one guy — the guy from the sealant aisle—hadn’t learned that lesson.

Late twenties, overly friendly, perpetually wearing a toolbelt he definitely didn’t need, like he thought it made him look rugged instead of unconvincing. He hovered near the caulk and grout displays like they were a dating pool.

The first time, it was casual.

“You here again?” he’d asked, smiling like he was in a rom-com. “You must really like DIY.”

Felicity didn’t look up from the tile grout chart. “I like doing things properly.”

The second time, it was more confident.

“Doing a kitchen too?” he asked, spotting the tile adhesive in her basket. “You ever need help—”

“I’ve got it, thanks,” she said, already walking toward checkout before he could finish.

By the sixth visit, he had apparently decided they were bonding.

She was in the handles aisle, comparing brass finishes, when she heard him again — that telltale sneaker-squeak on linoleum, the voice turned up a little too loud, too performative.

“Wow,” he said, appearing at the end of the aisle. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you keep coming in just to see me.”

Felicity didn’t look up. She held one cabinet pull in each hand and considered which one better matched the art deco lines of the mirror she’d thrifted.

“I assure you,” she said, tone even, “my interest in you begins and ends with your stock of brass hinges.”

He laughed, undeterred. “Come on. You’re always here. I figured, maybe you’re one of those cool builder girls. You don’t wear a ring or anything, so…”

That’s what finally made her pause.

Not the tone. Not the implication. But the logic.

She looked at him.

“You think I keep coming in here because… what? I’m lonely?” she asked, brow furrowed in genuine confusion. “I’m literally holding blueprints and a door handle.”

He shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of girl who could use a little—” (God help him) “—company.”

Felicity blinked. She wiped a smudge of pencil from her chin, set the handles back down, and reached into her tote bag without breaking eye contact.

She pulled out her phone.

“I’m going to walk you through something,” she said calmly, unlocking the screen. “Because clearly, you didn’t do any preliminary research before launching this… ill-conceived outreach attempt.”

She turned the lock screen toward him.

A photo.

Felicity, curled up on a sofa in a hoodie. Oscar was beside her, kissing the top of her head. Bee sprawled between them in footie pyjamas, holding a spoon upside down like a trophy. The lighting was soft. Domestic. Unmistakably intimate.

“This,” Felicity said, “is my husband. He is currently in Azerbaijan, driving a car at three hundred miles an hour. That’s our daughter. She is two. I do renovations during naptime.”

The man paled. “Oh. I—uh. I didn’t know—”

“No,” she agreed. “You didn’t ask.”

He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else — possibly to dig the hole deeper.

But Felicity wasn’t done.

“I come in here to buy tile primer. I don’t come in here for unsolicited analysis of my marital status from men who think a toolbelt is a personality trait.”

Her voice never rose. It didn’t have to.

It was calm. Steady.

The voice of someone who had personally rewired her fuse box and once installed a dishwasher while on the phone and dealing with a crying toddler.

She smiled politely. Dangerously.

Like a woman who kept zip ties in her car and knew how to use them.

“I’ll take these, thanks,” she said, lifting the cabinet handles. “Don’t need help carrying them. But if you’ve got any more of that tile primer from last week in stock, that would be helpful.”

He mumbled something about checking the back and fled like a man pursued by the consequences of his own choices.

Felicity watched him go, then picked up the nicer brass finish.

She didn’t even roll her eyes. She was too tired. 

Felicity just wanted her tile primer and to go home.

***

Rooftop Bar, Melbourne

Felicity didn’t go out much.

Not because she couldn’t — Oscar insisted she take breaks, even booked her massages that she always forgot to attend — but because she liked her life.

She liked being home with Bee. She liked sanding doorframes and painting walls and mapping out the next renovation with a pencil stuck in her messy bun. She liked curling up on the sofa with her laptop, trading stock options at 1 AM. She liked Oscar reading over her shoulder, pointing out line graphs he didn’t understand but wanted to. She liked the steady rhythm of their days. Naptimes and quiet dinners and Bee’s loud commentary on the existence of pigeons.

But they were in Melbourne over the Winter break, and Nicole had insisted.

“You’re getting out of the house,” she’d said, practically pushing Felicity toward the wardrobe. “You’ve been in Australia for five days, and the only places you’ve seen are the beach and Bunnings.”

And so here they were — rooftop bar in Melbourne, warm summer air, glass of chilled white wine in Nicole’s hand and a lemon-lime mocktail in Felicity’s.

 Their dresses fluttered in the breeze; Her hair was up. Her arms were bare. She looked, Nicole thought proudly, like the kind of woman men write songs about.

Which was, unfortunately, the problem.

Because a man at the bar had noticed, too.

He made his way over with the swagger of someone who once played rugby in uni and still referred to it as “his prime.” White linen shirt. Too many rings. Hair with more product than structure. And that thing men did when they leaned on a table like they were presenting a TED Talk on their charm.

“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said smoothly, eyes only on Felicity.

Nicole didn’t blink. “You are.”

Felicity raised her eyebrows, mildly surprised, but didn’t say anything. She just sipped her drink and let the lime catch on her tongue.

The man chuckled — the low, confident kind that assumed he was being flirted back with.

“I just thought I’d say—you’ve got a great smile,” he continued. Still to Felicity. Still convinced. “You local?”

“No,” she said. “Just visiting.”

He nodded toward Nicole. “With your sister?”

Nicole’s mouth twitched.

Felicity opened her mouth to clarify, but Nicole got there first.

“I’m her mother-in-law,” she said, swirling her wine.

That gave him a moment’s pause. But not enough.

“Well, she’s clearly not married—” he gestured vaguely to Felicity’s left hand, bare in the way most hands are after a morning at the beach with a toddler and too much sunscreen.

Felicity smiled. Slowly. Like a summer storm deciding whether to ruin your picnic or level your whole house.

“I took my rings off before swimming this morning,” she said, amused. “Didn’t want to lose them in the ocean.”

He still didn’t give up. “No offence, but… a girl like you? You don’t need to be tied down so young.”

Felicity furrowed her brow. “What does that mean?”

“I mean, you could have fun. Live a little.”

“I’m married,” she said again, a little slower. “I live a lot.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, grinning.

 She genuinely didn’t understand.

What did he mean by that?

Was she supposed to say thank you? Defend her marriage? 

Debate the merits of early commitment like she was on a panel?

“No,” Felicity replied honestly, “I actually don’t. What exactly do you think is going to happen? I abandon my family because you complimented my teeth?”

She had a three-year-old who could build better arguments about bedtime.

Before Felicity could figure out what to say, Nicole gently set her wine glass down.

“She’s not tied down, darling,” she said, tone perfectly pleasant. “She’s adored.”

She reached into her purse like she was pulling a weapon.

“Would you like to see a photo of her husband holding their daughter on the beach this morning?” she asked. “Or maybe the one where he flew eight hours just to make it to her thesis defence?”

The man’s face did a visible three-second software update.

“No, that’s okay,” he said, already backing up a step.

Nicole raised an eyebrow. “You sure? My son is very photogenic. His job likes to post him shirtless sometimes. It’s a whole thing.”

Felicity had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“Right. Uh—have a nice night,” the man muttered, vanishing like a bug under bright light.

+1 — The One Time Oscar Noticed

The garage was buzzing with that high-voltage energy unique to a U.S. race weekend — louder music, brighter cameras, fans pressed against every fence line like they were at a concert instead of a motorsport event. McLaren’s VIP list was stacked with influencers, sponsors, and the usual parade of celebrities trying to look like they knew what a downforce map was.

Oscar didn’t care about any of them.

He cared about the girls in the denim jackets with PIASTRI stitched across the back in big, white glittery letters. Their arts and crafts project for Silverstone.

Felicity was standing near the back of the garage, Bee balanced on her hip, and a pair of toddler-sized headphones slipped over her curls. The two of them had matching jackets, homemade and loud and perfect. Bee’s even had a sparkly iron-on chicken. Felicity’s had glitter stars. Oscar had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He was mid-chat with one of the engineers when he glanced over again.

And froze.

Because some guy—tall, tanned, fake-smiling, and clearly trying to look famous—was leaning way too close to Felicity. His teeth were too white. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He held a drink, and worse, he had sunglasses on inside. Oscar didn’t even know where he’d come from — but there he was, leaning against the garage railing like it was a club bar and Felicity was the drink special.

He was saying something. Laughing too loud.

Felicity frowned politely. She shifted a sleeping Bee on her hip and took a half-step back.

The man followed.

“I’m just saying,” he drawled, gesturing to her jacket, “if you’re gonna wear another man’s name on your back, he better be worth it.”

Felicity blinked. “He’s my husband.”

That didn’t deter him.

“Bet he doesn’t even know how good he’s got it,” the man said, still smiling, his gaze dropping briefly to her legs. “You ever get tired of being someone’s plus-one, let me know.”

Bee stirred a little, nose twitching, and Felicity rubbed her back automatically, like muscle memory. Her brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

The guy tilted his head. “C’mon. You’re clearly the type who plays the sweet wife in public. But a woman like you?” He dropped his voice. “You need real attention.”

Oscar took a step forward, but someone else moved faster.

“Alright,” said a voice, sharp and Australian and impossible to ignore. “Let’s try that again — from six feet away.”

The man turned, surprised, and saw Mark Webber.

Mark didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone was enough to freeze a room.

He gave the man a smile that could cut glass. “You’ve got five seconds to back up before I make this very awkward for everyone.”

“Sorry, mate—”

“No, see, that’s the problem,” Mark said, stepping forward slightly. “You’re not her mate. You’re a stranger talking to a woman who’s clearly married, clearly holding a child, and clearly not interested. So unless you’re trying to get blacklisted from every paddock hospitality list from now until eternity, I’d walk away.”

The guy opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned and slinked off like a coward in designer shoes.

Oscar finally got to them, face tight, fury in every step.

Mark nodded. “Handled.”

Oscar exhaled slowly. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Mark looked at Felicity. “You alright?”

Felicity still looked baffled. “What was that?”

Oscar looked her over, checking Bee, checking her, like reassurance was the only way to keep his hands from shaking. “That guy was harassing you.”

“What? No. Was he?” She squinted after him. “He was just being weird.”

Oscar stared at her. “He was flirting. Badly.”

“He was being rude,” Felicity said. “And creepy. But flirting? Why would anyone flirt with someone holding a sleeping toddler and wearing a juice-stained T-shirt? Why does this keep happening?!”

Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re wearing a custom denim jacket with your husband’s name on it in glitter. Holding your kid. And you still have men sniffing around. That’s not on you — that’s on them being idiots.”

Oscar exhaled hard. 

Felicity, still gently rocking Bee, just sighed. “Maybe I should just get a flashing neon sign.”

Oscar stepped closer and kissed her temple. “You okay?”

She looked at him, tired but unbothered. “Yeah. Are you?”

“No,” he muttered. “But I will be once I get you both inside.”

***

They were tucked away in the quiet corner of the drivers' room now, post-session, Bee still fast asleep on the little sofa wrapped in one of Oscar’s hoodies. The chaos of the paddock had faded into muffled noise. 

Oscar was sitting across from Felicity, one leg bouncing.

He was still rattled.

“What do you mean they keep flirting with you?” he asked, brows drawn together as he looked at her.

Felicity blinked up at him. “What?”

“You said it like it happens regularly,” he said, voice low and sharp with something he was trying to keep cool. “Like that wasn’t the first time.”

She paused. Shrugged. “I mean… it does? A little?”

Oscar stared at her. “Since when?”

“I don’t know. Since Haileybury, probably? Or Oxford. And, like… in the hardware store.”

Oscar made a noise that might have been a groan or a growl.

“And you didn’t tell me?” he asked.

“I didn’t think it mattered,” she said simply, brushing a hand over Bee’s curls. “They’re not you. So they don’t have a chance.”

He stilled.

That one sentence — calm, sure, like it was the most obvious fact in the world — hit him in the chest like a perfect downshift.

She tilted her head, studying him. “You really didn’t know?”

“I knew people looked,” he admitted. 

Of course, they looked. He was aware of how Felicity looked:  Sunglasses pushed to the top of her head. Hair windswept from the open pit lane. She had juice on her shirt, no makeup, and still — still — she looked like something out of a dream. Breakable and brilliant. All porcelain and fire.

Beautiful. 

“I’m not blind. But I didn’t realise they were… like that.”

“I don’t even get why they are doing it,” Felicity snorted. “I look like someone who hasn’t slept properly since Bee was born. I have crusted juice on my shirt. I literally threw Goldfish crackers at our daughter to buy myself ten minutes.”

Oscar leaned back, exasperated. “And you still look better than anyone else here.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re just biased.”

“I’m jealous,” he corrected, then ran a hand through his hair. “God, I hate it. That guy didn’t even flinch when you said you were married.”

“He probably thought I was joking,” she said mildly. “People don’t really expect twenty-somethings to be married with kids.”

Oscar’s jaw tightened. “They should. You wear my name on your back.”

She shrugged. “They don’t matter. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted.”

Oscar was across the space in a second.

He kissed her — slow, deep, a little desperate — hand sliding around her waist, pulling her in close. His other hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek like he had to remind himself she was real.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers, breath shallow.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice low. “I know I don’t own you, but God, I feel it sometimes. Like you’ve always been mine.”

“I have. Since we were 15,” she whispered. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Even before you had a Wikipedia page.”

Oscar kissed her. Not rushed, not messy — but firm. Grounded. A kiss that said mine. A kiss that would’ve been indecent if she weren’t already wearing his name and carrying his child and his whole damn heart.

When he finally pulled back, she was breathless.

And across the room, Bee stirred, let out a sleepy sigh, and snuggled deeper into Oscar’s hoodie.

Felicity leaned in, kissed the corner of his mouth, and muttered, “You’re ridiculous when you’re jealous.”

He grinned. “You love it.”

“Unfortunately,” she sighed. “Yes.”

[grotesquevi]

about those smut prompts, 59 and 16 with ellie?

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎qué calor hará sin vos en verano.

cw   # 18+ mdni, ellie's packing in this sue me, she also has a serious oral fixation, strap sucking (also refered as cock), dom!ellie no regrets i love switching, dirty talk, she's a little rough in the end lets go pride month. this is part of an smuull celebration as i reached 1k followers, the reqs are now closed to this dynamic tkm.

‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ ‎‎‎‎‎ㅤㅤ wc: 1.7k || 1k directory || previous

it's always like that. traps you in a butterfly net when her kisses makes you inebriate of her hands, to the amount of time she's been kissing you, demanding in a constant pull and release — sometimes your study buddy's kind enough to let you take over, but others she's using her hand to keep you still, fingers gripping on the sides of your face tightly cause she wants to invade you, spread her very own self in the corners of your mind until she's all you can think about.

so ellie knows. knows about how you get turned on when her lips get swollen, when yours seem to hold a pulse on their own and you look at her with those bedroom eyes she cannot resist: she's been planning it all along. now you forgot about the huge test you have, your textbooks rest wide open in your bed and you cannot understand why the fuck you choose her to be your study pal when it always ends up like this.

it seems irrelevant now even when that was the whole reason for meeting up in the first place, you can't be failing the most important algebra test of the semester but either way you're there, letting her kiss you with that cocky i-just-won-the-lottery grin you've experienced before.

her thumb follow the edges of your mouth, skin that beneath ellie's fingers does nothing but tingle as you bite the digit before she's suddenly blurting out: — "i'm packing."

"what?- is this a new thing i should be aware of?" you ask cause it's damn stupid to pretend you haven't been fucking her before, that it wasn't new. "hold on, did you plan this all along?"

"it's not my fault you didn't get the memo to it, i was eye-fucking you the entire class."

"no you weren't" you are quick to reply almost rolling your eyes in response — damn liar. "you were falling asleep. i really needed help with this though."

"so no more kisses, then?" her declaration makes you scrunch your nose in response as she's putting some distance between your body and her's cause the little fucker loves to tease, make you mad before she's all over you again: is it that easy to pull away? "no more kisses. focus on algebra. i get it."

and ellie's actually explaining the next exercise, making you try your best, rarely good at pretending you're listening, slightly furrowed brows like you are thinking about what she's saying when in reality, you're too damn distracted in the details she spilled like a shared secret: she's fucking packing.

is it too dirty to be trying to look down in between her legs? how the fuck did you not notice before? it's there and its surely making you distracted.

"sooo- packing."

"are you listening? that's not algebra" it makes ellie laugh utterly pleased: she knows how to get under your skin, pester all your thoughts. "dunno, i'm just trying out new things, why not?"

"and how is it? you know, the experience and all."

"weird. but it's good weird- like i'm always prepared for action."

"you are the most stupid girl i've ever talked to" you're joking, she's laughing and god: she so stupidly wants to kiss you, so stupidly wants to pull you closer, let you feel between her legs to prove her point: prepared.

"that's not taking away the fact of how i'm helping you to study a subject you should know" you're close and its a game ellie wants to play at all costs when her hand reaches your hair and she's toying with the strands of it in between her fingers — "did you understood what i talked to you about? the variants."

"yes."

"explain it to me then" the invitation catches you off guard when ellie gives you the pencil she used to resolve the exercise you paid no attention to, staring at the page in dead silence "do it and you'll get a nice reward."

"you're making fun of me," you seem to give up after a moment when you can feel the tension in ellie's gaze and instead, you turn to face her before speaking again. "you know i wasn't paying attention."

"no, cause you're thinking about me," it may be a playful joke but she's serious when saying it, when her hand wraps around your neck as a way to pull you closer when ellie's digits rest against your pulse point. "about me. packing."

"stop making fun of me-"

"i'm not making fun of you" your study buddy shakes her head "do you understand how much your curiosity turns me on? quit fucking around and open up."

christ. her words make so much sense when she's forcing her thumb in the warmth of your mouth, testing you, pushing against your tongue for a moment before going deeper, making the saliva coat you chin almost too quickly as she shoves a second finger inside and jesus fuck.

goes down your throat, makes your gag reflections kick in but you're staying there, there as she fills your mouth and ellie smiles flustered as ever, engulfed in the way your lips close around her fingers when taking her in — "that's good, fuck- that's actually so-so good."

your lips curve into a smile and there it is, that filthiness in the air that drowns ellie's room in a frenzy state, the thin strains of saliva that connected you to her hand, your tangled hair, how already the air's so damn hot to function correctly.

"if you're so curious about me packing, take a closer look then" your breathing hitches on the back of your throat when she's kissing you again like she's not being a damn freak for a moment, withdrawing her fingers only to replace them with her tongue. "on your knees." 

she's suddenly good at giving you commands, at feeling superior when standing tall, making you kneel right in front of her: gentle. be gentle. ellie needs to remember herself a couple of times as her finger’s thread in your hair to guide you down. your hands seem to work on their own when fighting with the button of her jeans, and her chest feels lighter than ever when you're pulling the fabric down her legs and licking your lips like you've come across a new kink.

"it's blue," you point out "are we going for something alien-like?"

is it payback? sure it must be cause ellie's blushing at the mention of the blue dildo that rested against the metal circle attached to the harness on her hips — "should i get a realistic one?"

"no, i was thinking about purple- or pink."

“are you comfortable?” she asks when her fingers are taking you by the chin, making you look up to her to regain your attention. your knees will be sore but the sight of ellie looking down at you with a cocky smile is quite enough to make you nod forgetting any pain. “good. open your mouth then and warm up to my cock. spit.”

she would've done it before if it meant she would have the pleasure to have you like this, gathering a nice amount of saliva before you're spitting right over the dildo as you're using your hand to spread it over, seeking for her approval, any kind of word of reassurance she could provide:

"yeah, like that. you're doing good."

she's gonna get your initials tattooed on the fucking ribs. even if it hurts, even if she regrets it after, she's gonna carry you everywhere, under her skin, always in her flesh. ellie decides it when suffering from fuzzy brain, when she's wishing to the greater powers of the universe on the fact that she should be feeling all of it, how your mouth wraps around the blue toy and she's refraining from moving against your mouth so she can reach deeper, how you're covered on your own saliva when it should be her arousal all over.

"you're getting used to me, baby?" she asks, voice too distant to even try to answer "you just like to please huh? like to be a good girl."

she's slow cause she wants to enjoy it, savor the moment in her mouth like a candy that consumes eternally, like weed burning in rose petals. she moves her hips slowly, plunging herself deeper, holding your head as you're working her out.

how can she not dig the obscenity of it? the sounds you make as you're choking, struggling to breathe as you look up to her with pleading eyes: — "more, you want more?"

she gets you, understands your needs when she's pushing deeper now, when tears appear in the corners of your eyes and you're trying so hard to take her entirely. do good. warm-up, her words settle in the back of your brain when ellie's placing a gentle pace, allowing your mouth to shape up to the dimensions of her cock, throat wrapping around the silicone as you're taking her deeper, deeper and fucking deeper.

it's pathetic when the friction's enough to make ellie close to cum, when she's getting more erratic in between movements and suddenly she's fucking your mouth without gentleness in her actions, getting off from the devastation in your face, on how you force yourself to reach deeper against all odds.

"so pretty with mouth full of cock" the words slur together as there's this lewd sound filling the air, her dick being too slippery when invading your cavity, messing up with your breathing — "bet your pretty cunt will look equally as gorgeous fully stuffed, don't you think?"

you're consumed by her, by her hands grabbing your head as she's using you, on her words of praising, the way the muscles on her stomach seemed to flex with each movement. you'd nod at anything she's saying at this sick point.

"is this the best way to keep your attention? now you hear what i'm saying, baby? i should be teaching you algebra with my cock in your mouth. maybe you'll learn better with a little extra help."

yes. ellie's always right cause how was it?

does not matter how much you try it, you're always there, trying new things, acting like you're her girlfriend, trapped in her butterfly net.

[theinternetarchive]

Many new people here which is very cool to see I love that other people understand and appreciate that i do this. However, I want to make clear that you are only cool and welcome if you are down with transgenders and palestinians, (i.e. minority groups at large.) the line is 100% drawn at racism, homophobia, zionism, or transphobia, because go fuck yourself. This is NOT a non-partisan blog. It is important to me that everyone is down with equal rights (a tall order in 2025).

To everybody normal thanks for joining my journey through The Internet Archive we will have so much fun ! :P

[queen-mihai]

H..how does a person like this...

I need yall to understand something deeply important about me

I try to tell people that invisibility is a superpower and this shit is what I mean.

I won't say I couldn't get away with this. It's a given that I couldn't get away with this. Everyone who knows me, knows I couldn't get away with this

What people who don't know me that well may not realize?

Is that I couldn't get away with JOKING about doing something like this

I couldn't get away with IMAGINING doing something like this

I. Would be. A fucking. INTERNATIONAL. News story.

This is what I mean when I say I'm too noticeable. And what I mean when I say invisibility is a superpower.

HOW DID NOBODY SEE THIS

How did nobody call the fucking cops before the first dead bird hit a window

How the fuck does one get dead birds in the first place?

How did nobody call the cops AFTER dead birds start hitting windows??????????

I don't even want the girl to get in trouble. I just need yall to understand that in the world I live in, if I sneeze at the wrong time, somebody writes a fucking complaint and I've gotta spend a month having arguments with Very Serious People who "want me to understand just how serious this situation is"

And motherfuckers are just out here casually throwing dead birds at peoples windows often enough that someone stopped seeking other partners???

That's not just more than once,

That's gotta be OFTEN.

And just... getting away with it. That's just "wacky"

How on earth..... I get people up in arms at me because I didn't want to keep volunteering at a volunteer center. There wasn't a dead bird in sight. How on.. it can't... like... this can't be real. It can't. My sanity meter can't even fathom this being real. I'm gonna pretend this is a joke and absolutely no one on earth is getting away with stuff like this while I'm constantly bound up so tight I'm getting stress fractures and STILL having people mad at me for not doing good enough

It's not real

Not in the reality I inhabit nope nope nope 🤣

[luceleste]

Where Flowers Bow

Chapter 2

pairing – Satoru Gojo x f!reader summary – Invited to Duke Satoru Gojo’s palace as a potential bride, you arrive with nothing but a ruined name and perfect manners. Among jewels and judgment, you’re just another candidate in a parade of perfect girls — until a stranger in the garden, who isn’t what he seems, speaks to you like you’re real. In a palace of masks, someone has already chosen you. You just don’t know why.

warnings – renaissance!AU, female reader, eventual SMUT, strangers to lovers, angst with comfort, political drama, emotional tension, power imbalance, mentions of social hierarchy/class pressure, slow burn, manipulation, masks and appearances, gojo’s mother is named midora. reader’s mother is important in the story. the language leans slightly formal and poetic in tone to match the setting. more to be added.

word count – 7k

notes – I was so excited to post Chapter 2! Thank you all so much for the love you’ve shown to our Duke, it honestly means the world to me♡ I really hope you enjoy this chapter! Also I don’t think I can hold back the slow burn much longerrr omg

divider by @thecutestgrotto

previous chapter / next chapter

You hadn’t touched your food since he arrived.

You had tried — once, twice — but your throat had closed too tightly to swallow. Even the wine felt like glass. The silver spoon had trembled slightly in your grip, and you set it down before anyone could notice. Before the illusion of poise cracked.

His presence had changed the room.

It was subtle, but unmistakable — the shift in posture, the sudden hush in conversation, the way even the candle flames seemed to flicker with caution. Everyone felt it. The other girls, their mothers — all of them straightening their backs, softening their expressions, arranging themselves like portraits hoping to be admired.

But none of them knew what it was like to have been seen already.

You weren’t just holding your breath.

You were holding back the scream that had been clawing at your chest since the moment he walked through the door. Since the moment you realized that the man in the garden — the warm, impossible stranger — was no stranger at all.

You had shattered the best — the only — chance of your life in the span of a few unguarded minutes in a garden.

What good was a shared moment if it left you exposed? If, by letting your guard down, you gave him reason to doubt whether you were fit to stand beside him?

And even if that moment had meant something to him — even if it had stirred something — he didn’t show it now. And a single conversation, no matter how tender, was never going to be enough.

Because in the end, the decision wasn’t his alone. The Duke could have his preferences, but it was the Duchess who would make the final choice. And she wasn’t looking for quiet memories or hidden smiles. She wanted an alliance — a future built on legacy and bloodlines, not on sunlight and sentiment.

Yes, you weren’t meant to be there. But you never imagined it would end like this — in silence.

The matriarchs had taken over the conversation now, their voices steeped in honeyed civility. They traded compliments like currency, each word polished and precise. Across from you, the girls smiled on cue, tilted their heads just so, lifted their glasses with rehearsed elegance. Every gesture was calculated to be remembered.

You tried to do the same.

You nodded. You agreed. You smiled when you must.

But every motion felt hollow — as if your limbs remembered the choreography, but your spirit had slipped somewhere beneath the surface. As if the girl they saw was just an echo stitched from etiquette and your mother’s last hopes.

Duchess Gojo tapped her mouth with a white napkin and set her wine glass down with grace.

“Lady Vale.” Her tone smooth and precise, turning her gaze to the blonde girl who had just finished eating. “I understand your family oversees the western estates. I’ve heard the vineyards, in particular, have flourished under your father’s care.”

Lady Vale straightened at once. Her smile bloomed on command — poised, delicate, perfectly measured. She had been waiting for this.

“Indeed, Your Grace. We’ve had an excellent harvest this year. The grapes took well to the early frost.”

The Duchess gave a small nod — not warm, but unmistakably deliberate. Approval, of a kind.

Vale seized the moment.

“We brought a few bottles of our private reserve as a gift.” She added, shifting slightly toward the Duke. “I do hope His Grace has the chance to try it. It is our pride.”

Her mother leaned in before the words had even finished leaving her daughter’s lips, slipping into the conversation like it had been rehearsed — extolling the quality of the vines, the particular soil of their land, the generations of winemaking tradition. It was clear as water: any opening to draw the Duke into conversation would be fully used.

“I will try it soon. We appreciate the gift.” The Duke replied simply, his voice even, offering no room for further exchange.

You saw it — the brief falter in Lady Vale’s eyes, the way she blinked twice as if surprised by how quickly the moment passed. But she recovered smoothly, folding back into her poise as if the silence had never touched her.

“My daughter and I brought white figs from our estate, Your Grace.” Came the voice of Lady Tara’s mother next. Tara launched into a description of the desserts made from them, casually mentioning her own preferences.

Duke Gojo offered no reply.

“Thank you for the consideration.” The Duchess said instead, her voice a shade warmer — perhaps to compensate for her son’s silence. “Our cooks will be pleased to receive such a delicacy.”

A moment passed, and you heard it — the subtle shift of silk as Countess Shinto adjusted in her seat.

She hadn’t spoken all evening. Like you.

But unlike you, her silence wasn’t hesitation — it was control. She didn’t need to chase attention. She drew it effortlessly, like gravity.

She moved with the composure of someone long accustomed to being watched. Waited until conversation lulled just enough — then spoke.

“Your Grace.” She said, voice smooth and measured. “We brought silk and velvet from our most recent journey.”

Her mother inclined her head, the gesture fluid, perfectly timed. “She chose the fabrics herself. My daughter has a discerning eye for tone and texture — the court tailor in the capital said as much.”

“We hoped they might suit the house’s taste” Shinto added. Not proud. Not false. Just certain.

The Duchess offered a small nod — her smile subtle, but approving. “Thoughtful. Our household always appreciates refinement.’”

A pause followed. Not abrupt — but noticeable. A space where Lord Gojo might have spoken.

He didn’t.

Not a word. Not a glance.

But the silence didn’t seem to touch her.

Shinto merely folded her hands in her lap, posture serene, gaze steady. As if she hadn’t expected anything more. As if silence itself had bowed to her long ago.

And once again, you were certain the man you had met in the garden had never truly existed.

The one who had nearly knelt in the grass beside you, plucked a flower like it meant something, and told you — with that laugh, that dazzling, reckless laugh — how he once cut his own hair as a child and nearly gave his mother a heart attack. The one who smiled like you were a mystery worth solving. Like he wasn’t in a rush to solve it.

That man felt like a dream.

No — worse. A trick your mind had played on you.

But the man sitting before you now?

He was too cold. Too distant. Too untouchable to laugh over childhood mischief or pass you petals like a secret.

Your heart raced. You’d spoken too freely, wandered where you shouldn’t have, laughed too hard at his silly stories. How could you have been so—

A sudden, firm pressure closed around your wrist beneath the table — your mother’s hand. A warning.

You looked at her.

And then you realized: everyone at the table was looking at you.

Everyone but him.

You lifted your chin before you had time to think.

What were they talking about again? Ah — the gifts.

“I’ve heard you enjoy painting as much as I do, Your Grace.” you said quickly, your voice carefully composed. “We brought some rare paints and pigments for your collection.”

Your mother’s eyes remained hard, but she smiled nonetheless — all polite pretense.

“They’re her favorites.” She added smoothly. “We hope they’ll suit your taste.”

The Duchess arched an eyebrow. Whether it was approval or disdain, you couldn’t tell. She was almost impossible to read.

“Oh, I do enjoy painting.” She said at last, a strange glint in her eye — too brief to name. “Though I rarely find the time for it. What is it you prefer to paint, young lady?”

“Flowers, Your Grace. I love painting them.”

And it was true — at home, in stolen hours away from your mother’s fury, you would paint blooms in every shape and color, letting them speak in ways you could not.

“They are a beauty worth capturing.” Lady Gojo said, lifting her glass as a servant refilled it. Her tone was gentler this time, almost… reflective.

You thought the conversation had run its course. The Duchess shifted slightly, preparing to stand. Her hands touched the table.

And then —

“You should visit our garden, then.”

His voice.

Soft. Measured. But somehow, it struck like lightning.

His eyes were on you.

And for just a second, you saw how a flicker of something passed across his face. And though his posture didn’t change, and his mouth gave nothing away, there was a softness there. As if he did see you — not fully, not openly, but enough to make your heart catch.

You hadn’t expected him to speak. Not to you. And certainly not of that place. The memory of sunlight on stone, of quiet laughter you shouldn’t have shared, surfaced too quickly.

Still, you didn’t trust it. You couldn’t afford to.

You felt your spine pull taut, your breath a little too fast. Your hands were still clenched beneath the table, pressed against your skirts to keep from shaking. The fabric was warm where your palms had stayed for too long.

You had already ruined everything once.

But maybe — just maybe — this could be a thread to hold on to.

So you did the only thing left to do.

You smiled — gently, carefully — despite the way it tugged painfully at your cheeks. Despite the burning shame nestled just beneath your ribs. You shaped the words as if they belonged to someone steadier, calmer, better trained than you.

“I’d love to, Your Grace.” Your voice as firm as you could manage.

And in that moment, something in his eyes almost — almost — eased.

A pause bloomed across the table.

Not long — only a breath —

but long enough for everyone to feel it.

And in a room like this, nothing went unnoticed.

Not when so much was at stake.

Lady Vale’s fingers tightened ever so slightly around the stem of her wine glass — the gesture invisible unless you were watching for it. Lady Tara’s chin angled a fraction higher, as if she’d tasted something bitter but refused to spit it out. Even Countess Shinto — unflinching, composed, so practiced in indifference — turned her head minutely toward you, her gaze cool and unreadable.

No one spoke.

But they all saw.

The Duchess lifted her glass and took a slow sip of wine, her eyes never leaving you. Her gaze wasn’t sharp like it had been with the others — it was quieter, more deliberate. Like she was measuring something only she could see.

Like someone assessing something they didn’t expect to find valuable — but just might.

Her eyes moved from your face, over your posture, and paused briefly at your mouth. Your smile, however carefully stitched, did not escape her notice.

“Good.” She said. A single syllable, soft as velvet, sharp as a blade. “Perhaps you young ladies should walk in the garden tomorrow morning. It thrives in spring. It would be a shame to waste it.”

There was no room for refusal.

Lady Tara was the first to respond, her voice light, too quick. “It would be an honor, Duchess.”

The others followed — each in their own cadence. Agreement rippled across the table like a wave, soft and synchronized.

You echoed them a second too late, but no one called attention to it.

“Then it’s settled.” Lady Gojo continued, rising to her feet. “You’ll walk the gardens before the day’s arrangements. But for now — rest. Your personal maids are waiting just outside.”

Chairs shifted. Napkins were folded. The ritual began to dissolve.

The Duke stood when his mother did, offering her his arm. He hadn’t spoken since his quiet invitation — no glances, no words. But as he turned to escort the Duchess out, his gaze passed over the table one final time.

And perhaps it lingered.

“Good night, Ladies.” His voice smooth, distant.

And with that, he was gone.

The sound of his footsteps faded before anyone dared to speak again.

The air didn’t exactly relax — it was still too heavy for that, too full of expectation — but it shifted. A tension drawn tight across the room loosened by a single knot. Shoulders lowered. A few glasses were quietly lifted again. Breaths were taken — the kind people didn’t realize they’d been holding.

Relief wasn’t spoken, but it moved through the space like a breeze.

The silence didn’t last long.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Silks rustled. One by one, everyone began to rise, smoothing skirts, adjusting posture, offering farewells laced with courtesy. Compliments were exchanged again between the matriarchs — all so gracious, so performative. You and the other girls followed the script without thinking. Smiles. Nods. Curtsies. Nothing too much. Nothing too real.

As you passed through the doors, you spotted Ysera waiting just outside, ever composed, her hands folding over the dark blue apron she wore.

She did not speak. She merely inclined her head and turned, her quiet footsteps already guiding the way back toward the guest wing.

Your arm remained locked with your mother’s, her grip neither gentle nor cruel — just firm.

For a while, only the hush of shoes on stone filled the silence. The corridors felt longer than before, more echoing.

“You did not do as terribly as I thought you would.” Your mother said. Her tone was slightly softer than it had been before the banquet — but only slightly. The words held no warmth. No praise. Just an observation.

You looked at her, unable to help yourself. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Her eyes snapped to yours. Cold. Disapproving. That look she gave when your spine was a hair too relaxed or your voice too alive. You felt the reprimand before she even spoke.

You exhaled quickly. “I’m sorry, Mother. Thank you.”

“Yes, you should be sorry.” She said at once, voice returning to its sharper edge. “You will deserve a compliment if you marry. Not before.”

She wasn’t lying.

And she wasn’t trying to wound — not exactly. This was just the truth, as she saw it. As she’d always seen it.

“I should be fuming at you.” Your mother went on, each word crisp and low enough that Ysera couldn’t hear. “Your mind was not in that room. I saw it. They saw it. And I don’t care where it wandered — it had no business leaving that table.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Because she was right.

Your mind hadn’t been in that room. It had been caught somewhere between flowers, fountains, and a man who made you feel both seen and forgotten — all in the same day. You’d been trying not to shake. Trying not to let the memory of sunlight and laughter undo you. Trying not to wonder if he remembered it too.

But none of that would matter to her. To your mother, what mattered was that you had slipped — and someone might have noticed.

“It won’t happen again, mother.” Whether that was a promise or a lie, you didn’t know yet.

—

Three soft knocks at your door jolted you awake.

You blinked into the dark, disoriented. It was still night — pitch black outside. The only light in the room was the silver wash of the moon through your window.

“My Lady?” a woman’s voice called gently. “Are you awake?”

Three more knocks.

“Yes, I am.” Your voice was rough with sleep as your hands moved to rub the tiredness from your eyes.

Truthfully, you hadn’t been sleeping well. Your thoughts had refused to settle. Your body ached from the posture you’d held all night — still, perfect, composed. It had taken you two full hours, at least, before exhaustion finally won.

“My apologies.” The voice continued. “I know it’s late. But Lord Gojo sent me.”

The sleep vanished instantly.

Your breath caught. The haze cleared all at once. Your eyes opened wider, and your heart — traitorous, reckless thing — leapt to attention. A familiar heat rose in your chest, sharp and immediate.

Before you could think, your feet found the cold floor on their own.

Your legs moved without permission.

Your hands opened the door too fast. Too eager.

You hated this.

How everything about him took your control. Your voice. Your posture. Your body.

He commanded without even trying — and you obeyed, without meaning to.

Standing in the hallway was an older woman — short, aged, but steady. Her gray hair still held hints of black, and her dark brown eyes were clear and kind. The lines on her face spoke of long years, but her smile — soft and certain — was the warmest you had seen in years.

She held a folded piece of paper delicately between her hands.

“I probably woke you up, my lady. I am really sorry for that.” She bowed with grace. “But he asked that you receive this tonight.”

You took the paper slowly. Your fingers brushed hers, and she didn’t flinch.

“Oh.” Your words didn’t come out for a second. Surprised. “Thank you… ma’am.”

“No need to thank me, my lady.” She replied with a small shake of her head. “I’ll let you rest now.”

There was something about her. The way she looked at you, without judgment or expectation, reminded you of things you hadn’t felt in a long time. Comfort. Safety. Ease.

“I’m sorry for the trouble.” your voice a little steadier now.

“No trouble at all.” She said with that same soft smile.

You looked down at the folded note in your hands, your fingertips brushing the edges like you might read it through touch alone.

And then — just as she passed the first shadow — she stopped.

Her voice returned, quieter now. Just above a whisper. But meant to be heard.

“You’re as beautiful as he said.”

Your breath caught. You looked up, startled — but the woman was already walking away, her figure shrinking into the dark corridor with slow, steady steps. Her presence lingered even as she disappeared, like the scent of something warm left behind in a cold room.

You stood frozen in the doorway. You opened your mouth, thinking to call out — to ask, to thank, to hold onto something — but no sound came. You didn’t even know her name.

Did you hear it right? Or had your tired mind twisted the silence again, made it gentler than it really was?

You shut the door behind you softly, your back pressing against it like you needed something to hold you up.

Your thumb traced the fold. It wasn’t sealed with wax, as if it hadn’t needed ceremony.

The woman’s words echoed faintly in your head.

You weren’t sure how you felt about them — only that they had landed somewhere deep in your chest.

You stepped toward the window, where the moonlight spilled silver across the stone floor. That’s where you opened it.

His handwriting looked rushed in places, like he hadn’t meant to write it. Or hadn’t planned to send it.

You’re not the only one pretending not to remember. But for both our sakes, we must forget it. It was never supposed to happen, after all. Still — the garden is quieter without your voice.

You stared.

You read the message again.

Then again.

The words didn’t change. They didn’t soften, didn’t twist into something kinder. They were exactly what he meant — and somehow still not enough.

He remembered. That should have meant something.

But he wanted to forget. And that meant everything.

something sharp settled behind your ribs — not quite sorrow, not quite fury, but some cracked place in between. You couldn’t tell what stung more: that he’d reached out… or that he had only done so to push you away.

Why had he written at all, if this was what he meant to say?

Why remind you of what he refused to let you keep?

Your hand tightened around the letter. Not enough to tear it — just enough to feel the paper bite your skin. As if pressure alone could draw something else out of the ink. Something better.

You pressed the edge of the message to your lips, then lowered it slowly.

He made you laugh, he made you feel seen — only to look right through you the next moment. And now this: a few lines that tasted like closeness and distance all at once.

Was it a joke to him? A game?

Maybe he was amused by how easily you cracked. Maybe he was entertained by your trembling at the banquet. Maybe you were nothing more than a plaything

You closed your eyes, drawing in a breath through your nose. It burned, just a little.

The garden was quieter without you.

But let it stay quiet.

Your eyes drifted to the blue flower beside your bed — beautiful and intact, like it wasn’t already dying since the moment he plucked it from the bush and handed it to you like it meant nothing at all.

You reached out and touched the edge of the petal, just to make sure it was real.

Were you supposed to stay intact too?

As if he hadn’t pulled you loose from your roots?

You folded the note again. Carefully. Precisely. As if care might mask the ache settling in your chest.

He got to walk away untouched. You were the one left to wither in silence.

—

The morning breeze brushed against your skin.

The garden breathed in a quiet mist, each leaf touched by the faint glow of the early sun. Flowers stood still in the hush of dawn, their vivid colors painting the paths in soft pinks and creams. The air smelled of jasmine and fresh earth.

In the distance, birds sang in soft, chiming harmony.

It was just as beautiful as you remembered — but this time, the sense of belonging was gone. No ease, no peace. Only a delicate tension, blooming as carefully as the roses.

The flowers had opened with the same precision expected of the women now walking among them — graceful, composed, blooming under scrutiny.

Laughter came in delicate bursts. Nothing too loud, nothing real. Lady Vale hadn’t stopped speaking since she arrived. Every few steps she gasped or murmured in delight, lavishing praise on the roses, the hedges, the stone benches.

“This is lovelier than the court’s own gardens.” She sighed, trailing her fingers across a low hedge. “The Duchess has such impeccable taste.”

Her voice was melodic, polished from years of flattery. Her compliments were not really about the garden.

Perhaps not being in the presence of the matriarchs eased the pressure slightly — but only slightly. It still lingered, heavy and watchful

Countess Shinto walked a step behind the rest, as she always did. She hadn’t said a word, but you could feel her attention sweeping over everything. Everyone.

You kept your steps steady. Your chin high. Your smile easy. Every movement carefully measured, as if by instinct.

But your chest still ached from the night before.

Your makeup had done its best, but the shadows beneath your eyes were stubborn. You hoped no one would notice. You knew they already had. Tara’s eyes had lingered a second too long. Vale’s smile had been just a touch too amused.

Your thoughts had outpaced your sleep by miles.

And yet, here you were — laced into silk, hair pinned, posture perfect. There had never been another option.

“I heard the Duchess imported these roses from overseas.” Lady Tara’s voice was clearer than usual, as though she wanted to remind the garden that she belonged in it.

Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist today. She wore green — a precise match for the vines climbing the trellises. Intentional.

“Beauty tends to be worth the distance.” Vale answered, her tone breezy but pointed. “For those who can carry it.” The hem of her soft pink gown skimmed the gravel like mist. A pearl comb glinted in her dark hair.

“Well.” Tara said, too sweet. “We all know Her Grace carries beauty like she carries a weightless feather.”

The pause that followed was just long enough to make the intent behind her words obvious. She wanted it to be heard.

“It’s not beauty that matters.” Countess Shinto’s voice was unmistakable. “It’s who notices it.”

The comment floated into the air like perfume — and settled between all of you like smoke.

You felt her gaze land on your side, steady and unblinking. You didn’t dare look back.

Countess Shinto’s eyes lingered a moment longer before she turned back to the garden, as though satisfied she’d seen enough.

After a time spent wandering the winding paths — careful not to stray from the ones intended for display — a pair of maids approached, their presence signaled only by the faintest rustle of skirts and the scent of rose water.

“My ladies.” One of them said, bowing slightly. “The Duchess has asked that you rest for a while. The sun is rising quickly, and you mustn’t overtire before the midday activities.”

Rest. Of course. You were being handled like porcelain.

The gazebo stood just ahead, its white columns wrapped in flowering vines, wisteria trailing like threads of silk from its wooden beams. A breeze caught the petals, scattering a few across the stone steps like confetti.

Lady Vale stepped forward first, lifting her skirts in a perfect gesture of practiced grace.

“This spot is lovely.”

“Lovely,” Tara echoed, taking her seat with the poised ease of someone who had never rushed in her life. “And merciful. I was beginning to feel the sun already.”

Countess Shinto entered last, her silence as deliberate as her posture. She didn’t sit. Instead, she stood just inside the gazebo, eyes fixed outward.

You followed them in, hands folded before you, every movement careful and rehearsed.

“This garden must require constant tending.” Vale murmured as she plucked a loose petal from her sleeve. “Everything so… curated. As it should be.”

“Perfection rarely grows wild.” Tara said, idly tracing the carved edge of the wooden railing.

“Some things bloom best under pressure.” Countess Shinto added. Her voice, like everything about her, was elegant and impossible to dismiss.

She was unnatural in her composure — a woman born for this life, or perhaps carved into it. Even her words sounded like the closing line of a well-written romance.

A pause followed, filled only by birdsong and breeze. The maids returned with a silver tray of delicate pastries. You accepted a small tart without truly tasting it.

The silence wasn’t quite comfortable, but it wasn’t as suffocating as the night before.

Lady Vale leaned forward, her eyes catching something past the trailing vines.

“Are those… blue flowers?” she asked, already standing. She stepped toward the edge of the gazebo, skirts brushing the wooden floor.

You had already noticed them.

Clustered among the hedges just beyond the gazebo, the blue flowers stood open — bright, resilient, impossibly alive. You thought of the one by your bedside, and how it refused to wilt.

“Indeed.” You said softly. “Striking, aren’t they?”

“Delicate without being pale.” Shinto’s gaze lingered. “I can see why someone might favor them.”

Tara tilted her head. “Too much so, perhaps. Blue is rare in flowers. It makes them seem… unnatural.”

“Not unnatural.” You said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Memorable.”

The blond girl turned her eyes toward you, not with open challenge — but with the flicker of one forming. She didn’t respond. She simply took another bite of her pastry, chewing slowly.

The moment lingered with the quiet buzz of veiled meanings — the kind only women trained in poise could keep alive.

But before you could shape your next word, footsteps stirred the gravel behind the gazebo — too deliberate to belong to a maid.

Your body tensed before your mind caught up, recognizing the rhythm, the weight, the presence. The silence that fell among the other girls confirmed it.

The air shifted — not colder, not warmer, just heavier.

Then you saw him.

The Duke looked as if sleep had never dared disturb him. His white coat shimmered faintly in the light, tailored so precisely it caught the sun like it belonged to it. His posture was elegance made flesh, hands clasped behind him, every step controlled. Only his eyes betrayed anything — because they found you, and they didn’t leave right away.

Beside him walked another man, darker-haired and quieter in demeanor. His clothing, though simpler than Gojo’s, spoke of power in restraint. A portion of his long hair was tied neatly back, the rest falling against his shoulders. He walked like someone who’d been listened to all his life — and never needed to raise his voice.

All of you rose as gracefully as etiquette allowed, heads bowing in unison.

“Your Grace.” You chorused.

Lady Vale smoothed her skirts without making a show of it. Lady Tara brushed a crumb from the corner of her mouth. Countess Shinto tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a movement too fluid to be accidental.

And you tried not to come undone.

“Ladies.” The Duke greeted, voice steady and light. “Forgive the interruption. My mother asked me to see if everything was to your satisfaction.”

“Everything is to our liking, Your Grace.” Shinto replied, her hands resting neatly at the small of her back, gaze poised.

“The garden is more beautiful than I expected.” Tara added, stepping forward half a pace.

“I’m sure the day will be blessed by every color it blooms.” Vale murmured, her smile as delicate as porcelain.

You opened your mouth to speak — but nothing came.

Not again. You couldn’t let this happen again.

He’d asked you to forget. To let it go. Still, his eyes found you again, and this time they stayed.

“Lady…” he said your name, low and clear.

You felt every gaze tilt toward you. The spotlight was soft, but blinding.

You drew in a breath and smiled. You’d done it before — a hundred times, a thousand. Smiling when you wanted to crumble.

“As they said, my Lord.” You replied, voice steady. “Everything is fine.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t need to. He knew it wasn’t true.

But he nodded, accepting the lie.

“Perfect.” He said, and finally turned his eyes away.

The man beside him made a small, polite sound — the kind meant to prompt something without ever appearing to.

“Ah. Of course.” The Duke turned slightly. “May I introduce Count Suguru Geto, one of the court’s most trusted advisors — and a personal friend to our family.”

Count Geto bowed with perfect form. “A pleasure.”

“A Count.” Lady Tara purred, curtsying with practiced grace. “A surprise visit. We’re flattered.”

“I came earlier for the seasonal briefing.” He replied, his tone warm and calm — like a lullaby. “To assist the Duke with a few of his duties.”

“I assume my uncle will be joining you in some weeks, then.” Countess Shinto added, her words smooth as polished stone. She spoke of one of the men from the high council — an expected name in these circles.

“Indeed he will.” Geto gave a nod, his expression courteous but unreadable.

The conversation thinned, leaving behind a quiet too polished to be casual. A moment stretched.

As though remembering a thread left hanging, Vale gestured lightly with a gloved hand.

“We were just talking about those blue flowers.” her tone brightening. “Aren’t they rare? I don’t think I’ve seen that shade anywhere else in the grounds.”

Count Geto followed the motion of her hands but offered no opinion, his expression serene. Countess Shinto remained silent, her eyes fixed on the Duke instead.

Gojo turned to follow their gaze — slowly. His eyes settled on the patch of blue in the hedges. You saw the faint pause in him, the way his shoulders shifted slightly, his breath caught just a fraction too long.

“They weren’t meant to bloom this season.” Gojo said, voice smooth but low. “Strange things — they appeared when they shouldn’t. No gardener knew why”

His words slipped into the garden air like something too heavy to belong there.

You felt them land.

A quiet bloom appearing out of season — wasn’t that what you were? Something unexpected. Unwanted. A disturbance in the order.

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But your chest felt tight, like the corset had been pulled too close.

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it, but he didn’t have to. The pause in his voice, the glance at the flowers — it was for you. Or because of you. Which hurt in its own way.

You turned your gaze away from the blooms before anyone could see too much in your eyes.

“I believe the ladies were due at the Winter Room shortly.” Count Geto said, ever the diplomat. “Shall we escort them, Duke?”

Gojo didn’t answer right away.

His gaze lingered on the blue flowers, still untouched by wind or footfall.

“Of course.” His voice was lighter than his expression.

You and the other women straightened almost in unison, backs held tall with the elegance drilled into you since girlhood. The gravel crunched softly beneath your shoes as you fell into step behind them, the Duke and the Count leading the way back toward the palace.

You’d been warned that today’s activity would be a calligraphy display — a favored pastime among noble courts, where the steadiness of one’s hand was taken as evidence of one’s refinement.

You weren’t surprised by the choice.

But you were worried.

Your calligraphy wasn’t poor, but set beside the polished flourishes of the others — especially someone like Lady Vale, who likely had tutors from the capital — it might seem almost plain.

The group slowed as they neared the entrance to the east wing, where sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows in long, golden slants.

The conversation, what little of it remained, breathed only through Count Geto’s soft diplomacy — smooth words offered like oil to keep the silence from grinding.

A maid waited ahead, already holding open the heavy door to the Winter Room, her eyes lowered in the quiet discipline of someone trained never to observe too much.

One by one, the others stepped forward.

Vale glided with the confidence of someone born to be seen. Tara muttered something inaudible to herself. And Shinto glanced once toward the vaulted ceiling, then passed through the door like a shadow into light.

You moved to follow.

But fingers brushed your wrist.

Not a tug. Not a demand. Just the right kind of pressure to stop you cold.

You turned.

He hadn’t said your name because he didn’t have to. He stood just inside the boundary of what was proper — a breath too intimate, a moment too long — and yet not enough to make you retreat.

He filled the space between you, his presence pressing in like gravity. You could see the fine threadwork at the collar of his coat. And the storm behind his eyes.

“Stay a moment.”

It wasn’t loud enough to be overheard. It wasn’t gentle enough to be dismissed.

Behind the door, the polite hum of voices continued, rising and falling in elegant waves. No one had noticed you were no longer behind them. Not yet.

He glanced at the young maid holding the door. She bowed quickly — and disappeared down the corridor without a word.

Then he pulled you gently aside, just enough to move you out of view from the Winter Room. You were alone in a sliver of hallway framed by columns and dappled with quiet morning light.

His hand was still on your wrist.

He hadn’t let go.

You didn’t know what to say. Or if you should speak first. You didn’t even know what expression your face was wearing.

Your pulse thudded beneath his fingers, betraying you entirely.

“Did you receive—”

“Yes.” The word escaped you too quickly, too sharp.

He paused. A flicker passed over his features. The kind of shift you wouldn’t notice unless you were already looking too closely. Which you were.

“Good.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was thick. Waiting.

You narrowed your eyes slightly, not out of defiance — but confusion. Disappointment, maybe.

“Is that what you wanted to ask, Your Grace?”

His gaze didn’t move from yours.

“No.”

Another breath. Another beat of that awful, beautiful silence.

“Then what?” You asked.

He looked down — not out of shame, but restraint — and when he met your eyes again, there was a softness that hadn’t been there since the garden. Something worn and vulnerable.

“I keep thinking of something absurd.” His voice low, almost tender. “That maybe the flowers bloomed out of season for you.”

His lips curved — not quite a smile. More like a betrayal of composure.

“You do these things, don’t you?”

A pause. His gaze dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes.

“Bloom when you shouldn’t. Stay where you’re not supposed to.”

The words settled between you like something delicate — and dangerous.

For a moment, you forgot the Winter Room. The other girls. The weight of watching eyes. You forgot what you were supposed to be.

“Please, don’t say things like this, my lord.” The words left you quieter than you intended. They weren’t sharp, but they weren’t soft either — suspended in the air like something unfinished. Not quite a plea. Not quite a warning. Something aching in between. “You don’t know me that well.”

His fingers tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you. Not enough to hurt — never that — but enough to keep you from drifting away. Enough to remind you how close he was. How close he still was.

“You’re right.” He said, and his voice was calm — too calm. “But I know your true self better than anyone in that room.”

There was something raw under those words. Like he needed so say it.

“I met her in the gardens.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it — like it hadn’t been a fleeting moment. Like it hadn’t been a mistake. You felt your throat tighten, and you swallowed it down, trying to hold onto whatever composure still clung to your spine.

You stepped back just slightly, enough to make space. Enough to breathe.

“Yet you were the one who asked me to forget it.”

You didn’t mean for it to sound like an accusation. But maybe it was.

There was a flicker of something in his eyes then — regret, or something near it — and for once, he didn’t have an answer ready.

“I didn’t mean the latter to sound cruel.”

He let go of your wrist — slowly, as if the decision cost him something — but his gaze didn’t falter.

“I only meant…” He paused, brow tightening, eyes searching yours. “I thought it would make things easier. For you. For both of us.”

The echo of your own breath filled the narrow space between you. The golden light from the windows washed over his cheek, softening his profile into something almost gentle.

“I don’t think it worked, Your Grace.” Your voice nearly stumbling over the words.

“No.” He murmured. “It didn’t.”

A moment passed — both of you quiet, not brave enough to break it.

You tried not to look at him now. It was hard enough. The nearness. The things unsaid. The fact that, just for a second, he hadn’t been the Duke — just him, just you.

Then, gently, his hand moved again — not toward your wrist this time, but up. Fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that didn’t belong in this palace corridors.

Your breath caught.

And just as quickly, his hand dropped, the warmth in his face replaced by something more familiar — that practiced distance, that cool poise he wore like a second skin.

“We should go in.” The softness in his voice retreating behind duty.

He turned slightly, as if to lead the way.

“Be mindful of Lady Midora.” He added quietly. “My mother enjoys seeing how well her guests know the rules—and how they pretend not to.”

His gaze lingered on yours, steady and unreadable. Then he turned and stepped into the room, leaving you behind with the echo of his warning.

Once again, he had drawn you in, only to retreat just as quickly. He must have found some thrill in the game.

You inhaled slowly, smoothing your skirts as if that could settle your thoughts. Whatever had passed between you — in gardens, in glances, in words never meant to be spoken — didn’t belong in that room.

So you did what was expected.

You fixed your smile and stepped through the door. And you carried the ghost of his touch like a secret — hidden beneath silk and silence.

taglist!

@miizuzu @riddhimabhatt @hallahella @chocalycake

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@rnjjk @posttraumaticscribblez @hiccupberries

[juliettejwnewinesa]

Can you do a Seongje fic about prioties. Established relationship, but he doesn't prioritize the reader as much as he prioritizes the Union. He's always late or missing things and her breaking point comes when he misses another date where she was waiting outside for hours. He comes home after another fight, still not remembering the date HE promised and she just loses it. Like, this soft spoken gf gets so pissed even Seongje doesn't even know what to say, especially when she tells him she feels single in the relationship. She kicks him out and he realizes how much of a jerk he's been when he tries to think of any time they've gone out and then you can think of how he can try make it up to her

I really love your stories and the way you write. Also, have you considered creating a masterlist? I think you should create one so it's easier to find your writings (just a suggestion)🫶

Title: "Second Place" Pairing: Seongje x Reader Genre: Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Established Relationship Warnings: Emotional neglect, hurtful arguments, crying, swearing (mild), eventual reconciliation

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You always told yourself you could handle it.

Dating someone like Seongje — a man who had the weight of the Union on his back, who carried loyalty like a second skin — meant understanding he’d always be a little… distracted. You weren’t naïve. You knew what you signed up for.

But you didn’t sign up to feel like an afterthought.

Not after months of missed dinners. Half-hearted texts. Cancelled dates. Cold food waiting on the table only to be wrapped back up and shoved into the fridge. You understood emergencies — you did. But Seongje didn’t even try anymore.

And tonight… tonight was supposed to be different.

It was the anniversary of the first time he asked you out. A tiny, quiet day, maybe not important to most — but you were sentimental, and he used to be too. He promised this time. "I'll be there. I swear."

You believed him.

So you stood outside the café, wearing the coat he liked, holding the small homemade gift you’d spent hours on — a sketchbook with dumb little doodles of your memories together. You waited in the fading light, your fingers numbing with the cold.

One hour.

Two.

Three.

You stayed even after the café turned off its sign. Watching couples pass by, laughing, touching, living lives that didn’t involve waiting on someone who’d forgotten them.

Eventually, you stopped feeling disappointed. It turned into something colder. Something hollow.

You went home alone.

The door creaked open at midnight. Seongje walked in like he always did — tired, annoyed, muttering something under his breath about another brawl. He tossed his jacket onto the back of the couch and didn’t notice the cold plate on the counter or the dimmed lights or the empty wine glass sitting opposite yours.

He didn’t notice you sitting silently on the armchair, staring at him.

Not until you spoke.

"You forgot again."

He blinked. Paused. "What?"

"Our date."

A beat. Then a shrug. "Shit, I was busy, you know how it is. Things with the Union are—"

"More important," you said flatly. "Always more important."

He finally looked at you. Really looked. Your eyes were red, makeup smudged, your voice shaking even though you were trying so hard to stay calm.

"You’re blowing this out of proportion."

Wrong answer.

You stood up so fast the chair scraped backward. "Out of proportion? I waited outside for three fucking hours, Seongje. THREE. HOURS. In the cold. Like a goddamn idiot!"

He flinched. You rarely raised your voice.

"Why didn’t you call?" you demanded. "Why didn’t you text? You made the plan! You picked the time! You told me you’d be there!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, already looking guilty. "I forgot, okay? I was—"

"Exactly." Your voice cracked. "You forgot. You always forget."

Silence. He opened his mouth, closed it again.

You stepped closer, and this time your voice was quiet, but razor sharp.

"I feel single in this relationship, Seongje."

That landed like a slap.

"I cook for no one. I talk to walls. I show up to things you promise to be at, and I end up sitting alone like I’m some delusional girl chasing after a guy who’s not even interested."

His face twisted. "That’s not fair."

"Isn’t it?" you whispered. "Because tell me the last time we went out. The last time we talked about anything that wasn’t the Union. Tell me the last time I came first in your day."

He hesitated.

"You can’t, can you?"

He couldn’t.

You backed up toward the door, grabbing his coat from the hook.

"You need to leave."

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. "Wait, what?"

"Go sleep at one of your Union friends' places. You obviously care more about them than me anyway."

"You don’t mean that."

You threw the coat at his chest. "I do. Because I’ve been patient, and understanding, and supportive, and all I ever get in return is cold dinners and broken promises. I don’t even remember what it’s like to be someone’s priority anymore."

Seongje didn’t move. Didn’t say anything.

He just looked… stunned.

You turned your back before he could see the tears fall again.

"Please. Just go."

And for once — he listened.

The next day.

The silence in the apartment was too loud. No clattering pans. No soft hum of your voice in the other room. Just emptiness.

Seongje sat in a shitty motel lobby at 3 a.m. staring at the wall, running his hands through his hair.

The worst part wasn’t the fight.

It was realizing you were right.

He tried to remember the last time you two went out. A real date. A moment where he looked at you without checking his phone every five minutes or being interrupted by a Union call. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d complimented you.

Everything had become routine. Wake up. Kiss your forehead. Go fight. Come home. Eat cold food. Fall asleep. Repeat.

He’d taken you for granted.

You’d always been there. Always soft, patient, smiling even when he barely gave you scraps of his attention. He thought you'd always be there.

Until you weren’t.

He stared at his phone. No new messages.

His thumb hovered over your contact.

But he didn’t call.

Not yet.

Two days later.

Your apartment stayed quiet. Clean. Undisturbed.

You cried the first night, then went numb the next.

You missed him. God, you did.

But you weren’t going to be the only one fighting for this anymore.

If he wanted you — really wanted you — he had to show it.

One week later.

You opened your door to a strange smell — something warm. Buttery. Sweet.

On your counter sat a paper bag. Still warm. Inside: pastries from your favorite bakery — the one two districts over. The one he’d always grumbled about being “too far.”

A note rested on top.

“Didn’t forget this time.” —S

You stared at it.

The next day, flowers appeared. Then your favorite book — annotated with his handwriting in the margins.

The day after that: a flash drive. With a slideshow.

Each photo labeled. "First smile." "First trip." "First time I realized I was in love with you."

Your vision blurred.

The last image was a selfie — Seongje, holding a whiteboard.

“I want a second chance. Tell me when and where — I’ll be there first.”

Two nights later.

You agreed to meet him.

A quiet restaurant. Nothing flashy. You walked in 5 minutes early — expecting to wait.

But he was already there.

Hair styled. Dressed in that jacket you liked. Sitting up straight, nervous fingers drumming on the table.

He stood the second he saw you.

You sat down without a word. Let him speak first.

"I was wrong," he said. No excuses. No deflection. Just… guilt. "I forgot what it means to be someone’s boyfriend. I thought just being around was enough, but I wasn’t with you. Not really."

You said nothing.

"I kept choosing the Union over you because I thought I had time. I thought you'd always be there waiting. I didn't realize I was already losing you piece by piece."

Still, you didn’t speak.

"I want to fix this. I don’t just want to say sorry — I want to show you. I set every reminder. I cleared my weekend schedule. I even told the Union I’d take a step back."

That made you blink. "You… what?"

He nodded. "They didn’t like it. But I told them I have something more important."

Silence. Then—

"I don’t want to feel single anymore either," he added quietly. "I want to feel like I have you. And I want you to feel like you have me. Fully. No more ‘second place.’"

Your throat tightened.

"One date," he said. "One night where it’s just us. No distractions. No phone. Just you and me. And if I screw it up — I’ll never bother you again."

You looked at him.

For the first time in weeks — he looked like your Seongje again.

"...Okay."

And when you said that, the smile he gave you was small. Shy. Hopeful.

Like someone who finally realized what he almost lost.

And was ready to earn it back.

author's note: i tried doing a masterlist not that long ago but i stopped updating it i will start doing it again dont worry:)

[yumeka-sxf]

Today's new chapter reveals why Hemlock resents Yor so much: as I suspected, it's the fact that, from his perspective at least, she's "lost her edge" which made him angry to the point of wanting to wipe her out of Garden completely.

We haven't seen Yor do a Garden mission since the cruise arc, but we know from there that she definitely hasn't lost her edge. Even though she messed up a bit at first, it was only because she was trying to understand why she's continuing to fight as Thorn Princess. And once she realized what that reason was, a renewed strength welled up inside her that allowed her to overcome very strong adversity.

In this sense, having a family has actually made her stronger. Originally she was fighting solely to cleanse the country of "bad guys," and that reason hasn't gone away, it's only been amplified by her other reason for fighting, which is to create a peaceful world that her loved ones can thrive in.

Unfortunately, Hemlock interprets Yor's happiness about her family and lack of the "robotic" aura she used to exude, as a degradation for Thorn Princess.

He's also extremely resentful because he sacrificed so much to reach the level of skill he thought Thorn Princess had - isolating himself for who knows how long just to keep honing his assassination skills, despite suffering true loneliness.

And now he thinks Yor has thrown all her skills away because she'd rather be a housewife than an assassin. He not only sees this as a betrayal to Shopkeeper and Garden, but a slap in the face to someone like him who had to work so hard for skills that she's now seemingly tossing aside.

Hemlock also sees Yor's hesitance to fight him as a weakness, but I think it's an indication of how she stays true to her principle of only fighting "bad guys" she's ordered to fight by Shopkeeper (or anyone who threatens her loved ones or the innocent). It's hard to say if the past Yor that Hemlock admired would have immediately fought back, but regardless, he interprets this as just another sign of how she's lost her touch when it comes to being an assassin.

But once he decides to threaten her family, a threat to the people Yor desires to protect the most, that's more than enough to ignite the will to fight in her, even against a fellow Garden member. I've mentioned in past posts that Yor doesn't have many personal desires for herself, which is something that likely came about from her upbringing as a "mindless soldier" for Garden. She also tends not to fight back if she herself is being threatened, insulted, or berated, which again could stem from whatever was instilled in her from Garden. However, when others are being harmed, especially those most important to her, she doesn't hold back at all.

And fight she definitely does - in the end, Hemlock is brought to his knees just by the intense aura of Yor almost stabbing him.

This scene reminded me of how Fiona reacted after she lost the tennis match with Yor. Yor is quite good at devastating her rivals just by displaying her skills, she doesn't even have to injure them!

Another person Yor has left her mark on 😂

Even though the chapter ended on a lighter note, with Hemlock in total shock at his defeat, it's hard to say if he's had a total change of heart or not. Is he now going to accept that Yor is stronger than him despite her passion for her family, or will he continue to be hostile to her? We'll have to wait and see.

I'll end this post by pointing out the fact that in the Japanese version of the below panel, Hemlock uses the phrase "icha icha" when describing Yor's "making out," which is the same word that Anya uses whenever she says "Papa and Mama are flirting" 😅

[mattslilies]

Oral Essay - M.S.

"go on, sweetheart, tell me what your topic is." or... the one where you miss a presentation due to oversleeping, and your professor graciously allows you to make it up. warnings: oral (f receiving), praise, slight mention of beard burn/facial hair kink(?? is that a thing??), fingering (f receiving), tad bit of degradation, professor!matt, student!reader, this takes place in college! both parties are 18+! word count: 1.5k a/n: i do not own professor!matt! credits go to whoever created the au's! this photo just made me think he was giving prof!vibes so here is the fic i dreamed up

you couldn't believe you'd overslept. this was one of your most important presentations of the entire semester. you'd been preparing for it for weeks, making sure that it was completely perfect, but here you were, struggling with the outcome of a drastic mistake.

you cared about your schoolwork. you really did. getting your degree meant so much to you, and you were absolutely furious with yourself over missing this assignment. this was the first mistake you had made all semester, and that fact gave you a little bit of comfort as you made your way to your professor's office, knowing his office hours were currently running. you were desperately hoping that he would be lenient, understanding that sometimes these things happen.

you knocked on the open door as you stepped into his office, quietly announcing your arrival before you spoke. he turned around in his chair, looking over at you, and you swallowed the nerves in your throat and the butterflies in your stomach as his gaze settled on your face.

you couldn't deny that he was incredibly attractive. he was the youngest professor the school had, which was no help to your fantasizing delusions. plus, with his face being freshly shaved, only a small bit of stubble decorating his jaw, you couldn't say you hadn't had any indecent thoughts.

shaking those thoughts away, you started to speak, his attention entirely fixated on you, but he beat you to it, motioning for you to close the door.

"you weren't in class today. you missed your presentation."

you closed your mouth, nodding, your mind wondering how he'd even noticed with the one hundred plus people in your lecture hall. but that didn't matter right now.

"yes. i overslept. is there any way that i can make it up? this grade means a lot to me and i spent a long time working on this presentation."

he hummed, turning back to his computer screen and scrolling through what appeared to be a gradebook. you caught a glimpse of your name. he was scrolling through your gradebook.

"you haven't missed or turned in late a single assignment this semester, nor have you missed a class."

you shook your head, agreeing.

"no, i haven't. my education is very important to me."

he turned back to you.

"i can see that. you're always focused in my class. that is, except when you're making small comments about my attractiveness to your friends here and there."

your jaw fell, not expecting to have been called out, nor knowing he had any idea about that. you started to defend yourself, but he didn't let you continue.

"i- um. i don't-"

"it's a lecture hall, your voice does carry. it's okay."

you were sure that your face was the color of his tie, a blazing red as heat rose to it.

how does one cope with the fact of their professor calling them out for calling them hot?

luckily, he continued, saving you the embarrassment of continuing to speak for yourself.

"that being said, overall, you're an excellent student. so, i'm going to be nice. i'll give you two options."

you nodded, waiting to hear whether or not your grade would take a massive nosedive, or if there was hope for you yet. he closed his laptop, moving a few things off of his desk, the clean wood shining underneath it.

"you missed an oral essay, so i think this offer is quite fair. you can sit up here and tell me about your topic while i get my mouth on you, for full credit..."

your ears started ringing with shock because there was absolutely no way he was proposing such a filthy idea. your breath hitched as his words processed, but he raised a hand, preventing you from speaking.

"or, you can redo your presentation wednesday, normally, for 75% credit."

he leaned back in his chair, a normal look on his face as if he hadn't just offered to eat you out as casually as if he was asking you when your next class was. you, on the other hand, were spiraling.

"both of these options are much more generous than i would normally give, but there's no pressure to take one or the other."

you couldn't believe the position you were in. you'd always found him gorgeous, and you'd daydreamed about knowing what his nose would feel like against your clit, what his beard would feel like against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs... you were smart, but it was a no brainer.

you gasped as he removed your panties, pushing your legs apart and dropping to his knees in front of his desk, pulling you closer to him.

"go on, sweetheart, tell me what your topic is."

you opened your mouth to speak but all that escaped was a whine as his tongue traced around your clit, gentle pressure that felt otherworldly as his hands held onto your thighs.

biting back a moan, you started speaking, having memorized the information, but it was broken here and there with whimpers and cries. your hand tightened in his hair as his tongue dipped lower, slowly fucking you with it as his nose rubbed perfectly against your clit.

"oh my god- yes, shit, that's perfect-"

a gravelly moan escaped him as you tugged harshly on his hair, and the vibrations scattered through you, your legs shaking around his head. he ate you out like a man starved, tongue everywhere all at once, his stubble dragging along your skin, the beginning of a burning sensation only serving to push you even closer to the edge.

he pulled back to catch his breath, speaking to you only once before diving back in.

"keep going. you want that grade, don't you?"

you nodded, whimpering as two of his fingers slid inside you, curling at the perfect angle. you felt so full of him that you could cry, the real thing better than any fantasy you could've dreamed up. the facts of your topic falling from your lips became less and less as they were replaced with loud moans, him dragging you right to a climax.

his fingers worked at a steady pace, his mouth leaving you as he pulled off, wanting to watch the way you fell apart from his touch.

"it's a little pathetic, sweetheart, how easily you took this option. desperately wanting my mouth on you, you were soaking wet before i even touched you."

you gripped his wrist, nails digging in hard.

"p-please, i- you're so- fuck!"

he grinned, loving the effect he had on you.

"yeah? i'm so what, sweetheart?"

you sobbed, every nerve ending in your body on fire.

"s-so mean!"

he laughed, only moving his fingers quicker.

"am i? i don't see you complaining. your pussy is sucking my fingers in just as fast as i can thrust him. she's dripping down my wrist, baby. seems like you like it when i'm mean to you."

his head dipped down, lips wrapping around your clit, the suction being too much for you as you nearly screamed, your legs closing around his head, juices pouring all over his face.

he licked you through it, gentle praises falling from his lips as he slowed his movements, knowing the feeling of overstimulation could be brutal.

"did so good for me, sweetheart, you sound so pretty, always loved your voice..."

he trailed off as you caught your breath, swiping tissues from his desk, putting a little water on them to soften the fabric and clean you up, gently pulling your underwear back up your legs and helping you down off his desk.

his hair was tousled, clear that someone had ran their hands through it. your stomach fluttered at the sight, your brain still refusing to believe what had just happened.

he sat you down in his desk chair, passing you a water bottle to drink from while he leaned over his laptop, pressing a few buttons on his keypad before turning the screen to you.

100%.

it glowed in front of you, your mind still reeling as you processed.

"a 100%? you haven't given anyone a 100% all semester. on anything."

he smiled, shrugging.

"what can i say? your work was exceptional."

you smiled back, standing once you felt your legs wouldn't crumple underneath you.

"you noticed i was absent today."

"i did."

"do you notice when any of your students are absent? or just the ones that think you're hot?"

he gave you a cocky smirk before replying.

"that's most of them, sweetheart. but no. just you."

"good."

his hand circled around your waist as he gently led you to the door, opening it.

"better get going, or someone might get suspicious."

you nodded, about to leave before he spoke again.

"i'll see you in class on wednesday."

it wasn't a question. there was no room for argument. even if you didn't care about school, he knew you were obsessed with him, and would be back every day class was held.

taglist <3

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[aesyuki]

⟢ wind breaker boys with a deaf!reader and the soft rules they made. [ not requested ]

WIND BREAKER ft. soft rules

premises. you were born with a disability and that disability was not being able to hear, navigating through the world without hearing anything was difficult especially since you’re experiencing everything differently from others.

but— your ever beloved, boyfriend was there to navigate the world with you with a soft, guiding hands. ready for you to take in any moment, as they navigate with you.

they have their rules, soft rules they made just for you.

characs &. warnings. suo, nirei and sakura : out of character (?) , no proofhead , please let me know if i missed anything.

          ◟          𖤝  ⠀ 蘇枋 隼飛! HAYATO SUO

soft rules. never make them feel small

HAYATO made himself that rule to constantly reminds himself that to never make you feel like you’re small (if you’re taller than him then congrats) and by not making you feel small is by—

leaning down to your level whenever you’re signing something or just standing there in general, he wanna make you feel at least taller than him whenever you’re doing and it’s a win-win situation because he gets to see your features more clearly whenever he’s doing it.

sometimes he crouches down too, it happens when you’re fixing your shoelaces and insisted on doing it for you.

and that makes your heart flutter.

          ◟          𖤝  ⠀ 楡井 秋彦! AKIHIKO NIREI

soft rules. never make them feel left out.

AKIHIKO made that rules because he knows what it feels like to be left out or how tough it is for his significant other to join in conversations because of your hearing impairment. That’s why he made it his job to make you feel like you’re never left out and alone.

and by that, he means that whenever you guys are in a big group and people are laughing and chatting, he always signs to you or message you (even though you guys are together) to tell you what the other’s are talking and laughing about.

he always make sure that you don’t feel left out or alone at all, and it makes you super happy to have him as your lover.

          ◟          𖤝  ⠀ 桜 遥! HARUKA SAKURA

soft rules. always be gentle with them.

in all honesty, HARUKA will try, i mean TRY to be gentle with his significant other. not because you’re weak and vulnerable but because he’s scared that he’ll hurt you in any way. he’s trying his best to be gentle with some struggles of course.

he tries to tone down his voice because we know he’s loud whenever he’s flustered, he also slow down his lips movement because he talk so fast and he wants you to understand what he’s saying.

he doesn’t admit it but HARUKA will have a sense of comfort whenever he’s being gentle with you, he always make sure he doesn’t come as someone who’s rough especially to you because you’re precious to him.

the most important person of his life.

⟢  © aesyuki ★ my works aren’t meant to be plagiarized, reposted, copied, translated nor displayed in another platforms with or without my consent

[petalbcrnes]

hiii i luv your writing so much!! this is probably a silly question but what media do you read/watch to get a good understanding of the batboys? i want to write about them ^_^ i know only a little based on what I've read from stories but other than that im clueless... sorry if this is a very weird thing to ask.... i just luv your writing and look up to you!!!

not a silly question at all my dear! 💞 it makes me so happy you look up to me 🥹🥹 i wish you the best of luck in writing for them.

there is a lot of media to choose from when learning about the batboys characters. Almost every comic, movie & game shows us different sides of their personality.

id recommend these medias to start from. i would like to clarify that i am no expert in this. i have barely read any comics about them. most of my knowledge about their characters comes from reading fanfiction. if i make any mistakes with the information i gathered here please let me know!

batman: death in the family & batman: under the red hood, Arkham Knight (a more gritty version of jay, bruce, etc) juni ba's comics (i recommend juni ba's comics to every dc fan), batman vs robin, son of batman, gotham knights (take this one with a grain of salt, not many liked it, i personally liked it 😭), wayne family adventures. (most of my characteristics for the batboys comes from wfa), if you're feeling like it you could give the series titans a try (first dc media i ever watched, im not too much of a fan of the earlier seasons, the characters building gets better down the road), young justice is a classic (currently watchinf yj, you could watch it for nightwing i suppose)

I have some issues with the movies, considering we do not get the full batfamily in most of them, plus i feel like their culture/roots often gets ignored (damian and dick for example). (Jason, tim and duke are often ignored. Mostly duke though).

what to keep in mind when writing:

dont fall for the stereotypes. jason wasn't some angry robin. tim isnt always glued to his computer. duke is 100% a batfam member and has his own full fleshed out character. damian isn't unfeeling. talia isn't a horrid mother. bruce is flawed yes, but for our sakes give him a chance.

dont forget their roots/race/ethnicity— i think it is canon that dick is romani (writers put that in ~2000's, in a very racist way as well. it doesn't erase the fact dick is romani, but take advice from romani and roma creators when writing for him (if you plan on highlighting his heritage). damian is mixed— arab and chinese heritage on his mother's side, plus bruce is white so (wow kore you worded that beautifully). for damian his culture is pretty important— id recommend letting it shine through while writing.

dont forget duke. duke thomas is a batboy. he will always be a batboy. try and include him in any works where the other batboys r included.

this is more of a quick guide to know about the batboys. for me at least 😭 if anyone has recommendations feel free to let us know 💞

[pokenoire]

I simply identify as asexual and aromantic EXACTLY BECAUSE OF MY PRE-TEENSE or my childhood, for the love of god, I saw romantic couples as fun through which I saw the characters' perspective and never mine, I didn't imagine myself in the place of these characters or them in love, I've never felt desire for these relationships, I've never seen a romantic couple for myself without the series presenting it as "they're a couple" I never saw these feelings as something I "should have for someone" and the feeling came from someone else being interested in me, I came to understand these feelings when they SIMPLY HIT ME in the heart, but if I had seen it for myself I would NEVER have developed "feelings alone" the other person HAD to be interested in me in some way, and I think that was the important thing for me to start realizing how "unnatural" this is for most people, in my adolescence...people found content creators pretty, celebrities pretty hell collecting things about a person by their appearance was not on my priority lists, I never understood, so I realized for a while that "my celebrity crushes" were very similar in appearance to that 1 boyfriend I didn't feel anything for them as a person, but rather *who that person reminded me of*

All feelings developed alone - they were from months or years of living together, there is no feeling without this previous connection that I'm not sure if there is a specific time that can be...just...the person was so similar to them. I guess my type isn't exactly "for the 2000s appeal" BEFORE him none of that mattered...

This is not an *allo experience* and it never will be.

I love the term reciprocoromantic/lyciromantic it's so comforting to finally understand what's going on and how it comes about, why is it that 3 times out of 4 people will develop feelings just for each other because*people are friends, people who live with you, people who want to enter into a relationship with you, you feel like you can enter into a relationship with them, emotional connection is important, SO important that...it's impossible to kiss someone without them being my only deep connection with

Topics about sex I avoided reading until I was 25. I'm still exploring the fact that I'm ok with BL or a specific couple but that's before (and I need to come out of the closet first in that part) I consider myself sex repulsed, with neutrality towards sex in specific cases or specific dynamics and specific romantic ones being from childhood.

Just saw a post saying “minors shouldn’t identify as aro/ace” and I wanted to say… fuck you.

No look, okay I get why some people don’t want minors in certain spaces, and that’s fine. DNI minors then, if you want to.

But you can identify as anything at anytime in your life. It doesn’t hurt anyone to identify as one thing and then realise you’re another. It’s growth. Your identity will change as you age. It’s normal. And if it doesn’t? That’s also normal.

Also, from 13-18 (minors in most countries) is the most complexly romantic and sexual time. Obviously I’m not going into detail as again MINORS. But teenagers undergo the most change is hormones, emotional growth, romantic and sexual interest then any other age.

In my opinion, teenage years is when you’re MOST LIKELY to figure out you’re aro/ace. It’s the MOST LIKELY time to question your identity in general. Obviously, again, no age limit, but it’s the most common time for self discovery.

It’s called a “coming of age” story for a reason.

[sakurabraches]

it's important to me that you all know just how happy glinda makes elphie

she really is her sweet. her heart's desire. her only friend (sorry dr dilly and fiyero and chistery). the only person to really see her, to truly understand her. she sees the beauty and good in elphie when elphaba doesn't see it in herself. she always knows how to lighten the mood with a joke or silly antics or a smile

glinda really is just her person

[woozisprincess]

How each svt member would react to getting those magnetic couples bracelets

Really adorable, much fluff, a lil spice during Soonyoung's, fem reader, no she/her pronouns used but in Vernon's part reader is referred to as "his girl" and in Hao's part as well.

Saw these on TikTok and thought it was adorable.

Seungcheol

His idea. This man is possessive we know this. During a romantic dinner he pulls out the box and hands it to you. You think it's such a pretty bracelet, and it's clearly expensive. When you go to thank him, he interlocks your finger with his own, and the charm on his suspiciously similar bracelet locks to yours. How cute.

Jeonghan

Also his idea, and when you looked at him a lil odd he asked why you didn't love him. 100% guilt tripped you no questions asked. It wasn't even necessary, he just wanted to. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics, reluctantly agreeing to his obvious schemes. You do love the bracelets, you just don't know why he has to be so extra about it.

Joshua

Loves em. Thinks it is the cutest thing in the world, and loves that you always wanna be connected to him in some way. He already finds you so adorable, he really didn't think that you could get any cuter. He's always been such a big fan of hand holding so you can imagine that this only spurred him on.

Jun

Thinks it's sooooo cute. The idea of couples bracelets with a magnetic charm is so fun to him. He thinks whoever came up with them is a genius. Who wouldn't want to always be connected to the love of their life? He just adores how the magnets immediately attract one another when you two are close.

Hoshi

Oh my god he's obsessed. Sits close just to feel the magnet tug on his wrist, and loves knowing that you can feel it too. Now something other than the strength of his passion for you is physically pulling you together.

Absolutely holds your hand when you fuck so he can feel them connect.

Wonwoo

Doesn't understand it but as long as you're happy. Like it's cute but it's literally just a bracelet. A bracelet with a magnetic charm. Why is it so important? But hey, you love them, and you're happy, so he's not gonna complain.

Woozi

Watched in silence as you wordlessly opened the box, grabbed his wrist, and linked each end of the bracelet around his arm. Is gonna say something about how you know he's terrible about wearing jewelry, but instead let out a small gasp when you lift your arm next to his and the half heart shaped charm on your matching bracelet immediately attaches to his. Acts nonchalant. He's never taking it off like ever. You'd have to saw his wrist off of his body.

Dokyeom

Obsessed. The thought of being constantly attached to you pleases him way too much. They were 1000% his idea. Being attached to his sweet baby? The love of his life? You have to remind him that they're just bracelets with magnets. He looks at you betrayed. "They are not just bracelets! They are symbols of our love!" You give him lots of kisses as an apology.

Mingyu

He's blushing like a fool. A complete mess. Tries to be cocky. "You can't bear to be away from me can you?" He's basically on the floor having a heart attack. This is exactly why you bought them. You think he's fucking adorable.

Minghao

"are these handcuffs?" Thinks it's weird. Why are you trying to physically attach yourself to him? Girl I need my space. You look at him all sad and he folds like a lawn chair. "It's fine it's just a bracelet I don't care I'll wear it if you want." Can't help the way his serotonin skyrockets at the pure joy that overtakes you when the magnets connect.

Seungkwan

Teases you relentlessly about how attached to him you are. Is crying on the inside bc you love him. Loves the bracelets tho. He loves matching couples stuff so this only spurs him on to buy more things like it. Now you have matching shoes, matching necklaces, matching earrings, matching hats, etc. you have to tell him to cool it because you're running out of space in your closet and drawers. He buys you another wardrobe.

Vernon

Bought them after you mentioned them. Vernon doesn't know a lot outside of movie trivia, but he sure as hell knows when his girl is hinting for him to buy something. He thinks they're cute but not a big deal at all. Lost it after a week. You're a little sad about it so he ends up buying another set

Dino

Bought them. Basically cried to get you to agree. Not that you didn't want them, you just thought that he was way too serious about them. Loves holding your hand so they connect while you're walking together. He will cry if he sees you not wearing it. Please don't make him cry.

[ponyisle]

I'm so curious, do you consider Daybreak a bad pony for all she has done? Does Daybreak consider herself a bad pony? To Wish, to Twi? How much has she been forgiven by others, how much has she forgiven herself? There's also themes of disability to all three of them. Day's stress-induced migraines from overwork. The blindness, vocal atrophy, wing atrophy, chronic illness and the mental toll that comes from a millenia of isolation. Twilight's wing deformities and migraines upon being forcibly turned. Obviously, sickness is not a moral trait (I write this as a disabled woman myself) but I can't help but untangle Day's responsibility in both of their conditions. Although she was not intentionally malicious in her actions, and although she must have grown, repeatedly she was selfish. Repeatedly, she irreparably changed the fate of someone who trusted her.

Just thoughts. I love this project!

i have SO many thoughts about Daybreak, shes one of my favorite ponies to write, and i know this is probably the most asked question about my AU. idk how to explain a lot of it without spoiling what i have planned.

from my perspective: i didn't write Daybreak to be a "bad person" or a villain(doesn't make what she's done right in any capacity mind you). She has been selfish, arrogant, and downright neglectful at times. She's a pony who, much like twilight, was given little to no choice in her life. and when she DID make her own choices with the limited knowledge she had, it always ended up hurting somepony she deeply cared for. She views herself as almost entirely irredeemable. Burdened with the responsibility of an entire species while feeling like she is doomed to fail them. She's put the ponies at the forefront of her concerns, which in earlier years meant neglecting the only other pony who could possibly understand her position(Wish). She does not think she's worthy of her sisters forgiveness despite all her attempts to make things right.

Wish ultimately forgives her sister after many years of silence and making up(this will be expanded upon in comics i don't wanna give away too much but its a lengthy process). She doesn't see Daybreak as a bad pony, and after Day actually starts listening to how Wish feels and opening up herself, they both start to actually understand each other.

While Day thought what she was giving to Twilight was a gift, after seeing her reaction to her transformation Day regresses in her progress Big Time. Daybreak cared for Twilight, but just like with Wish, she thought she knew what was best, thought she could "fix" things. Twilight and Day's relationship is never quite the same, they don't really "make up" the way she and Wish did. For the first few years Twi DESPISES Day, but she doesn't see her as a bad person per say. She definitely resents her for being just another pony that's taken away an incredibly important choice from her. Realizing she will live on as her friends pass away, outliving everyone around her, its horrifying to grapple with that newfound knowledge. Twi realizes that Day isn't the all knowing deity that everypony seemed to think she is. They have a professional relationship later on, and maybe as the story progresses I'll expand more on that, but for now they're on extremely rocky terms.

The central theme in cantergale is acceptance and forgiveness, that doesn't mean each character with receive both from everyone. The sisters are a reflection of my own relationship with my sibling(projection<3). Day has to come to terms with the fact that no amount of apologies and change can reverse what she's done. She has to learn to forgive herself and accept her actions. Everything else is out of her control.

Its hard for me to describe any character as strictly bad or good, its not smth i think about when writing, i try to leave it up for the viewer to decide for themselves. My main goal is to inspire some sort of emotion. You feel however the story makes you feel. As always i love these sort of comments, i enjoy seeing how everyone interprets the story.

[tsuma-senju]

Love is like a mirror

Kento Nanami xfreader. (husband and wife, five year old daughter) domestic. fluff

The morning sun begins to stream through the window, warming the wooden floor of the kitchen. You stand with your back to the door, calmly preparing everything. The water boils, the smell of toast fresh out of the toaster mingles with the aroma of coffee grounds

You hear footsteps, those heavy, unmistakable footsteps, precise and familiar as the air itself. Before you even turn around, his arms wrap around your waist and his chin rests on your shoulder, just like every day

"Good morning," he murmurs, his low, deep voice still thick with sleep

"Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?" you ask, smiling as you feel the light kiss he plants on your neck

"Uhm," he breathes deeply against your skin, absorbing that silent moment as if the world outside did not exist. And for a few minutes, it doesn't. Just you two, there, lulled by the sound of boiling water and the gentle breathing of those who love each other

Soon your daughter appears, dragging the pink blanket she insists on carrying as if it were a superhero cape.

"Mommy… Daddy… good morning…" still sleepy, her eyes half-closed as she rubs one of them with her small fist.

You immediately bend down, opening your arms.

"Good morning, my princess. Did you sleep well?"

She throws herself at you, and then at Kento, who is already kneeling to receive her. He holds her so carefully, as if she were made of the most fragile glass.

"I slept… but I dreamed of a monster." She wrinkles her nose, and your husband smiles.

"And what did you do?"

"I punched him and he cried."

"The pride of the family."

After breakfast, you decide to reorganize the living room cabinets, not because they are disorganized, but because it gives you peace. You point to a pile of books and ask,

"Kento, can you help me put these in the bottom cabinet?"

He is already there before you even finish your sentence, and not only does he organize the books, but he also asks you,

"Do you want me to wipe them down too?"

"If it's not too much trouble…"

"It won't be."

Your daughter watches, sitting on the sofa, a yogurt in her hand and her eyes attentive, her head tilted to one side, curious.

During lunch, you comment:

"I think the curtains in the bedroom could be changed. The blue ones are already faded."

"Let's buy another one tonight," your husband says without hesitation.

Once again, your little girl's eyes narrow, as if something is being drawn inside her.

After the meal, you and Nanami wash the dishes together while she draws on the table. At one point, she stops, puts down her pencil, and asks seriously:

"Daddy, why do you do everything Mom wants?"

Kento stops scrubbing the plate, looks at you with an almost imperceptible smile, and then crouches down next to his daughter. He looks her in the eyes with the same attention he would give to an important meeting with the jujutsu high command.

"Because I love your mother," he begins, his voice low and sincere. "And she takes care of me. She takes care of you. She takes care of our home, our world. When someone does so much for you, the least you can do… is give back. Do you understand?"

She blinks. Then she smiles, but it's a thoughtful smile. Very mature for her five years

"So… if I take care of our family… will someone do everything I want too?"

The man puts his hand to his chin, pondering, but soon comes closer and whispers, as if it were a secret too precious to be said aloud

"The truth, young lady… is that we already do everything you want."

She widens her eyes, scandalized

"Liar!" She laughs. "You don't let me eat three ice creams before dinner!"

"Because taking care of you also means teaching you what's best for you." your husband has an amused smile on his face as he explains. "But even so, you get more ice cream than you should."

She breaks into a huge smile, throws herself into his lap, and says with all the certainty in the world

"Then I'm going to take very, very good care of you."

Kento looks at you, with his daughter on his lap, and holds out his hand. You take it; not many words are needed there.

He takes care of you because you are his foundation.

You take care of them because they are your life.

And your little girl begins to understand the love and care within the family.

That night, she tidies up her toys by herself before bed, brushes her teeth without protest, and before crawling into bed asks you to wake her up early the next morning.

"Why?" you ask, surprised.

"Because I want to help make breakfast. I'm going to take care of our family, remember?"