#diana had to reply

[touchedbydestiny]

cont. from here || @lordofthestrix

            "it is nothing personal", diana stated without a hint of being ashamed due to her undoubtfully impolite previous comment. it was still her conviction that vampires should not exist. it was by no means a statement about his own personality; how could she judge someone she did not know? judging his species, however, was something completely different.

            "i treat others the way i would like to be treated, even if i don’t know them yet. being open-minded towards someone new also means trusting this person – at least if this person isn't a vampire. maybe it’s hypocritical, but it has its reasons."

            "you’re pretty convinced of yourself, tristan, i wonder where this confidence comes from. do you really believe that i will throw my principles overboard and trust you? do you consider yourself to be the proof that vampires aren't the undead beasts they truly are? or is it rather the opposite that you think i can be manipulated? easily deceived if just flattered enough?"

[okalanissolis]

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ

ᴀ ᴄᴇʟᴇꜱᴛɪᴀʟ ᴍᴀꜰɪᴀ ᴀ.ᴜ.

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖

ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴘᴀꜱᴛ ɪꜱ ᴄᴏɴꜱɪᴅᴇʀᴇ�� ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜꜱ . . .

pt. ii | | series masterlist

focus on: muni sarang (diane meunier), choi san, & song deokhee word count: ~4.6k warnings: language, intermittent Lore Dumping™, mentions of violence, occasional graphic imagery, mentions of semi-main character death, Even More Gods Are Introduced and i think that is lovely

ᴛᴄᴅᴜ (ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴏʟᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ) ɪꜱ ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ !

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭

lilo's mic: still knee deep in history but with more character introductions! i think at some point i might do a character recap page where i can offer some quick stats about the character's strengths and role, but idk if it would be helpful or just another way that i Procrastinate™ — let me know your thoughts !

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭

⌜ my girl pinched my hips to see if i still exist / i think not ⌟

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖

— ʜᴀᴇᴍᴏ ᴘᴏʀᴛ was the main harbour of hoku city. home to the oldest and most robust working port on the island, the leeward side of the city was often referred to as haemopu side — an amalgamation of the names ʜᴀᴇᴍᴏꜱᴜ, the god of light and namesake of haemo port; and ᴋᴀᴘᴜ: sacred, taboo, forbidden. it was an unspoken rule that the shadows that danced on haemopu side were all puppets of that power known as serpens, and if you saw their strings or witnessed their plays, you would keep quiet, or your days were numbered — your gift from samgong through.

— still, haemo port was vast and wide, and business had to keep. it wasn't particularly bad luck to be a shop stationed near haemo port: there was so much foot traffic there, so many lives crossing back and forth, still hungry to survive; the best of money could be found for those who dared haemopu and kept their sight where it belonged — out of their eyes and in the open hands of hoku — or so the urban prayer went.

to the untrained eye, haemo port and ʜᴀᴇꜱᴜ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ (the road that led to the devouring mouth of it) were the same as any other harbour on the island: only slightly more complicated than the sum of their intricately stacked, labyrinthine parts; bathed in light by enormous streetlamps so that when the sun went down, the majesty of ʀᴀᴋᴇᴛᴜ, night, couldn't be the refuge with which spirits attempted to thwart demons. but the fangs of some serpents still found their venomous purchase, and the storefronts along haesu street were often just that — fronts. legitimate stores, but facades for things still sinister, sliding their way through the waters, encircling your world, whole.

— on the furthest place inland haesu street ever went, there was an old business complex that had stood so long the original signage was lost and along with it, the precedent name. haemo complex, haesu park, haemo plaza, haemopu ether — old things have many names, and in legend, the many named becomes gods. inside the six story building, shops and establishments checked in and out like aimless souls in a graveyard: some lingered, some faded, some lasted the test of time.

on the first floor of haesu complex stood a taekwondo studio.

next to it, an indoor shooting range.

— we start this story with the taekwondo studio — the dojang, where mountains go to be edified and pupils to be fortified. eventually, we will open the door to see what is made with bullets and loose gunpowder, but for now, we take an abrupt turn right, through the third set of doors on the ground floor.

ᴄʜᴏɪ ᴊᴇᴏɴɢᴄʜᴇᴏʟ, father of one, was the owner of the modest studio: a stern man with a compassionate underbelly, a fourth dan black belt and the first sabeom — teacher — to enter the business complex. in the early days, when he was newly teaching and the world was more cruel and wanton than it ought, he orchestrated and ran illegal fights in the backmost part of his dojang. necessity begged it; life forced his unwavering hand. he'd never been proud, but he stood in his choices steadfast, and if you only saw the whole of him from an angle upturned and below, it seemed the might of him was his honor, unmarred.

dealing in entertainment and prestige, jeongcheol made ends meet in the evening to bring necessities and opportunity to his wife and newborn son at dawn, and by noon, instill dreams in the children that called him sabeom, center of their budding confidence.

when the serpens found out about his midnight habits, they paid a prompt price for front row tickets. by the end of the evening, jeongcheol's rental payments were moved to an account more reliable, and his small family moved out of the back office space and into one of the apartments that sat on the fifth and sixth floors. in exchange, the fights would persist on a grander scale at a more regular schedule ad infinitum, and the serpens would get their due cut.

jeongcheol always knew that this favor would amount to more debt, in the future, but for the security he was promised, in this blood oath? for the advantage and chance he could bestow upon his son? if it were shortsighted and misguided — this business deal with the serpent of the sky — then forgive him, but omniscience was simply the name of his city, not the power in his mind.

— and as san, his darling boy, grew from jeja to seonbae and in the course of time, sabeom all his own — a 3rd dan black belt and the pride of jeongcheol's world — the price of a demon's mercy became ever clearer, crystalizing into the certainty of future: law.

— it was in that very dojang, after all, that jeongcheol added to his myriad of students two young girls: diane and soyeon, dawn and dusk. jeja diane, a student named wisdom, took early to sparring with san, never minding that the younger always won, ever scheming to learn from a protégé's skill.

when san was chosen to be the demon heir's protector, it wasn't a matter of surprise or honor, simply that of providence.

and san was dignified by it, at any rate.

— only ever envisioning an inherited taekwondo studio for himself, a modest future but fulfilling dream, san's world expanded at the hands of diane — and his dojang, while still being the center of all his tethered existence, was a future now shared. ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ, a pupil and friend, would aid him in handling the fights in the backmost part all of his father's hope and shame, an eternal rite, the sisyphean promise the choi family would never complete.

— jeongcheol had slowly backed away from the uglier side of his business as he aged into complacency and fatigue, and san had taken up the mantle in his place. now, sin would beget sin and shackled to the serpens would be yet another soul.

yeo was clear that he didn't mind.

already one foot into corruption, what was one more leg?

— he'd been cleaning up bruises from betting fights and broken limbs from shadow duels for years. he'd sewn flesh together the way others might knit tenderness and virtue, goodness and love.

every dojang needed it's medic. and every medic needed his charge.

— this was merit enough, for the both of them. respect for san in being trusted with something on which the whole of the underworld revolved; prestige for yeosang in the power inherent of a ruling head of a domain long standing, and in it's ancience, revered.

and watching them both, once the hand that led them deep into the mouth of something ravenous, still, stood choi jeongcheol, left wondering when security was no longer security — a promise no longer words of honor.

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ ᴄᴏɴᴛ.

— diane had asked him to disappear, again.

— it was never an explicit demand, not since the first time, when she'd been following the tail of a banker and realized it would be so much easier to approach him if she were just a woman and not a daughter, held.

the nameless banker had decided he no longer wished to be a pigeon fed from an opened hand but a raven shot out of the sky, the shiny things he stole slipping from his traitor beak and landing back into the hand of the power that wielded the shotgun evermore.

— "you're intimidating, san." and it hadn't been her words or the command in her eye so much as it was a shift in her being — sarang to diane, veracity to something mutable and ever brewing. "i need to ensnare him..."

and he'd slipped away, taken her half-cue and was already gone.

— if the demon of hoku knew how often diane asked him to slip away, san was sure the mythic ernest would be none too pleased. it takes half a second for malignance to seize you in hoku city, and only a fraction of that if you're particularly inclined. of course, san was never far, and sarang more competent than what the wills of well meaning fathers offered her, but it would be more than just san's immortal soul on the line if something befell her and he were at all still breathing.

but it was always sarang's eyes that sought for the mercy of him, in the hairbreadth turn of her infinitesimal micro-expression, the graceful warp into something so unseen it were all but hidden to eyes that were any less devoted than his. and it was never a question because she would never need to ask; he'd learned to read the depths of her during sparring sessions in a dojang made of his youth and all his tomorrow. once, he'd crafted alongside her the armor that was so much a second skin, there were barely any joints or seams that one could rub the pad of their thumb along.

he'd seen her, then, and so he always knew.

— and that's how he found himself here, again. vanished from a spot he said he'd always defend: dematerialized, because bang chan had come to call.

— or so diane let the boy think. she'd found chan first, weeks before this encounter he'd name 'chance' or 'fate'. it had been simple to learn his routine and easier to insert herself in it. a coffee shop he always walked past. her new favorite window seat. a position so comfortable it looked as though it had always been.

and so they talked; this woman neither diane nor sarang, crafting a life by degrees of admission, chan warming to the gentle flame of her lies so that eventually, perhaps, knowledge of him would melt, secrets in him slip between them, in this place behind glass, warm between cups of untouched coffee.

not even san would hear the things chan would reveal in his adventurous, half-flirtatious speech. the thought often made the black belt's heart skid — his resolve stutter — but the bulk of him never wavered. he was a mountain and summits never crumbled; their might certainly never moved.

and that simple conflict of interest was something his friends never failed to entertain, and in mocking, enjoy.

— ᴅᴇᴏᴋʜᴇᴇ, twin sister of ᴡᴏᴏʏᴏᴜɴɢ and the one-minute younger half of their expert gunman team, was the one to first discover san's internal battle, having joked about his affection for diane from his sabeom days at the dojang. first, a true baseless joke, then overtime, a comfortable uncomfortability for san as it grew in truth and size.

san and his diane; no one loved their work the way san did; if san could marry duty he would.

— if he wasn't always looking at deokhee down the barrel of her sniper rifle, he just might knock some humility into her near prophetic teasing and her twin's identical shit eating grin.

but what was he to do when she was, in part, always right?

— sarang laughed at something chan said, and diane reached out to touch his shoulder with the soft of her hand. san turned his gaze, somehow half guilty, and that's when he saw the ephemera of a shadow he should not have.

what was kim hongjoong doing all the way here?

— first order of business would be to pull sarang from the place at which she stood. second would be to see just who the informant whisperer was that hongjoong strove to meet. third would be to evaluate just where that placed this puppet-master of secrets in the ever turbulent waters of organization and fealty — obeisance and axis.

— san was standing in front of her in the coffee shop before the shadow had ever truly dissipated — before any of the prior thoughts had fully formed in his mind.

sarang was good at smoothing her own confusion and concern, and playing the part of the innocent and sheltered. she huffed a convincing sigh and muttered something about a father that, overprotective, cut her time with this young officer short, and san caught the thrown word of 'cousin' like a fire-hot, thousand pound and ever-burning coal.

so that's how she'd explained his presence to chan.

— when she knew she'd almost been caught in the act by hongjoong, sarang swore.

— ʜᴏɴɢᴊᴏᴏɴɢ was a member of the serpens syndicate, and had, since the death of byeonghwa, been the watchful eye that extended past the confines of hoku city. loyal to the demon — a horkos made potent in the poignance of a blood debt — hongjoong was trusted... so far as anyone could be reliable, in this city that ate you whole, in these times that twisted the sinew of your very heart. at any rate, he was an informant of ernest, and while not one nearly as volatile as soyeon, still convoluted in intent.

he would be interested — perhaps even moreso curious than san, who daily burned all of his inquisition and steadfast resolve near through — as to what the demon heir was doing out here, in the pristine half of hoku city, talking with an officer that would just as soon as imprison her, if he knew even a fraction of the atrocities and moral impurities she ordered and aided, abetted and carried out.

— of course, even if hongjoong were to ask, sarang would never tell.

— not even with san, himself, did sarang reveal her true intentions in this business involving newly minted officer bang chan, a rookie at some few years post-graduation, an acquaintance turned friend from their first windfall encounter. not even with san, who knew the verity of sarang and had cherished her humanity from it's first appearance, did she let any information slip, a single hint pass.

he'd look into her eyes and unexpectedly, a wall was there — a guardedness of which he'd never known. she was no longer forthright about all possibilities with him. her thoughts were not so easily read, her want not so readily known.

— but that was not the worry that had the jaw with which to gnaw at san. not yet, anyway. not when hongjoong was surreptitiously on the same path as them, in a place where neither was colloquially seen (his informant hadn't been anyone of note, and so the consequence of his gained knowledge that day couldn't have been much, but one could never be complacent, if they wished to thrive).

— not when soyeon was unhappy, and sarang was the fool to not believe it.

— not when ernest, kingpin of terror, chessmaster of the underworld and ruler of hoku city, was mired in that slow changing-of-hands and place of gentle retreat where all of his speech was about the hand of iku, that terrify in the weight of dying.

the death of a demon was always a wounded threat that demanded first redress.

— it had started, in part, with the death of byeong-hwa. what was a king, after all, when his sworn shield had fallen? what menace was left in a monster, when his right hand was rotting, 6 feet below? the monsoon season would come, and a sickness would plague ernest along with the rain. jangma was the will of bada — the monsoon season the cursing volition of the sea. it was divine law, in some ways, that bada would claim her vengeance on hoku by taking it's epicenter and sweeping it's fortune and prosperity into her tumultuous seas, but it was still too soon, and thus, a secret well hidden.

no one in the serpens outside of the few remaining elders that sat at the demon's table, byeong-hwa's only daughter, his heir, and his warded nephew knew of the state of ernest's true mind.

the tides were swelling, the ground was saturating; bada was clambering toward the city, and at the time least affordable, the cracks between sarang and soyeon's friendship and intertwined lives deepened to a schism, with roots on either side, blooms torn apart, thorns tearing stem like gnashing teeth devouring flesh.

— when it rains, it pours, and in jangma, the storms were violent and unending; when bada raged, all the gods hovered close to witness her torrential price.

— "i'll tell ʏᴜɴʜᴏ." when they were haemopu side, diane turned to san, the silence between them broken, the confidence that always held in it's place perhaps worse for wear, if either of them had the resolve to mention it. "he'll have some clever way to spin hongjoong off our track - if he even saw anything in the first place."

— san nodded: just once, a jerky motion that left this world still buzzing, a dull, low whine.

yunho, sarang's cousin, was a close confidant of theirs. he moved into the serpens complex when he was 17. some commonplace tragedy left him with a want in the pit of his belly, and ever since the breaking down of all that tied sarang to soyeon and night to the dawining day, he had played the role of strategist and pragmatic advisor to his cousin — a safer, less volatile option for diane to pick, considering soyeon had always been her council, former.

— diplomats need their advisors; conmen require their marks. diane had a necessity for yunho and a plan for bang chan, and of course, they would be dealt with first. san was just a bodyguard, and in this way, he'd always known his place. but favor had a way of lead to want, and if he tended to that fire, it could always lick its way past his defenses and consume him whole.

— sarang blinked, and the change pulled san from his thoughts the way it always would. born to serve, her movements were what he'd been shaped to read. "i guess i'll tell hermes that you stood him up for yunho again, when it's time for your 13:00 date and you don't show."

— sarang laughed at that, warm and clear, almost chasing away the mist that had gathered all through the day, at choice intervals and expected alleyways, thickening to the obscurity of fog. hermes was sarang's greyhound — the puppy she'd once found when younger but crowned wise. she never had taken him to the serpens complex, where he could be socialized with the dobermans she'd cared for most her life. instead, san took him in — an act of kindness she never stopped praising him for, never quite forthright about her reasoning but offering just enough to where he was satisfied.

"tell the twins when you see them i need to have a word."

ꜱᴇᴇ ɪꜰ ɪ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴇxɪꜱᴛ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ ᴄᴏɴᴛ.

— the shop never had a name: just a wordless sign in the shape of a generic gun scope: the focus for an eye you'd never look into as you took your final, heaving breath.

the shooting range, the eye, akita's place, the final shop on the ground floor of haemo plaza.

— every child who'd ever touched a gun — any soul who had enough of some small mercy they had the fire to protect it in this heaving city — had, at some point, entered the shooting range that sat haemopu side. established longer than jeongcheol's dojang, but having changed hands at around the same time, the shooting range was owned by a woman named ᴀᴋɪᴛᴀ — ex-military but dishonorably discharged, a mother of twins, and simultaneously warm yet cold: distant, but always manning her station.

it was only natural that, sharpshooter of her squad, akita had taught her children to shoot from the moment their hands had the strength to thumb a trigger.

eyes bred to look at you through the barrel of a firearm, hearts trained to see the liberation at the end of a mission and none of the causalities between. akita took her twins, cradle of her future, and gave them all the skills she broke skin and bruised knuckle to hone. they would never have to struggle, because they would be born with skilled gift. they would have the freedom of honor, because no training would mar their resolve.

— at first, the shooting range was only that which sat within the four walls in the ground floor of that complex. but slowly it expanded: the back property, accessed through the side entrance, narrow but deep, for single sessions with moving targets; the abandoned lot near the docks that akita had come into possession of by chance and was appraising for sale until her daughter showed an aptitude for long range and a spark to pursue it.

before long, what was modest expanded, and with an open mouth, devoured until engorged. the shooting range was well known. beloved. conspicuous. exactly the sort of place one would expect to find a doorway into the depths of a now illegal, though still legitimate syndicate, and therefore, a place where they could never be found. in reverence and renown, akita secured a safe haven for her children, a place where they could rest without the fear of being poached.

two doors down, the serpens paid a lease, but here, in the four walls she maintained, they could never sink in their teeth.

but fate was the domain of samgong, and mischief the trait of hoku, and here, in a city where the presence of gods were only so strong because they were so ceaselessly revered, the two powers often conspired to thwart the dreams of those who dared trying, and those whose complacency masqueraded as crown.

— wooyoung, the older of the twins, was the impulsive to deokhee's passion. touched by caprice, drowning in compulsion — akita whispered into his ear as he grew up, tickling the soft skin hidden there, that he was born the same star sprite as hoku: before he became the omniscient eye, back when he was nameless, and his fervency was tried by the test of his father's tedium. in constant motion, neverending activity: "make no deals with iku, listen not to the obligation of horkos. you are a star, you belong to nothing but your own burn."

— deokhee, of course, was the fire burning her older brother brighter, still, the combustion in his path that kept him from apathy, that saw all his visions through. ᴇɴᴊɪ, her mother would call her, the fire god born into flesh. the ardor, the devotion, the commitment deepening to obsession, the dedication to wooyoung's whims, the conviction in her twin brother's mania. akita adored her daughter's fervency, fanned the flames of her exuberance never quenched. "shackle yourself to no one, my enji, you are not meant to be contained. never turn in on yourself; find a direction to incinerate: you are meant to set this world ablaze."

— avoiding flirtation with the fetters of the serpens was an unspoken request from akita, a desire never plainly raised. if she had been wiser (if she saw all too clearly the way serpents rise to challenge and adaptable, warp their venom to something honey-sweet) perhaps akita would have been more explicit in her demands, exact in all she envisioned and prayed to conspire. but it seemed an evident requirement, a moral anchored deep and in it's inevitability, made potent and strange.

"you are made for more," she had always told them.

but what can be done when your only framework of 'more' and 'greater' is the gunpowder residue of a superior weapon?

— once, akita built her children into crook of a firearm. ever after, they would know mostly it's bitter taste.

— none of this is to say, however, that the twins were a tragedy and their penchant something acrid, lead.

— deokhee was bottled excitement and effervescent joy in every task, and wooyoung the kind of gregarious that surrounded him with enthusiastic friendship and kindred brotherhood in every space he ventured to grace.

— and ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴜᴍɪɴᴀʀʏ was one of those third spaces that wooyoung and deokhee frequented most.

a serpens owned establishment: an electricity plant on the edge of town, with hidden rooms that opened into dark things that could only hide in the shadow of a generator as massive as that which fueled a never-blinking city. the luminary was one of the largest holes in the wall that the serpens ran. there, you could order any sin you could pay the ferryman to usher you to.

(so long as you were in the right room, of course. the serpens liked to keep their messes orderly.)

— the twins mostly frequented the rooms with standard bar fare. alcohol, dance, betting and games of chance, fisticuffs when more than just spirits hit you square in the jaw after one freedom too many. a common enough vice with a burgeoning sea of acquaintances and a militia of contacts and friends. it was here, in the pale of haemosu's light — all the glare they could harness but never reach — that the twin's sociability spun a web that was never meant to entrap them, but still made them the perfect players for a serpent game.

after all, it was in the luminary that the twins aligned themselves with the ꜱᴘɪɴᴇ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋᴇʀ ʙɪᴋᴇʀꜱ.

a group of criminals and delinquents that rode through ꜱᴋɪᴛ — the next door neighbor of hoku city, and the border at which the serpens let their needles halt. the serpens owned hoku, and every gang and group of would-be hopefuls that they'd long run out had taken up station in skit and brawled it out, there. a neighboring city was of no consequence to the serpens as long as they spilled blood on their rightful side of the fault line, and the spine breakers were a fairly established group that worked their own city and only occasionally crossed the borders of hoku — careful to always show their deference and pay their dues. they were a infrequent though to some familiar face in the luminary on nights when the moon hung low, mostly to work deals with the mercenaries for hire in the back, and always to chase a drink alongside the twins.

ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ was their closest companion of the lot, and if his drink of choice was an expected usual, and his uninspired flirtation with deokhee an affectionate and comfortable aside, then the night would be warm and the luminary waitstaff would make better money in tips than they had all month.

— and it was precisely that friendship with jungkook (and perhaps their closeness with san, though why make complicated something already written by fate?), that brought the twins to the serpens those aging years ago.

it had been hongjoong, newly syndicate minted, that noticed these two sparrows who somehow seemed to know everyone he had been keeping his thousand eyes on, and dared to ask himself what use could come with knowing their names.

it had been simple, after, for seonghwa to convince him that wooyoung was the easier approach, and for soyeon to cast the die on his fate.

(but that had been years ago: before the breaking down of factions, before suspicion and envy cast shadows that demons new not how to play, before ties were cut like marionette strings, and seonghwa and soyeon became a duo, and hongjoong, far enough from the barrel to not yet choose how to align, had to keep his ideas in his breast pocket and his lies tucked beneath his tie.)

— in the end, the twins were brought into the serpens because their connections would open doors that had no keys. it was through wooyoung and deokhee that the serpens greedy left hand reached into the heart of skit and, with an emboldened and wanting jungkook, staged a coup and installed this friend as the spine breaker's acting head.

ever after, the bikers would be in debt of the might of hoku, and in perpetuity, there would be scouts and reinforcements should there be need of aid from a distance.

— it was simply providence that the twins would have use beyond their sociability and want. it was the work of that ever mischievous hoku that in a chance encounter and a single ploy, diane was gifted with the two best marksman the city could afford.

danger, of course, in the single-minded passion of deokhee and the brilliant, aimless apathy of wooyoung, but when combined together (and wooyoung under the threat of the only one he swore obeisance to: san), they were a power more than their arsenal, a weapon greater than their might and distant reach.

— when san found the two of them sitting on his couch, deokhee knuckle deep in affectionate rubs for hermes, wooyoung eating noodles out of the pot, on his pinky swinging the apartment's spare key ("for emergencies," san had said, and pointedly handed it to deokhee), there was less a reaction of disappointment or surprise, and more an acceptance that at least this way, the message would be easily delivered, in brevity, made sweet.

"diane's calling."

⌖ ๋࣭ ⭑♚₊🗡 ๋࣭ ᴏɴʟʏ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ ๋࣭🗡₊♚⭑ ๋࣭⌖ pt. ii | | series masterlist

ᴛᴄᴅᴜ (ᴛᴏᴏ ᴄᴏɴᴠᴏʟᴜᴛᴇᴅ, ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴛᴀɴᴅ) :

1 - jeongcheol, san's father, used to run a taekwondo studio. because times were hard, he ran illegal fights in the back of his dojang, and when the serpen's found out, they co-opted his business and expanded it. as he got older, he passed down his dojang to san, who now works as the bodyguard of diane. because of his busy schedule, he co-manages the dojang with yeosang, the medic of the taekwondo studio.

2 - the taekwondo studio is situated on haesu street in an unnamed work-live complex often referred to as haemo plaza. on the same floor as the dojang there is an unnamed shooting range, owned by akita, the mother of twin gunman for the serpens deokhee and wooyoung. akita does not know of her children's affiliation with the syndicate and would disapprove if she knew.

3 - san, deokhee, and wooyoung are all friends are are closely allied with diane. diane is also close allies with yunho, her cousin and strategist council after her falling out with soyeon has deepened in the past few years (there has been a vague multi-year time skip from pt. i to pt. ii).

4 - ernest, kingpin of the serpens, is currently dying. it is a well kept secret - but not from soyeon, who diane fears will use this knowledge opportunistically. recently, diane has been keeping many secrets from even her closest confidant, san, especially regarding her consistently visiting officer bang chan, trying to weasel from him secrets... but about what?

5 - hongjoong is a member of the serpens with many secrets and many informants. diane is unsure if, in the power vacuum created after ernest's death, if he will show loyalty towards her or soyeon, and so she is wary of what he knows, when he was in the area as she was meeting up with bang chan.

6 - hongjoong was the one to originally recruit twins deokhee and wooyoung, because they have many contacts in hoku and neighboring cities - notably jungkook, now leader of a biker gang in the neighboring city named skit.

7 - diane has a mission for deokhee and wooyoung heretofore lacking details or rhyme.

now onto pt. iii . . .

[frownyalfred]

Ollie: we need the big guns

Hal: are you sure? it will affect even our guys

Ollie: yes, bring the trinity...

in beach wear

(via @disasterbiwerewolf)

nobody wants all three members of the Trinity in one room. obviously because that means something serious is going down, but also because having that much hotness contained in one section of the Watchtower at any given moment leads to insane levels of distraction. junior JL heroes can withstand one, maybe two Trinity members in the monitor room with them before they forget their own name.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Daddy's Girl Part 3

Title: A Royal Thank You

The Justice League had barely caught their breath.

In the days following the rooftop incident, Earth had seen a seismic shift in ghost-related politics. With the Ghost King’s declaration echoing through both the Realms and Earth’s dimension, the Guys in White found themselves publicly exposed, internationally condemned, and—thanks to the League’s swift action—systematically dismantled.

Every black site was raided.

Every illegally detained ghost or hybrid was freed.

And every dirty record connected to the GIW’s shadowy ops was handed over to the UN’s paranormal oversight committee, now assisted by a rather smug Constantine and a very pleased Martian Manhunter.

But amid the diplomacy, legal dismantling, and fallout from Phantom’s appearance, one thing stood out in Dani’s mind:

They tried to help her.

Even when they didn’t know who she was, even when she was just a scared girl in pain—they came.

Back in the Ghost Zone, Dani tapped her foot impatiently as she floated near the central portal hub of the citadel.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Danny asked from behind her, arms crossed but not unsupportive. “You know Batman’s gonna be suspicious the moment you show up.”

Dani grinned. “Suspicious? Please. I’m adorable.”

Danny narrowed his eyes. “You say that like he doesn’t carry Kryptonite and a backup plan to take down literal gods.”

“I’m a thank-you card with legs,” she said, puffing her chest with pride. “I’m just gonna pop in, say thanks, and not let Batman scare me into bolting. Easy.”

Danny smiled softly, pride obvious in his glowing eyes. “You’re really okay?”

She floated backward and tapped her chest. “Core’s solid. Healed up. Got some wicked scars—might glam them up later. But yeah, I’m okay.”

Danny hesitated. Then leaned forward and kissed the top of her head.

She blinked. “Okay, that’s new.”

He shrugged, sheepish. “You called me Daddy. I’m gonna be annoying about it for a while.”

“Yeah, yeah…” she muttered, cheeks red. “Alright, open the portal before I lose my nerve.”

Watchtower – Justice League Central Command

The team was mid-briefing when a soft hum filled the room—faintly green, faintly cold. Instantly, Batman and Superman straightened. Wonder Woman reached instinctively for her lasso.

A portal spiraled open just above the conference table.

And Dani floated through, hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay! Peace! I swear!”

Hal Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, it’s the ghost kid. Wait—are you the scary one or the adorable one?”

“Depends on the day,” she said, smirking. “Today’s adorable, promise.”

Dani touched down lightly on the table, then reached into her jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It shimmered faintly with ecto-energy and bore the Ghost King’s seal in soft silver.

“I, Danielle Phantom—heir of the Ghost King and officially Not Screaming Anymore—just wanted to say… thank you. For trying to help me.”

There was a pause. Diana stepped forward first, her eyes soft.

“We were too slow,” she said gently.

“You came,” Dani replied, shrugging. “That’s what matters. A lot of people don’t.”

She handed the letter to Superman, who looked surprised but touched as he took it carefully.

“It’s got King stuff in it too,” she added. “Like, Danny made it all official with thanks from the Realms. I didn’t read that part. It’s got too many fancy words and titles like ‘Defenders of the Mortal Gate’ or something. But I made sure it also includes drawings of you all as ghosts. In crayon.”

Flash perked up. “Wait, me as a ghost?”

“I gave you a cape.”

“I don’t wear a cape!”

“Now you do.”

Batman stared at her, arms crossed, unreadable.

Dani stared right back.

“…You remind me of someone,” he said at last.

“Yikes. That better be a compliment.”

To everyone's shock, Batman gave the barest twitch of a smile.

Dani grinned wider. “Well, I should go. My dad’s waiting and he gets twitchy when I’m gone too long. He’s still new to the whole ‘terrifying ghost father thing.’”

“I can relate,” Superman muttered.

Dani floated back toward the portal.

Then she paused and looked over her shoulder.

“I hope I never need saving again. But if I do… thanks for being the kind of people who’d show up anyway.”

And with a final flash of light, she was gone.

The room was silent for a moment.

Flash blinked. “So we’re friends with the Ghost King now, right?”

“More like allies,” Batman said.

Superman smiled faintly. “And we’ve got the official ghost crayon drawings to prove it.”

Wonder Woman nodded. “A kingdom of the dead just thanked us. I’d say that’s a day well spent.”

[olailamajnoon]

Bruce pulled off his sweaty shirt in Ma Kent's kitchen along with Clark and Hal, and began chugging a lemonade. The three men had been doing something that apparently constituted hard manual labor in the barn. Zatanna watched silently, then she noticed it.

A tattoo on Bruce's abs. Some foreign symbols engraved in calligraphic form.

It was possible the world was coming to an end.

She turned her head to try and read it. It was Kryptonian, if she had to take a guess.

Bruce noticed where her gaze was. "My eyes are up here," he said.

"I know," said Zatanna, rolling hers. "I just...since when do you have a tattoo?"

"Since I lost a bet to my kids," said Bruce.

"You let your kids do this to you?" Zatanna was incredulous.

"It's been five years, Zee," said Clark. "Are you seriously noticing it now?"

"Well, I don't make a habit of staring at Bruce's nude form," she replied, her sentence heavy with implication.

Clark blushed and dropped his spectacles.

"What's next," said Zatanna bitterly to Bruce. "I find out you're part of a biker gang?"

"You don't become a biker with just one tattoo," said Hal. "You need an entire sleeve of them."

"Don't give him any ideas," Zatanna cautioned.

"You're overreacting," said Clark.

"The world is in a delicate state of balance," said Zatanna. "The very foundations of my existence are being rocked. I'm questioning everything I've ever known."

"I should probably start paying rent for all the space I occupy in your head," said Bruce.

"The tattoo is actually a very sweet phrase," said Clark. "In Kryptonian."

"What does it mean?"

Bruce cleared his throat and shook his head warningly at Clark. Clark grinned.

"It means," Clark said, "My soul is in two halves, and one of them belongs to you."

Bruce buried his head in his hands. Clark laughed. "Like I said. A very sweet phrase."

"You're going to suffer for this," muttered Bruce to him. "I was okay with it, as long as no one knew what it fucking meant."

"Oh stop," said Hal, grinning without shame. "Stop with the toxic masculinity. Just because you have a soppy declaration of love on your abdomen doesn't make you any less of a man." He raised his glass to Bruce in a toast.

Bruce looked at him levelly, and narrowed his eyes. "One of these days, Jordan," he growled, "you will do something, and on that day—"

"Oh, I doubt it," Hal smirked. "I think you've set the bar pretty high."

"Well," said Clark, with a cheeky grin, "Bruce learned his lesson about betting against all of his kids simultaneously, but I would say the punishment was a bit disproportionate to the crime."

Bruce was putting on his t-shirt. "Enough," he said. "No one else finds out, or I will see that you all pay."

"No one else finds out what?" asked Diana from the kitchen door, where she had evidently just arrived. Her arms were crossed against her chest. Barry and Oliver were lined up behind her, with curious expressions.

Zatanna and Hal laughed maliciously. Clark did not look displeased in the slightest.

Bruce's mouth hardened and he stalked off, muttering something about contingency plans. But no one saw the small smile that tucked itself into the corner of his mouth afterwards, when he remembered Clark's face.

Kryptonians. His fingers brushed over the tattoo. And all the ways they love to claim you.

[helioooss]

your song

synopsis: after years apart, y/n, now a successful chef running her own restaurant in makati, finds her life briefly interrupted when sophia laforteza, her childhood best friend turned global pop star, returns home.

w/c: 15k+

warnings: swearing, slowburn, angst

a/n: heaps of filipino words and dishes used; this is an ode to home! also, my future restaurant’s name is concave so…

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the night air in your grandmother’s backyard was thick with smoke and laughter. anthony was sitting in the corner, half-cross-legged on a cracked monobloc chair, his old ibañez propped over his knee as he strummed through a chord progression he never quite finished. his fingers moved like habit, a little drunk and careless, but familiar in the way things were when you’ve known someone since you were nine.

diana had claimed the role of drink master again — her term, not anyone else’s. she poured red horse into mismatched glasses like she was tending bar at a family wake, wrist flicking slightly each time she tipped the bottle. kyle was by the plastic table, already halfway through the pulutan, a lazy grin on his face as he picked at the sisig you made earlier.

“this shit’s good, y/n,” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “you should serve this at concave.”

you shrugged, one leg drawn up against your chest as you nursed your drink. “too much prep. and people in makati want it artisanal now like, ‘elevated street food,’ whatever the fuck that means.”

someone snorted. you think it was anthony. maybe diana. the laughter came in waves tonight, a rhythm of remembering and forgetting, pausing just enough for something real to slip through before it got drowned again in the next joke.

the group had thinned out over the years; some moved abroad, a few married, one had a kid — but all four of you were still here.

even though diana was getting married.

“speaking of elevated,” she wiggled her eyebrows, wiping her fingers on a paper napkin before reaching for the bottle. “did you guys see sophia’s post last week? they were at some awards show in america. full glam, backless dress, the whole thing.”

there was a short silence; just enough for the name to settle in.

“she really made it, huh?” anthony strummed a few soft notes, like background music for the weight of it. “used to sit on that same stool you’re on, y/n, crying over her trigonometry homework.”

you smiled, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “yeah…she would act like it was the end of the world if she got anything below ninety.”

“remember her driver?” kyle grinned. “the old one who always got lost in pasay? guy called her ten times a day like he was in a hostage situation.”

“well, remember when sophia tried to say kwek-kwek in that american accent?” diana added, slurring a little but still sharp, still loud. “kwek-kwAAAK,” she mocked, holding her nose and puffing her lips like a bad parody.

the group cracked up. even anthony barked a laugh, though he kept plucking at a loose tune; probably something from a parokya song, low and familiar.

kyle choked a little on the spoonful of sisig he scooped straight from the serving dish.

your head tilted back as you laughed, really laughed, and it sounds like it came from somewhere buried.

sophia has always been different in so many ways, but you were close. painfully so. you still remembered the softness of her voice when she would call your name, the smell of her mum’s perfume on her school jumper when you hugged goodbye after visits. she used to send you voice notes even after she transferred schools, even when you couldn’t relate to her stories about cafeteria fights and international school problems, you would still reply.

“what a time,” anthony murmured.

no one said anything, the silence that followed wasn’t loud; instead, it was thick.

everyone knew it was coming, that someone was going to bring her up eventually. it was inevitable — like how you could you not talk of your childhood without mentioning the girl who made it out?

“katseye,” kyle broke the quiet, rolling the name in his mouth like he was still getting used to it. “my niece has her face on a pencil case, she won’t believe that i knew sophia.”

knew.

anthony chuckled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “i saw her in an ad. some korean skincare thing, couldn’t tell if it was her at first. she looks different now.”

your fingers tightened slightly around your bottle. the condensation had already soaked into the tablecloth, leaving a pale ring where your drink sat.

“did she ever…reach out to you?” diana asked, careful this time. her voice softer. “you were pretty close.”

you shrugged. “once or twice. birthdays. new years. the usual.”

you didn’t say more, didn’t say how the last time she messaged was two years ago. how it was just a short, clean: happy birthday, hope you’re well. no warmth to it.

and it’s not like she owed you anything than that…but you thought you were more important than a short sentence.

but sophia, she was always looking past the gate; over the rooftops, past the wires strung like spiderwebs in the sky.

and you — well, you looked at her.

then, like someone flicked a switch, the memory passed. kyle reached for more sisig, diana lit a mosquito coil under the table and conversation shifted without ceremony.

she turned to you, refilling your jar before you could decline. “you working tomorrow, chef?”

“nah,” you replied, voice low, eyes still on your lap. “sunday crew’s got it.”

“concave’s always packed, huh?” anthony grinned, adjusting his grip on the guitar. “saw someone post about the wagyu kare-kare last week.”

“that’s leo’s recipe,” you said, leaning back and finally meeting their gazes. “i just plated it.”

“bullshit,” diana shot back. “kristoff says you make everything in your head.”

you shrugged; it didn’t feel like bossing.

it was more like waking up too early and going home too late, keeping inventory on your phone while waiting in line for rice deliveries and never having time for yourself, let alone anyone else — but they didn’t need to hear that.

not tonight.

they laughed at something stupid anthony had said, but your eyes had drifted to the bamboo fence, where the light from your grandma’s kitchen filtered through in weak slices. you could still hear them talking: about kyle’s ex who showed up at his gym, about some basketball game, about whether anyone wanted to go to tagaytay next weekend…but it blurred around the edges.

you took a sip of beer and leaned back in your chair as you thought about the last time you really saw her — before the debut, the contracts and when she stopped replying. she had red-stained lips from a street barbecue and her hand around your wrist, tugging you toward her car, saying you had to try the new taylor swift song on her aux.

she said she’d always write. that she wouldn’t become one of those people.

and just like that, sophia laforteza faded from the conversation. but not from your mind, not really, not in the way you hoped.

the red horse was beginning to settle in your chest, warm and heavy. the buzz in your ears had dulled the voices around you, just a little, like a layer of gauze had been pressed over the moment.

then kyle, mouth full of sisig, glanced your way. “hey.”

you looked up, startled by how gently he had said it. “yeah?”

“you got quiet,” he said, eyes narrowing in a mock squint. “what, are you still in love with her or something?”

you scoffed, too quickly. shook your head like it was reflex.

all eyes were on you. anthony had stopped playing and now your song by parokya ni edgar was spilling out into the yard, a little tinny through the old speaker. the intro played soft, like a memory you didn’t know you still knew.

and somehow it fit like it always did.

“come on,” anthony teased you in that tone. “it’s just us.”

you wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand, heart thudding quietly. the air was thick again, the kind that stuck to your skin and made your shirt cling slightly to your back.

“it’s nothing,” you murmured, but your voice caught in your throat. “i mean — it was a long time ago.”

“that doesn’t make it nothing,” diana said, not unkindly. “i think deep down, we all knew. she was always fucking holding your hand and you chased her around.”

you stared down at your lap, fingers playing with the frayed edge of your shorts. you hadn’t thought about this in a while. not like this; with witnesses.

“when we were kids,” you started, voice quiet. “it was just easier to…watch her from afar. you know?”

the group went still in the way only close friends could. not exactly dramatic, they were just present.

“she was always…hard to reach. not because she was trying to be. she just was. always got picked up early, going to dance classes, international school. she’d come around in the summers and hang out like nothing changed, but each year…it did.”

you paused, scratching at a mosquito bite on your ankle, feeling the dull sting of it.

“i knew there was no point, not really. there were always boys, older ones, cooler ones. and i was just — me; just a girl in boy clothes who made her laugh sometimes, i carried her backpack when she’d forget it. told her which vendors had the best mangga’t bagoong.”

you shrugged, trying to bury something under the motion before continuing.

“i never said anything. what was the point? she’d never look at me like that. she was the kind of person you tell stories about, not someone who stays. even now…she’s like a ghost. just — shows up on my screen sometimes; all glammed up, perfect hair, perfect lighting. and then she disappears again.”

you felt the words dig into you on their way out. they didn’t sting exactly. they were just real in a way you’ve been avoiding.

“these days, i don’t think about her much. i’ve got the restaurant, i’ve got bills and staff to worry about. my back hurts from standing too long — real life’s really fucking loud.”

you took a breath. slow and steady.

“but every now and then — she shows up. and it’s like nothing ever happened, like i’m fifteen again and i still don’t know what to do with the way she smiles at me.”

the words sat there. no one moved to fill the silence. the night buzzed around you: cicadas in the tree, a distant karaoke machine somewhere down the street, the faint rustle of the neighbour’s curtains.

anthony strummed a slow chord again, soft and out of tune. it lingered.

“that’s some indie film shit,” kyle muttered finally, rubbing his chest like he didn’t know what else to do. “damn, red horse does that to you nowadays? you’re getting old.”

you laughed through your nose. “shut up.”

you leaned back in your chair again, glass cool against your palm. the love you had for her, it was all still there. not overwhelming, maybe a little suffocating.

and that was okay. maybe it didn’t need to go anywhere.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

five years ago

the rain had started somewhere along españa. one of those annoying late afternoon drizzles that came without thunder, just a quiet soaking that crept into your shoes and made the air feel heavier than it needed to.

the jeep you were riding moved in fits — start, honk, pause, inch forward, then brake again. the kind of crawl that made you check your watch three times a minute, even though you already knew you were running late.

by the time you got to the lafortezas’ house in forbes park, your hair had dried in uneven patches, your uniform smelled faintly of garlic and onions from lunch lab and your lanyard with your university ID stuck awkwardly to your chest.

the guard let you in without a fuss, he remembered you from before, gave you a small nod like he felt bad about how out of place you looked.

the house was alive with sound too and not just the sharp clang of glasses or the soft bass of music vibrating through expensive outdoor speakers — but voices; loud ones.

laughter that rang out from the pool area, old relatives talking over each other inside, the kind of family gathering that reminded you that sophia’s world was always louder, always busier, always somehow more than yours.

you stood near the archway for a second, unsure if you should walk in like you used to, back when you didn’t need an invitation, back when you were just there, all the time.

there was a part of you that waited for someone to stop you, they didn’t. one of the servers walking by gave you a polite nod.

you spotted her dad, godfrey, first. he was manning the grill like always, even with his button-down shirt slightly open and a cigar resting in a glass tray nearby. he looked up and grinned.

“look who finally showed up,” he said, flipping a skewer. “traffic?”

you nodded, stepping into the light as you bowed, the back of his hand briefly touching your forehead. “yeah, sorry tito.”

“no worries, kid. you hungry?”

“a little,” you admitted and he just laughed.

“you came straight from school?”

you glanced down at your stained shirt, your scuffed shoes. “yeah.”

“hardworking as ever,” he teased, not unkindly. “you’re doing good over there at ust, huh?”

“really trying to.”

he nodded, like that was enough; trying meant something. “she’s out back. by the pond. look after her!”

you chuckled, heels turning away from him. “i always do, tito.”

you knew exactly where he meant as you followed the path to their enormous backyard.

and there she was.

sophia sat on the edge of the stone walkway, her legs tucked beneath her, a nearly-empty flute of champagne in her hand. her hair was longer than you remembered.

she turned when she heard you, her face lighting up in the same way it always had, as if you were the only person she had been waiting for.”

“i thought you weren’t coming.”

you dropped your bag to the grass and sat beside her. “i was stuck on the road for hours. i left early but the jeepney broke down somewhere in quiapo — i’m sorry, piya.”

“classic, but still late,” she teased, nudging your knee with hers. “i’m glad you’re here.”

you looked at her profile, soft and strange in the warm light. she was beautiful without even trying.

“you look like a celebrity already,” you mumbled, brows furrowing.

she laughed quietly, sipping the last of her drink. “it’s the makeup.”

“nah, you’ve always looked like this; maganda.”

she glanced sideways at you then, her expression unreadable. you looked away first.

the koi stirred beneath your feet, rippling the water. you could hear the faint clink of cutlery behind you, the celebration continuing without her. or maybe without the both of you.

she leaned forward and fixed your collar, not even hesitating, her fingers brushed your neck and it made your breath hitch.

“you smell like garlic.”

you gave her a look. “you’re welcome.”

she laughed. then — without warning — she pulled you into a hug. and it wasn’t for show. not like earlier with her titas or the camera flashes or the formal poses. it was just her, warm and tight and real.

“i thought you really weren’t gonna make it,” she murmured. “i needed to see you.”

you didn’t answer.

there was a long pause when she pulled away; a silence where you could feel everything pressing up against the surface, but no one was brave enough to say it first.

“so…dream academy,” you said eventually, trying to keep your voice light. “sounds fake.”

she snorted. “i know, it feels fake to me but i’m going — i have the ticket and all that jazz. y/n, i’m really going.”

you nodded, a fond smile plastered on your face. “i know.”

and you did. and it was exciting. and you were proud.

but at the same time, something inside you folded a little. it felt like something had creased your chest without permission because this was it.

this was the before. and everything after this would be new and distant.

she looked at you then, like she could feel the same thing.

“i’m scared,” she admitted, voice low.

you swallowed the lump rising in your throat. “piya, you’ll be fine. you were born to do this.”

“promise me something,” she bit her lip, nudging her knee against yours.

you glanced at her, waiting.

“don’t forget me, y/n.”

you blinked, surprised by the way it stung, it was getting too real. “piya —”

“i mean it,” she cut you off. “when i come back…you know. if i come back…i don’t want it to be weird. i don’t want us to be strangers.”

you wanted to say something honest: that you were already strangers in some ways. that you had spent the last few years slowly drifting, seeing each other less, learning how to fill your lives with other people, other stories. yet, she was looking at you like the girl who used to cry over algebra and make you listen to her sing in secret, like the friend who once stood outside your house with a stolen umbrella just so you wouldn’t walk home in the rain.

so, you nodded. “i won’t forget you.”

and you meant it, too. because how could you?

and then she reached up and tugged your lanyard over your head.

“hey —”

“i’m keeping it.”

“soph.”

“souvenir.”

“i’m gonna get in trouble.”

“worth it.”

you stared at her as she smiled, lanyard in hand, your face on the ID still as awkward as ever. and you let her have it because it felt like something small you could give. something real. a piece of this version of you, before everything bent into something else.

someone called her name from across the lawn. tita carla, probably. there was cake to be cut and photos to take.

she looked at you one last time. “i’ll see you soon, yeah?”

you nodded again, even though you didn’t believe it. even though you already knew — you would never see her quite like this again.

and then she was gone; taken by the crowd. and you were left standing under those lanterns, hands in your pockets, garlic on your clothes and a phantom weight where your lanyard used to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

makati at 4am was quieter than most people would believe. the usual heat had not yet risen from the pavement and the sky still held onto its last shades of dark blue as if it didn’t want to let go of the night.

the air smelled cleaner somehow: fewer cars, fewer cigarettes, less of everything. you liked this version of the city. no sharp edges, just soft engine rumbles and the occasional flick of a lighter from a security guard somewhere down the block.

you lived just a few minutes away from your restaurant, on the second floor of a quiet building tucked between a shuttered nail salon and a law office that hadn’t opened since the pandemic. your apartment was two bedrooms — too much space for one person, but you needed it. one room was mostly office and storage. the other was yours and in the living area sat your aquarium, humming low in the corner. a slow, glowing square of water filled with plants and one stubborn betta fish named pansit who outlived all the others. he swam lazy laps as you passed by, grabbing your apron off the back of the couch.

concave sat in one of those narrow alleys just off the high street, in between a luxury flower shop and a tailoring studio that catered to wedding clients and politicians. it was a location most restaurateurs dreamed of: central, walkable and expensive as hell.

the rent made your head spin sometimes.

the district lights always flickered too bright, and the kind of people who walked by at night never looked like they worried about money.

still, you liked being there, becoming a part of something that looked clean from the outside even if your hands smelled like vinegar and fish guts most days.

the delivery truck arrived a little after five like it always did.

the driver, tonio, though you weren’t sure if that was really his name — nodded in your direction. he never said anything more than what was necessary, same as he had every morning for the past three years.

there was a rhythm to it now, something almost respectful in the silence.

you opened the metal back door and started unloading: kangkong, eggplants, calamansi by the kilo, three trays of bangus on ice, a bag of frozen ube, half a sack of garlic, pork belly in clear packaging and two boxes of duck eggs, stacked and tied with orange twine.

no lemongrass — you stared into the crate where it should’ve been and let out a quiet curse.

“tangina,” you muttered, rubbing the back of your neck. “of fucking course.”

but you didn’t panic, you and leo would have to figure something out. one of you (was always him) would run to the market before it got too hot, haggle a bit, text the other something dumb about how god’s testing them again.

you started prepping before the sun had fully risen; chopped onions, boiled pork bones for broth, mixed vinegar and soy into plastic tubs for later. your body moved on memory.

your brain stayed somewhere else — thoughts mostly quiet, save for a dull reminder that you had only slept four hours again.

by the time the sun hit the windows, the others started trickling in. leo was first, as usual — his hair still wet from the shower, plastic bags in one hand and an old insulated mug in the other.

“guess what,” he said, holding up the lemongrass like a trophy.

you raised your eyebrows and gave him a tired thumbs up. “legend.”

kristoff came next, with his usual coffee order in one hand and a tray of eggs in the other. aira followed soon after, lipstick already on, humming something that sounded like ligaya as she unpacked tupperware full of garlic rice from home.

the playlist kicked in around 6:45, old eraserheads at first before bleeding into rivermaya. the speakers crackled a little when the volume was too high, but no one minded. leo started singing along without meaning to.

lunch service opened at eleven-thirty sharp.

you barely looked up from the grill when yohan came in, there’s a burn on your forearm from last week that hasn’t scabbed properly but you had no time to worry about it. tickets rolled in and stacked fast.

people asked for things that weren’t on the menu, pointed at photos on their phones, laughed too loud over iced tea. you worked through it, answered questions and nodded when you needed to. instructions were yelled at when something started to burn.

the kitchen was a flurry of heat and noise and movement. and through it all, you stayed planted. solid and sweating.

by two, the noise thinned, tables cleared and the room exhaled.

the team ate standing, as always — no time to sit, they reckoned. kristoff scraped the last of the kare-kare straight from the pot. aira found a pack of chocnut near the register and handed them out like party favours before leaving to see her boyfriend. leo held up the receipt from one of the tables.

“make sure yohan gets a thousand from that,” you sighed, shaking your head at thought of the shy kitchenhand as everyone else cheered for him.

“thanks boss,” yohan gratefully tapped your shoulder.

“five thousand pesos,” leo grinned, waving it. “cash. no note, just pure vibes.”

“well shit,” kristoff said. “guess we didn’t fuck up today.”

you watched from the doorway of your office, legs folded beneath you as you sat on an upturned crate, still wearing your apron, your ma’s pancit bihon in a container beside you. untouched. your hands were resting in your lap, wrists sore, fingers stained slightly orange from atsuete.

you heard the chime of the front door open, kristoff went out to check as your eyes curiously followed him.

after a second, he came back, hesitated before walking over to you.

“chef,” he said softly. “there’s someone here. umm, i think it’s chef godfrey.”

you looked up real fast; it took a second to register “what? seriously?”

“yeah.”

you got to your feet slowly, wiped your hands on a rag that didn’t help much and stepped into the dining area.

he stood near the window, wearing a button-down and linen trousers. same gold watch. in his hands, a small box. he smiled like he was surprised to be there too.

“tito,” you greeted. “you didn’t text.”

“didn’t want to give you a chance to say no.”

you walked over and gestured toward a table. “want anything? we’ve got some sinigang left. or i can get you something from the bar.”

he placed the box on the table, pulled out a chair. “red horse is fine, if you have any.”

you raised a brow. “oh? at this time of day? does tita carla know you’re here?”

“brought pulutan,” he added with a laugh, opening the box. “and she won’t know if you keep your mouth shut.”

you leaned over and laughed, he brought cheese rolls. the ones from that bakery in greenhills, the same ones sophia used to beg for after school like she didn’t have a fridge full of imported snacks.

“they’ve gotten smaller,” he frowned. “but more expensive like everything else in this damn country.”

you sat down across from him, both of you cracking open bottles like you had done this before, though you hadn’t for a while really.

you talked about concave, mostly. the insane rent. the stress of keeping a small team happy. your hope to maybe move it someday, maybe somewhere a little quieter; in quezon city, just somewhere with better parking.

he nodded through it all. sipped his beer and listened. then, halfway through the second bottle, he said it.

“sophia’s coming back.”

your shoulders stiffened before you could hide it. “yeah?”

“just for a few days. there’s a brand deal, promo rounds and she’s filming something at home — she was asking about you.”

“that’s good,” you stared at your bottle, the condensation on your fingertips.

“i told her i didn’t know if you’d want to see her. after all these years.”

you said nothing.

“i figured it was better to say this in person,” he continued. “there’s an intimate dinner at the end of the week. family, mostly. i think you should come. her team’s going to film it.”

you reached for another cheese roll, tearing a piece slowly between your fingers. “i don’t think she even remembers me.”

“you’re wrong about that.”

you looked up. “tito…i doubt it. we haven’t spoken in years.”

“and yet, she still asked.”

you didn’t reply. just took a bite. let the silence rest between you.

“just think about it,” he said gently.

you both sat like that a while longer. the beer was warm now, the box half-empty, the afternoon light softening into gold. you didn’t say yes and you didn’t say no either.

and neither of you rushed to leave.

some things were easier that way.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the next morning, the kitchen still smelled faintly of fried oil and last night’s vinegar, clinging to the walls like a memory that refused to clear. you opened earlier than usual. the silence helped. your hands moved on muscle memory, chopping onions into uniform pieces, brow furrowed, mouth set in that same neutral line you wore when something was stuck in your chest but you didn’t want to talk about it yet.

leo was already there and he was peeling garlic, badly. half the cloves still had skin on them and you were trying not to notice. or crash out over it.

“you’re unusually quiet,” he began, not looking up. “like…extra quiet.”

“you yap enough for both of us.”

he let out a soft cackle. “true, but you usually complain about something by now.”

you didn’t answer, just kept chopping carefully as your hands moved automatically. there was a pot simmering behind you and a container of cleaned bangus on the counter. you could feel leo watching you now.

“did you get laid or something?”

“leo,” you groaned, voice flat.

he whistled. “not a no.”

before you could respond, aira burst through the back door, her hair already up in a messy bun, eyeliner on point like always. she dumped her tote on the bench and grabbed a spoon from the drying rack, immediately dipping into one of the sauces without checking what it was.

“oh my god,” she muttered, licking her finger. “what is that? it’s like…happiness in liquid form.”

“sinamak,” you replied. “don’t drink it.”

“you didn’t eat your ma’s pancit yesterday,” leo pointed out, not leaving the topic alone.

“wasn’t hungry.”

he made a face and returned to peeling garlic, slower this time. you felt his eyes flick toward you again but he didn’t push it.

“so, uh…” he started, deliberately casual. “that guy yesterday.”

you paused for a moment. your knife hovered above a clove of garlic as you waited for him to finish the thought.

“older, gold watch, smelled like old money and dental appointments.”

you huffed out a quiet laugh despite yourself, but refused to say anything.

“was that chef godfrey?” he added, and this time he turned properly to face aira, who was unloading vegetables from the delivery crate. “as in godfrey laforteza.”

aira froze mid-crouch, holding a bundle of kangkong like she had just discovered fire. “wait, sophia laforteza’s dad?!”

you sighed; there it was.

“oh my god, oh my god,” she stood up straight, practically vibrating. “are you telling me that the godfrey laforteza was here and no one told me? you let me go see my stupid boyfriend?”

leo shrugged, grinning now. “i didn’t realise until he left — his back was facing the kitchen so we couldn’t see and kristoff didn’t say anything.”

aira placed the kangkong down like it was sacred. “do you know who his daughter is? she’s literally the reason i started contouring. i watched one fancam and it changed the shape of my face. oh my god. oh my god.”

you wiped your hands on a towel and leaned against the counter like it was no big deal. “we used to be friends.”

she blinked at you in disbelief. “you…what?!”

“me and sophia,” you repeated, voice flat like you were talking about the weather. “we sort of grew up together…but like different tax brackets and all that.”

she made a noise somewhere between a squeal and a choke, placing both hands on the edge of the counter. “i need you to repeat that sentence. slowly. with emotion.”

you raised an eyebrow. “we. used. to be. friends.”

“holy shit,” she whispered. “like, close friends? or like…you-commented-on-each-other’s-posts kind of friends?”

you reached for a pot behind you, pretending to focus on something else. “close like her snotty ass was over at mine all the time and the guards at forbes park knew me.”

leo leaned in now, voice teasing. “she stole her college ID too, as souvenir.”

“leo,” you muttered, warning him because she was definitely going to flip out.

she gasped so hard she nearly dropped the carrots. “wait — are you being serious? like she physically stole it? like in a cute way?”

“she asked if she could keep it,” you mumbled, smiling shyly. “i let her.”

her jaw dropped and she looked physically pained.

“why are you still here?” she asked, scandalised. “why aren’t you in an airport chasing her down with a bouquet?”

leo let out a laugh. “i’ve been asking myself the same thing.”

you felt heat rise to your neck and busied yourself with lighting the stove. the gas hissed, caught the flame and you stirred oil into a pan without thinking.

“it’s been years,” you said finally, voice quieter now. “we haven’t spoken since she left.”

that sobered the room a little. aira glanced at leo, then lowered herself onto a bench, the excitement in her face softening into something else.

“but…she’s back?” she asked.

“for a few days. a brand thing, plus her dad said there’s a dinner.”

no one said anything for a while. its been way too long now and you began to wonder what her voice sounded like these days.

“you thinking of going?” leo asked again.

you stared into the pan and watched the garlic start to colour. “i don’t know.”

she tilted her head. “you want to?”

you didn’t answer right away because you didn’t know how to explain the weird ache that came and went whenever you heard her name. how some days it barely registered, and others it clung to you like heat in the back of your shirt.

how you weren’t sure what was worse — seeing her again or not seeing her at all.

“i’m busy,” you muttered, not quite meeting their eyes. “we have a business to run.”

leo snorted. “cop out.”

“maybe.”

aira leaned her chin into her hand. “just wear something nice. you don’t even have to say anything, go see her.”

you stirred the garlic again, let it brown.

“just think about it,” she added, softer now. “you owe yourself that much, yeah?”

the smell of burnt garlic filled the room.

“shit,” you muttered, turning off the heat. you scraped the pan out into the compost bin and started again, slower this time.

no one pressed further. they didn’t have to.

the kitchen was loud again within minutes —spoons clinking, water running, someone restarting the playlist. rivermaya this time. hinahanap-hanap kita played low beneath the noise, as if the speakers knew something you weren’t ready to say yet.

and you let the thought of her linger, unspoken, like the smell of something once sweet still hanging in the air.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

five years ago

the weekend after sophia graduated, the sky above manila looked unusually clean - cloudless, wide, almost smug in how blue it was. your lola, alongside your parents, had left for the province earlier that day, which meant the house was yours for the weekend.

the family house in quezon had the kind of roof that wasn’t really meant for lounging, just concrete and rusting rebar poking from the corners, but you claimed it years ago with foldable chairs and old blankets, a spot to sit when the house felt too full or the night too quiet.

sophia had arrived just after seven, wearing shorts and a loose t-shirt that hung slightly off her shoulder. her driver had dropped her off at the corner because she insisted on walking.

she came bearing gifts: one large jollibee bag, four smirnoff mules sticking out the top and a plastic container of gravy she insisted was worth the spill in her bag.

“you told your lola?” she asked, stepping out of her shoes by the back door.

“that you’re crashing the night?” you returned a question, reaching for the bag of fries. “nope.”

“perfect,” she grinned.

you both carried the food and drinks up the narrow stairs to the roof, a towel tucked under your arm, a blanket you pulled from the cabinet smelling faintly of mothballs. the rooftop was still warm underfoot, the cement holding onto the last heat of the day. your neighbours’ radio played something low — maybe kitchie nadal, the echoes of someone else’s happiness.

“we’re celebrating,” she announced, grinning as she pulled the food out one by one on the roof, the stars above just starting to show. “high honours. second highest in the whole school. can you believe it?”

you shook your head and passed her a spoon. “i would’ve believed it if you passed math without crying.”

“that was character development, asshole,” she shot back. “besides, crying builds humility.”

you laid the blanket down between the water tank and the clothesline as you laughed at her, surrounded by rusting steel bars and old satellite dishes.

“cheers,” sophia said once you’ve settled down, cracking her bottle open against the metal pipe and raising it toward you.

you tapped yours against hers and took a swig. it was sweeter than you remembered. “this shit’s nasty.”

“well, can’t be picky, i brought the gifts and your only job is to consume them,” she snarked.

you both ate like you hadn’t had fast food in weeks, spooning rice straight from the paper containers, sitting side by side on an old blanket with faded cartoon characters printed across it.

the drinks were warm, but they still fizzed when opened and you continued clinking bottles like you were pretending to be older than you were.

“what now?” you asked, wiping gravy off your chin with your sleeve. “what’s next?”

she leaned back on her elbows, looking up. her hair spread out against the blanket like ink in water. “i don’t know. maybe take a break.”

“from what? being pretty and smart?”

“exactly.” she laughed, then glanced over. “i’m thinking of trying something…different.”

you raised a brow. “like what?”

she hesitated and you noticed it — not nervous, exactly, but something quieter. something still forming.

“i dunno yet,” she hummed. “something big.”

“whatever it is, you’d be good.”

“i might suck.”

“you won’t.”

she tilted her head toward you, her ponytail brushing the blanket. “you’re always sure about me.”

“someone has to be.”

you lay side by side on the blanket, her legs brushing against yours occasionally. the stars weren’t as sharp as they were in the province, but they were enough. the city around you still hummed: buses in the distance and a dog barking.

you didn’t talk much; not at first. your arms were close, then closer. and then her fingers found yours and didn’t let go.

her hand was warm and a little clammy from the bottle, but you didn’t mind. you didn’t even breathe too hard, afraid it might ruin the moment. she didn’t say anything either. just let the space fill with sound and the night stretch over both of you like a quiet promise.

you could feel her thumb moving in soft circles against yours.

“i still can’t believe i graduated with medals,” she murmured after a while.

“you say that like you were failing all year.”

“i mean, i wasn’t trying that hard. they just like me.”

you turned your head to look at her. her eyes were fixed on the sky, lashes catching the light of the nearest streetlamp. she looked older than she did last summer, but still had that same uneven tan on her arms from volleyball tryouts, nails still painted light pink and chipped at the edges.

she turned her face toward you now, the stars catching in her eyes.

“do you ever feel like you’re standing at the edge of something?” she asked. “like something big is about to happen and you can’t tell if it’s good or bad, just that everything’s going to change?”

“yeah,” you said. “i do.”

sophia smiled, slow and real. “good. then we’ll be scared together.”

you wanted to kiss her right then, but you didn’t - couldn’t. all you could do was squeeze her hand a little tighter and memorise the way she looked with the city lights flickering below her and the whole night sky above.

neither of you moved.

you finished your drinks and shared the last peach mango pie. one of your neighbours yelled for their kid to come inside, the air cooling down. you stayed on the roof until you both started to shiver, until the stars faded behind the first pale streaks of morning, until sophia fell asleep with her head on your shoulder, fingers still loosely laced with yours.

you didn’t sleep, just watched the sky change and wondered how long before you would lose this version of her.

before whatever was coming finally arrived.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the team had just settled into their usual late-morning rhythm when anthony showed up, slouched and sunburnt, with a guitar strapped to his back like it was a medical condition he refused to treat.

“oi,” he called out as he pushed through the front door, sweat already glistening along his hairline. “you still feeding stray musicians or what?”

you glanced up from where you were marinating pork belly, salt crusted on your fingertips, elbow-deep in prep bowls. “what time’s your gig?”

“twelve and nearby. rooftop bar in legazpi. they said there’s free iced tea, which means it’s gonna be a nightmare.”

you smirked and went back to massaging vinegar into the pork. “you just want free food.”

he gave you his best impression of innocence. “nooo, i want your company.”

“you wanna scab off my company,” you corrected.

“and your company.”

aira, who had been julienning carrots with the intensity of someone seeking vengeance, glanced over and groaned. “for fuck’s sake, him again?”

“hello to you too,” he grinned, leaning against the counter like he owned the place. “still can’t cook eggs without burning them?”

“still can’t sing without pretending it’s 2007?” she bit back, raising an eyebrow. “get the hell out of my kitchen.”

“i came for peace and nourishment.”

“you came to freeload.”

leo, somewhere behind the fridge door, coughed out a laugh. kristoff didn’t look up from stirring the adobo, but his shoulders shook with quiet amusement.

you shook your head and went back to slicing, but you were smiling now. there was something about anthony that always shifted the air when he arrived — like someone had opened a window and let in a breeze that was equal parts annoying and familiar.

aira sighed dramatically and reached for the leftover chorizo in the cooler. “you’re getting fried rice. no substitutions. no complaints. and i’m adding egg even though i know you hate egg.”

“can’t wait,” anthony chuckled. “truly, this is a restaurant built on spite.”

“you’re welcome.”

he slid into the bar stool by the pass and began unloading the contents of his pockets: a capo, his wallet, half a cigarette in foil. the guitar remained slung across his chest, awkward but somehow fitting.

you rinsed your hands and leaned against the sink, watching the chaos unfold with a quiet sort of fondness.

then, mid-moan about a previous gig that involved a flooded stage and a broken amp, anthony looked at you and went suddenly quiet.

“hey…umm, piya messaged me on facebook last night.”

your chest didn’t tighten immediately. it moved slow, like something thick dragging its way through water.

“piya?” you asked, like you hadn’t said that name aloud in years. which, technically, you hadn’t.

“sophia,” he clarified, more careful now. “she asked if i’ve heard from you because apparently…she hasn’t.”

silence fell like a dropped plate. even the pan aira had been rattling on the stove went still.

yohan emerged from the walk-in cooler with a crate of eggs and a raised brow. “who’s sophia?”

kristoff, ever the bearer of pop culture, didn’t even blink. “sophia laforteza.”

yohan stared. “as in katseye sophia?”

“yep,” he replied, flipping a slab of meat in the pan.

aira dropped the spatula. you didn’t say anything, your mouth had gone dry.

he was still looking at you, not accusatory, just curious. and maybe - maybe a little worried. “you haven’t checked your phone, have you.”

you looked down at your apron, then your hands. the faint cuts on your knuckles, the turmeric stain beneath your thumb nail. you hadn’t brought your phone, again.

it’d been three days now. you kept leaving it in the same place, on the corner of your dresser under a half-folded shirt, turned face down.

“i haven’t,” you admitted.

“y/n,” anthony winced, voice a little firmer now. “come on.”

you shrugged. “i didn’t feel like it.”

“she’s looking for you — she’s trying.”

“yeah, well.” you ran a hand through your hair. “she knows where to find me.”

aira leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “babe, i know you’re mysterious and deep and have a whole torpe heart thing going on — but that’s sophia laforteza. why are you trying to fumble so bad?”

leo chimed in from behind the fryer. “what if she’s standing outside the restaurant right now? what if this is like, her kilig moment?”

“don’t be weird,” you muttered, though the thought twisted somewhere low in your stomach.

she wouldn’t show up, would she?

anthony slid the plate of chorizo fried rice toward himself, but didn’t touch it yet.

“listen,” he said, more gently this time. “you don’t have to talk to her. or see her, but you should at least know what she’s trying to say.”

you nodded slowly, not agreeing; more like acknowledging. kristoff turned the stove off, someone turned the playlist down.

the kitchen didn’t resume its usual volume right away. everyone hovered in that pocket of quiet, watching you in the way people do when they’re not sure if you’re okay.

you looked out toward the front window, where the morning light was already starting to glare off the tiles.

sophia’s name sat in your chest like a coin pressed flat under your ribs.

maybe the message was nothing; maybe it was too late to matter; maybe it mattered anyway.

you stepped back toward the sink and turned the tap on, cold water rushing over your hands, grounding. you closed your eyes for a moment and let the sound fill the room.

behind you, anthony finally took a bite of the fried rice.

“aira,” he called through a mouthful. “this is surprisingly edible. are you okay?”

aira launched a spoon at his head.

the kitchen laughed once again, tension cracked open just enough for the morning to keep going. you dried your hands and walked back to the prep table.

you still weren’t ready to check your phone.

but maybe you were getting close.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it was just after eight in the morning and the kitchen was already hot and humming, the scent of garlic and bagoong thick in the air. kristoff was slicing tomatoes at the speed of a man who had nowhere else to be, while yohan fiddled with the fan in the corner that never pointed in the right direction.

you were leaning against the sink, phone pressed between your shoulder and cheek, stirring sinigang broth while staring at nothing in particular.

the line rang twice before godfrey picked up.

he answered on the second ring. “hello?”

“tito,” you began, voice still scratchy from sleep. “hi, it’s y/n.”

a pause, then the warmth you expected. “anak, good morning. i was just about to call you to confirm.”

you cleared your throat. leaned against the bench. “i, uh…i just wanted to say thank you again for the invite.”

he waited because he knew there was more to come. “everything alright?”

“yeah, yeah - nothing serious. one of my chefs, aira, is down with something. food poisoning, maybe. someone needs to cover service so i can’t make it tomorrow night.”

you heard a chair scrape in the background, faint clinking of glasses — probably preparations for the dinner you were bailing out on. he didn’t say anything at first, just let out a slow breath.

“that’s…a shame,” he replied eventually, voice still gentle. “i was hoping she’d get to see you.”

you looked down at the broth, watched the thin film of oil ripple as you stirred it slowly.

“thank you for letting me know,” he added. “you should see her this week, if you can. i think…it would mean a lot to both of you if you talked.”

his tone stayed polite, but you could feel the weight shift. something a little sad.

“yeah,” you muttered like a promise. “i will.”

you weren’t planning to, not really. the thought alone made your pulse skip and your stomach knot. not in a sweet way, not in a maybe-it-could-work way — just fucking tight and heavy.

like too much time had passed and the wiring inside you didn’t know what to do with her anymore.

still, you said yes because it was easier. and because godfrey sounded like he still believed in whatever you and sophia used to be.

you hung up after a few more words: safe, formal ones — and stood there in the kitchen, staring at the phone like it owed you something.

you didn’t feel relieved. just…stalled.

aira stood directly behind you, holding a bag of spinach. you turned just in time to get hit in the chest with a plastic bag. it bounced off harmlessly, but she looked like she meant it to hurt.

“you absolute fucking liar!” she hissed as she hit you once more.

you turned, blinking. “what the hell —“

“food poisoning?” she narrowed her eyes. “from what, y/n? the rice i cooked myself this morning and ate in front of you?”

you opened your mouth to speak, she smacked your shoulder again with the spinach bag.

“i didn’t think you’d hear me!” you put your hands up in defeat.”

“you used me,” she said, dramatically. “like a prop. like a false witness.”

“aira —”

“to lie to sophia laforteza’s dad. you’re going to hell.”

you put the ladle down and started laughing. “you’re being ridiculous.”

“you used me?” she gaped. “me? your innocent, hardworking, full-of-life staff member?”

you raised a brow. “you’re the one who took a three-hour break yesterday to go get lash extensions.”

“irrelevant,” she snapped, pointing at you dramatically. “you really lied to sophia laforteza’s dad and dragged my good name into it. that’s a sin, y/n. a literal sin.”

you pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh again.

“you’re going to hell,” she continued. “straight to the deepest, hottest level — no aircon. and i hope they only serve watered-down matcha.”

you let out a quiet snort. “i wasn’t planning on going to heaven anyway.”

she placed a hand over her heart. “you don’t deserve nice things.”

you rolled your eyes and went to the fridge, pulling out the tub of leftover atchara. “he said i should see her sometime this week.”

aira’s voice jumped an octave. “then can i go? text him! say your loyal, honest employee is free to represent you.”

you ignored her, opening the lid and giving the contents a stir.

“seriously,” she said, planting herself beside you. “i have an outfit picked out already. it’s tasteful but flirty. i’ll call him ‘tito’ and everything; maybe he’ll adopt me.”

“aira.”

“yes, ma’am?”

“i have a lot to do today.”

“you’re hiding,” she pointed out, softer now. “you’ve been hiding.”

you didn’t say anything, just closed the tub and placed it back in the fridge.

from the other side of the kitchen, kristoff called out: “what’s happening?”

she spun around. “chef y/n lied to god.”

“which god?”

“godfrey.”

the kitchen erupted into laughter as you let the noise fill the space again. it was warm and familiar — just loud enough to cover whatever it was you were still trying not to feel.

even yohan peeked around the shelves, smiling behind the fan he was still pretending to fix.

“god,” aira muttered, turning back to you, hand over her heart. “i would’ve died to go. you should’ve asked him if i could take your place. my body is ready.”

“you don’t even own a blazer.”

“i have a linen vest,” she feigned offense, insulted. “and a perfectly respectable skirt.”

you shook your head, trying not to smile. “i’ve got things to do, aira. it’s payroll day. i need to sort everything by lunch.”

she sighed, deflating, then threw the spinach onto the prep bench. “you’re a coward,” she yelled out. “and i say that with love.”

the rest of the boys chuckled, the tension melting back into the usual mess of clanging pots and overlapping instructions.

everyone moved around you again, the rhythm of the morning returning. you leaned back against the counter for a second, letting the noise swirl around you.

for a second you had opened your phone last night just to check your email, you told yourself. but there they were; texts from an unknown number…short ones.

“heard from dad you’re still in makati. didn’t know if you’d want to see me, but i’d really like to see you.”

“even just for coffee. no pressure.”

“there’s a lot i probably don’t have the right to say. but i hope you’re okay.”

the first message had come four days ago. you hadn’t answered any of them.

every time you read her name, your chest did that same thing: tightened, skipped, clenched. it was stupid. you weren’t sixteen anymore — you had rice to steam and salaries to divide, but still.

aira nudged your hip with her elbow as she passed by. “hell,” she mumbled under her breath. “straight to hell.”

you laughed again, low and dry, and reached for the spinach she’d abandoned.

“then at least i won’t be cold.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

seven years ago

it was too bright inside newport world resorts. you hadn’t known a mall could shine like that; every floor glossy, every piece of light somehow staged to make everything look more expensive.

sophia walked ahead of you, her arm looped through leon’s, her heels clicking softly against the marble. you trailed just behind them next to sophia’s mum, carla, close enough to hear snatches of their conversation but far enough not to be in it.

leon was one of sophia’s best friends, tall and confident in that quiet, magnetic way. he had that hair that always looked good no matter how humid it got and a voice that sounded like he had grown up near a mic. when he smiled, people looked.

you hated that you noticed.

“you alright?” carla asked, reaching a hand to your back. her voice was gentle, but her bracelets clinked as she moved, always sounding like she was about to announce something.

“yes po,” you answer, even though your knees felt a little weird and you kept adjusting the strap of your shoulder bag like it was a nervous tic.

she gave you a kind smile, one that felt different from most adults. it was like she noticed you. “you can drop the po, y/n. we’re not at school.”

“we’re going to the steak place upstairs,” sophia said over her shoulder, her voice light. “dad booked the private room.”

you nodded; didn’t say much. you’ve never been to a place with private rooms before. most of your lunches were in food courts or karinderyas, you almost wore your school shoes today out of instinct.

“we’re early,” carla murmured to sophia as you reached the escalators.

“he’ll make us wait anyway,” sophia replied, pulling her sunglasses up onto her head. “he always says twelve and then shows up at twelve-thirty.”

you didn’t know if she was annoyed or just amused. it was hard to tell with her; always had been.

leon waited for you as you reached the top of the escalator. “he’s a chef, you know that? her dad?”

you nodded. “yeah, godfrey laforteza.”

“have you met him?”

you smiled. “only at their house.”

he grinned. “this’ll be interesting then, i’m stoked to try the food.”

the restaurant was tucked into the corner of the resort’s ground floor, behind a set of frosted doors and a name you couldn’t pronounce. a host greeted you all in english, bowing slightly before gesturing toward the private dining room.

it was dim and warm inside, golden light spilling from above like syrup.

godfrey stood as you entered; gold watch catching the light. he smiled wide when he saw sophia, then clapped leon on the back with a kind of easy affection that told you this wasn’t the first time they’d met.

then he looked at you.

“y/n,” he said, more warmly than you expected. “you look taller.”

your ears went hot. “hi po, tito.”

“come, sit next to me,” he patted the seat next to him. “we’re trying the new lunch menu. i want to hear what you think.”

you didn’t move until carla gently nudged your back. “go on, love.”

you sat between godfrey and carla, across from sophia and leon. she looked at you briefly, smiled; her teeth were perfect.

the waitstaff came in like a small parade — trays of soup poured from porcelain teapots, vegetables arranged like ikebana, fish so delicate you hesitated before touching it.

godfrey talked about everything. the plating, the temperature, the timing. he said things like mouthfeel and balance of acidity, and you tried to keep up but mostly, you watched his hands as he sliced through a duck breast with practiced ease.

“you like food, don’t you?” carla asked beside you.

you nodded, wiped your mouth before answering. “yes po.”

“she makes mean pancit at home,” sophia added. “and mango float.”

godfrey leaned in slightly. “you wanna learn how to cook?”

“a bit,” you looked around, unsure. “not like this, i don’t think i could ever be this good.”

“this is all technique,” he waved a hand. “the heart’s what matters. you’ve either got it or you don’t.”

you didn’t say anything. but you felt something click quietly into place, right behind your ribs.

you looked at him. then at your plate. then at your hands. and just like that, without drama or realisation or applause — you knew.

you wanted to cook.

“you’d do well in a kitchen,” he mentioned, sipping his wine. “smart hands and curious eyes.”

carla beamed at you like she had already decided this could be your life if you wanted it.

you were still thinking about it: about the feel of the fork in your hand, the way the food made your chest open up — when sophia leaned into leon and whispered something that made him laugh. she touched his arm lightly, leaned her cheek against his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you blinked.

something tight twisted in your stomach, sharp and unfamiliar. it wasn’t anger. not quite. it wasn’t sadness either. just a kind of…displacement. like you lost something before you even knew you were holding it.

you stabbed your fork into the plate a little harder than you meant to.

“y/n?” sophia turned to you, concerned. “you okay?”

you nodded. “yeah. just hot.”

leon passed you a napkin, still grinning. you took it, barely looking at him.

she turned back and you felt the moment leave you.

the rest of the lunch passed in a blur; you listened when they talked, laughed when you had to, but your mind had split. half of you sat at the table. the other half had already started picturing a kitchen of your own: the heat, the knives, the smell of onions hitting butter. the fire.

and somewhere deep inside that heat, you imagined sophia again. her hand not on leon’s shoulder, but yours.

you didn’t know what that meant. not yet.

but the ache stayed with you. it still does.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

saturday nights at concave always felt like a controlled collapse. the kind of exhaustion that made your fingers ache and your lower back throb with every step, but somehow still left you wired from the chaos.

tonight had been one of the busiest yet—valet queues doubling up, someone asking for a private dining room that didn’t exist, and a family of seven who insisted they were promised a window seat by ‘the guy who owns the restaurant’ despite not having a reservation at all.

it was past ten when the last table finally cleared.

aira was singing off-key into her phone, facetime angled towards the ceiling while she wiped down the counters with rhythmic aggression. her boyfriend’s laugh filtered faintly through the screen, followed by a dramatic “babe, i’m working!” which none of you believed for a second.

the rest of you sat on plastic crates near the back door outside, backs against the wall, the night air heavy with heat and frying oil. kristoff lit the last cigarette and passed it around, all of you taking slow drags like it was communion. there was a quiet bond that came with being this tired at the same time as other people.

“i still can’t believe she dropped that bottle,” leo began laughing, his voice hoarse from yelling over the pass earlier.

“ten thousand pesos,” yohan added, exhaling smoke through his nose. “and she cried like her dog died.”

you winced, leaning your head back against the concrete. “i felt bad. she was shaking.”

leo nudged your foot. “you told her it wasn’t coming out of her pay.”

“of course i did.”

he grinned. “see, that’s why you’re a terrible boss.”

“wow, thanks.”

“you care too much,” he continued, flicking ash off the side. “it’s gross.”

“good bosses don’t cry in the dry storage,” you muttered.

“you cried?”

“it was humid.”

they all laughed.

kristoff took a final drag from his cigarette, then flicked it into the old tin can near the door. “you know what’s worse?” he shook his head. “diana and i fighting last night.”

that got everyone’s attention as you all turned your heads slightly.

“about what now?” yohan asked.

he dragged a hand down his face. “i put her water bottle in the freezer. just the regular way. and apparently that’s…how you destroy the lining? or the metal? or our future children? i don’t even know.”

leo blinked. “damn.”

“she said it’s proof i don’t respect her stuff. then she said we should do separate laundry from now on.”

“over a bottle?”

“over a bottle.”

the sound of tyres crunching against gravel pulled everyone’s attention. it wasn’t loud — but sharp enough to cut through the rhythm of the moment. you all turned your heads in unison, squinting toward the end of the alleyway where the staff parking lot sat mostly empty.

“customer coming back for vengeance,” yohan muttered, flicking his cigarette over the side rail. “you know that lady who said the bangus was too bony?”

“lock the doors,” leo added. “she’s probably got a weapon.”

“the gun’s in the safe,” kristoff mumbled carefully, not missing a beat.

you were about to say something — something dumb, something to diffuse the rising tension when the driver’s door opened.

and godfrey stepped out, casual as ever in slacks and a light button-down, waving toward you like this was the most normal thing in the world.

but you weren’t looking at him.

your eyes were fixed on the passenger door: on the way it opened slowly, deliberately. on the figure that stepped out and stood for a moment, as if she was letting her eyes adjust to the light.

the yankees cap, the face mask, the black hoodie pulled tight around her. but the way she stood, slightly tilted to one side, one foot angled out like she might run at any second — it was all her.

you knew those eyes.

no one could hide that shade of brown from you. the way they scanned, half-expectant, like they were always waiting for a sign.

your stomach dropped, hard and low like it had missed a step.

“holy shit,” leo whispered, nearly dropping the cigarette.

“is that —“

what the fuck, you thought.

“yeah,” kristoff breathed. “the hell?”

yohan stood up so fast his crate tipped over. “i’m not ready for this, bye!”

then, like a well-rehearsed act, all three of them turned and made a mad dash for the back door; grown men scattering like roaches.

a bunch of traitors.

kristoff stumbled on his way in but still managed to shout, “aira!” and a split second later, you heard her scream. then the door slammed shut, the metal rattling in the frame, leaving you alone with her outside.

you were still sitting on your crate, legs suddenly unsure if they remembered how to work.

she started walking to you.

slow, steady steps that felt too loud in your ears. she lifted a hand and gave a small wave, a little awkward, like she didn’t know if it would be received.

you stood, finally, your knees feeling loose and unreliable. the heat from the kitchen behind you met the cool of the alleyway and it made your skin prickle.

the world shrank.

you could hear your own heartbeat now, thudding somewhere in your neck. the sharp scent of garlic still clung to your shirt; your hands, stained with soy and calamansi, hung at your sides.

and there she was.

sophia stopped a few steps in front of you. not close enough to touch, but enough to undo you completely — you saw it in her eyes.

the softness; the nerves; the weight.

neither of you spoke.

the streetlight buzzed above you. someone’s stereo played a slow opm song in the next building over. back inside, you could hear aira saying something very loud and incoherent, followed by someone — probably kristoff —shushing her in vain.

but none of it mattered.

you stood in front of each other, the past folded neatly between your bodies like a letter you had never opened.

she stepped closer, and in the light, harsh and flickering from the mounted alley lamp above the staff door — she looked older. more refined around the jaw, a little sharper in the cheekbones. the years had carved something into her face, but

it wasn’t unkindness, but time. it was a life you hadn’t been part of, filled with late flights and green rooms and a thousand versions of her you would never get to meet.

a breeze pushed through the alley and caught the edge of her shirt. her hat dipped slightly forward as she pulled her mask down with careful fingers, revealing a soft, tired smile.

“hi,” she spoke, her voice small and steady.

you swallowed as you nodded once, your throat felt dry.

she glanced behind her toward the street, then back at you. “i didn’t mean to show up like this. i kind of forced dad to bring me, he said you didn’t want to see me yet,” she scratched the back of her neck, then added. “we had a whole argument about it in the car. like, full-on telenovela volume.”

her laugh was breathless, a little shy. “i hope you’re not mad at him.”

you shook your head, though your voice hadn’t found you yet. it felt like all your thoughts were stuck behind glass: still moving, but quiet.

“i just needed to see you,” she continued, taking a step closer. “i needed to hear your voice.”

the words landed hard. not cruelly, just…directly. she always had that way of talking — like if something sat on her chest long enough, it had no choice but to escape.

you felt like you were eighteen again, standing in a doorway too narrow for everything you wanted to say.

“how’ve you been?” she asked, her voice a little uncertain now, as if startled herself with the silence that followed.

that pulled you out of it.

“i’ve been good,” you managed to answer, though the word felt strange coming out. “busy, tired. you know, kitchen stuff.”

she smiled, nodded quickly, hands playing with the hem of her shirt.

you pointed to the stack of crates near the door. “you wanna sit?”

“yeah,” she exhaled like she has been holding her breath the whole time.

you both sat side by side on one crate, knees brushing slightly. her hands were in her lap. yours were still trembling faintly, so you pressed them into your thighs, grounding yourself in something solid.

you talked, slowly at first. about small things. safe things.

anthony still came by to steal food. she laughed, really laughed and said she wasn’t surprised. you told her about kyle, still waiting on his contract so he could go back out on the ships. she asked if he still sang backstreet boys during karaoke.

he still did.

you told her kristoff worked here now. “he’s marrying diana,” you added and her eyes lit up.

“no way,” she breathed out in disbelief. “they actually made it?”

“somehow.”

“who’s managing who?”

“depends on the day.”

she laughed again, covering her mouth. you watched her and felt something shift in your chest. not new, not really — it’s familiar in a way that made you ache a little.

your feelings for her weren’t coming back, they truly just hadn’t left.

they had gone quiet, buried themselves beneath years of busyness and the slow accumulation of adult life. but sitting here beside her, the memories began resurfacing — old pages being turned back over, softer with age.

sophia looked down at her hands. her voice was quiet when she spoke again.

“i cried when i saw the photos from your opening,” she continued. “i saw your mum. your lola. some of the old neighbours. even my parents. it looked like home.”

you didn’t speak.

“i’m sorry,” she added. “for not looking back.”

the silence stretched between you.

you looked at her, and the guilt in her eyes was real. it was…honest like she finally let herself feel it.

you nodded in quick understanding. “life happens sometimes.”

she turned her face toward you, brows furrowed like she didn’t expect you to let her off that easily.

“no, really,” you pushed. “you were chasing something; something big and real. and you got it. i don’t think you could’ve looked back even if you wanted to.”

her eyes glossed, just a little.

“i’ve always been proud of you,” you said, voice steady now. “even if we’re no longer a part of each other’s lives.”

she let out a breath, shaky and soft.

you leaned back against the wall, looking up at the empty stretch of sky.

“you’re everywhere now,” you added, smiling faintly. “can’t even get away from you if i tried. the billboards alone are stalking me.”

sophia laughed through her nose, wiping at her cheek. “those were terrible photos.”

“your face is literally flawless.”

“you’re delusional.”

“you’re still annoying.”

she grinned as reached her eyes and lingered.

neither of you spoke after that. you just listened to the low rattle of a tricycle turning into the alley, the soft clatter of dishes being washed somewhere inside, the low hum of the world continuing just beyond the corner of this moment.

you shifted slightly, looked at her. “you want a mule?”

her face broke into another smile. “yes.”

you stood slowly, legs stiff from the day. the city didn’t feel as loud anymore. the ache in your chest had settled — not gone, but softer. more in the lines of something remembered than lost.

then, you motioned toward the kitchen doors with a nod. she looked at you with curious eyes.

“you want to meet the team?” you asked, dusting your hands off on your apron. “if you don’t mind…they’re scared of you.”

she laughed, light and surprised. “i saw them run inside.”

you grinned despite yourself and pushed open the kitchen door, holding it open for her as she followed. and you felt it…that part of you that had never really closed the door on her.

the second you stepped in, everyone suddenly became very busy. kristoff was wiping down a perfectly clean shelf, leo had mysteriously found a clipboard to stare at like it held the secrets of the universe, yohan, as expected, remained hidden in the washing station, clanking plates like his life depended on it.

and aira - bless her soul - stood frozen in the middle of the room holding a bag of mangoes.

you looked around, unimpressed. “really?”

they all avoided your gaze, except aira. who continued to stand like a train was about to hit her at full speed.

“everyone, this is sophia, or piya, like i used to call her,” you introduced, voice dry.

sophia raised a hand, smile soft. “hi, sorry for barging in at the last minute.”

aira still didn’t move, the mangoes swaying in her hand.

thankfully, kristoff recovered first and stepped forward quickly. “it’s so nice to see you again, soph. been years, no?”

“way too long,” she responded, smiling at him. “i think the last time was…diana’s birthday party? the one where you both got food poisoning?”

“yes,” he nodded, grinning. “bonding through suffering.”

you caught a glance at aira, jaw slightly slack and eyes suspiciously glassy.

leo wiped his hand on a towel before offering it to her. “it’s nice to finally meet the legend,” he said, which earned a quiet groan from you. “i’m leo.”

sophia chuckled as she shook his hand. “you guys run a tight ship back here.”

“depends on the day,” he laughed. “today we survived.”

she turned to aira next, who hadn’t spoken or blinked. she approached slowly, like one might approach a deer in a clearing.

“hi,” she said gently. “i’m sophia.”

aira’s mouth opened but no sound came out. just a small, strange breath. she nodded once, violently, like she has been programmed under poor wi-fi.

“aira,” you winced in embarrassment. “say something.”

“is this real life?” she finally croaked.

sophia laughed again and, to everyone’s horror and delight, pulled her into a hug. aira’s arms hung limp for a moment, then she clutched her like they had known each other for a decade. over sophia’s shoulder, she mouthed oh my god at you.

“i love you,” she blurted.

you groaned. please no. “don’t be fucking weird.”

everyone laughed. sophia pulled back, still grinning. “and i love you too.”

aira looked over at you and added, “y/n loves you too.”

“aira!” you barked, already turning away. your whole body flushed hot, ears burning.

“i love y/n too,” sophia was trying not to laugh, her head bowed, lips pressed together in a losing battle.

you muttered something incomprehensible and walked off to grab the mules, still mentally screaming. your hands were shaking slightly as you popped the bottles open. you weren’t even sure from what — embarrassment, maybe. or something deeper. like your chest had been cracked open and every feeling you buried decided that tonight was the night to come home.

from the kitchen, you heard sophia’s laugh, low and warm. then her voice, teasing: “aira’s not sick.”

“she lied to you!” aira shrieked. “she was just too nervous to come.”

“you absolute snakes,” you muttered to the mules, then carried the bottles back out, just in time to see kristoff and sophia mid-conversation.

“so how’s diana really?” sophia asked.

“terrifying. but in a hot way,” he responded. “we’ve already got the wedding date. she’s in full planner mode, i just show up.”

“you guys are really getting married, that’s huge.”

“yeah, diana and i are doing the civil wedding first, we don’t have time to plan a big thing with all the restaurant shit going on.”

“i’m so happy for you guys!” she squealed, clapping her hands together.

“you’re next,” he said, looking past sophia, then directly at you.

fuck off, you mouthed.

sophia raised an eyebrow. “i’d need a girlfriend for that. at least.”

“head chef is single!” aira yelled out, a little bit too keen. and so much for promising yourself you wouldn’t go red.

you looked up. then immediately looked away, the bottle nearly slipped out of your hand.

“you good?” leo asked, grinning.

“chef hands,” you wheezed. “tired hands.”

it was a dumb joke, maybe. or maybe it wasn’t. you never really asked, never dared her. the memories of your hands touching hers, of sleeping shoulder to shoulder, of quiet moments on rooftops — those were things you kept somewhere safe, under glass, labelled friendship.

it never occurred to you that maybe…she saw it differently.

you took a slow sip from your bottle, unsure whether to laugh or pretend you lost hearing altogether.

the rest of the team had found their courage again. kristoff pulled out his phone and suggested selfies, to which sophia nodded without hesitation. they huddled in tight near the prep bench, yohan even emerging from the dish area —though he refused to make eye contact, hovering awkwardly in the background like he was summoned against his will, which she found charming and weird in equal measure.

then leo said: “okay, now just you two.”

you blinked. “what?”

“just you and sophia,” aira repeated, already motioning with her phone. “hurry up, chef, i got places to be.”

“i reek,” you mumbled. “i’ve been over a stove for twelve hours.”

kristoff frowned. “just put your damn arm around her and smile; be respectful.”

“i’m literally a health hazard.”

before you could argue further, sophia stepped in beside you, her body warm and familiar. without warning, she reached for your wrist and guided your arm around her shoulder like it had always belonged there.

you didn’t breathe, just smiled the most awkward smile you could ever let out.

your hand rested there: awkward, hesitant, too aware of her warmth. sophia’s body leaned just slightly into yours like it was the most natural thing in the world.

snap. the photo was taken.

you stepped back so quickly you nearly dropped the bottle.

the team took a few more photos, then began to peel off one by one. kristoff was the first to wave goodnight, followed by yohan who mumbled something and disappeared again. aira said goodbye three times before finally leaving, and leo, as always, made sure the lights were off in the storage before stepping out with a tired salute.

you walked them out, flipped the sign to closed, and turned the lock.

the kitchen felt impossibly still after they left. the kind of quiet that only came after a long shift and a longer night. your muscles ached and your heart hadn’t stopped racing.

“i’m just gonna get changed,” you cleared your throat. “these clothes have seen horrible things.”

“okay,” she replied, voice soft now. like it was only meant for you.

you slipped into the staff bathroom, peeling off your apron and tossing it into the laundry basket. your shirt clung damp to your back. you washed your face with the cheap peppermint cleanser you kept in the drawer and stared at yourself in the mirror.

she was here.

sitting in your restaurant.

laughing with your friends.

you were halfway through drying your hands when the thought hit you full force: this wasn’t a dream. and you had no idea what it meant, for you.

you pulled on a clean white shirt, ran fingers through your hair and stepped out.

the kitchen was dim now, lights off except for the soft glow spilling from the bar. sophia sat alone at the counter, her bottle in front of her, fingers tracing the label.

you moved quietly to the stool beside her.

the hum of the fridge, the soft buzz of the light overhead…everything felt so much louder in the quiet. she looked at you, then looked away. but her smile stayed.

something inside you; something buried and stubborn, stirred like it had been waiting for this. for her.

and now it’s just the two of you.

alone again.

you swirled what was left of your mule, the ice melting slow against the glass. it only tasted good because of who you were drinking it with.

“so how did this place happen?” she began, gesturing vaguely at the restaurant around you. “concave - when?”

you leaned back against the stool, exhaling slowly. “three years ago.”

“i always wondered,” she hummed, eyes watching you fondly. “how?”

“dad got a payout,” you replied, fingers tapping lightly on the bar. “he was working in australia, had injury on site. slipped, messed up his spine. they paid out this ridiculous sum. more than any of us expected. he didn’t want to keep it.”

she turned toward you, her chin resting against her hand. “i didn’t know that.”

“he asked me what i’d do with it if it were mine,” you said. “i didn’t even think about it. just said, i’d build a place where i could cook whatever i wanted. and he said okay.”

her brows furrowed, soft with concern. “is he okay now?”

“he’s alright. limps a bit and retired earlier than he wanted, but he likes it. spends most of his time annoying my mum,” you looked down into your drink. “i still don’t think i deserved it.”

“i do,” she said, voice low before sipping her drink. “you’re always working hard; even when we were kids.”

you smiled and it surprised you how much it meant to hear that from her.

“lola’s still the same,” you added, shifting the subject. “stubborn. refuses to let the kasambahay do the laundry. still insists she’s stronger than all of us combined.”

“she probably is,” sophia chuckled.

“she probably is.”

“and your mum?”

you shrugged, but it came with a warmth you couldn’t quite hide. “she still makes me lunch. insists i don’t eat enough. dropped off sinigang last tuesday and then took half of my pantry in her bag.”

“that’s so her,” she giggled, shaking her head. you could feel her shoulder brush lightly against yours now, whether from the way she leaned or the narrow space between the stools.

you watched her as she spoke, the way her eyes lit up when she remembered things, like they lived in her just as vividly. it made something inside you tug gently at its roots.

“she always liked me.”

“she still does,” you answered, taking another swig at your bottle. “she saw you in a tvc last week and said, ‘that girl used to steal our shampoo.’”

“i did,” she admitted, not even sorry. “your mum had the expensive kind.”

you tilted your head, smiling into the rim of your bottle. “she still does.”

“you kept all of them,” she said. “everyone that mattered.”

you didn’t know how to explain that they weren’t just yours to keep…that they stayed because something about the way you lived didn’t demand that they love you from afar. but instead, you smiled and said: “yeah. somehow.”

for a moment, the silence returned — soft, comfortable. you watched the way sophia’s fingers turned her bottle slowly, the condensation pooling beneath it, catching the light.

then she looked at you, eyes curious. “so…is there anyone?”

you blinked, letting the question sit for a second longer than it should’ve.

“not really,” you shook your head too fast. “i think i’m too emotionally unavailable for that.”

she laughed, a small puff of air. “you? you’re being dramatic now.”

“i’m bad at saying things out loud,” you explained. “i think too much, miss my moments. then think about them for five years straight. not exactly a dream package.”

she looked at you like she wanted to argue, but only said: “you can cook. you’re a chef. you own a restaurant with a good bar. what else could a girl want?”

you gave her a look. “a girl who’s not afraid of commitment?”

“minor detail,” she chuckled, raising the bottle to her mouth.

you shook your head, but it was hard to hide the way your chest buzzed. not nervous exactly, the air shifted and you weren’t quite sure what it meant yet.

“what about you?” you asked. “anyone?”

sophia leaned her arms on the bar; just like you, her fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the bottle. “there was someone for a while, but it didn’t work out.”

right.

the words stung in a quiet, unexpected way. not jealousy, but the faint ache of knowing someone else had been where you once wanted to be; that someone got to hold her in the ways you could only imagine and dismissed as daydreams.

it shouldn’t hurt, but it did.

you tried to mask it by swallowing another sip. the bottle was nearly empty.

your mind caught on the earlier moment — her casual joke about needing a girlfriend. the way she said it so easily. it hadn’t left you since. your thoughts kept replaying all the times you held hands when you were younger, how it never felt weird, but maybe it was always almost something.

maybe you were just too much of a coward back then to let yourself name it.

she was much closer now. not in an intentional way, but enough to feel it. your knees brushed and her arm warmed the air between you. the room was so quiet it felt like even the walls were listening.

“have you seen the letter?” she eventually spoke, voice softer.

you blinked, caught off-guard. “what letter?”

her fingers curled slightly around the base of the bottle. “before i left…i wrote you one. i didn’t know how to say everything, so i wrote it instead. tucked it in your recipe book with the red cover. the one you always carried.”

you paused.

the memory flooded back fast: the airport, that day. you remembered it in pieces; how you refused godfrey’s offer to drive you home, how you cried in the terminal bathroom and then boarded a jeep half-blind from tears. your hands trembling.

you groaned, running a hand through your face.

“i left the bag,” you said, burying your face in your hands. “soph, i left the fucking bag in the jeepney. i was crying like an idiot and i got off without it. my notes and my book with your letter.”

she went still beside you.

“i’m so sorry,” you added, looking at her. “i had no idea.”

her expression changed. not anger, not disappointment; something you couldn’t name. a bruise behind her eyes like she had just lost something all over again.

you wanted to reach for her.

“it’s fine,” she quickly dismissed. “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

but it did, you could see that it did. and you didn’t want to ask what the letter said, not tonight because her voice had gone fragile in that particular way people get when they’ve decided not to cry.

and you knew sophia — when she closed a door, she didn’t open it again unless she wanted to.

you both sipped the last of your drinks. the silence felt like it had weight to it; carefully holding something between you.

she began to talk again….about the summers you used to spend barefoot, catching dragonflies, the time she dared you to eat a siling labuyo straight and you cried for twenty minutes and your old teacher who threw chalk with military precision.

you laughed, reminiscing.

you didn’t say everything you wanted to say.

but she stayed and that had to mean something, too.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

part two

[evesedenramblings]

Highlights of the “In-Character” portion of the Project Eden’s Garden AMONG US stream in no particular order:

Damon introducing himself as “the Ultimate Debater. A prodigy among prodigies. Someone who simply can’t be outmatched.” And everyone going dead silent before making fun of his egotistical ass

Eva hiding in the corner of the waiting room

Diana going to the corner of the waiting room with Eva to keep her company

Kai being the reason the stream started late because he couldn’t decide the perfect look for his Among Us character

All their little characters matching them so well; Wolfgang in a little suit, Grace with bunny ears, Wenona with bear ears, Tozu’s goat horns, etc, and Eva just having absolutely nothing on

Wolfgang and Jean not knowing how to play video games and just doing their best

How utterly excited Tozu is that everyone is playing a killing game and he gets to play too

Damon yelling OH GOD DAMMIT so bad the mic reverberated after Wolfgang killed him

Wolfgang being imposter, killing everyone, and going “that was fun! 🙂”, followed by Jean going “I didn’t know you had it in you!” and Wolfgang replying with “I didn’t know I had it in me either 🙂”

Ulysses mention that apparently in-world he was supposed to attend but overslept (possible explanation that is why Wenona attended)

Wolfgang doesn’t know what tiktok is

Kai and Damon sticking together and doing tasks and everyone going “yeah okay”

^^^ My personal favourite is Cassidy telling everyone to come look at them doing tasks together on the cameras and Jean going “oh so those two were off canoodling somewhere”

Cassidy being the kind of Among Us player who bets everything on “you’ll be sorry” or “do it then” and expects it to work and is shocked every time when it doesn’t

Tozu dying early on in every game

Damon catching an imposter in a lie by saying he couldn’t have been the killer, because he was with “Kai, his very good friend”

Jean saying “a princess has to look her best” when Cassidy makes fun of Kai taking too much time in customization menu and then adding “welcome back princess” when Kai finished

Wolfgang hitting Damon with “it’s just a game” when Damon was locked the fuck in on busting Wolfgang as imposter

Diana going for Tozu first as imposter and still being an absolutely terrible liar

Cassidy correct guessing Damon as the imposter begging him loudly not to kill her in voice proximity, so he actually can’t kill her anymore, so instead he scoffs and goes “wish” before trotting off

Damon being revealed as imposter last minute and Eva yelling about how she trusted him. Kai also being there.

Grace and Wenona very clearly not knowing how the game works but refusing to admit it

Cassidy calling Wolfgang Grace’s boytoy

[aftersunsz]

ME AND MY HUSBAND (QUINN HUGHES)

summary: while doing press for your new movie, you call quinn your husband despite now being married.

warnings: y/n mentioned :/

an: thank you for all the support on my sidney crosby fic!! also this is a completely random movie that i came up with so yeah lol

“Is that a Sofia Coppola pin?” You pointed to the lanyard the woman, Lucy, who was going to interview you and your co-star, Ralph Fiennes, had around her neck.

“Yes! She’s my favorite director.” Lucy mentioned before the interview started.

“Mine is Spike Jonze. . .” You said quietly as Lucy gasped dramatically. “But I love Sofia as well. My husband and I watched ‘Lost In Translation’ two weeks ago and then we started ‘The Virgin Suicides’ but I believe we got halfway before he fell asleep.”

It came out of your mouth so naturally. Ralph knew whenever you said ‘my husband’ you weren’t actually talking about your husband, but rather your boyfriend of many years. Quinn had met Ralph on your first day of filming and teased that he wanted to see a ring on your finger as soon as possible, as if he was your dad.

Lucy heard you mention your husband, but didn’t want to push you to talk about your ‘marriage’. She was here to talk about your new movie.

But some people took the video clip and started their own theories.

‘Did quinn and y/n break up?’

‘She moved on too quickly if they did break up’

‘NOOOO MY WIFE IS MARRIED TO A MAN’

‘So when the fuck did they get married?😭’

It didn’t take long for you or Quinn to hear about the internet’s theories about your relationship. You found some of the comments funny.

“Listen to this one . . You’re telling me quinn and y/n got married and not one photo was leaked by either of his brothers?” You laughed as you showed Quinn the tweet on your phone.

“That would be such a Luke move.” Quinn chuckled.

“You think Luke would leak our wedding on social media? That screams Jack!” You reply.

“No, it’s definitely Luke.” He corrected.

“Babe, I love you but you’re so wrong. Jack would do it.”

“Jack would do what?”

Quinn and you turned towards the new voice, which was Jack, Luke right behind him with a bag of snacks.

“You would leak our wedding pictures on social media.” You say casually as you get up from the couch and walk towards the kitchen of the lake house to get a water bottle.

“Me? That sounds like Lukey boy over here.” Jack poked Luke’s side as he walked into the kitchen as well.

“That’s what I said!” Quinn yelled from the couch.

“Well you’re both wrong because it wouldn’t be me, it would be Jack.” Luke corrected. He then started passing out snacks to you and his brothers. You gave a quick ‘thank you’ to Luke when he gave you your favorite chips.

“Wait, why are we talking about wedding stuff? Are you two actually married and forgot to invite us?” Jack wondered, hopping on top of the kitchen counter.

“No, we were just looking at tweets. Ever since I said my husband, the internet thinks we actually got married,” You explain. “Which people who are still dating do all the time!”

“Yeah except you two are like the internet’s favorite couple. You’re like princess diana and her husband.” Luke spoke.

“Her husband? You mean Prince Charles?” You couldn’t help but giggle at his choice of words.

“Yeah that guy.”

“You do know he cheated on Diana, right? And when he was asked if him and Diana were in love, he said ‘whatever in love means’, and—”

“Okay! So I chose the wrong guy to compare Quinn to, sorry!” Luke held his hand up in defense. “But my point still stands, you’re princess Diana so obviously it’s going to be a big deal if you keep saying my husband when you talk about Quinn.”

“Firstly, thank you for calling me the people’s princess, Lukey, that was really kind of you,” You smiled. “Secondly, I’m practicing for when I’m actually married. Quinn isn’t getting rid of me that easily.” You said as you walked back to the couch.

“If I ever say ‘let’s break up’ that isn’t me.” Quinn grabbed you by your waist and placed you on his lap.

“Disgusting,” Jack started to gag loudly as Quinn layed you down properly on the couch. “Oh come on! People sit there!” He had enough of the scene that was going on in front of him so he and Luke exited the kitchen quickly.

“Maybe we should get married, you know, finally make you my wife. I did promise you in chemistry class that i was going to marry you. Remember?” Quinn flipped you over so now you were on top of him, laying your head on his chest.

“Yeah. You even promised we would have red velvet cake even though you think it’s just chocolate cake dyed red.” Red velvet cake is your favorite. While Quinn thinks it’s just chocolate cake in disguise, teenage Quinn promised red velvet at your wedding.

“And our cake will be red velvet.” Quinn kissed the top of your head.

“I’m so excited for our day.” It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in Quinn’s arms. Thankfully you didn’t feel the small box in Quinn’s pocket.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── VISITING HOURS ♥︎

♥︎ pairing: husband!spencer x lovely wife!reader

♥︎ summary: what your life was like during and after your husband’s time in prison.

♥︎ warnings / tags: angst, fluff, comfort WC: 2K

♥︎ author's note: rewatching season 12 made me do this…

SPENCER REID MASTERLIST ♥︎

seeing your husband relieved the pit in your stomach whenever you visited, but you hated seeing him like this. the bags under spencer's eyes were more pronounced than usual, his curls frizzy and a stubble had started to grow on his face, a glass pane between you two. it took everything in you not to burst into tears, but you knew you needed to be strong for him.

"nice beard. you finally look like a grown-up." you said with a shaky chuckle, your eyes glassy with unshed tears. your husband responded with a quiet chuckle on his own. "it's kind of sexy. maybe you can keep it for a bit when you get out."

"alright, i will." spencer said with a small smile. he looked at the floral dress you'd worn, noticing how carefully you'd done your hair… you made an effort for him, even though he was in prison "you look beautiful." spencer said; it wasn't even a compliment in his eyes, but a statement. "thank y-" "you shouldn't." he interrupted, making you furrow your brows in confusion, "i can feel everyone watching you. i don't like it." spencer's words made you chuckle softly, even if he was being accurate. a lot of the inmates were looking at you.

"how... how is everything?" spencer cleared his throat, "it's... complicated." you bite down on your lower lip, "penny doesn't understand why you're not home, but i'm telling her it's because you're away on a vacation. your mom's been having some good days lately. even though i'm staying with my parents, i still go visit her as often as possible."

you pursed your lips, starting to dig through your purse for something. after a moment, you held up a paper photo, one of your daughter with diana, both smiling at the camera, "i told them i'd send this to you."

"aww." spencer's smile perked up at the photo, "did you cut penny's hair?" "yup. little peach said it was getting itchy. i think i should give you a little trim once you get home. or, i'll at least wash it with something that isn't a bar of soap."

"what, you don't think i'm handsome?" "fishing for compliments?" you raised your brows. "you're always handsome. but you could use a little shampoo, sweetheart. and i miss washing your hair." god, how you wished you could reach over and run your hand through his hair like you used to every night to help him sleep. "you're gonna be home soon. and then i'll wash it. deal?" "deal."

"visiting hours are over!" the guard called out, and suddenly, the pit in your stomach returned.

"amor vincit omnia." you said softly, pressing your fingertips to the glass.

"amor vincit omnia." spencer replied, pressing his fingertips against the glass.

the moment you heard that spencer's team had gotten him released, you nearly burst into tears, making your way to the BAU headquarters, unashamedly breaking the speed limit. and when you finally saw him, you actually burst into tears.

the quiet "spencer..." that left your mouth was muffled by your hand, tears starting to fall down your cheeks. it felt like a weight had been lifted off your shoulder when you saw him in one of his suits instead of the grey prison jumpsuit you'd seen him in lately, and before he could utter a single word, you rushed to him without caring at his teammates around you, wrapping your arms around spencer and squeezing him as tight as possible as if he'd disappear any given moment.

"i love you, i love you, i love you..." you muffle through your tears, making the man let out a huff of a laughter, squeezing you hard, spencer's hand on the back of your head, stroking your hair. you pulled away to look at him, your hands going to the sides of his face, one of them stroking his hair back from his forehead. spencer looked even more tired than the last time you'd seen him and his eyes were glimmering with tears, but there was still a small smile on his face. "god, i missed you."

"i missed you too." he mumbled quietly, his hand going to rest on your cheek, stroking the soft skin with his thumb, "so much." "i didn't wanna bring penny because i know it's hectic but she misses you so, so-" "i know, i know." the small smile on his face widened slightly. "i wouldn't want her here, the team's working on finding my mom." "they will, spencer. they will." you nod your head until he starts nodding his head back at you.

"mommy, why did you make me put on my new dress?" penny asked curiously, her little legs swinging as she sat in the dining room, nursing a juice box, the little girl's hair done all prettily with a white bow, the color of it matching the new floral dress you'd gotten for her, watching as you placed the cake you'd baked onto the table. "what's that for?"

"it's a surprise, sweetie." you smiled softly, ruffling her curls. you heard a key turn in the door, followed by the sound of someone pulling it open. penny furrowed her little brows when she heard the door close, "who's that?" "well, why don't we go check?"

penny eagerly skipped towards the door and you followed her, the little girl letting out a loud gasp when she saw who stood at the door. "daddy!" she squealed loudly, and just like you had, she rushed to spencer, the man leaning down to lift the little girl into his arms, holding her close to his chest. you felt tears pricking in your eyes, trying to swallow down your emotions, wanting the moment to be just about the two people you loved the most.

"i missed you so much, daddy!" penny exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of her chest in feigned anger once spencer finally put her down, her tiny bottom lip pushed out in a pout, the girl facing away from him, but spencer found this all the more endearing. your little girl had clearly gotten your attitude, and although most people wouldn't like that... he adored it.

spencer scooped penny up into his arms, the little girl giggling as her father spun her in the air before settling her against her chest, "you've gotten bigger, penny pie." spencer tickles her stomach teasingly, "mama been feeding you well?"

"staaaaawp!" penny pushed his hand away and rested her head on his shoulder, "no... she makes me eat the yucky vegetables we usually give to catterina."

you gasped in feigned shock as you watched the black cat walk into the foyer when her name was called, circling spencer's leg and purring as she rubbed her jaw on it, "have you been feeding your veggies to the cat?" you asked, crossing your arms across your chest. "nooo!" spencer said with an exaggerated shake of his, winking at your daughter, "we would never do that."

"well, there's some cake in the kitchen. but only good, vegetable-eating people get to have cake." "i love vegetables!" penny exclaimed, lifting her arms in the air and making you snort.

spencer was back in the prison laundry room, being held back as he watched louis delgado's throat being slit in front of him, rushing to the younger man and kneeling next to him, pressing his hand against the boy's throat, feeling the warm blood gushing out of the wound as he screamed for the guard in desperation, the life leaving delgado's eyes...

"guard!" he woke up shouting, sitting up in bed, breathless. he immediately felt a pair of arms envelope him, "spencer, you're at home." you said with a steady voice, turning his panicked face so he was looking at you. "you're with me, penny, and your mom. you're not there. no one can hurt you here." your hand went to his cheek, "you are at home. with me, penny, and your mom."

"i'm at home..." spencer said, his heart still beating against his chest, "with..." "take deep breaths and say it with me. who are you with?" "i'm with you..." he closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, "you are. who else?" "penny..." spencer took another deep breath, "who else?" he took another deep breath, "my mom..." "that's right. take a deep breath and say it again, in one sentence." "i'm with you... i'm with penny, and i'm with my mom..." "and no one can hurt you here." you pressed a kiss on his forehead, pulling him close.

but then came a soft knock at the door, and the two of you turned to look as the doorknob twisted, your sleepy daughter standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes, her plushie bunny in her arms.

"oh, penelope..." spencer breathed out with an air of guilt, "did i wake you?" penny nodded her head shyly and you pursed your lips slightly, holding out your arms, "c'mere, penny pie."

penny padded to your side of the bed, and you lifted her up onto the bed inbetween you and spencer. "i'm sorry i woke you up, penny..." spencer said slightly ashamedly, "no, daddy. i was having a bad dream that i couldn't get out of. it was good i woke up." "what happened in your bad dream?" your husband asked, stroking her curls, watching as the little girl's features twisted into a frown, "mommy accidentally left me at the store again and then a scary clown with big sharp teeth tried to chase me..."

"again?" spencer furrowed his brows, and you turned to look at him, "there's only one time i left her in the store and it was when she was one. remember?" the two of you turned to look at your daughter, who was innocently hugging her bunny toy. "fu- heck." you corrected yourself, leaning to the nightstand and opening the top drawer, grabbing a twenty-dollar bill and handing it to spencer, the man easily remembering the bet you two had made when penny first started crawling; would she have the memory of her forgetful mother or her genius, eidetic memory father. spencer chuckled softly, taking the money and placing it on his nightstand.

"daddy?" penny said softly, fiddling with her bunny, her father looking down at her in utter reverence, "yeah, penny pie?" "do you wanna share benny the bunny with me tonight?" she smiled at him with such sweetness it could've rotten your teeth, with such sweet words it nearly made you burst out into sobs. "he keeps me safe at night. he'll keep you safe too."

spencer took in a slow, deep breath, his eyes glimmering in the pale moonlight, a slow tear rolling down his cheek that he quickly wiped away and nodded, "i'd love that. you're very kind, penny."

the little girl beamed at her father's compliment, setting benny the bunny down between her and spencer, the large stuffed bunny she'd had since she was one-month-old, who used to be bigger than her, the toy that she cared for as if it was her own baby.

the three of you laid there, penny pressed against your chest, benny the bunny pressed against hers, and spencer pressed against his. soon, penny's soft snores filled the bedroom, and spencer's hand went to the side of your head, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear with a small smile.

"i'm at home. i'm with you, i'm with penny, and with my mom."

[superbat-love]

The Watchtower was unusually festive for a weekday. The halls were strung with fairy lights, and garlands looped over every available surface. Justice League members milled about in varying degrees of questionable taste in Christmas-themed winter wear.

Clark strolled into the common area, adjusting the snug Flash-themed sweater he’d been “convinced” to wear. The sweater fit a little too tightly, clinging in ways that even Superman found a bit embarrassing, but he wore it with a good-natured smile. Flash, dressed in a Green Lantern sweater, gave him a thumbs up.

Batman sat stiffly at the corner table with his tablet, looking like the pinnacle of unfortunate holiday fashion. He wore an oversized, garishly ugly Aquaman sweater paired with Wonder Woman-themed gloves and Green Lantern socks that peeked out from under his usual black boots.

Clark barely managed to suppress a grin. “Nice outfit.”

“I was wearing my usual outfit,” Bruce deadpanned. “This... ensemble was forced on me.”

Diana breezed by in a bat-themed sweater, shooting him a smug smile. “You were brooding in the dark, again. We decided you needed to join the festivities.”

Bruce glared at her retreating back but didn’t argue.

Clark sat across from him. “You look a little cold,” Clark noted casually.

“I’m fine,” Bruce replied curtly.

Before Bruce could protest, Clark had fashioned his flowing red cape into a scarf, draping it around Bruce’s shoulders. “There,” Clark said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Warm and dignified.”

Bruce looked down at the scarf, then back up at Clark. “This clashes with the sweater.”

“Maybe,” Clark admitted, his smile soft, “but it suits you.”

Bruce didn’t respond, but Clark could swear he saw the faintest hint of a smirk beneath the cowl as Bruce returned to his tablet. The Superman crest rested snugly over his heart.

[memetic-trigger-hazard]

Trope blender strikes again!

Since the formation of the Justice League Dark to deal with supernatural threats, Diana had been acting as the team's 'Superman' for lack of a better term.

It was, however, not a position she was entirely suited to, as ironically enough when engaging supernatural threats she was better suited to the same role that Batman played in the Justice League, engaging with superior training, tactics and specialised tools while also acting as battlefield tactical command.

With the lack of any other candidates however, she made do. But not for long.

Thanks to a wandering little girl, Diana had gained a new cousin and uncle who were refreshingly free of the hubris of the Greek pantheon, as well as an unexpected (and terrifying) meeting with her Grandfather who was far different from the stories, she supposed death and a few millennia would calm someone down. She was pleased however to add some paternal family members she could enjoy calm moments with.

Her Uncle was willing to help, however his backlog from the previous King in addition to the repairs and ongoing negotiations for reparations with the United States government made her feel guilt for placing further demands on him.

Her younger cousin however was more than happy to "get out of the house", her Father's comments about the expansiveness of a TARDIS castle completely ignored.

Ellie was already training with her old friend Pandora (So many happy reunions) so Diana was more than willing to take her to Themascerya for an initiation to the Sisterhood of Amazon's. Danny was ecstatic that his daughter was making friends.

Now Ellie as Banshee is JLD's front line fighter and Diana is the tactician, a dynamic duo of their own. Diana is so proud of her little cousin.

Which is why today was very..... Strange.

~

Basically the JLD have to head to the Watchtower for some threat, Ellie is super pumped because SPACE and Diana is excited to take her smol bean cousin to the Watchtower for the first time.

Batman and Co arrive and Drama TM occurs because "Holy shit that little girl looks like a Talia with blue eyes", Damian starts accusing and mouthing off, Ellie freaks because her Dad has warned her about the League of Assassins, so she freaks and bails.

Diana is explaining who Ellie is, how they're related when Uncanny Valley Danny in human form comes out of a portal in his "Royal Casual" work attire. Loose jeans,button up with vest, fluffy slippers with a coffee mug in hand. He's facing Diana, paying 0 attention to who else is there beyond "cool space station".

"Hey niece, why is my daughter running through my castle screaming about killer birds?"

"Ah, I believe she is referring to Robin being a former member of the League of Assassins." Diana replies.

Batman and the rest of the Justice League are tense, assessing this possible ally who RADIATES power and death. Anyone affected by death can feel it like static in their teeth during a lightning storm. Those who have been into the Lazarus Pits feel safe yet the overwhelming urge to KNEEL BEFORE YOUR KING.

"Well shit, someone actually escaped from the Fruit Loop Supreme? Anyone who gets away from my asshole grandfather is alright by me." Danny replies as he turns to look at the various heros, taking a sip from his mug.

"Danyal?" A faint hopeful whisper as Damian takes his mask off to look at his Brother (HOW, HOW? HE LOST HIM HE'S HERE HOW?) His dead twin somehow here and changed so much.

*Slurp*

"Well shit, didn't expect this."

This entire time Bruce's brain is making crunching noises.

It's not the extra son that's apparently God of the Afterlives. It's not the granddaughter.

Diana is his son's niece. Bruce had sex with his grand niece. Barbara is right, he needs therapy.

[whisperedmeg]

STRANGE GRACE ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part ii

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: when spencer, fresh out of prison, calls, she comes — and in the quiet of his apartment, something shifts. a kiss, a night, a beginning.

genre: hurt/comfort, fluff, smut if you squint

w/c: 3.1k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, kinda emotional bc Spencer like JUST got out of prison, pretending the whole plot point of diana reid living with spencer isn’t a thing for the sake of this, making out, things get a lil heated but no true smut, still NSFW MDNI, sexual tension, horny spencer, horny reader, uh oh boner alert, vaguely implied intimacy issues/prison trauma, alexa play fresh out the slammer by taylor swift

a/n: eeeep soft animal part 2! don’t worry prison arc is already over, our boy is freeeee and I couldn’t torture reader any longer by keeping him in there. again, i am very very brand new to posting fics on tumblr (+ writing for criminal minds in general) so I appreciate any and all interactions with this fic and any advice/feedback in my asks is always welcome! please reblog if you enjoy <3

series masterlist

A week passed since Spencer’s last visit without so much as a sighting of him. I thought about calling in a favor with one of the COs, asking about him under the guise of needing a follow-up exam. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to risk any suspicion.

When my phone buzzed that night, I almost didn’t answer.

Unknown number.

Probably spam, or a wrong number. Normally I ignored those sorts of calls without second thought, but something inside my brain told me to answer anyway.

“Hello?”

There was a pause on the other end — but it wasn’t dead air. Then, a voice:

“It’s me. It’s…it’s Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

I froze. My heart kicked so hard I had to press a hand to my chest. I was silent for so long that Spencer thought I’d hung up. “You there?”

“Y-yeah, I— Are you okay?” I finally replied after the shock wore off. It came out like a reflex. Not “where are you” or “how did you get out,” but rather a desperate need to know he was alright.

“I think so,” he said, and there was a quiet steadiness to it that hadn’t been there the last time I saw him. “I’m out.”

My fingers curled tighter around the phone. “Out,” I echoed, trying to make the word feel real. “You mean…?”

“I got released,” he said. “A few days ago. My team caught the actual killer.”

“And now?” I asked softly.

“Now… I’m home. In my apartment. It doesn’t feel like mine again yet, but it’s quiet. It’s… better.”

There was something about the way he said home that made my throat tighten. “Why are you calling me?” I asked, voice small.

He let out a breath, almost a laugh. “Because when it got quiet, and I finally had a choice… I wanted to hear your voice.”

I didn’t reply yet. I couldn’t.

“I thought about you,” he added, softer now. “More than I probably should’ve. But I think that’s what got me through the worst of it.”

I closed my eyes, and the line was quiet for a beat. “I kept thinking about your hands,” he said. “The way you touched me like you didn’t want to stop, even though you had to. You were scared someone would notice.”

I swallowed hard.

“But I noticed. Every time,” he added.

I swallowed again, fingers curling into the blanket. “That wasn’t exactly medical protocol.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why it mattered.”

Something about the way he said it made it impossible to breathe for a second. Silence passed between us again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said. “Or if it’s anything at all. But I know I want to see you again, if you’re open to it.”

I pressed the phone tighter to my ear, as if I could get closer. I let out a breath, words lodged in my throat.

“Will you come here?” he asked softly after a long stretch of silence.

I blinked, then sat up straighter. My answer came out quiet, but certain.

“Yes.”

—

After we hung up, Spencer swiftly texted me his address. My eyes bulged out of my head when I read it — 5 blocks from my apartment. He lives five blocks away from me. All this time, before he got locked up, he was in my neighborhood and we never once crossed paths. Or maybe we did, and we just didn’t know it. Something about our proximity made my heart flutter. Maybe, in a better, more fair universe where he never saw the inside of Millburn’s walls, we still would have found each other.

I changed quickly — nothing dramatic, just a clean t-shirt, jeans that didn’t look like I’d slept in them, and a light jacket. I brushed my hair, threw on chapstick, and stood frozen in front of the mirror for a full minute before grabbing my keys.

The streets were mostly empty this late, and I barely noticed the walk. My heart kept beating faster the closer I got — half panic, half adrenaline. When I reached his building, I hesitated with my finger over the buzzer.

The elevator ride took too long. Every second felt like a held breath. I knocked softly on the door of Apartment 23 before I lost my nerve, and while I waited, I realized I hadn’t at all prepared for what would happen next. I hadn’t thought about what I’d do when the door opened — would I wave? Say hello? Shake his hand like we were meeting for the first time, like we weren’t already tangled up in something we’d never named? Should we hug?

The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. And there he was.

Not wearing Millburn’s scratchy polyester uniform. Not under flickering fluorescent lights. Not watched, not guarded, not contained.

Just Spencer, right in front of me.

His curls were tamer. His clothes were soft and civilian. His eyes were the same.

For a second, we just looked at each other. I felt myself blinking too fast, my chest too tight. He was here. He was okay. And for the first time, I got to see him where he belonged.

“Hey,” I said, but it came out more like a breath than a word.

He smiled — not the small, shy one he’d given me in the infirmary. This smile was big and bright and laced with relief and genuine joy. “Hi.”

Hi. One word, and that was enough to pull me in. I stepped towards him and inside his apartment without giving it another thought. His hand found my waist like it had been there before, and the distance between us disappeared. I buried my face against his chest, the top of my head tucked under his chin, and I fought back tears I hadn’t been expecting.

He smelled clean. Like laundry and something sharp, like soap or aftershave. He felt warm. Solid. Human.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at me. “You didn’t know I was out.”

I shook my head. “Not until you called.”

He nodded. “Good. I wanted to tell you myself.”

The words sat heavy in my chest — because he’d thought about that. Because I mattered to him enough for it to be a conscious decision.

His apartment was quiet — just soft lamplight, books lining the shelves, half a tea kettle on the stove. Clean, but lived in. Walls painted green and much nicer furniture than I’d ever owned. Somehow both exactly what I expected and not at all. I tried not to stare.

“Tea?” he offered.

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure I’d be able to taste it. My nerves had hit a high, buzzing pitch — everything inside me tuned to this strange frequency of disbelief.

He moved around his kitchen like he’d only been gone a day, not months. I watched him from the edge of the couch, unsure if I should sit. I wanted to ask so many things — about his release, about how he was doing, about how it felt to be here — but none of them made it to my mouth.

“You’re really here,” I said instead.

He set the mugs down on the coffee table and sat beside me — not too close, but not too far. Close enough that if I shifted just a little, my thigh would probably brush his.

“I kept thinking about this,” he said softly. “Not just getting out — this. You. Sitting here. In my apartment.”

I swallowed, hard. “I’ve thought about it too.”

He didn’t touch me, not right away. But the space between us thinned, almost vibrated with possibility. Everything that had to stay hidden before — all the lingering glances, the touches passed off as clinical, the things neither of us could say aloud — it was still here. And now, there was nothing stopping it, except ourselves.

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if this was real — like I might vanish. I wanted to tell him I felt the same, but the words lodged in my throat again.

The quiet between us wasn’t awkward, but it was charged. Heavy. The kind of quiet where you hear your own pulse. Where the air feels like it could crack open if you moved too quickly.

He was sitting so still — hands clasped in his lap, shoulders hunched like he was still trying to make himself a little smaller. But his eyes kept flicking to mine, then away, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite get there. Like he was waiting for permission to want something again.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “I wasn’t sure what I’d find when I came here tonight. Who I’d find.” I looked down at my hands, fingers twisted together in my lap. “But it’s still you.”

He exhaled through his nose, barely a sound, but I felt it. The shift in the room. The relief, the ache, all tangled up in that one breath. I turned toward him, slowly, my knee brushing his. “You’re different out here than in there, obviously,” I added. “But you’re still you.”

He looked at me then, and whatever guard he’d been holding up cracked, just a little. I could see the want there, deep and quiet and scared out of its mind.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t have a plan. But I leaned in, not all the way — just enough that the space between us could disappear if he wanted it to. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, the rise and fall of his breath.

His hand lifted — hesitant, like he was reaching out in the dark. His fingers found my cheek and hovered for a moment before they touched my skin. Light, barely-there pressure.

“I don’t know how we’re going to navigate this,” I said softly. “But I know I want it, Spencer. I want to try.”

His brow furrowed, and for a second he looked like he might cry. He let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since I walked in, and nodded. “Me too.”

And then, there was that smile — the one I hadn’t really let myself hope for. The real one I’d only ever seen in flashes before now. It bloomed slowly, like it surprised even him.

“Come here,” he whispered.

My breath caught, and I climbed into his lap like I’d done it a hundred times before. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His hand was still on my cheek, steady, anchoring me there. He leaned in slowly, as if he was giving me time to change my mind — like he didn’t quite believe I wouldn’t. His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“I’ve wanted to do this ever since our first game of chess in the infirmary,” he murmured, his voice low and raw and gravelly. His lips brushed mine — just barely — and it felt like a question and a promise in the same breath.

And when he finally kissed me, it wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t cautious or unsure. It was full of months of tension and weight and wondering. It was his hands cupping the back of my neck, his mouth finding mine with a hunger he hadn’t let himself feel until right now. It was soft and deep and breathtaking, like he was relearning what it felt like to touch and be touched with care.

His hand slid from my cheek into my hair, fingers threading slowly, anchoring me there. Mine curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him just a little closer. And when I tilted my head, opened my mouth, let him take more — he did. He tasted like peppermint and tea and something warm I couldn’t quite name.

There was nothing clinical about this touch. No need for excuses now.

The kiss broke a few minutes later, only because we needed air. He pulled back half an inch, eyes darting between mine like he was afraid to wake up.

I leaned back into him, slower this time. His arms circled my waist as I shifted to straddle him, and the new position knocked a soft exhale out of him. My hands ran through his hair — I’d wanted to do that for too long — and when I tugged gently at the ends, he groaned low in his throat.

Something about that sound unraveled me.

“I wanted this so much,” I whispered, mouth brushing his jaw.

“I know.” His hands ran up my back, warm under my shirt. “Me too.”

We stayed like that for a while — kissing, touching, moving in slow, molten inches like we had all the time in the world. His hands weren’t greedy, but they were purposeful. Mapping. Memorizing. Every time he touched a new patch of skin, I felt the zap of it deep in my spine.

And god — when he looked at me like that? Like I was something he couldn’t believe he actually got to have? That made everything else disappear.

I could’ve gone further. Would’ve. Wanted to. But I felt the subtle way his breath caught, the firm tension in his shoulders. Something in him still hadn’t exhaled. He still hadn’t let go of everything he’d been carrying since his arrest, so I slowed us down. Kissed him softer. Ground my hips against his just once, slow and full — and when he gasped into my mouth, I let that be enough.

When we pulled apart, I curled into his chest, and he held me like he didn’t want to let go.

“Sleep here,” he murmured into my hair. “If you want.”

I lifted my head, giving him a soft smile. “I do.” I pressed my lips to the side of his neck, just once.

He shifted, and I felt it — the way his body responded to mine, hard and undeniable against my thigh. He froze for a second.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes wide and a little mortified. “Sorry.”

I laughed before I could help it, fingers brushing through the curls at the back of his neck. “I felt it earlier, Spencer. It’s okay.”

He let out a soft, relieved, still-embarrassed laugh, forehead pressed to mine. “You make it hard to think straight.”

I kissed him again, slower this time. “Good.”

Eventually, reluctantly, he pulled back enough to let me get up. He walked me to his bedroom and grabbed me something to sleep in, handing me a worn, soft t-shirt from his drawer with the words FBI Academy sprawled across the front in faded screen print.

I ducked into the bathroom and peeled off my clothes slowly, my skin still sizzling everywhere he had touched. My mind replayed every breath, memorizing the way he looked at me like he couldn’t believe I even existed. When I caught sight of myself in the mirror, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen, I didn’t fully recognize the woman staring back.

I slipped the shirt over my head — no bra underneath, just panties — and pulled it down til it hit mid-thigh. I padded back into the room, finding Spencer in bed, arms propped behind his head, waiting for me. He had changed into a t-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants.

When I slid under the covers beside him, it didn’t feel awkward. It didn’t even feel new. He reached for me like it was instinct — like he’d been dreaming of pulling someone into him for so long that his body already knew the way. Like he’d been dreaming of me. I settled against him, bending my leg so my thigh stretched across his hips, my head tucked under his chin. His arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me tight, and his other hand rested low on my back, under the hem of the shirt, his long fingers warm against my bare skin.

I could feel him again — hard between us, barely restrained. But he didn’t move. Neither did I. The air between us was thick with all the things we hadn’t said yet. Everything I’d thought about on those nights between his visits. Everything I felt when I filled out that report, trying to get him somewhere safer. Every phantom brush of our hands, every minute stolen under the fluorescent lights of the infirmary.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. Swallowed.

“You okay?” I whispered.

A nod, then, “Yeah. I just…” He let out a slow breath. “This doesn’t really feel real.” He released a dry, disbelieving chuckle.

I felt that too — the surreal ache of being so close after spending so long holding back. I imagined it must be a thousand times more intense for him, feeling all of this and readjusting to freedom all at once.

I reached for his hand and laced my fingers through his. “It is,” I whispered.

My leg stayed bent over his front. His hand didn’t leave my waist. His cock throbbed gently between us, pressing into the soft flesh of my thigh, and neither of us pretended we didn’t feel it.

We lay there for a long time like that — pressed together, aching, breathing each other in.

Eventually, he shifted enough to pull me in tighter. His leg hooked around mine, his lips brushing my temple again.

“I feel like this is a dream,” he whispered. “I know it isn’t, obviously. And even if it was, I don’t subscribe to the pseudoscience of dream analysis. But still.”

I smiled against his throat. “You’re not dreaming, Spencer.”

“I might be,” he laughed.

I tilted my head and kissed him again, soft and slow and full of promise. “Then wake up with me,” I murmured.

He exhaled, long and warm. “I will.”

And when I finally closed my eyes, my whole body buzzed with the ache of holding back.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part iii.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Danny's request for shelter Part 2

Title: "The Gift of Pandora"

Themyscira was a place of strength, of honor, of serenity.

It had become a haven for Jazz and Dani, a sanctuary where the scars of fear could begin to fade. But Danny Fenton was not a boy who believed in debts—especially not to people who had taken in his family like their own.

And so, he decided to repay the Amazons not with gold or favors, but with something far rarer.

He asked for a meeting—with Pandora.

The request wasn’t simple. Even with his ties to the Justice League, Danny had to call in every favor he’d earned—and lean on the parts of himself most people didn’t want to acknowledge.

The Phantom Lord of the Ghost Zone. Warden of the Veil. There were entities in the Realms who owed him. And after weeks of negotiating with spirits, ancient keepers, and one seriously grumpy Oracle, he got what he needed:

A message delivered through ethereal fire.

“She will come.”

Themyscira’s skies were painted with dusk when the veil between realms thinned. A ripple passed through the air like a breath held too long—and then released.

Pandora stepped through.

Not the mythical “box” bearer of mortal fear and temptation—though she had once been. This Pandora was regal, composed, and laced with the quiet sorrow of millennia. Her presence was like standing near the edge of something vast and unknowable.

She wore silver robes that shimmered with ancient script, her hair braided with starlight, and in her eyes glowed the light of a woman who had seen the rise and fall of empires, of gods and monsters, and still chose to walk forward.

The Amazons, wary but respectful, watched from the cliffside temple where the meeting was held.

Wonder Woman stood beside Danny, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“You brought her here?” she said quietly.

Danny nodded. “She’s not a threat. Not anymore. She’s knowledge. Pain. Healing. She’s exactly what your people deserve access to.”

Diana glanced at him, then at Pandora, who was gazing out at the sea like she remembered when it was first poured into the world.

Then, Pandora spoke. Her voice was low and deep, resonant like chimes in a storm.

“I am Pandora. Once cursed to carry the suffering of mankind. Now, a witness to its resilience.”

She turned to the Amazon assembly.

“I was made to hold what was feared, what was unknown, what could corrupt. But from the bottom of the jar, one thing remained.”

She looked to Dani, then Jazz. Then Diana.

“Hope.”

The Amazons opened their gates to Pandora—not as a goddess or myth, but as a teacher.

For weeks, she stayed on the island. She told stories no scroll had ever held. She walked with the wounded and sat in silence with the angry. She helped Jazz construct a new theory of trauma and identity that blended Themysciran teachings with the lessons of ancient, forgotten civilizations.

She shared with Dani the knowledge of spiritual containment and how to channel destructive energy into rebirth. Dani took to it like wildfire to dry grass.

Diana herself had long felt the burden of myth—the expectations, the legacy, the symbols. But with Pandora, she found a peer. Someone who had also borne the weight of the world.

One night, they stood at the edge of a cliff, side by side.

“We were both created by the will of gods,” Diana murmured.

“And we both learned to choose for ourselves,” Pandora replied.

When Pandora finally left, it was not with farewells, but with promises.

The Amazons would always have access to her wisdom. She would return when called—not as a savior, but as a sister of spirit.

As she stepped through the veil, she turned to Danny one last time.

“You carry great weight, young one. But you’ve learned the truth of all burdens: they become lighter when shared.”

Danny nodded.

“They shared mine,” he said simply.

And when Diana approached Danny again, her eyes softer now, she placed her hand on his shoulder.

“You honored us with trust. And now, with truth. For this, Themyscira owes you a debt.”

Danny smiled.

“No debts between family.”

And so it was written in the scrolls of Themyscira: that a boy with ghostfire eyes brought them not a weapon, not an ally—but the one thing even the strongest warriors need.

Hope.

[tragic-ships-tournament]

Tragic Ships Tournament Semi Finals

Madoka Kaname and Homura Akemi (Madohomu) from Puella Magi Madoka Magika VS

Propaganda under the cut!

Chainshipping:

No propaganda submitted, but cmon. Pull out the giant essay.

"Okay so our buddy Jigsaw here, John to his friends, puts Adam and Gordon in a trap in the so-called Saw Bathroom.

Adam wakes up from unconscious in a full bathtub and gasps for air trying to get out. In doing so, he inadvertently pulled the plug. It is pitch black in the room. A voice calls out from the other side of the room.

The voice is Gordon. His name is Lawrence Gordon, he's a doctor. For a few moments his voice is all there is until Gordon turns on the light. They are both chained to metal pipes in opposite corners. They introduce themselves. There is a dead body in the middle of the room.

Neither man trusts the other. In attempts to escape, they find clues: a clock that is brand new and as such the opposite of the rest of the room; an envelope with a cassette in Adam's pockets; and a casette, a key and a bullet in Gordon's. The key opens neither man's chain.

But there is a casette player in the hand of the dead man in the middle of the room.

With some difficulty, Adam is able to reach it so that he can play his tape which detailed his crimes (as according to John) and how he will either watch himself die or do something about it. This is a poetic trap on John's part as Adam is a voyeur and is paid by various people to follow others around and takes photos on them. As for Gordon? Well, first he sends his tape to Adam to hear first before hearing it himself. His crime is that as a doctor (his name is Lawrence Gordon, he's a doctor) he spends his days telling people they're going to die, giving them their death sentence. Now he must carry out that sentence himself. He must kill Adam by 6 o'clock or Gordon's wife and daughter will die.

The dead man in the middle of the room was one of Gordon's patients.

The recording gives them several other clues and soon they find a plastic bag in the toilet with two hacksaws and a bag of photos inside. Adam throws one to Gordon and immediately begins on his own chain. The saw breaks.

In anger, Adam throws it at the mirror which smashes. Gordon realises the saws are not for the chains but for their legs. This is when they realise they've been abducted by Jigsaw. Gordon mentions that Jigsaw had previously tried to frame him for murder by leaving his penlight at the scene of one of Jigsaw's crimes. Adam grows distrustful of Gordon because that's a weird detail to mention, huh? And in a fit of panic and anger, he takes the broken mirror shard and threatens to kill our boy Gordon (Lawrence Gordon, he's a doctor) unless he explains what the hell is going on. Then he notices that the mirror is a one-way mirror. He smashes the rest of it until he's cut through the glass and they see a camera.

A camera watching their every move. Adam soon learns that the camera is protected by another pane of glass, this one shatterproof.

Gordon, bless his heart, is able to calm Adam down and he begins to tell Adam about his family. He has a wife named Alison and a daughter called Diana. Adam asks if he wants more children, Gordon replies no as he doesn't think Diana gets enough time with her parents as is.

This nice conversation is ruined when Gordon tossed Adam his wallet so Adam can look at the picture of them in his wallet. That picture isn't there; instead, there's a picture of them tied up and gagged in their apartment. Adam doesn't want to worry Gordon so he quietly pockets it and just says the photo isn't there. This photo also has a clue that leads to Adam asking Gordon to turn off the light at which point they see a glowing X and are able to get the next puzzle in the trap. (It's a very drawn out trap compared to Jigsaw's more oftenly used one and one em traps) Gordon retrieves a box with a lighter, two cigarettes, a note saying the cigarettes arent poisonous (factually untrue consideeing lung cancer but John's an engineer not a doctor) and a phone. The phone can't be used to make calls so no 911 can save these white boys right now.

Adam, who doesn't know about the note, asks for a cigarette. Gordon says no.

Gordon asks Adam how he knew to turn off the light. Adam tries to lie, like a liar, and fails, like a failure, and is forced to reveal the photo. This is how Gordon (his name is Lawrence Gordon, he's a doctor) is able to come up with his big plan. He, having figured out it was poidonous, dips one cigarette into the blood of the dead man in the middle of the room. He turns off the light again. He explains his plan to Adam.

Lights come back up, Gordon gives Adam a cigarette and a lighter. Adam takes a drag. Suddenly what? Oh no? He's dying? Never mind, he's being electric shocked through his chain because boy howdy can that boy not act.

Also, when you turn off the lights, people can't see you. They can still hear you.

Gordon points his anger at Adam for the failure of the plan though again, he did just tell Adam the plan by talking. Like that's not that secure. But the electric shock triggers something in Adam. He remembers his abduction and having no one else in the room to talk to (besides the dead body), he tells Gordon about it. Their traumas are entwining. Then the phone rings. It's Diana. She begs her dad to save them. Then the phone is given to Alison who tells Gordon that he can't trust Adam and that they've known each other for a long time. Gordon confronts Adam. Adam admits that he's known who Gordon was for a few days. He'd been paid to follow Gordon around and take photos of what he was doing. Adam shows him the photos. Which photos, you ask? The ones in that bag that were in the plastic bag in the toilet. I'm sure you've forgotten about them now. They argue and Adam admits he followed Gordon to a hotel where Gordon was meeting up with one of his students, Carla. They were about to start an affair. Adam knows about this. As does John. That's the real reason Gordon is in this trap. A Welcome Home Cheater sign? No, no. This one gets the Saw Bathroom.

Convinced that whoever hired Adam must be Jigsaw, Gordon presses him on it. Adam relents. It's not Jigsaw. It's a detective who's convinced Gordon is Jigsaw.

They fall silent again. They figure out one of Jigsaw's henchmen is a guy called Zep who's an orderly at the hospital. The time runs out. The phone rings again. It's Alison! She's broken free! They're saved! Gunshots. Diana screams. Gordon cries. The chain electric shocks Gordon into unconsciousness. Adam immediately tries to wake him up, terrified Gordon is dead. He's not. But he's broken down. And when he was being electrocuted, he'd chucked the phone out of reach. Out of all other options, Gordon (his name is Lawrence Gordon, he's a doctor) uses his shirt to stanch his leg and begins to cut his foot off. Adam begs him not to and to just calm down, but Gordon's too far gone. When the deed is done (which you don't see in the film by the way, the first Saw was very tame when it came to gore surprisingly enough), he crawls to the dead body in the room and takes the gun out of the man's hand. He loads the gun with the one bullet he has. He shoots Adam. Adam falls back like he's in Looney Tunes. Gordon screams at the camera and begs them to save his family. And then Zep comes in. He was the one holding Gordon's family hostage. Gordon tries to shoot him. Gordon had one bullet in his gun. His shots are unsurprisingly ineffective. Zep is unimpressed with this. It is just a rapidly paling man missing a foot shooting an empty gun like he's in a water pistol battle in a county undergoing a drought. He decides to kill Gordon as he didn't kill Adam by 6 o'clock. And Zep is from the county over and has plenty of water to spare. He aims his gun at Gordon.

But he forgot about Adam. Like a Bugs Bunny reborn, Adam comes in from behind with the toilet tank lid. In his fear and pain and anger, he beats Zep over and over and over with the lid until Gordon is able to calm him down. They stare at each other like sad gay men. Gordon tells Adam that if he doesn't get out, he'll bleed to death here. Adam begs him to stay. Gordon promises to come back for him. Adam begs him not to leave him. Gordon crawls out the room. Adam is left alone, a bullet in his shoulder and his heart crawling away. He's all alone. Apart from John Kramer. He was the dead body in the middle of the room this whole time. He stands up. He tells Adam that the key to his chain was in the bathtub. The one that Adam had accidentally pulled the plug out of. He leaves the room. Game over.

Adam will die in this room. It was always going to end like this. One of them was going to die in that room. If Adam lives, Gordon must die. If Gordon lives, he must kill Adam. There is no way in the world for these two to survive, not together. There was always going to be a dead body in that bathroom."

Madohomu:

"madoka magica aired 12 episodes in 2011, with a sequel movie titled “rebellion” released in 2014. it’s been over 10 years since then, and these two have become the face of yuri. if someone makes a meme about loving yuri and makes a collage of example ships, madohomu are 100% gonna be present. video essays, fanart, fics, music videos and all kinds of fan projects featuring them are still wildly popular on all social media platforms.

but let’s talk about them (without going into too many spoilers, so this will be about the thematics in their relationship). they are light and darkness. the ying and the yang. forever intertwined. one would not exist without the other, yet they cannot exist together. for madoka has too much love for every living thing and too little for herself. and homura has too much love for madoka it blinds her to everything and everyone else, and she struggles with deep self-hatred. madoka has forsaken her own existence for the world, and homura has forsaken the world she created for her. the show has a lot of religious imagery, and madoka is akin to a god; there’s a shot of homura, who grew up catholic, kneeling at the feet of a gigantic statue of madoka, praying, but her hands stain her clothes. because if madoka is god, then homura is lucifer - specifically, iblis, the muslim version of lucifer, who loved god so much he betrayed him, for he’d rather defy him than bow to his creation, humans. and homura would rather defy the sanctity of madoka’s wish, rather than obey its laws, for she will take madoka’s happiness in her hands, if she refuses to. in the movie, dolls representing homura’s inner machinations yell, “gott ist tot”, for homura’s god, madoka, dies in the movie, when homura remembers that madoka was human first, and godhood was something she reached to save everyone, against her best interest and happiness. their relationship is one of love, kindness, obsession, devotion, hope, faith, worship - they are the thesis and the antithesis, the beginning and the end, the alpha and omega, an unstoppable force and an immovable object. forever locked in a struggle, never fully embracing, for madoka will always sacrifice herself for the world, and homura will always doom the world and herself for madoka."

[magical-reid]

The rings we keep

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!FBI!Reader

Genre: fluff

Content warnings: none?

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: An FBI agent unexpectedly marries Spencer Reid in a Las Vegas hospital to fulfill his mother's wishes, leading to a complicated relationship built on convenience. As they work together on a dangerous murder case, their bond deepens, and Spencer's quiet heroism reveals that their accidental marriage might hold the potential for real love.

The badge clipped to your belt was as much a part of you as the Glock strapped to your hip. Being an FBI agent meant long hours, endless yellow tape, and the occasional brush with danger that left you rattled for days. But you loved it. You thrived in the chaos, the adrenaline, the chance to make a difference.

Still, nothing could have prepared you for the chaos of being married to Spencer Reid.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t kind or brilliant—he was both, in spades. Spencer was a walking encyclopedia with a heart that quietly held more compassion than most people knew. You hadn’t planned on marrying him, though, in fact, neither of you had planned on marrying anyone.

It had started two months ago, in a Las Vegas hospital room. Spencer’s mother, Diana, had been lucid that day—something you’d learned was both a gift and a curse. She had smiled at you as you sat next to Spencer, the three of you chatting about books, the weather, and old stories from her youth.

“You’re so good to him,” Diana had said suddenly, fixing her gaze on you.

You’d looked up, confused.

“She is,” Spencer had replied, his voice soft as he squeezed her hand.

“Marry her,” Diana had said, her words clear and direct. “Spencer, I want to see you happy. And I want to see you married before you have to leave.”

Leave. It had been a terrible misunderstanding, her mind tangling the threads of the past and present. But the plea in her voice had been real, and Spencer hadn’t been able to bear telling her no. He’d looked at you, something fragile and desperate in his eyes, and before you knew it, you’d agreed.

The walk-in chapel had been surreal. There was no big dress, no flowers—just a quick exchange of vows, a ring from a pawn shop, and Diana’s tearful smile as she watched from her seat. The moment had been oddly sweet, almost sacred.

And then the moment had passed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You’d both agreed to annul it later, but life got in the way. Between your cases and his, you barely had time to sleep, let alone complete the paperwork. Eventually, Spencer had suggested staying married, if only for the convenience.

“It’s easier,” he’d reasoned. “Legally, I mean. Besides, it’s not like it changes anything.”

And for two months, it hadn’t.

Today, though, felt different.

The case you were working on had taken a grim turn, and your unit chief had decided to call in the BAU. You hadn’t protested—it was a particularly brutal series of murders, and their expertise was invaluable. But when you stepped into the police station that morning and saw Penelope Garcia’s face light up like Christmas, you knew she’d snooped.

“Mrs. Reid!” she chirped, her voice barely contained.

You froze mid-step, narrowing your eyes at her. “Not here,” you hissed under your breath.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she whispered conspiratorially, winking. “My lips are sealed… mostly.”

Before you could respond, your unit chief waved you into the conference room. The BAU was already seated, their attention split between a whiteboard covered in crime scene photos and a map dotted with pins.

Spencer was there, of course, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. He didn’t look up when you entered, but his presence was enough to send a twinge of nervous energy through you.

Your unit chief cleared his throat. “Agent Reid, thanks for joining us. BAU, this is Agent Y/N Reid—she’s with our unit and will be helping coordinate the case on our end.”

There was a moment of stunned silence. You saw Emily Prentiss glance at Spencer, her brow raised in mild amusement. Derek Morgan’s smirk was almost immediate, while JJ covered her mouth, clearly trying to hide her surprise.

“Reid?” Derek repeated his grin widening.

“Y/N Reid,” you said firmly, emphasizing your first name. “Yes. We’re married. No, it’s not relevant to the case.”

Penelope let out an audible squeal from the corner of the room, and you shot her a warning glare.

“It’s not relevant,” Spencer agreed, his voice calm but his ears slightly pink. “Can we move on?”

Derek chuckled but relented, turning his attention back to the board. “Alright, let’s get to it.”

The case was grim—a string of murders targeting young women who all bore a striking resemblance to one another. Blond hair, blue eyes, petite builds. They’d been abducted, held for days, then left posed in public spaces. The unsub was meticulous, methodical, and growing more confident with each kill.

By midday, the conference room was a storm of theories and strategies. Your units worked well together, bouncing ideas off one another as new leads emerged. But despite the progress, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

It wasn’t the unsub—though God knew you’d had stalkers in your line of work. No, this was different.

You looked up from your notes and caught Spencer’s gaze. He quickly looked away, pretending to focus on the map.

The weight in your chest grew heavier.

Spencer was your husband. Legally, at least. But in every other way, he was your coworker. He was brilliant and kind and occasionally maddening, but you didn’t know how to be his wife. Not really.

“Y/N?”

JJ’s voice broke through your thoughts. You blinked, realizing everyone was looking at you.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, you and Reid should interview the victim’s roommate together. She might be more comfortable with a familiar face,” JJ said, glancing between you and Spencer.

You hesitated, but Spencer nodded. “Makes sense,” he said. “We’ll take my car.”

The drive was awkward.

Spencer fidgeted with the radio, flipping through stations before settling on classical. You stared out the window, trying to ignore the growing tension between you.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said finally.

“So have you.”

He sighed, glancing at you briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “Are you… okay? With everyone knowing, I mean.”

You frowned. “It’s not like we planned this, Spencer. Besides, it was bound to come out eventually.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to make things harder for you.”

You softened at his words. Despite his sometimes awkward demeanor, Spencer had a way of saying the right thing when it mattered most.

“It’s fine,” you said. “Really.”

He nodded, though he didn’t look convinced.

The interview went smoothly, though it yielded little new information. The roommate was distraught, her hands trembling as she recounted the last time she’d seen the victim. You kept your tone gentle, and your questions open-ended, but the answers all led to the same dead ends.

When you returned to the station, the atmosphere had shifted. Penelope was typing furiously at her laptop, muttering under her breath about search parameters. Emily and Derek were deep in conversation, while Hotch stood at the head of the table, his arms crossed.

“We have a lead,” he announced as you and Spencer entered. “The unsub’s car was spotted near a bus station downtown. Surveillance footage shows him leaving the scene shortly after the last victim was found.”

He gestured to the screen, where a grainy image of a man in a baseball cap appeared. His face was partially obscured, but something about his posture sent a chill down your spine.

“The station is less than a mile from here,” Hotch continued. “We need to move quickly.”

Your team sprang into action, splitting into smaller groups to cover more ground. Spencer was assigned to the tech team with Penelope, while you were paired with Emily and Derek to canvass the area.

As you searched the bus station, your instincts prickled. Something about the unsub felt personal—too calculated, too deliberate. You couldn’t shake the feeling that he was watching, waiting.

When your phone buzzed with a text from Spencer, your heart skipped a beat.

Be careful.

You texted back a quick You too before slipping the phone into your pocket.

Hours later, the unsub made his move.

It happened fast—too fast. You were alone, having split off from Emily and Derek to follow a potential lead. The unsub cornered you in an alley, his knife glinting in the dim light.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Your blood ran cold. He knew your name.

“FBI,” you said, keeping your voice steady as you drew your weapon. “Drop the knife.”

He didn’t. Instead, he smiled—a slow, deliberate smile that made your stomach churn.

“You’re just like her,” he murmured. “So pretty. So perfect.”

Before you could respond, footsteps thundered behind you. The unsub’s smile faltered, and he turned to run, but not before Spencer tackled him to the ground.

The knife clattered to the pavement as Spencer wrestled him into submission. You moved quickly, cuffing the unsub as Spencer caught his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

You nodded, though your hands were shaking. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He offered a small smile, but his eyes lingered on you, searching for any sign of injury.

Back at the station, the unsub’s confession came easily. He’d been stalking his victims for months, studying their routines, their habits. He’d seen you on the news once, years ago, and decided you were his ideal type.

The realization made your skin crawl.

“You saved her life, pretty boy,” Derek said, clapping Spencer on the shoulder. “That’s what husbands are for, right?”

Spencer flushed, but his smile was genuine.

Later, as you packed up to leave, Spencer lingered by your side.

“You didn’t have to come after me,” you said softly.

“Yes, I did,” he replied without hesitation.

For the first time since your wedding day, you felt the weight of the ring on your finger. Maybe this marriage wasn’t as complicated as you thought.

Maybe, just maybe, it was exactly where you were meant to be.

Part 2

[w0rmss]

Justice league members (your choice) reacting to y/n who can perfectly mimic sounds? Just some crack hcs xD

I did a selection just a few sentences on how they'd react. Bruce clark diana hal Oliver.

Enjoy

Batman

Bruce sat at one of the computers in the watch tower checking over reports and mission files when he heard it. A voice that sounded just like his. And not his voice changer. Him Bruce Wayne. The man turn in his chair to face the voice. To face you. You smiled waving at him. "Hello I'm the new member. Mimic." Bruce sat there in shock for a moment before turning back to the computer grumbling. "Never do that again."

Superman

Clark was minding his own business looking out the large window at teh stars. His head traveling off to distant places. But then he heard a voice that sounded just like Lois. "So you're the man of steel." He turns and is met with someone who is definitely not Lois. "You're not." He starts but you cut him off. "Lois lane yeah I know sorry. You guys seem so close on the tv and I love the way she talks. I'm mimic. Martian manhunt recruited me." You smile and stratch out a hand as the man stares at you in pure confusion

Wonder woman

Diana was following the sound of an electrical buzzing through the halls of the watch tower. She couldn’t find it anywhere but had to in case her team were to be endangered by it. Eventually, she could hear it getting closer and closer till she crashed into you. You land flat on your ass but the buzzing stopped. "Oh hera, are you alright." Diana picks you up with no bother. "I'm fine. Thank you. Sorry, I was in my own world." You smile. "Did you hear a buzzing by any chance." The amazonian asks, looking around the hall. You tilt your head confused till you realise. "Oh god, sorry, that was me. I mimic sounds. It's my meta ability. I am so sorry." The woman looks at you before laughing.

Green lantern

You and Hal were stilling in the break room together. He had spent the last 30 months showing of his ring before he stopped and realised he didn't know what you could do. "So what's your bit." You asked sliding into a chair across from you. "I can mimic sounds and voices." You reply causally sounding exactly like him. The lantern nearly falls of his chair in shock. He looked bewildered amused and confused at once. "Can you do bats." He asked leaning in closer. "I'm batman." You say in the vigilantes voice before giggling.

Green arrow

Oliver had heard a lot about you before he met you. So when he found you in the training room one afternoon he had to say hi. "So you're the new hero. Mimic right." The blonde asked, walking over to you, a towel around his neck. "That I am handsome." You say in black canary voice making Oliver jaw drop. "I um. Wow. That's impressive. What else you got." With a smile, you mimic the voices of league members' villains and everyday sounds. "Do a... tea kettle." Oliver grins leaning against a bench as you do just that.

Hope you enjoyed and I hope that was right.

Feel free to request like reply repost

Stay safe

Have a wonderful day night afternoon etc