#or is the mistake getting into it and then thinking about him?

[fallout-lou-begas]

So I started playing Ace Attorney but I accidentally started with the third game, Trials and Tribulations, and played the first case (Turnabout Memories) before realizing my mistake – but I did think, at the time, that it was a brilliant and daring design choice to start you out as Mia Fey, Phoenix’s mentor, in flashback, and play has her against several condescending, infantilizing, or even outright sexist court personnel in a drama that just so happens to feature the cool lawyer guy on the box in the most pathetic and embarrassing state imaginable before you even get to play as him. But then that “first” mission dovetailed into the actual first mission from the first game (The First Turnabout) perfectly, because Turnabout Memories is more or less a fanservice recreation and expansion of that first case, but by playing them in opposite order and immediately in sequence, it comes off instead as seeing right away via timeskip just how well that blubbering idiot you helped can handle himself in a court of law now, thanks to Mia’s tutelage – which is itself a continuation of Grossberg’s, as experienced prior. And every note is there, right down to your mentor getting stressed out to the point of exacerbating a medical condition, and opposing the same loser prosecutor.

And then the second case from the first game (Turnabout Sisters), of course, is about the death of Mia Fey that was foreshadowed at the end of Turnabout Memories, making it the first case where you (the player, mechanically) and Pheonix Wright (the character, narratively) are effectively on your own. You (as Pheonix) finally meet Grossberg again, and his staunch refusal to assist in the case is only made more concerning and significant by your firsthand experience playing as Mia under his wing in Turnabout Memories as the “first’ case, and you wonder immediately about their falling out. Maya’s introduction also keeps Mia in the world (including somewhat literally) by revealing more about the Fey family and Mia’s history, relationships, and legacy, and the thing is that I do have to say that playing Turnabout Memories first and getting that experience as Mia, and seeing her as a flawed and insecure rookie fighting for the win before we see her as the effortlessly cool and confident mentor figure, made for a much more narratively satisfying death of a woman than I think it would have been otherwise. You even get a line from Edgeworth in Turnabout Sisters where he calls Pheonix out for using “Mia’s style” of cross-examination – what he calls cowardly nitpicking of perfectly fine testimonies isn’t just how Pheonix does it narratively, it’s how you (the player) do it as the core mechanic of the game, because it’s how Mia does it, and while she is your guide in The First Turnabout, playing as Mia before you play as Pheonix and doing the same thing shows you firsthand that she’s taught him so well that even the prosecution can see it.

This accidental play-order of Turnabout Memories before The First Turnabout and Turnabout Sisters shows off an invaluable amount of Mia Fey’s character, agency, and development that combine to make her feel like the main character for a perfect and holistic three-act introduction to the series, where it doesn’t feel like Pheonix truly “takes over” until Turnabout Samurai – in which he literally does, in fact, take over the law office with Maya as his assistant. It left such a massive impression on me – much more of an impression, I think, that the intended play-order would, which I don’t think does Mia Fey a total disservice at all, but definitely relegates her to a relatively more one-dimensional mentor figure in Pheonix’s shadow for almost the entirety of her short on-screen lifespan if you don’t have the experience of playing as her in Turnabout Memories first. You as the player develop a much richer relationship to Mia that makes her death in Turnabout Sisters feel so much more personal, and the stakes of cracking the case so much more significant. It just enhances her character, and her role in these two cases, immeasurably.

And I mentioned it earlier, but it can’t be said enough that the player’s relationship to Pheonix benefits from this play-order, too – it’s because of Mia that he goes from the sobbing idiot who ate a bottle of poison on the witness stand for a girl who tried frame him for murder into the hotshot rookie lawyer through which you (the player) get to ask Mia for help during the trial in the first place! And she gives you that help because she has been in this same position herself and understands completely! You (the player) were there! The First Turnabout is also, honestly, kind of an underhand toss after Turnabout Memories (it's literally the first ever case so of course it's easy), but it only benefits the pacing of this play-order to have it as a second act before the much more complicated Turnabout Sisters. And when you, the player, are on your own after Turnabout Sisters and have to start Turnabout Samurai without her help, the only way that I can describe it is that you feel ready to make Mia proud.

[hanniebaeee]

Not Your Type

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: Nothing much

Genre: strangers to lovers, fluffff, angst

Summary: He saves you from trouble. And you fall head over heels. You're a rich girl, he's struggling to make ends meet. But love knows no bounds right?

a/n: Ok, so this turned into a whole Kdrama 🤣 But I love this Jinnie so much omg 🥺 I usually don't post on Mondays, but here it is 🤷‍♀️

You knew this dress was a mistake. You hated it the moment your mum shoved it into your hands and demanded you to wear it. 

A shimmery, black number with a cut so high on the thigh you might as well have just worn some glitter and called it a day. But no. This was mum's way of nudging you not so subtly into the marriage market, hoping that some future business heir from this high-society party would take an interest.

And if that dress wasn't enough, your mum had the nerve to slide next to you and poke your ribs with her elbow and say, “Smile, darling. You look like a corpse in designer wear.”

So you gave a withering glare and you left. Stomped out. Heels clicking against the marble dramatically until they clicked on the road dramatically.

You had walked a long way until you registered the silence. You stopped short, swallowing as you took in your surroundings. A quiet alley. Dark.

The moment the reality of your situation crashed in in the form of a shadow in the dark, your knees were already shaking. Literally.

You turned and started speed walking - as fast as those cursed heels let you - but you could hear heavy footsteps behind you, closing in fast. 

Of course this was the perfect time and outfit for a creepy stalker to take interest in you. Of course. The night you looked like an expensive, trembling snack in five-inch heels.

“Hey, princess,” the voice rasped behind you.

Shit.

But before you could even gasp, another figure stepped in between you and the stalker. Tall. Long limbs. Broad shoulders in a dark hoodie. Short dark hair. And cold.

His gaze flicked lazily to your stalker. And he took a step forward. 

“Leave,” he said, voice low and calm. “Now.”

The creep stammered. Blinked. And to your surprise, turned and ran.

Silence.

Then the stranger’s eyes slid to you. You were frozen - heart pounding and barely breathing.

“You’re not from here.” He stated, voice flat.

His gaze ran down your dress - slow and unbothered - and back up. And then he sighed. 

“What kind of idiot walks through this part of the city dressed like that?” Another glance at your outfit. “You’re lucky he was a coward.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to get stalked, thanks.” You bristled. 

His brows lifted the tiniest bit as he said, “And yet here you are.”

“What’s it to you?” you snapped, crossing your arms.

“Nothing, actually.” He said, and turned like he was about to leave.

“Wait!” you blurted. “Please don't leave me here!”

He stopped and sighed again.

“Where do you live?” You swallowed and told him.

“That's not too far.” He said. “Come on, I'll walk you.”

He started walking, not waiting for you. The nerve. The absolute nerve. You wanted to throw a tantrum right there, but you hurried after him, heels clicking. 

“You know, you could be nicer to the girl you just saved.”

“Oh so I have to save you, and be nice to you. And anything your highness?” 

Your heart flipped. But you caught yourself, but not fast enough, unfortunately, because you were pretty sure that you just imprinted on him like a damn baby duck. 

“Do you treat all damsels like this?” you muttered.

He snorted, the tiniest, briefest smirk ghosting his mouth. “You’re no damsel.”

Damn right. 

“I cannot stop thinking about him.”

“You’re still on this? Seriously?” Your cousin Minho groaned loudly from your bed, face buried in a silk pillow. 

Jeongin, your best friend, didn’t even look up from his phone, as he said, “What’s his name again?”

“I don’t know,” you whined, flopping dramatically onto the bed. “That’s the problem. He saved me from that creep. He was gorgeous…like a fallen angel in a hoodie.”

“Or like a potential criminal.” Minho snorted.

You threw a cushion at him. “Don’t ruin this for me.”

Jeongin sighed deeply, finally looking at you. He was the picture of a perfect young businessman. Perfect black hair. Rolex watch. Already CEO of his father’s company.

“Babe. Seriously. Why him?” he asked. 

“Because,” you huffed, rolling over, “he didn’t care about me. He didn’t even look impressed. Or starstruck. Or interested. Like I was just... normal.”

Minho lifted his head, looking scandalized. “God forbid.”

You pointed at Jeongin. “You. You can find out who he is. I know you can. Call Seungmin and find out for me, please, Innie.”

Jeongin squinted at you like you’d grown two heads. And you'd mentioned Seungmin - Jeongin’s friend (your short term fling from your uni days), and also a lawyer, who had the necessary “contacts”. 

“You want me to run a background check on the stranger who saved you in a back alley? With the help of your ex.” Jeongin repeated. 

“Obviously. He isn't my ex, he's just -”

“Babe. You cannot be serious.”

You flopped again, more dramatically this time.

“Innie, this is a life and death situation.” You stared at the ceiling with a sigh. “I want him.”

Minho sat up and hit you with a pillow. “You are unhinged.”

Jeongin stared at you for a moment and then sighed like his soul was leaking out of his body.

“I cannot believe I’m doing this,” he muttered, pulling out his other phone - the shady one. The black one you weren’t supposed to know existed.

“Jeongin!” Minho gasped. “No. Don’t encourage her insanity, so quickly.”

“She’s going to make me anyway,” Jeongin grumbled, typing furiously. “Might as well get it done before she sells her watch to hire a private investigator.”

“That was one time!” you cried.

“Princess. What exactly are you planning when I do find him?” he asked, glancing at you over the screen.

You grinned, wicked and sure.

“Oh, I’m going to marry him. Oh my God.” you squealed and tackled Minho into a hug as he flailed. 

“She’s going to eat this poor man alive.” he wheezed as he wrestled you away.

—

A few hours later:

Jeongin stood in front of you, holding his tablet like it was the Holy Grail.

“I found him.”

You sat up so fast your hair smacked Minho in the face, and he made a disgusted sound, shoving you away.

“Tell me everything,” you gasped.

“Name - Hwang Hyunjin. Lives in a terrible part of town with his single mother and little sister, Yeji - high school, smart kid. He works two jobs. Day shifts at a garage. Night shifts at a diner near the river.” Jeongin read out. 

“Criminal record?” Minho asked, sitting up.

“None. Not even a parking ticket.” Jeongin scrolled. “Guy’s clean. Like... painfully clean. His school record? Top of his class. Wanted to go to art school. Didn’t. Had to stay and take care of the family ‘cos dad's not in the picture, and mum's a bit poorly to work.”

You were silent. Too silent.

Jeongin looked up as he said, “No mob ties. No arrests. He’s just... broke. Really broke. But responsible. Works like a dog to keep his sister in school. And keeps weird rich heiresses safe from creeps, apparently.”

You stared. Heart pounding.

Minho squinted at you. “Oh no.”

“I love him,” you whispered.

Minho threw his arms up. “Jesus CHRIST -”

“I knew he was good.” You grabbed a pillow, hugging it to your chest. “I knew it. I could smell it. Like... honour. And a bit of tragedy.”

“Princess, no.” Jeongin pointed sharply at you. “You can’t ‘love’ someone because you read a background check. That’s insane.”

“I can and I do.” You grinned, full teeth. “I’m going to marry him.”

“Stop. Stop this immediately.” Minho said, shaking his head. “If your mum finds out-”

“Marry him. Have his babies. Take care of his family.” you ranted. 

“You’ve lost your mind,” Minho said, dragging a hand down his face. “Jeongin, you broke her.”

“Babe. You can’t just... show up in his life. You’re from this world.” He gestured grandly around your room. “He’s from a place where if rent is late, the landlord screams through the walls.”

You just smiled.

“All the more reason I want him.”

Minho groaned. Jeongin groaned harder. You flopped back on the bed, sighing dreamily.

Hwang Hyunjin. Beautiful. Big sad eyes and rough hands and a world you weren’t supposed to touch.

The bell above the greasy diner door chimed when you pushed it open. God. It smelled like fried onions and floor cleaner in there.

“Okay, princess,” Jeongin’s voice crackled through your AirPods. “Go seduce the poor man.”

“I hate this,” Minho groaned. “This is actual social suicide. She’s going to die.”

“Shut up, both of you,” you hissed under your breath, sauntering toward the counter. “He’s here. I see him. Oh my God, he's such a dream.”

Hyunjin stood behind the counter, white apron on, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and head down as he wiped the counter with a rag.

He glanced up, saw you, froze and narrowed his eyes.

You had half a mind to scramble from there, but you took in a deep breath and walked up to him, sat on the cracked red bar stool and smiled at him.

“Ohhh it’s you,” you said aloud, and heard snickering from your idiot friends on the other side. 

“What are you doing here?” Hyunjin asked. 

“Just here for some coffee-” you said, smiling like a maniac.

Silence. He looked you up and down like you’d fallen from space.

“Coffee,” he repeated slowly. “Here?”

“This is so bad,” Minho whispered.

Hyunjin folded his arms, apron tugging tight.

“Not really your type of place, princess,” he said coolly. “We don’t serve sparkling water or gold-dusted lattes, in case you got lost.”

But you didn't hear half of what he said because you were gazing at him with those big eyes, pupils blown wide and a soft blush covering your cheeks. 

“You’re perfect,” you said without thinking.

“Oh my God,” Jeongin shrieked. “BABE HE JUST INSULTED YOU!”

Hyunjin blinked and frowned as he asked, “What?”

“I…uh…I heard the coffee’s good here!” you yelped. “Just wanted to try it. I love coffee. And local businesses, you know. Love them.”

“Oh for fucks sake,” Minho said, cringing on your behalf.

Hyunjin sighed and turned, grabbing the ancient coffee pot.

“She’s gonna drink that sludge and die,” Minho whispered gleefully.

“Babe, you can still run, he’s not watching,” Jeongin said.

Before you could say anything, a chipped mug slammed in front of you. Hyunjin leaned in, eyes sharp.

“Drink.”

You blinked up at him and then lifted the mug. Taking a deep breath, you sipped. And nearly died. It tasted like nightmares and tar. 

Jeongin snorted as he said, “Want me to call an ambulance?”

Hyunjin watched your struggle, his mouth quirking - just barely - as you forced it down.

“Good?” he asked. 

“Delicious,” you coughed, smiling like your life depended on it. “Best... best coffee ever.”

He leaned closer, elbows on the counter and his eyes burned into yours.

“Why are you really here, princess?”

“Oh my God,” Jeongin gasped. “He’s onto you. Abort! Abort!”

“Maybe I like the view?” you offered in a small voice. 

Minho made a dying seal noise and said, “NO. You did not just say that.”

Hyunjin gave you a suspicious look. 

“Try not to choke on it,” he muttered, sliding the sugar jar toward you. “Can’t have you dying here. Bad for the business.”

You nodded, stirring sugar into the horror coffee.

“She’s gone. This is the end. She’s ruined.” You heard Minho groan as Jeongin laughed.

You took another sip, and grimaced. Ok, so you can't do this. Not another sip. So you pushed the awful cup away.

“Ugh. You win,” you huffed, looking up at Hyunjin. “Fuck the coffee.”

Hyunjin leaned on the counter, arms folded, a slow amused smile tugging at his mouth. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“You think?” he drawled. “Told you it was bad. But you rich types always gotta try things for the thrill, right?”

You pouted, feeling your face heating up. 

“No,” you said loudly, with your heart in your throat. “It’s not the coffee.”

His brow arched, his eyes daring you to speak. 

“I like you, okay?” you blurted. “I really do. You’re the first person I’ve actually liked in…God, forever. And I don’t know how to play the cute, coy girl. So there. I like you.”

The air froze between you as Hyunjin blinked and stared like you’d just spoken parseltongue.

“What?” he said flatly.

“I like you.”

His mouth twitched - but not into a smile. But rather into disbelief and cold annoyance.

“Okay. That’s not funny.” He said, his jaw ticking.  “If that's all, you can leave.”

Your stomach twisted. Oh this was all so wrong. 

“I’m not joking,” you said, sitting up straight. “I swear I’m not. I -”

His hand hit the counter, hard. Not loud, but firm - enough to make you shut up.

“This is my workplace,” he said sharply, but his voice didn't raise at all. “Not your playground. I work double shifts to pay for rent. To buy dinner. To keep my sister in school. Not that you’d know what that feels like.”

You flinched.

“I’m not some shiny toy for you to chase when you’re bored,” he bit out, voice tired, but sharp. “So whatever game you’re playing - stop. Get out. And I’ll pretend this whole thing didn’t happen.”

His chest rose and fell fast, jaw tight. His hand gripped the counter like he wanted to break it.

And you - ridiculous, spoiled, hopeless you - just sat there. Heart racing and face hot.  And wanting him more than ever.

“Hyun-”

“Get. Out.” he muttered again, cold, sharp, final. “Please don't play with my life.”

Oh, you weren't doing this. You weren't used to this - being told off for being simply honest. You were so innocent like that. What did you even do wrong? You were in love, was that a crime? 

So you stood and stepped closer, leaning in till his face was inches away from yours. Hyunjin’s body stilled like a wild animal caught in headlights.

And you smiled, slowly and sweetly. Like you knew something he didn’t.

“How dare you. I know you think I'm some deranged rich girl. But you don't get to say things like that just because I'm rich. I'm human too. And,” you whispered. “Just so you know - I’m gonna marry the fuck out of you, Hwang Hyunjin.”

His eyes blew wide, and his mouth parted in barely concealed shock.

“Because I think you're amazing and I'm in love with you,” your voice cracked, but you held on. “I’m gonna marry you. And then I’m gonna show you what I can really do. Just you wait.”

SILENCE.

And then - 

“AAAAAAAAHHHHH -” Jeongin squealed in your ear like a dying dolphin. So damn loud that your eardrum actually rang. “OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD SHE SAID IT - SHE PROPOSED IN A DINER - MINHO SHE PROPOSED IN A DINER -”

Hyunjin was frozen. His jaw moved but no words came out. His pretty mouth opened, closed and opened again. Like you’d broken his entire brain.

“Speechless, babe?” you teased softly, and he blinked - once, twice.

“You’ll see, Hyunjin,” you said softly, the hurt showing on your face for the first time since you stepped into the diner, and Hyunjin swallowed hard. 

You straightened, collected yourself, winked, and sashayed your rich, totally humiliated ass right out of that diner, leaving him gaping like you’d hit him with a truck.

---

You wobbled out of the diner with your heart hammering and your throat burning. Your friends watched as you yanked open the car door - Minho’s sleek black Porsche - and threw yourself into the back seat. 

And burst into tears. Loud, ugly, no dignity left tears.

Minho turned slowly in the driver’s seat and sighed.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, staring dead ahead. “Are you seriously crying over diner-boy now?”

Jeongin popped his head between the front seats, grinning like a gremlin.

“Babe,” he cooed. “Babe no, come on. You killed it in there. It was hot. Honestly I nearly asked for your hand myself.”

You sniffed, wiping your eyes. “He hates me.”

“No he doesn’t,” Jeongin said, climbing fully into the backseat beside you and pulling you into a hug. “He was shook. You fried his brain, babe. He doesn’t know what hit him.”

“He told me to get out,” you wailed.

“Maybe because you proposed like a crazy person, while he was at work!” Minho scolded, grabbing a few tissues out of the box in the dashboard, and offering them to you. 

“Shut up, hyung!” Jeongin snapped. “She’s so brave. She’s a queen. She just confessed her love, that's not a crime!”

You sniffed again, and hugged Jeongin tighter.

“I’m gonna marry him,” you mumbled miserably.

Jeongin grinned wide. “Damn right you are.”

The next morning:

Hyunjin shoved open the garage door - his face dark and tired. Chris, the owner of the garage, glanced up from the ledger he was looking at.

“What's that face for?” he asked, walking around the little counter and walking towards the garage door to swat his younger brother Felix, who was ogling at a girl outside.

“Stop flirting with her, Lix! Her dad’s gonna kill you, and then throw her in a convent. So please get back to -”

“Hyung! She smiled at me!” Felix whined, rubbing his head. “Ahhhh she smiled!!”

Chris glared. “Get back to work, right now.”

Hyunjin sighed loudly and sat down on an old toolbox.

“And you,” Chris said, pointing at Hyunjin. “What happened?”

Hyunjin ran a hand through his hair and mumbled, “She happened.”

“She who?” Felix’s head popped up from behind a car. “The rich girl?”

“That girl,” Hyunjin muttered.

“OHHHHH?”

Hyunjin shot him a look. “Shut up.”

Chris smirked. “And?”

“She came to the diner last night. Said she liked me. Confessed. Right there. And told me she's gonna marry me.”

“Holy shit,” Felix breathed, looking way too excited for someone who just got swatted for slacking.

“And what did you do?” Chris asked, trying to hide the fact that he was trying not to laugh. 

“I may have kicked her out of the diner…and she may have left crying…”

Felix gasped so loud.

“HYUNJIN YOU DON'T MAKE GIRLS CRY!” he scolded, his beautiful face set in a scowl. 

“I had to,” Hyunjin whined. “I’m not dragging someone like that down here. What am I supposed to do, make her eat instant ramen and ride the subway? She’s not built for this life. She thinks she is. But she’s not.”

Chris leaned on a car, eyes wide. “But you like her.”

“What?” Hyunjin said, looking surprised.

“You obviously like her.”

“Maybe.” Hyunjin exhaled, looking pained. “She's adorable, ok? She looks at me with those big sparkly eyes and I'm gone. Like when I helped her with that creep? She looked at me like that. And yesterday? She looked at me like that again, and I wanted to die. I just wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole, because I know I don't deserve her, but now it's gonna kill me to see her marry some CEO and carry on with her life -”

“Man. You’re so doomed.” Felix said with a grin. 

Hyunjin groaned, covering his face with his hands. 

You were strolling down the street with Minho, sipping on bubble tea, looking totally depressed.  Well, that was until your face lit up like a Christmas tree as your eyes fell on him. Across the street. You gripped Minho's arm so tight, it made him yelp.

“Oh my god, oh my god, Lino look!!’

Minho's eyes followed you. And there came Hwang Hyunjin, with a pretty teenage girl beside him - his sister, had to be - and they were laughing at something.

“He looks so happy. Are you gonna terrify him in the middle of the street, darling?” Minho asked, sipping his coffee.

“I mean, I have say hi to my sister-in-law, don't you think?”

“You're unhinged.”

“I learned from you.” You quipped with a shrug, before waving at Hyunjin. 

He slowed the moment his eyes locked onto yours. And they widened in horror. 

“Hyunjin!” you chirped, and Minho stopped dead beside you. 

Hyunjin froze like an animal in headlights. Again. Yeji blinked up at him and then, across the street at you.

“Who's that?” she whispered, tugging at his sleeve. 

You beamed and bounced across the street with Minho sighing and trailing behind like a weary dad.

“Hi!” you greeted brightly, waving.

Hyunjin rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but your face. Yeji was glancing between you both and her narrowed, seeing her brother’s ears turn a bright shade of red. 

“This is...uh…” Hyunjin coughed. “This is...a friend.”

“A friend?!” Minho hissed in your ear. “When did that happen? When did that happen?!”

You elbowed him sharply, grinning at Yeji.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” you said, smiling sweetly. “It’s so nice to meet you. You must be Yeji, right?”

Her face lit up as she nodded.

“Oh, your brother talks about you all the time,” you teased, shooting Hyunjin a glance.

He choked.

“I don’t -”

“Oppa, you didn’t tell me you had such a pretty friend!” Yeji giggled and you giggled back - like two old friends already.

Hyunjin’s eyes met Minho's, who stood beside you, utterly silent, sipping his bubble tea with the sourest poker face you’d ever seen.

“Hyunjinnie, how come you didn't invite her over for dinner?” She said, giving Hyunjin a teasing look, and then turned to you and said, “Do you wanna come home for dinner? He’s cooking tonight!”

“No, she doesn’t -” Hyunjin started, panicking.

“Yes I do!” you gasped, clapping your hands. “I’d love to!”

Hyunjin closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Like he was praying to every god he knew. Because honestly, his heart ached seeing that smile on your face.

“It’s nothing fancy, but you’ll come, right? I wanna hear how you met oppa!” Yeji saud and you nodded. 

“Oh, I’ll tell you everything,” you laughed.

“Of course you will. Of course you will.” Minho groaned softly beside you. 

---

You stood in front of Hyunjin’s apartment door with a paper bag in one hand and flowers in the other. You have been standing outside his door for like ten minutes now, trying to gather your thoughts. You were scared to death. You really were. 

You so desperately wanted him to like you, but that sharp stab every time he looked so done with you didn't help. Neither did the butterflies in your tummy. 

Just as you raised your hand to knock, Hyunjin opened the door. Seeing your panicked face, he grinned and leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed across his chest. 

“Were you gonna stand here all night?” He teased and yeah. All that sass and courage leaked out of your body and left the chat real quick.

“I was gonna knock.” You said, indignantly.

“Like you were gonna knock that last five times?”

“Shut up.”

“My home, my rules.”

“Well, it's gonna be mine soon. So there.” you said, you face so close to his, and he looked away, but still had that grin intact. 

But he had to give it to you. You looked like a dream in your pale pink dress, hair loose, face fresh, holding flowers and chocolates like you were here to charm a kingdom.

“Who’s at the door, Hyunjin?” his mother called from the kitchen.

Yeji popped into view behind him, eyes going huge.

“Y/N! Why are you just standing there?! Come in! Mum look!”

You grinned and held out the flowers, just as his mum came into view. 

“For you, princess. And these are for you, Mrs. Hwang. I hope it’s okay.”

“They're beautiful!” Yeji gasped, grabbing them.

Hyunjin stepped back silently, watching you charm his mum and sister. You slid past him with a wink.

“Smells amazing in here. Can I help?” you asked. 

His mum smiled, sweet and tired, and said, “Of course you can help. Hyunjin, give her an apron!”

He fumbled one off the hook, muttering under his breath.

“You really don’t have to -”

“But I want to,” you cut in, tying the apron with a grin. “Tell me what to do.”

And just like that, you were in, chopping garlic beside his mother and stirring soup with Yeji chattering happily beside you. You laughed when his mum teased you about your useless rich-kid knife skills, and showed you how to do it right.

And Hyunjin? He leaned against the counter, watching it all unfold. Stealing glances every moment he could.

He didn’t mean to. He'd promised himself not to dream about something he knew wasn't possible for him. But here you were in his little kitchen, hair in a messy bun, sweating in the kitchen heat, and laughing so sweetly when his mum scolded you for cutting the tofu too thick. And his chest squeezed.

Damn it. You looked like you belonged there. Like you fit. Like you could stay forever. Even though his poor heart screamed the reality. 

Yeji hooked your arm, giggling, telling you some story about Hyunjin, and you laughed, throwing your head back - so unapologetically… you. 

Hyunjin felt his ears burn, and his cheeks burn. His entire body burned. His mother leaned in close to him, smiling.

“She’s sweet,” she said softly. “I like her.”

Hyunjin swallowed hard and shook his head. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he muttered, eyes flicking to you.

“I think you’d be lucky, boy.” His mum patted his arm, and Hyunjin really didn’t know what to say to that.

Because you were stirring soup in his kitchen, smiling like sunshine. And he was already losing this war.

A few weeks later:

Hyunjin had just started his evening shift at the diner and it was unusually quiet, except for the soft clink of cutlery and the low hum of old music crackling from the radio.

Hyunjin wiped down the counter, shoulders stiff, and his eyes tired. And then the doorbell chimed. He looked up expecting his usual trucker gang. But it wasn't them.

It was Jeongin - waltzing in like he owned the place, his silk shirt gleaming. He grinned his beautiful boyish grin as he sat on the exact barstool you had sat on some days ago.

Hyunjin went on to stacking the coffee cups for no real reason, avoiding Jeongin’s eye. 

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Hyunjin muttered without glancing up, “it’s a no.”

Jeongin propped his chin on his palm, and said, “Don’t be like that, hyung. I came for coffee. And maybe to give you some unsolicited advice.”

Hyunjin scowled. “No coffee. No favors. No schemes.”

Jeongin sighed, dramatic as hell.

“You’re so difficult. I get it, you don’t like me, I’m too rich, too flashy, blah blah.” He waved a hand. “But you like her, don’t you?”

Hyunjin froze, the last cup on his stack wobbling. 

“That’s none of your business,” he said quietly.

“Wrong,” Jeongin smiled. “She’s my best friend. It’s exactly my business.”

Hyunjin’s jaw ticked as he gave Jeongin a glare. 

“She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t want this. Or me.” He hissed. “She’ll hate this life. Give her time. She’ll wake up.” 

Jeongin leaned forward, and sajd, “She’s not asleep, hyung. You are.”

Hyunjin shot him a warning glance, but Jeongin kept going, softer now.

“You think you’re protecting her. Like she’s some delicate princess in a glass tower.”

Hyunjin frowned.

“But you don’t know her like I do.” Jeongin’s voice dropped, gentle and serious now. “She looks strong and loud and stubborn. I know. But she’s the softest, most breakable thing I’ve ever met. So good. So stupidly genuine. And if it’s not you…” He shrugged. “It’ll be some rich husband. Some billionaire. Yes. You think she deserves that. But do you really want her to have a pretentious empty life? She’ll smile in pretty dresses and die quietly inside. Have you seen her smile, Hyunjin? The one she has when she talks about you? I have.”

The silence stretched between them. Hyunjin put the wobbly cup down and sighed. 

“It’s not fair to her,” he whispered. “I can’t give her anything.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want things, hyung. Maybe she wants you.” Jeongin smiled softly. "Besides, what's wrong in letting her give for a change?"

Hyunjin looked down - his chest feeling tight. Like even breathing hurt. Because no matter how many times he told himself that he can't do this, the way you babied Yeji and cooked with his mum, so many times over the weeks, had his heart completely surrendering to you. 

“She deserves better.” he said, his voice a whisper.

“She deserves what she wants,” Jeongin said gently. “And she wants you.”

The bell above the door jingled again and Jeongin stood, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.

“Think about it, hyung.” He smiled, knowing. “She loves you.”

And with that, he left, leaving Hyunjin staring at the cup in front of him. Chipped and old. And wondering if Jeongin was right.

But his thought bubble popped as his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, and pressed the phone to his ear, ignoring the ‘no phones during working hours’ policy. 

“Hey mum-”

---

Hyunjin burst into his apartment, panicking. 

“Yeji?”

His little sister sat curled on the couch, face buried in a cushion, sniffling like the world had ended. Their mum stroked her hair gently, looking absolutely worried.

“She won’t talk to me.” she said. “She hasn't said a word since she got home.”

Hyunjin's eyes fell on the big blotches of ink stains on her white uniform shirt, his heart squeezing in worry. 

“Yeji, come on.” Hyunjin crouched beside her. “Talk to me. Who did this?”

She just sniffled. And it hurt Hyunjin more because she was the sweetest child. She knew Hyunjin did everything he could to give her a reasonably good life. He did take up extra work apart from his diner and garage jobs, whenever he could. She hated to burden him. Or their mum. He knew that. 

Hyunjin sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

“Damn it,” he muttered, and grudging, almost desperately, he pulled out his phone.

And did the thing he never thought he'd do. 

---

Twenty minutes later, you blew into the apartment like a spring breeze, in a soft sundress and pretty sandals. And a giant stuffed bunny under one arm.

Jeongin strolled in behind you with grocery bags and the smuggest grin ever as he placed a few tubs of ice cream on the kitchen counter.

“Where’s my baby?” you said softly, kneeling beside Yeji. “Hey, princess. Wanna tell me what happened?”

Yeji peeked out from the pillow, eyes huge and wet. For a long, awful moment - she said nothing. Hyunjin and his mum watched as she quietly stood up, took your hand and led you inside to her bedroom. 

And now, seated on her bed, she held your hand and said, “They...called me poor…said my clothes were ugly. Called me trash... and...and poured ink all over me and laughed at me, because they know I would go back with this shirt again...”

And she broke, his tiny little sobs absolutely breaking your heart. Your eyes went soft as you held her as she cried. You saw Hyunjin peeking through the crack in the door, taking a step back as he saw his sister in your arms. 

Hyunjin's back hit the wall, a hand over his heart as he willed himself not to cry. He felt so terribly guilty.

“Yeji,” you said gently. “Look at me.”

She did. 

"First of all," you whispered, "anyone who says something like that is smaller than a speck of dust. Second, you know what I see when I look at you?"

Yeji blinked.

"I see someone kind. Someone smart. Someone who’s gonna grow up and run the world. And, you should know that bullies always end up in the gutter…at some point of time."

A soft, tiny smile graced her face. 

"There it is," you grinned. "That pretty smile. Just like your brother's."

Yeji laughed a teary laugh and sniffled.

“Of course you'll say that,” she teased in a shaky voice.

Hyunjin heard you laugh, and even through his tears, he smiled.

“Will you allow me to fix this?” you asked.

“Can you?” Yeji's eyes were big as she asked that.

“Of course, you're my family now. And no one messes with my family.”

Yeji giggled softly, and Hyunjin’s heart cracked a little. Then a lot.

“And you have this now.” You plopped the giant bunny into her lap. “Hold on to this, and consider it done.”

Yeji giggled harder and hugged the bunny tight.

You stood, smoothing your dress, and stepping out of the room to find Hyunjin standing right outside. You could see that his beautiful eyes were moist and he was trying so hard to not let it show.

“Don't worry, Hyunjin, I'll handle it.” you said.

“Wait, what?” Hyunjin said, alarmed. “What are you -”

But you were already walking out the door, grabbing Jeongin’s arm like a handbag.

“Let’s go, Innie. We’ve got bullies to end.”

“No violence!” Hyunjin called out. “Y/N!”

You stopped so abruptly on hearing Hyunjin say your name (probably for the first time) that Jeongin walked straight into you and stumbled.

You turned around, trying not to let your emotions display on your face as you said, “Of course not,” 

The next day, when Hyunjin arrived at the principal’s office at Yeji's school, you were already there, laughing with the principal. 

A few teachers and four girls stood by the side, shifting nervously. You were dressed in a dark blue dress, hair styled perfectly, with a smug look on your face.

“Hyunjinnie, come, sit,” you said, and the principal was quickly on her feet, welcoming Hyunjin in like he was the president. 

Hyunjin shuffled in and took a seat next to you, completely lost. And you slid a file across the table toward the principal, and said, “And that is a formal complaint against the girls bullying my sister-in-law. I have such low tolerance to bullying, but obviously you are such a capable educator, I'm sure you'll handle the situation well. If not, I'll have my lawyer pay a visit, since we already know the lowlifes who ignored all the previous complaints -”

The principal shook her head vigorously, and the teachers on the side looked horrified. So did the girls. And Hyunjin was glancing at you and then those teachers with wide eyes. 

“We'll let the principal handle this for now, right, Hyunjinnie?” You said, turning to look at Hyunjin, who nodded and said, “Yeah. Yes.”

“Oh good!” You said, standing up, throwing those girls one last death glare. And Hyunjin stood up too, and followed you out of the office.

“What did you do?” He asked, catching up with you.

“Oh nothing much. Just a few new computers. New library shelves and books, and -” You smiled sweetly. 

“Ohh so you didn't flex your money at all.” Hyunjin rolled his eyes. 

“Oh please. No one messes with my family, babe,” you shot back. “I take my sister-in-law duties very seriously.”

You winked and Hyunjin stared, his heart fully betraying him. Because he was this close to accepting the fact that he was in love with you. 

You turned with a swish and strolled past him like the queen you were.

“See you at dinner, Hyunjinnie.”

He caught your hand, suddenly, and you turned, your eyes falling on his hand and then looking up. 

“Hey.” Hyunjin said, his ears turning red. “Thank you.”

You smiled, a truly lovesick giddy shy smile, and ran off - leaving him standing there. Blushing and breathless. And absolutely, 100%, hopelessly doomed.

---

Later that night:

Dinner was done. You and Yeji were howling with laughter as you told her all about how her bullies begged and apologized. And their mum, smiling as she watched. 

Now as you carried the dishes to the sink, where his mum was washing the dishes, Hyunjin came up to you. 

“Hey,” He muttered awkwardly. “A word?”

Your eyes met, and you nodded, before following him into his room. 

Door closed, and Hyunjin sighed, back to you, hand on the handle, steadying himself.

“Listen, I’m trying to make this make sense in my head,” he began, voice strained. “You can’t just…do things like that. Being here. Charming my mum. Fixing things for Yeji. Make my heart -”

He stopped, and turned. And saw you gazing at him like he was the only star in the entire sky. Like he'd hung the moon. Like you were so gone for him -  it made him absolutely dizzy.

“God,” he whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t -”

And then he grabbed you, and cupped your face, breathless, and kissed the hell out of you.

No warning, no hesitation, no self control. Just pure unfiltered need. You gasped, and then melted into him, clutching his shirt as he walked you backward to the bed, lips moving together. The back of your legs hit the bed, and you fell back pulling him down with you. And of course -

SQUEAK. The world’s loudest, most traitorous bed squeak.

“Shit -” Hyunjin muttered against your mouth, trying to stop the metal springs from screaming.

“Fuck, they’ll hear -”

You grinned into his kiss, holding on to him tighter. “Hyunjin... they already know...”

He groaned softly, forehead dropping to yours.

“I swear to God, hold still. Or they’re gonna totally misunderstand this.”

SQEEEEAK.

The bed protested again as you shifted deliberately, smug as hell.

His eyes flew wide and he whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

You gave him a wicked grin, your fingers running through his hair now, and his jaw tightened. He closed his eyes as your nails raked over his scalp.

“Woman, you’re going to ruin me.”

“You like it,” you whispered.

He groaned, helplessly and then kissed you again. And you adjusted underneath him and the bed screamed again. 

“We're gonna need a new bed if-” You said matter of factly. 

“Yeah yeah, we do-”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere @soona-huh @princesskrystix

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Three

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 5.3k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

conner makes his first appearance :pp

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942 @lilyalone @aixaingela @lettucel0ver @time-shardz @pix-stuff @galaxypurplerose @cupid73 @theproblemisthattimnotfictional @vanessa-boo @timebomb1101 @chemicalwindexbottle @chiizuluvr @ihavenomuse @mat5u0 @thismessyshe @lovebug-apple @myjumper @angwlart @esposadomd @nisarelle @mrmacwaffles @mazixxss @ememgl @naomi-xxi @bbmgirll @ash0-0ley

previous. next.

The Wayne Manor hasn’t changed.

Not really.

The city evolves. The world turns. Gotham devours itself, spits itself back out, over and over again. But this house… this house stays the same.

The marble under his shoes still holds the faint scuff of childhood racing feet. The wood panels still creak in the same spots — the third stair from the landing, the right edge of the west hallway. The heavy scent of aged paper, fireplace ash, and expensive polish lingers in the walls, impossible to scrub out no matter how often Alfred tries.

Bruce breathes it all in as he steps through the front doors, loosening his tie with one hand, briefcase heavy in the other. Even here, the work follows him. The meetings, the shareholders, the endless faces wanting his attention. None of it ever really stops. It never has.

The Enterprise board meetings bleed into the evening now. They always do. Stacked hours of power suits and shareholders, of dry numbers and brittle conversations, while Gotham simmers just outside the tower walls.

It leaves him tired in a way the cowl never could.

He heads for his study on autopilot, steps measured, jaw tight, already sorting through the files in his head.

But he pauses in the living room.

The faint, flickering glow of the television spills across the dark floor. A faint hum.

His brows furrow.

The television should be off. Alfred is meticulous about the house’s order. Damian never leaves a screen running. Tim is in the city tonight. Jason—well, Jason rarely sets foot in the Manor unless he’s forced. And Dick…

Bruce’s frown deepens when he thinks of his oldest son.

He crosses the threshold into the living room, the quiet hum of static and aged video speakers meeting his ears. The living room is dimly lit, shadows curling across the furniture. The television sits against the far wall, the soft glow of an old video playing, the grain of the footage unmistakable — aged, imperfect, preserved.

The timestamp in the corner reads Gotham Academy Auditorium – March 2019.

And you’re there.

You are not there when he finds the tape. You are far from the manor. Far from Gotham. Far from him.

But you are there on the screen.

Frozen in time.

Dancing.

White.

Ethereal.

Your teenage frame moves with the precise, aching grace of someone born for the stage, wrapped in the soft shimmer of a Swan Queen's tutu, the tulle layered and crisp against your thighs. Your hair is pulled tight into a bun, not a single strand out of place. The stage lights cast a pale glow over your skin, highlighting the sharp, elegant lines of your arms as they stretch and flutter, the ghost of a bird in flight.

Your expression is serious. Focused. But vulnerable in a way Bruce can’t tear his eyes from.

He doesn’t remember this.

The realization roots him to the spot, chest heavy, heart sinking deeper with every note of Tchaikovsky that trickles from the old speakers.

You were— what, fifteen there? Sixteen? Barely holding yourself together behind a mask of effortless poise. And he— God, what was he doing that night? A mission? The Board? Chasing criminals in an alley while his daughter performed like this… and he didn’t even remember.

He studies the video as if his eyes can retroactively imprint it into his mind, as if enough staring will make up for the absence in his memory.

Your movements are flawless. Perfect control. The edges of your face still round with youth. But Bruce knows better than anyone how much pain hides behind discipline.

It’s written all over your face — the stubborn set of your jaw, the ghost of uncertainty behind your practiced eyes, the tightness in your shoulders.

You’re magnificent.

You’re hurting.

And he wasn’t there.

The tape is old. Not from a phone. Not from some bystander’s recording. This was filmed deliberately. Carefully. Preserved as if whoever held the camera wanted to keep you forever.

Bruce takes a few steps closer, his briefcase lowering to his side, forgotten.

His eyes trace the curve of your arms, the extension of your neck, the slight quiver in your breath as you leap, as you land, as you fight to stay within the perfection of your craft.

There’s no memory in his mind that matches this. Not a single one. He’s seen you at galas, at fundraisers, at piano recitals. He’s seen you in training rooms, balancing yourself on beams, sharpening your strength.

But a tutu? Ballet shoes? A studio filled with mirrors?

Nothing.

It’s like a life you had that he never noticed. Like a whole world you lived in while he was busy watching other shadows.

His throat tightens.

You are his daughter. His first daughter. He remembers your birth, born from a weeping mother who loved him too much, who loved you so much. How the red of her face went away, pale to the bone. 

He didn't cry her death, but he cried with your first word. He remembers your first steps. Your first trophy in Chemistry. How much you loved to chat his ear off, and how much power you held always above the others. 

You move across the stage with flawless control — shoulders high, chin poised, arms unfolding with the softest grace he’s ever seen. Your expression doesn’t falter. Not once. Not even as the music swells and your body pirouettes, weightless, fragile, untouchable.

The video has no crowd noise. No clapping. No background voices.

Only the music.

Only you.

And your face — that perfect, painful blend of determination and sadness. The one he’s learned to recognize far too late.

How many hours did you spend practicing this? How many times did you look for him in the crowd?

He takes a slow step forward, his hand brushing against the back of the couch, eyes never leaving the screen.

You were so small then.

Not a child. Not anymore. But still so… unfinished. Still trying to carve yourself into the version of you that they would finally see.

Finally be proud of.

His throat tightens, a rough exhale breaking free as your final pose holds, the swell of music lingering, your chest rising with practiced, shallow breaths. There’s a flicker of nerves beneath the confidence in your face — like you’re searching for something in the crowd.

You looked… flawless.

Untouchable.

But utterly alone.

The sound of quiet footsteps behind him breaks the trance.

Alfred stands at the doorway, his hands folded neatly in front of him, his expression as composed as ever but his eyes soft, distant, as if he too is caught somewhere between then and now.

The butler clears his throat softly, eyes landing on the screen.

“My apologies, sir,” Alfred says gently. “I meant to switch it off before you returned. It was… keeping me company while I tidied up.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the screen. “How old was she there?” His voice is low, rough around the edges.

“Sixteen,” Alfred answers, stepping to his side. “The Winter Gala performance. Her first lead role.”

Bruce’s brows furrow deeper.

“I don’t remember this.”

Alfred tilts his head, a hint of something unreadable flickering through his eyes. “No,” he agrees softly. “You wouldn’t.”

Guilt knots tighter in Bruce’s stomach.

“She danced,” Bruce murmurs, more to himself than to Alfred. “She danced. I didn’t know she—”

“She was quite fond of it,” Alfred interjects, gently. “Ballet, specifically. It was not a hobby, not a passing fancy. It was… vital to her. For quite some time.”

Bruce’s chest tightens. “Why didn’t I know?”

Alfred tilts his head, his eyes soft with something like sadness.

“She sent invitations,” Alfred says, his voice careful, not accusing. “Quite a few of them. They were never demands. Only… hopes.”

Bruce swallows hard.

“I’ve watched this more times than I care to admit,” Alfred confesses quietly. “She never saw me filming, of course. But I thought… perhaps one day she’d want the memory preserved.”

Bruce’s eyes darken with something complex — guilt, longing, helplessness.

“She shouldn’t have had to perform for a camera when her family was supposed to be in the audience.”

“Quite right,” Alfred agrees, but there’s no venom in his voice. Just quiet, well-worn sadness.

The video loops, restarting, and there you are again — poised, perfect, heartbreakingly young.

“She was good,” Bruce says, as if that’s the only thing keeping his throat from closing.

“She was remarkable,” Alfred corrects, soft pride threading through the words. “Is remarkable.”

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve seen her?”

Alfred hesitates for only a moment. “I’ve… kept in touch.”

That shouldn’t surprise him. Alfred always did what the rest of them couldn’t seem to manage.

Bruce runs a hand over his mouth, his eyes heavy with the exhaustion that no amount of hours at the office can replicate. He should’ve been there. At that performance. At all of them. Instead, he’s watching it now — through a screen, through years of distance and absence that not even money or apologies can erase.

“How did I miss it?” The words are barely audible.

Alfred exhales slowly, his posture softening. “You were… occupied. As you’ve always been.”

“Occupied,” Bruce echoes, bitterness curling around the syllables.

He looks at the screen again — your form mid-spin, graceful, celestial, untouchable.

“She was always right there,” Bruce says, voice hoarse, more to himself than to the butler. “Always… there.”

Alfred’s eyes soften further. “Children often are. Until they no longer are.”

The implication twists in Bruce’s stomach like a knife.

“I didn’t… I didn’t see her.”

The butler’s expression softens, but he does not let Bruce retreat into his guilt without resistance. “You loved her, sir. You still do.”

“That doesn’t mean I saw her. I don't know her favourite colour. Don't know if she likes to paint or to draw more. I don't even know her dreams. If what she's doing is actually what she wants.”

Alfred crosses the room, his footsteps light, precise, as they’ve always been. “You were not an easy man to reach, Master Wayne.”

Bruce’s throat bobs. “No.”

“She tried.”

“I know.”

Alfred’s gaze is patient but not forgiving. “Do you?”

Bruce’s breath catches.

He remembers the box Dick threw at him.

The letters.

The tickets.

The invitations.

The recitals.

The soft, desperate handwriting.

He knows now.

He should have known then.

“She wrote to me,” Bruce murmurs, his voice thin, frayed around the edges. “More than I realized.”

Alfred’s silence is answer enough.

“She wanted me there.”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred confirms. “She did.”

“She wanted all of us there.”

“She did.”

Bruce’s hands curl into fists, a familiar tension threading through his muscles.

“I failed her.”

Alfred doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t need to.

“She won’t come home.”

“Would you?” Alfred counters, one brow arching faintly.

Bruce exhales, his eyes dragging back to the video.

“You raised her,” he says after a moment, quieter now. “More than I did.”

Alfred’s shoulders lift in a small shrug. “As I’ve done for all of you.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

“Perhaps not.” The older man offers a faint, sad smile. “But I’d do it again. For her. For you.”

The room falls silent again, the soft static hum of the old video filling the space.

Bruce studies your younger self — your graceful posture, the way your fingers float like feathers, the quiet tragedy tucked behind your poised, serious eyes.

You were always trying to be seen.

And he never looked.

“I didn’t even know about this performance,” Bruce admits, the guilt dripping from every word.

Alfred inclines his head, the faintest trace of sympathy in his voice. “She sent invitations. More than one.”

His stomach twists. He remembers the box now — the old letters, the unopened envelopes. The things Dick shoved into his chest like an accusation. His daughter’s quiet, desperate attempts to earn his attention.

“How many?” Bruce asks, though he already fears the answer.

Alfred’s gaze sharpens faintly. “Enough.”

Enough to break your heart.

Enough that you stopped sending them.

Enough that you left.

“She’s angry.”

Alfred sighs, correcting gently. “She’s hurt.”

“It’s the same thing,” Bruce mutters.

“Not with her.” The butler’s voice lowers, steady, knowing. “She’s hurt, sir. But she still loves you.”

“She doesn’t want to come home.”

“Would you, if you were her?” Alfred’s brow lifts again, repeating it with enough hardness that it seemed protective.

Bruce presses a hand to his mouth again, shoulders rigid, jaw tight, eyes burning in a way that surprises even him.

“You think it’s too late?”

Alfred considers that, gaze steady, voice level. “It’s never too late to see your children, sir.”

Bruce exhales slowly, turning from the television, the weight of years clawing down his spine.

But your ghost lingers.

Dancing, weightless, frozen in the grain of an old recording.

Unreachable.

But not gone.

Never gone.

“Keep it on,” Bruce says quietly, finally moving toward his study. “I… want to watch the rest.”

Alfred inclines his head, a quiet pride hidden beneath the lines of his face.

“As you wish, Master Wayne.”

Galas have always been your thing.

It’s ironic, considering how much you claim to hate them.

You’ve always liked the ridiculousness of them — the glimmer, the grand chandeliers that hang like artificial constellations, the free food (god, the free food), the freshest champagne you could possibly imagine, crisp and cold on your tongue. And most of all, you’ve always liked being seen without really being seen. People looking at you like you’re a fixture. A diamond. A Wayne. But never looking close enough to see the cracks. It was predictable.

You’ve always liked that.

You’ve never missed a Wayne Gala.

Well, except the ones over the last four years. But that doesn’t really count, does it? You always had an excuse — busy exhibitions, international commissions, gallery showings too far from Gotham to justify the trip. It’s not like anyone ever reached out to convince you otherwise. Alfred sent a few reminders. A few check-ins. A few invitations in handwriting you’d recognize even if you were blind.

But from the rest of them? Silence.

Not even a half-hearted message from Bruce. Not even a poorly typed text from Tim. Not even Jason, who used to drag you to the dessert tables when you were kids.

Four years.

Four. Years.

And now? Now Dick talks about an invitation, carefully worded, with a little kiss to the forehead, like that’s enough to close a chasm that’s been bleeding open for nearly half a decade.

It took a lot of thinking.

Too much thinking.

It took pacing around your New York studio for hours. It took pouring over the invitation like it was a goddamn riddle. It took staring at the flight options for three days straight without booking anything. It took your manager nearly bribing you with the most luxurious hotel she could find near Gotham’s Diamond District — “You deserve to spoil yourself,” she’d said, “It’s not like you’ve ever stopped enjoying the perks of being rich.”

And she was right.

Why would moving away from the Manor, from them, mean you had to stop living like a Wayne?

You pack light. Just enough. Enough to look like the Wayne daughter you’ve always been, even if you don’t live like one anymore.

You don’t tell anyone you’re coming. Not even Alfred.

Let them be surprised. Let them think you wouldn’t show. Maybe you wouldn’t have, if not for the stupid way your chest tightened when you thought of Alfred standing alone in that sea of Gotham’s glittering snakes.

You check into the hotel the day before. The best suite. Floor to ceiling windows. Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of place that feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life.

And that night, when the gala arrives, you dress like you belong in the stars.

The gown clings like it was crafted on your body — a river of silver and glimmer that hugs every line, the back nonexistent, with a dangerously low neckline that might’ve made Bruce faint if he still bothered to police what you wore. You wear your wealth without apology. You wear it like armor.

And of course, the only rule for tonight — the masquerade.

You slide the pearly lace mask over your face, delicate and sharp at the edges, just enough to soften your features but not enough to truly hide you. It settles against your nose, just right. Just enough for you to choose who gets to recognize you.

It doesn’t take long to find the pulse of the party when you arrive.

The ballroom is suffocatingly familiar, but you slip through the throng like you were born to haunt these halls. They don’t know you’re here. Not yet. You watch them from the corners — all of them.

You spot Dick first, of course — tall, broad-shouldered, radiant in the way he always is, in tailored black, mask dark as his hair, laughing at something Kori says beside him.

Jason lingers near the bar on the other side, glass of scotch in hand, sharp in a dark suit with no tie, his mask sleek, simple, leather probably — watching the room like it’s a battlefield.

Cassandra drifts near the edges, quiet, observant, a shadow that blends in until you know where to look. Stephanie’s at her side, bright and careless in silver sequins and an obnoxiously large feathered mask, grinning as she talks to Barbara, who’s leaning on her chair with a beautiful green dress that compliments her.

Tim’s buried in a conversation with Lucius. Duke laughs with some younger faces you don’t recognize.

And Bruce…

Your eyes catch him like a thread pulled tight across your ribs.

There, near the grand staircase, suited in sharp, quiet black, his mask more symbolic than necessary. Gotham’s unshakable stone.

Selina prowls near him, sleek as ever, her gown a slinking cascade of onyx and emerald, her mask feline and faintly amused, scanning the room like she’s already picked her next mark.

They don’t see you.They’re all here.

They’re all here and they don’t even know you’ve arrived.

You hide at first.

Not because you’re afraid. But because it’s… amusing, in its own way. To slip around them unnoticed. To watch them, burning, oblivious to the weight still hanging between you.

You slip to the bar, sighing in relief at the familiarity of the setup. “Double martini. Two olives. Don’t go easy on me.”

His gaze lingers — not inappropriate, just… curious. Your dress, your mask, the way you carry yourself. You can practically hear the assumptions churning behind his eyes.

You don’t care.

The first sip burns beautifully down your throat, the familiar taste grounding you more than any polite conversation or shallow compliment ever could.

It’s only when someone settles on the stool beside you that you spare them a lazy side-glance, fully prepared to ignore whatever socialite or trust-fund brat is looking for conversation. But the air shifts.

A familiar hum of power. A warmth that prickles under your skin like static.

And then you see them.

Bright blue eyes. The same sharp jawline, same black curls, same Clark Kent perfection watered down with just enough edge to make your pulse stutter.

Conner Kent.

And fuck.

The years have been good to him.

You remember him being cocky when you were younger — flirting like it was his job, making the most of those ridiculous Kryptonian genetics and his boyish charm. You remember finding him obnoxious, occasionally tolerable, sometimes fun.

You also remember how much he looked like Clark back then. But now? Now it’s worse. He’s grown into that face. That jawline. Those broad shoulders. The cocky tilt of his mouth.

His mask is dark, simple, framing his eyes in a way that makes you briefly forget why you’ve spent years avoiding these kinds of nights.

“New York’s finest, huh?” His voice is smooth, playful. “Didn’t expect to see you here, princess.”

You arch a brow, twisting your glass between your fingers. “You recognized me that fast?”

Conner shrugs, his grin widening. “Please. You think a mask and a fancy dress can hide you from me?”

You hum, pretending to think. “Worked on your father just fine.”

His eyes glimmer, leaning in just slightly. “Clark doesn’t look at women the way I do.”

“Oh?” You sip again, not breaking eye contact. “And how do you look at women, Kent?”

“Like they could wreck me if they wanted to.”

You chuckle, resting your chin on your hand. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Not bad at all,” he murmurs, his voice dropping just a touch. “I think I’d enjoy it.”

You tap your nails against your glass, amused. You forgot how fun this little dance was with him — the teasing, the unspoken challenges, the heat that lingers just under the surface.

“You’ve grown up,” you comment, gaze dragging slowly down his figure before sliding back up.

“So have you,” he counters, voice light but eyes serious. “Didn’t realize you’d turn into this though. Kinda dangerous for someone like me.”

You smirk. “You’re bulletproof, Conner.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not weak to something else.”

You laugh, genuinely now, and maybe it’s the first time all night that your chest feels a little lighter.

“Flirting, Kent?” You raise a brow, leaning in just enough to let your words curl between you. “Already?”

“Wouldn’t dream of missing the opportunity.”

His elbow nudges yours. “So what’s the plan? You hiding here all night or you gonna let your family know you’re back from the dead?”

You pause, rolling your martini between your palms.

“Not sure yet.”

He leans closer, voice dipping low. “Can I buy you a drink?”

You hold up your half-finished martini, unimpressed. “Already covered.”

His grin is shameless. “Dinner, then?”

“Bold of you to assume I’m available.”

“You just got back. You haven’t made plans yet.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Maybe you should cancel them.”

Your lips curl, a sharp glimmer in your eye. “You’re still cocky.”

“And you still love it.”

You don’t deny it.

“You filled out, too,” you allow, smirking faintly. “Congratulations. You finally look your age.”

“Technically, I’m still figuring out what my age even means.”

“You and me both.”

The banter is effortless, dangerous. The kind that makes old walls slip, familiarity weaving between syllables before you even think to stop it.

Conner leans in slightly, voice lowering conspiratorially. “You planning to reveal your identity to the masses tonight? Or just me?”

You swirl your glass, silver rings catching the light. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you make it worth my while.”

His laugh is low, warm, frustratingly attractive.

“You’re playing with fire.”

You lean in just enough to whisper, “I’m the one who taught you how.”

The air between you hums with something complicated. Heavy. Unspoken.

The banter continues, an easy, familiar rhythm neither of you have to work for. Conner’s good at this — at playful deflection, at toeing the line between harmless and dangerous. You’re better. You’ve been playing this game since you were old enough to balance a champagne glass without spilling.

You barely notice how long you’ve been talking — the subtle shift of your legs crossing, the tilt of his body angling closer, the way your laughter slips out easier than you intended.

It’s comfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s—

“Y/N.”

The voice cuts clean through the haze of conversation, small but sharp, like a blade sheathed in velvet.

You turn.

Damian.

All stiff posture and narrowed green eyes, black mask perched perfectly across his face. He’s young — far too young to pull off the possessive, territorial glare aimed squarely at Conner — but he tries.

His arms are crossed behind his back like he’s holding himself perfectly still, but you know him — you know the coiled possessiveness thrumming under his skin, the restless edge of a boy who can’t yet control how deeply he feels everything.

You blink, the amusement slipping slightly as you meet his gaze. “Little Bat.”

His eyes flick to Conner, sharp, dissecting. “You’re late.”

“To the party?” You glance around lazily. “Or to disappointing the family?”

“You shouldn’t be speaking with him.”

Conner snorts softly. “Nice to see you too, little Wayne.”

Damian’s shoulders straighten, chin lifting, the scowl deepening. “Your presence isn’t required.”

“I’m a plus one.”

“To whom?”

Conner grins. “Jon. Of course.”

You sip your martini, hiding a smirk. Damian’s glower only intensifies. Conner’s brows lift, but you wave a hand, sighing.

“Damian.” You say his name like an exhale, soft but firm. “It’s fine.”

His eyes cut to you, expression faltering — just a little — the jealousy bleeding into something more familiar. Sadness. Longing. That quiet desperation to know you. To pull you back into the orbit of a family that doesn’t know how to hold you.

You soften, just barely, your fingers tapping against your glass.

“Go terrorize someone else,” you murmur, leaning back. “I can handle myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to.” His words are low, too old for his age, too heavy for his shoulders.

For a second, the noise of the party dims — the hum of music, the clink of glasses, the distant murmurs of the wealthy. It all fades under the weight of his voice.

You meet his eyes again, steady.

And for once… you don’t deflect.

You see him. Your brother. Your blood. Possessive. Flawed. Hurting.

But still yours.

“Go find Dick,” you tell him gently. “Tell him I’m here.”

Damian hesitates — poised between stubbornness and reluctant obedience.

Finally, he exhales sharply, turning on his heel without another word, disappearing into the crowd like a shadow.

Conner whistles low beside you. “Protective, isn’t he?”

You sip the last of your martini, gaze lingering on the space where Damian vanished.

“Seems like it,” you answer, dry. “Planning to hover all night, Kent?”

“Only if you make it worth my time.”

You sip your drink again, letting your eyes trace over him, your smirk sharp.

“Trust me,” you purr. “I always do.”

He keeps his gaze on you, even when you step away, already knowing Dick's on your way. Conner's hand trembles when you are far enough.

You've always had that power over him.

The flow of the gala presses people into motion — like waves shifting you from one current to the next — and before you can slip away, you see him.

You should’ve stayed at the bar.

The thought strikes you the second you catch sight of him weaving through the crowd — tall, broad-shouldered, the sharp lines of his tuxedo crisp against the glow of the ballroom lights, mask perched slightly crooked as if he forgot it was there entirely.

Dick Grayson.

Golden boy. Gotham’s first darling. Your older brother.

His eyes land on you like a homing missile, the weight of recognition hitting him square in the chest. You see the way his whole expression shifts — from polite party smile to something cracked open and raw — and you have precisely three seconds to brace yourself before he’s barreling through the sea of bodies.

You barely manage to set your empty martini glass down when his arms close around you.

“Birdie!” Dick smiled, achingly fond.

Your body stiffens, shoulders locking as he pulls you in tight — crushing, familiar, suffocating.

You don’t hug back.

Not entirely out of malice. More… discomfort. Half reluctance, half uncertainty. The kind of uncertainty that comes from years of space wedged between you, built brick by brick by neglect and distance and a silence none of them ever really bothered to break.

Your hands make a vague gesture against his back — a touch, not an embrace — more of an acknowledgement than a return. You don’t melt into it, you don’t lean your head on his shoulder like you used to when you were younger and still believed he would always notice you. You don’t really want to be in his arms now.

You want to breathe.

You want to escape the knot forming in your throat.

“Hi, Dick,” you manage, voice cool but not cruel, your arms hovering at your sides.

He doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens, fingers curling against your back as if sheer proximity will undo the years you’ve spent away, as if your presence alone might stitch the fractures shut.

“You came,” he says, pulling back just enough to search your face — to really look at you. His eyes glint behind the mask, blue as ever, full of that frustrating, unbearable love that knots low in your chest. “You actually— Jesus, look at you.”

You resist the urge to step away, tilting your head, expression unreadable. “Looking’s all anyone’s done tonight.”

“Yeah, but they don’t know you,” he says pointedly. “Not like we do.”

You nearly laugh.

Before you can, though, the rest of them close in. Stephanie’s practically vibrating at Cass’s shoulder, bright and eager, grin wide even beneath her delicate blue mask. You catch the subtle way her hand tugs at Duke’s wrist, grounding herself as her eyes flick across you, cataloging every detail.

It starts with Jason — tall, broad, dressed in a black suit sharp enough to cut glass, his own mask sleek and minimal, jaw tense as his eyes drag over you like a silent, protective scan.

“Took you long enough, dove,” he mutters, crossing his arms. His voice is rougher than you remember, older, carrying the weight of too many second chances and not enough time. “Thought you’d ditched this city for good.”

You shrug, noncommittal. “Almost did.”

Jason’s lips twitch, the barest ghost of a smirk cracking through his walls. “Figures.” But there’s relief there too. 

Tim clears his throat, stepping forward, hands shoved in his pockets. His mask doesn’t hide the flicker of cautious joy when he steps beside Jason, shoulders loose but eyes sharp. “Hey.”

You raise a brow. “Hey.”

It’s awkward — painfully so — but you let it hang, let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm before Stephanie bursts in, smile wide, voice bright.

“You look insane, by the way,” she gushes, eyes sparkling. “Like— like movie-star insane. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“You always did outshine us, though,” Duke adds, his grin easy, his voice warm.

You give them both a faint smile, but your heart thrums tight, your pulse skipping at the weight of so many eyes, so many family eyes, trained on you after so long.

“Four years’ll do that,” you reply smoothly, though your grip tightens slightly on your own skin.

Cass steps forward, close enough that her presence hums at your side — quiet, steady, eyes soft. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. Her gaze lingers on your face, your dress, your mask — and something like relief flickers there, sharp and fleeting. 

A quiet understanding passes between you, wordless, raw.

“Welcome back.” Barbara’s voice cuts gently through the haze, her smile warm but cautious. “We’ve… missed you.”

Your lips twitch faintly, too practiced to let the bitterness leak through.

Duke gives you a small nod, eyes sharp beneath his mask. “You picked a good night to crash the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you murmur, though the lie tastes sour.

Damian steps forward, shoulder brushing your side, posture tight. “You didn’t tell anyone you were coming.”

Your eyes slide down to him, amused. “Didn’t think I needed permission.”

He scowls. “You should’ve told me.”

You chuckle softly, unbothered. “Upset, aren’t we?”

“You’re my sister,” he snaps, quiet but fierce, green eyes dark under his mask. “I’m allowed.”

You grab a glass of champagne when one waiter passes by your side, and sip it almost immediately, the bubbles cold against your tongue, but your gaze never leaves his.

“This is so cool,” Duke says, almost a little breathless. “You’re like a legend in our circles, y’know? The Huntress, the prodigy, the one who got out. We used to trade stories like—”

“Duke.” Tim’s quiet warning is a shade too late.

But you just tilt your head, amused, not angry. You flick a glance at him, voice a little cooler now. “Got out? Is that how you talk about me now?”

Jason’s jaw flexes, guilt flickering briefly across his face, but Duke just looks caught, nervous but not apologetic.

“Didn’t mean it like that,” Duke mutters. “I just— you know, you’re like—”

“A ghost?” You offer, arching a brow. “A story the family tells?”

Duke’s grin falters. “No. More like the one that got free.”

Finally — predictably — the weight of the room shifts again.

You feel it before you see him.

Bruce.

Stoic, untouchable, tall enough to part the crowd like smoke as he steps into the loose circle your siblings have unintentionally formed around you. His mask is simple, sharp black against the silver at his temples, but his eyes — dark, unreadable, exhausted — land on you like a goddamn hammer.

The air tightens.

You square your shoulders.

For a moment, no one speaks.

Your father — the reason you learned how to hide your heartbreak behind pearls and piano keys — stands there, watching you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your face.

Finally, you speak, cool and distant.

“Father.”

His jaw tightens. “You look well.”

You offer a sharp, humorless smile. “Money tends to have that effect.”

“You’re here,” Bruce says, quiet, low, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You shrug again, keeping your voice level. “It’s a party.”

Dick’s arm slides back around your shoulder, fingers curling lightly, his grin more subdued now, softer.

“Birdie,” he murmurs, almost chiding. “Let us have this one.”

You shrug beneath his hand, not quite leaning in, not quite pulling away.

The others hover, circling like hawks, their excitement simmering beneath the awkwardness, their possessiveness sharper than you remember. It coils through the group like tension on a tripwire — subtle, constant, impossible to ignore.

But your gaze flickers. Not for wishing to be in another place.

Just for wishing to be in another's arms. 

[losvroomvroom]

watching carlos's cafelito episode finally. here's some interesting tidbits. disclaimer: my rusty ass high school spanish + the autotranslate captions. hopefully i haven't misinterpreted anything.

gets along with gaëtan because they're both workaholics who love to be on the phone in their days off

can only be comfortable in a road car when he's not driving if his father is the driver

found out about the lewis -> ferrari move from rumors before ferrari told him and then called fred about it for confirmation (Ferrari When I Get You Round Five Thousand!!!)

BIG eye roll about the whole concept of red bull god bless

pleased little chuckle when the interviewer brings up how much jv likes working with him god bless

very optimistic about williams' prospects for the 2026 car, not thrilled about the 2026 engines but is reserving judgement on the cars themselves

talking again about how his mother managed the father-son relationship, telling sr when he was too harsh, reinforcing sr's advice when jr was sick of listening to him, etc

very excited to be a double uncle (both of his sisters have kids)

has realized that you have to celebrate a good moment in motorsport when you reach it, they may not happen very often due to the number of things that have to go perfectly

listens to podcasts about team building and leadership... he had some trouble expressing what he meant in spanish (presumably bc the podcasts are in english) but he was talking about the importance of no-blame culture within a team

likes to start post-race engineering meetings by listing all the things he did wrong during a weekend before criticizing the team or the car or whatever, which helps other team members admit mistakes without fear

he's a very shy guy and really likes his privacy. the interviewer said something like "i like that you're famous, i like that everyone knows you" and he was like "it's getting worse." and then implies that he should be less famous than instagram influencers. go-to example of "a celebrity" justin bieber. wishes he could drive his nice road cars in peace. embarrassed to talk about his billion nice road cars and drive them around. drives his golf so he won't be noticed.

he and pogacar are neighbors actually. carlos's push days on the bike are pogacar's recovery days

lists swimming, cycling, and synchronized swimming as the sports that require the most dedication

re his father retiring -- "if the stopwatch says you're fast, why would you retire?"

interesting stretch where he talks about when he has to battle fernando (says fernando's always very clever) and also about navigating the teammate relationship (says it's hardest one to manage)

always goes over races with his father, the evening of or the day after

signed his first ferrari contract at 9am in his pyjamas during lockdown

respects nadal & jon rahm (golf) a lot in terms of their attitude and approach toward sport. extremely tough on the field but respectful & humble, which he thinks is the ideal

says he comes across as an affable guy in interviews because he's become calloused to them but he is still shy & pretty reserved except when he's with his 3-4 closest people. tries to maintain a distance to people he thinks might be less trustworthy ("pirates", he calls them)

loves madrid SO much (not a new fact)

loves to talk about his karting program for kids 6-8 (his "minions"), says it's important to support the grassroots of the sport, wants to make it as affordable as possible

says his best friends now are the same as his best friends when he was like three years old. he doesn't make new friends easily and he's very closed off to new people. very important to him that he's kept the same friends his whole life and doesn't get why everyone doesn't do that. (adding this to the "carlos has strong and somewhat unusual views about the concept of friendship" evidence folder)

rapid fire questions segment. cerebral or passionate?--cerebral. what are you missing in your life?--more time for golf, i'm losing my swing. best driver in f1 history?--senna. who would win in the same car? alonso, sainz, verstappen?--sainz. advice from your mom?--be respectful, behave, smile more. what f1 drivers would you go to dinner with?--lando norris & charles leclerc. any advice?--smile more. the whole world needs to smile more. will you be a world champion one day?--someday, but I hope soon.

[loveyhoneydovey]

notes & warnings: reader is described as younger and energetic, mentions of therapy, implied depression

Thinking about Robby who’s been going to therapy and has finally been convinced to take a break and go on vacation, so he rents a secluded place in a gorgeous picturesque small town and gets ready for two weeks of uninterrupted reading, relaxing and sipping on his favourite whiskey.

So imagine his surprise when he shows up to said vacation house and there’s already someone there. Not only that, but you also claim to have booked it for the next two weeks and even show him the confirmation. And after calling the owner to clarify, it turns out they’ve made a mistake and double booked the place.

Despite knowing the small town had an annual festival going on, he was hopeful he’d find another place so he wouldn’t have to spend his days with a stranger, but everything was fully booked for at least the next five days.

And while he strongly considered packing up and making his way back home the next day, telling himself he couldn’t handle entertaining this energetic younger stranger for two weeks when he was supposed to be resting, something about the pained look you had in your eyes while lounging in the pool that night had his heart aching and his mind intrigued. After all he was a doctor, he couldn’t just leave if someone was possible in need of his help, especially not someone as beautiful as you

[rafesgreasycurtainbangs]

THE FLOWER PRANK . . .

you’re sprawled on the couch in your apartment, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds, casting lazy stripes across the room. rafe’s next to you, one arm slung over your shoulder, his thumb idly tracing circles on your skin as he scrolls through his phone, half-watching some golf highlights on the tv.

it’s one of those chill days, just the two of you, takeout containers scattered on the coffee table, the vibe easy and comfortable.

but you’ve got a little plan brewing, something you saw on tiktok last week that’s been stuck in your head—a girl pranking her boyfriend by sending herself flowers and signing them from some random dude, just to see how he’d react. you figured it’d be fun to try with rafe, knowing how he gets when he’s even a little jealous.

you’d ordered the flowers a couple days ago, a bouquet of roses, nothing too over-the-top, and signed the card with “-Jake,” some generic name that could belong to anyone. the delivery’s supposed to come any minute, and you’re trying to keep your face neutral, but your heart’s racing, half-excited, half-nervous about how rafe’s gonna take it.

“you good, baby?” rafe asks, glancing over, catching the way you’re fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. his voice is low, that outer banks drawl thick as always, and his blue eyes narrow slightly, like he’s trying to read you.

“yeah, just comfy,” you say, flashing a quick smile, leaning into him to sell it. he hums, satisfied for now, and goes back to his phone, but you can feel the anticipation bubbling under your skin.

there’s a knock at the door, and you jump up, maybe a little too fast, brushing your hands on your shorts. “i’ll get it,” you say, trying to sound casual, and rafe barely looks up, just nods, still focused on his screen.

you open the door, and there’s the delivery guy, holding a bouquet of red roses, wrapped in cellophane with a little card tucked in. “delivery for you,” he says, handing them over, and you put on your best shocked face, eyes wide, mouth slightly open as you take them.

“oh, wow, uh… thanks,” you say, loud enough for rafe to hear, and you close the door, cradling the flowers like they’re a total surprise. you turn back to the living room, and rafe’s looking up now, brow furrowed, his phone forgotten in his lap.

“who’s that from?” he asks, voice flat, but there’s an edge to it, like he’s already suspicious. he sits up straighter, arm sliding off the back of the couch as he leans forward.

“i… i don’t know,” you say, playing it up, setting the bouquet on the counter and plucking the card from the flowers with a dramatic little frown. you open it, reading aloud, “had a great time last week, can’t stop thinking about you… Jake?” you let your voice go up at the end, like you’re confused, and you glance at rafe, who’s staring at you now, jaw tight, eyes narrowed.

“jake?” he repeats, slow, like he’s testing the name, and he’s already getting that look—lips pressed into a line, one hand gripping his knee a little too hard. “who the fuck is jake?”

you shrug, biting your lip to keep from smiling, keeping your eyes wide and innocent. “i have no idea,” you say, holding the card up like it’s evidence. “this is so weird. i don’t even know any jakes.”

rafe’s not buying it, not completely. he stands, crossing the room in a couple strides, his hands shoving into his pockets like he’s trying to keep them under control. “you don’t know any jakes, but some dude’s sendin’ you flowers?” he says, voice low, that possessive edge creeping in.

he’s close now, towering over you, and you can see the way his jaw ticks, the way his eyes flick between you and the roses like they’re personally offending him.

“rafe, i swear, i don’t know what this is,” you say, doubling down, holding the card out for him to see. “maybe it’s a mistake or… or someone’s just messing with me.” you’re trying so hard to sound convincing, but there’s a tiny quiver in your voice, and you’re not sure if it’s from nerves or the effort of not laughing.

he snatches the card from your hand, scanning it like it’s gonna give him answers, and his frown deepens. “had a great time last week?” he reads, voice dripping with irritation. “what the fuck’s that supposed to mean? you were with me all last week, baby.” he steps closer, eyes locked on yours, searching, and you can feel the jealousy rolling off him, sharp and hot.

“i was!” you say, nodding quickly, laying it on thick. “that’s why this makes no sense. i’ve been with you, rafe. you know that.” you reach out, touching his arm, trying to soothe him, but he’s still tense, like a coiled spring.

“then why’s some fuckin’ guy sendin’ you roses?” he snaps, tossing the card on the counter, his hand raking through his hair, a sure sign he’s pissed. “you got some dude on the side i don’t know about?” it’s half a joke, but the way he’s looking at you says he’s half-serious, too, like he’s waiting for you to slip up.

“rafe, no,” you say, shaking your head, stepping closer, your hands on his chest now, trying to pull him back. “you know i’d never. this is probably just… i don’t know, a weird prank or something.” you’re so close to breaking, the urge to confess bubbling up, but you hold it together, batting your lashes, playing the innocent card.

he exhales, sharp, his hands landing on your hips, pulling you against him, but it’s not gentle—it’s possessive, like he’s reminding himself you’re his. “better be a fuckin’ prank,” he mutters, eyes boring into yours, and you can see the annoyance simmering, the way he’s fighting not to let it take over. “ain’t nobody else gettin’ flowers to my girl, aight? just me.”

you nod, biting your lip, and you can’t help it—you crack a tiny smile, just enough to tip him off. his eyes narrow, and he tilts his head, studying you. “what’s that look?” he asks, voice suspicious, fingers tightening on your hips.

“nothing,” you say, too quick, and he raises a brow, not buying it.

“bullshit,” he says, but there’s a hint of a smirk now, like he’s starting to catch on. “you know somethin’. you pullin’ one over on me, baby?”

you laugh, can’t help it, and it’s enough to give you away. “okay, okay!” you say, throwing your hands up, giggling as you step back. “it’s a prank! i sent them to myself. saw it on tiktok, thought it’d be funny.”

rafe’s face shifts, annoyance melting into something else—half-relief, half-exasperation. “you fuckin’ serious?” he says, but he’s laughing now, shaking his head, stepping closer to crowd you against the counter. “you little shit, gettin’ me all worked up over some fake-ass jake?”

“it was funny!” you defend, still giggling, but he’s got you pinned now, his hands on either side of you, trapping you between him and the counter. his eyes are softer, but there’s still that possessive glint, like he’s not totally over it.

“funny, huh?” he says, leaning in, his lips brushing your ear, voice low. “you know what ain’t funny? makin’ me think some other guy’s got his eyes on my girl.” he kisses your neck, slow, deliberate, and you shiver, your hands gripping his arms.

“sorry,” you say, not sorry at all, and he pulls back, smirking, shaking his head like he doesn’t know what to do with you.

“you’re gonna make it up to me,” he says, half-teasing, half-serious, and you grin, knowing he’s already over it, but he’s not gonna let you off that easy. “no more fake jakes, aight? only flowers you’re gettin’ are from me.”

“deal,” you say, leaning up to kiss him, soft and sweet, and he pulls you closer, like he’s making sure you know exactly who you belong to.

⩇⩇:⩇⩇

𓂅 taglist ― @littlelamy @dollyfiles @drewstarkeyswife0 @icaqttt @urcoolgf @camercns @pointocean @dsfault @rafestoothbrush @huhidontknowstuff @drewssgirl

[rainrot4me]

creepypastas and sex toys?

Heheheheheheh

── .✦

✦ . jeff the killer

Handcuffs & Vibrating Plug.

Jeff doesn’t usually plan ahead—but when you surprise him with toys, he’s obsessed. Especially anything that lets him control your pleasure.

He’s got a thing for binding—rough leather cuffs, maybe a collar—and that evil little vibrating plug you made the mistake of letting him try.

“You’re not tapping out already, are you?”

Toys are a challenge to him. And he wins challenges.

✦ . ticci toby

Remote-Controlled Vibrators.

Toby’s manic energy turns ravenous when toys are involved. He LOVES anything he can control from a distance.

He’ll hide a vibe under your clothes and turn it on while you’re mid-conversation. In public. No shame. In the middle of mission-planning while riding in a truck full of proxies.

“Keep talking. Pretend nothing’s happening.”

The way your face changes drives him insane. If it’s got a remote and makes you squirm—he wants ten of them.

✦ . eyeless jack

Silicone Restraints & Blindfolds.

Jack’s a sensory fiend. He likes silk, satin, leather—anything that removes one of your senses so he can overwhelm the rest.

He especially loves blindfolds, paired with soft restraints and slow, dragging touches.

“Don’t guess what I’m doing. Just feel it.”

Toys for him are about control, but also intimacy. He uses them to draw things out, to make you feel how deep his attention runs.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Gags & Rope.

Tim doesn’t mess around. He’s into full scenes. Rope-work that takes time. Knots that mean something.

And the gag? That’s not just for show. That’s to hear your muffled sounds and see the way you fall apart. He gets all hot and bothered by you drooling around it.

“You’re beautiful like this. Every damn inch.”

He keeps his gear clean, prepped, folded in a locked box. He’s not new to this—he’s just very quiet about how much he enjoys it.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Vibrating Dildos & Camera.

Oh, Brian. You already know. He gives you that look—like he’s done terrible things in the back of his mind—and you’re about to be in them.

He loves teasing toys. Loves toys with apps. Loves filming you squirming and whispering,

“Smile for me. Just like that.”

You’ll find yourself forcefully sat on a thick dildo, hips not allowed to move as he watches you clench and with upon it. It’s a slow fall apart, but a satisfying one to watch back on later.

✦ . kate the chaser

Clit Sucker & Mirror Play.

Kate’s not ashamed of loving her toys. She’s got a drawer full, and she’s not shy about using them with you.

Her favorite? Clit sucker, mirror nearby, arms held behind your back. She wants you watching.

“You’re gonna sit there and see how good I make you feel.”

She loves domination, but also wants you to enjoy every second of being hers.

✦ . ben drowned

Console-Controlled Auto-Thrusting Machine & Phone Play.

You give this digital menace one toy that syncs to an app or console and he loses his mind. A dildo hooked onto the end of a machine, thrusting into you as fast as he pleases.

He’ll program patterns. Link it to boss fights. Set it to speed up every time he gets a kill in PvP.

“Oops. You better hope I don’t win again.”

He lives for this dynamic. Video game punishment and reward system—just for you.

✦ . clockwork

Strap & Dildo Collection.

Natalie is precise and powerful—and when she brings out the strap? You’re not walking right for a while.

She keeps a collection. Custom colors. Textures. Sizes. She lets you choose. Sometimes. Definitely has a Bad Dragon subscription.

“Pick the one you think you can handle. Then I’ll show you how wrong you are.”

She cleans her toys like they’re sacred. Because in a way? With you—they are.

✦ . laughing jack

Edging Toys & Feathers.

Jack’s a playful menace. He uses toys like they’re part of a circus act: feather ticklers, clit pumps, vibes with too many settings.

He loves anything that makes you beg. His whole thing is anticipation and delay. He enjoys running tassels across you and seeing the goosebumps rise.

“Aww, did you think you were gonna finish? Silly little treat.”

If it buzzes, pulses, writhes, or wiggles—he owns it. You’re not leaving until you’re seeing stars.

✦ . slenderman

Restraint Furniture, Paddles, & Soundplay Toys.

Slender has the luxury edition of everything. He doesn’t do “cheap” toys. His tastes are refined, devastating, and deeply curated.

Bondage furniture, paddles, glass toys. He uses sound toys—ones that hum so low they make you ache. He likes to spank you hard enough little beads of blood appear on your skin.

“Be still. Let me watch you come apart.”

You never even see him move. You blink, and the next thing you feel is pure ecstasy.

꩜ .ᐟ

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

a beautiful little lie. [chapter 10] l Harry Castillo

Summary:  you are the personal assistant of Harry Castillo, a wealthy entrepreneur who asks you to go with him to his friend's wedding. there you meet your ex-boyfriend and things get out of hand

Warnings: we have fluff, we have kissing, we have Diane, we have alcohol, we have cold, we have ending

A/N: last chapter. if you got here - thank you. thank you for every comment, for every word. sorry for the mistakes, thank you for the time you dedicated to me. i hope you enjoyed this story. because i did.

your feedback is very important to me and I want to thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. I secretly hope you like this story.🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

[my masterlist] [Harry Castillo masterlist] [a beautiful little lie- series masterlist]

Harry Castillo had thought for years that he was incapable of love. Several failed relationships, Lucy and his age had convinced him more and more of it. His younger brother was already married, his parents had lived happily for so many years, and only Harry was still single. And when he was slowly starting to accept it, which was hard because he really dreamed of a relationship full of love, understanding and support, you appeared.

Loving you came naturally to him, like breathing. The friendship that had developed between you was a solid foundation on which you had built what you had now. And Harry loved every single element of it.

Your clothes next to his. Cosmetics on a separate shelf. Another bathrobe in the bathroom, trinkets scattered throughout the apartment, subtle traces of someone's existence that he had stumbled upon in the apartment that had finally become a real home. When Harry came home from a meeting and found that you had made dinner and even baked cookies, he completely lost his mind.

Loving you was so easy.

After all, he held someone in his arms when he fell asleep and woke up next to them in the morning. After all, someone was waiting for him. Someone wrote him sweet and funny messages, or at least "Milk's out, can you buy some when you get back?". Harry accepted it all and was grateful for every day. You were completely on his side, at work and in life. He couldn't have wished for anything more.

This party was really important because it was connected to the annual awards ceremony. The invitation came a month ago, but it was only recently that Harry finally convinced you to let him buy you a decent dress.

You didn't want any gifts from him, even though he kept saying it was his pleasure. So far, he had bought you a few books you had talked about and a lipstick you had once looked at while shopping. But the dress and the lingerie were something he really wanted to give you.

“You look stunning.”

You smiled, applying lipstick and looking at him in the mirror. “Are you hitting on me, Castillo?”

“Maybe.” He walked over to you and kissed your exposed shoulder tenderly, then your neck. He looked ridiculously good in his well-tailored suit and combed hair. “I think something’s missing here.”

“What?” You frowned. You really tried to look good tonight. The party was really important, even though Harry was downplaying it again.

Harry left the bathroom for a moment and came back, holding a velvet, oblong box in his hands. You guessed what he was planning, and your legs almost buckled.

“You need a subtle accessory.” he said. “Close your eyes and turn around.”

You did as he asked. Something soft brushed against your neck, then landed on your skin. It took your breath away. A sweet kiss followed, and Harry quietly whispered, “Open your eyes, love.”

A delicate necklace appeared around your neck, simple and elegant, but you couldn’t tear your eyes away from it. Harry must have noticed, because he was staring at your reflection in awe.

“Do you like it?”

“This is…” you ran your fingertips over the necklace, feeling how delicate it was. “You shouldn’t, Harry… It’s stunning. But this dress… And this…”

Strong arms wrapped around your waist as Harry rested his chin on your shoulder, “Let me spoil my girl. I know you don’t want to, but I love making you happy.”

“You do that with other things, they don’t have to be gifts.”

He smiled, sensing the other side of your statement. “And I know you’re not with me for the money, but for my charming personality.”

You turned in his arms, placing yours on his shoulders, leaning against the marble counter of the sink.

“And to your ass. You look so good in those pants.”

“Really?” Harry raised an eyebrow, barely holding back a chuckle.

“And for your broad shoulders. I think I could find a few more useful pieces.”

He shook his head in amusement before leaning down, brushing the corner of his lips against yours, careful not to smudge your lipstick. “You know I love you?”

You pouted. “You’ve mentioned it once or twice.”

“So I’ll keep reminding you of it for the rest of my life.”

The conference room of one of the most expensive hotels was filled with elegantly dressed guests. You and Harry sat at one of the tables covered in a crisp white tablecloth, surrounded by other businessmen and their partners. Conversations flowed freely, champagne was poured regularly into crystal glasses, and a band played pleasant music.

Harry's hand rested on your knee, occasionally moving to your thigh, which he squeezed lightly, and then he smiled at you like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"I hope you get an award this year, Harry." Mr. Novak sounded, and the whole table burst into laughter. "I'm not kidding! You're great at what you do, lots of innovative approaches."

Harry smiled politely. "Thank you, but I didn't do anything by myself. I have just as hardworking people around me."

You smiled, feeling a significant squeeze in your thigh. The respect Harry had from others was always a source of pride. The hard work he had put in over the years was noticeable, and now he was reaping the rewards.

"However, I heard that your last contract was taken over by Ms. Kruger-Waltz." The older woman with beautiful silver hair smiled politely at Harry. "I like her, I've always been inspired by strong women."

"Mrs. Waltz is very good at what she does, we have to admit that. I lost, but Mr. Williams will definitely be pleased, and that's the most important thing."

The entire table agreed with him, and after a moment, as if on cue, everyone looked towards the podium, where a beautiful woman stood with the host of the event.

The awards ceremony began. The guests politely applauded the winners, who treated them to short and funny speeches. You sipped your champagne, feeling Harry's warm hand on your thigh, and when no one was looking, he brushed his lips against your arm, gently tickling you. He wanted to say something, wanted to suggest that you leave the party with him, and go home where you could be alone, when suddenly someone called his name and everyone at the table started clapping vigorously.

"Congratulations!" the man sitting next to him patted him on the shoulder, showing snow-white teeth.

Harry stood up uncertainly, because everyone was looking at him. It was still a bit embarrassing for him. But he felt something. You squeezed his hand, giving him the "I'm with you" signal, and he immediately felt stronger.

He smiled at the guests, and then, instead of going straight to the podium where his award awaited him, he leaned towards you and kissed you. The room filled with cheers, but you were in your little bubble for that brief moment. And when Harry walked between the tables, you could still feel his warm kiss on your lips.

“We should get out of here.”

“You should stay here a little longer.”

“Don’t tell me you like this food.”

“I won’t, but I like your suit.”

Harry kissed your neck and smiled, hugging you tighter. A dozen or so other couples danced next to you to some old song. Your fingers played with Harry’s hair at the nape of his neck as you swayed like everyone else. It was late, but many people were still having fun. Every now and then someone would pat Harry on the shoulder and congratulate him, and he would smile politely.

“You know I’m proud of you?” you asked quietly.

“Really? Why?” he looked at you with interest.

He saw your gaze shift to the guests in the room, then back to him. “You’re the same as you were when I first met you. You’re successful, you sign contracts, you manage money that most people never even saw, and you’re still the same Harry that hired me. I’m proud that in this crazy world, you’re still you.”

He smiled as he felt your words sink in. You were his greatest prize, and the way you supported him made him feel almost invincible. All of these people around him, this whole world, didn’t matter when he held you in his arms. He only needed you.

The night was pleasantly cool as you stepped outside to wait for your car. Harry’s jacket rested on your shoulders as you stood among the lonely guests who were also waiting. In your mind, you were planning a lazy weekend for the two of you, maybe to visit the new bakery that opened nearby, maybe go to the movies…

“Harry? Congratulations. You definitely deserve this award.” a familiar voice rang out behind you.

Diane appeared in a gorgeous black dress with beautifully highlighted red lipstick. Despite the late hour, she looked phenomenal.

"Thank you," Harry replied politely, and his hand that was around your waist squeezed you lightly. A familiar signal. "It's nice to see you. You look wonderful."

Diane lit a cigarette and took a drag, looking at you carefully. "I don't think you should compliment another woman when your lady is right next to you, Harry. It's a bit tactless."

"Don't worry. My lady knows she's the most important." he smiled at you. "I'm glad you found the time to show up here. You must have a lot of work with Mr. Williams."

Diane glanced at the car that had stopped in front of her. “That’s mine,” she muttered, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray against the wall and giving you another look. “I think we’ll meet again. Maybe you’ll win next time.”

“I’ll try. Have a nice evening, Diane.”

She got into the car and the driver closed the door behind her and a moment later they drove off.

For a moment you both stared at the place where she had disappeared until Harry finally spoke. “You know, I feel sorry for her. And even more for you, because Diane attacked you.”

“I thought about that too. She must have been really hurt.” you replied. “She was driven by emotions, and emotions are not always good advisors.”

Harry nodded, hugging you tighter as your car pulled up onto the sidewalk. The driver got out and politely opened the door for you. You thought about Diane for a moment longer, grateful that the encounter hadn’t turned unpleasant. Harry was level-headed and calm, even though you knew the situation had upset him greatly. But maybe, if it weren’t for Diane and that rumor, you would still have tried to keep your relationship a secret? Maybe something good would have come of it?

3 months later.

A cold had confined you to bed for over a week. Harry had asked the doctor to make a house call, and he had immediately prescribed you antibiotics and told you to stay home. It took you a while to convince Harry to sleep separately.

“I don’t want you to get sick too.” You said with difficulty, because your throat was aching. “I’ll go to the guest room and turn on the air purifier.”

But he refused. He took the guest room, although he spent as much time with you as his work allowed. When the situation allowed, he tried to work from home, exchanging messages with you if you needed anything. It took you two days to take a shower, and in the meantime, he quickly changed your sheets.

Harry Castillo was the perfect caregiver, and you couldn’t remember anyone ever taking such good care of you. And when he mentioned you were sick during a conversation with his mother, she asked her cook to prepare broth for you, which was quickly delivered to her son’s apartment.

“If I hadn’t stopped her, she would have come here to take care of you.” Harry said with a smile, placing a tray of steaming soup on your bed.

"She's wonderful." You replied, your voice slightly hoarse. "But I wouldn't want her to end up like me. You're different."

"Yeah, I'm a volunteer." Harry burst out laughing.

His mother liked you from the first time you met, even though you were totally scared and tense at the time. The Castillos' house was impressive, surrounded by a beautiful garden and a tennis court, but his parents turned out to be really warm and wonderful people. They immediately invited you to visit more often, even without Harry, to which you only responded with a polite smile.

Your relationship was blossoming and it didn't interfere with your work at all, which you were a little afraid of. You were still sitting at your desk, still doing what you were doing, only in the office next door was a man you really loved and with whom you went home.

"I'm back! Dr. Phillips said I can go back to work now, so you can't keep me at home anymore." You threw your bag on the console by the wall and took off your shoes. "Harry?"

You entered the living room and stopped dead in your tracks. There were two suitcases in the middle, which confused you a little.

"Harry?" you repeated in a slightly surprised voice, he came out of the kitchen wiping his hands with a towel. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No, we're going together" he replied smiling.

You frowned. "No. Mr. McMurphy clearly invited us to his place next month. I read his email" you replied, pulling your phone out of your pocket and quickly scrolling through it. "Yes, that's exactly what he wrote".

"We're not going to Los Angeles, honey. I'm taking you somewhere else".

The confusion and disorientation on your face were so adorable that Harry wanted to kiss you. "We're going to Italy, baby, Rome to be exact".

Even more surprise. Now you were looking at him as if he had completely lost his mind. "Why?" you finally blurted out.

“Remember when we were at our favorite Italian restaurant a few weeks ago, you said it would be great to eat real pizza in Rome while watching the sunset and the Colosseum?”

"Harry... People say things like that, but that doesn't mean you have to do it right away..."

He walked past the suitcases and approached you, smiling like he thought it was a lot of fun.

"But we can. And we will. I've already taken care of everything, with Susan's help. Now you should relax somewhere warm and beautiful. Rome is perfect for that."

"But Harry..."

“No buts. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow.” He said, placing his hands on your hips and kissing your forehead. The decision had already been made, you had no say in the matter. “We have to stay until Saturday because my mom absolutely wants to see us for dinner tomorrow. She said you must look really hungry after being sick and that she’ll make your favorite dessert.”

You rolled your eyes because you knew you couldn't win with him. "Sometimes you can be insufferable, you know? You're lucky I love you."

“Yes, I’m lucky.” He mumbled, leaning down and kissing you.

You didn't know what you had done to deserve what happened to you with this guy. Harry made you want to be a better person, while knowing that who you were was enough. He brought out the best in you, and you loved him for how warm and caring he was, and how safe you felt with him.

Harry felt like he had finally found what he had been looking for for so long - he felt complete. You gave him a sense of peace and stability. You loved him the way he always wanted to be loved by a woman, and when he showed you his vulnerability, you accepted him completely, just the way he was. He couldn't have been happier.

But you didn't know that when Harry was packing that evening, a small velvet box was hidden in his suitcase, between his shirts. And what neither of you knew was that you wouldn't be coming back from this trip alone...

☆☆☆☆

If you're reading this, thank you for taking this journey with me.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist: @nrschuster30 @maried01 @lunariantears @thatesqcrush @suzysface @youkeeno @legoemma @nuo0n @sarahhxx03 @hazzzy418 @pedrofan @peepawispunk @readingiskeepingmegoing @maryfanson @anoverwhelmingdin @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @axshadows @picketniffler @underneath-the-sky-again @kaysfanficcorner @noisynightmarepoetry @xmaykeca @orcasoul @sincerelywithheartt @southernbe @chaoticfestninja @telumendilsoul @hermionelove @paleidiot @lemon-world1 @diabaroxa @scarcetti @thatoneperson38747 @pascal-mynightlyobsession @sunnytuliptime @krystal---meth @nikoanna @capuccinodoll @titlee78 @goodvibesonly421 @crlsummer @chewie-bars @dean-and-baby343 @warmdragonfly @harriedandharassed @speaktothehandpeasants @pasc4lfuzz @darkheartgatita @deesparticus @beezusvreeland @sunnytuliptime @theoraekenslover @secretlettersfromyourlove @yassspose @pinkblackbra @avengersfan25 @kakiki3

[cakewritez]

PLEASE can you write Zoey with a demon gf? hurt/comfort if you can!! THERES NO ZOEY X READER ANYWHERE IM STARVING😭

I DONT THINK YOUR READY FOR THE TAKEDOWN. ✧

Cw: OH BOY MAD ANGST LAWDDDD hurt / comfort, Zoey being insecure, panic attacks, just angst :( good ending though! Kinda short because this is hurting me 💔

She's in shock, denial. No no, anyone but you. First Rumi and now you? But, your not full of hate at all. You're beautiful and strong, not to mention everything she's not. How could you, be a demon? Everything she stands to hate, to distain, how could she love a demon like you?

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

You weren't supposed to get in the crossfire, you werent supposed to be in the line of fire at all. It was an honest mistake, you undid your jacket you always wore and laid in on their couch. You'd thought they would be gone for at least a week, considering the text your new girlfriend had sent you. God, you loved her.

You had met over a shared taste of food, and attending art museums you kept bumping into her. Your connection deepened from that, along with the little texts she sends you with cute selfies attached. You'd reply with your own before giggling to yourself and going on with your day.

The voices got louder, Gwi-Ma got louder. It hurt to hear him whisper the same thing over and over again, "Break up Huntrix and you'll be free from my control.. Break Zoey." you couldn't do that to her. You drowned them out as best as you could, music, podcasts, whatever that was loud and in your ears.

She told you about her job as a Hunter soon after, people always told her she was eager to please and a little too trusting, she'd made that mistake too many times.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

"Whhaaat? So your saying like, demons are real? And, you hunt them?" You tried your best to make a shocked expression, It melted your heart to hear her ramble about her secret life to someone other than Rumi and Mira. Although, you'd have to pretend like you weren't one yourself.

"Yess! I have like, these knives and stuff I throw at them! It's so fun, especially with the tricker ones." Zoey practically beamed at you with excitment. She explained the Honmoon and the things Rumi and Mira did with her. "You have a pretty good imagination, especially for a pretty girl." You flicked her gently on the forehead, as she calmed down a bit.

"Y—Yeah, it's our concept! Forrr ourr... next album!" Zoey fidgeted with her hands, you could tell she was feeling dejected and that tore you up inside, she couldn't know though. She would never know.

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

At least, that's what you thought. They came home early. The marks on your arms had only gotten worse, the pattern spreading from your collarbone to your finger tips now. You silently cursed to yourself as you heard the door open from behind you.

"I'm back!! I just forgot something like always and—" She stopped, dead in her tracks. She took in the sight of you, perfectly gorgeous and perfectly.. horrible.

"No, no no.. this has to be a joke right? Your pranking me right? I told you, and you- you thought it would be funny to replicate the marks, but I never told you how they looked like—" Zoey's breathing quickened as she started to panic, the room started to spin and she was shaking. You automatically reached out for her but she flinched, you looked at her scared face and your patterns on your hands. You really are a monster.

In Zoey's mind, the worst thing possible could've happened. Back to back in fact, they find Rumi was a demon and now you? Gwi-Ma must be taunting them, trying to take away everything they loved. The voices she'd pushed down long ago were starting to bubble up again, the insecurities.

"No one could love you, except for a demon."

You decided to take the risk and step closer, you pulled her into a hug before she could draw her weapon and squeezed tightly. You felt her body stiffen up for a minute, before relaxing. Trembling arms came up and held you back, and you let out a sigh of relief you didn't know you were holding.

"I'm, I'm so sorry. I wanted to tell you for so long." Tears started to well in your eyes and you held her, like something precious that would break and shatter. Zoey inhaled deeply before speaking.

"Do you even love me?" She choked out as she held you tighter, afraid and anxious you might leave her. You pet the top of her hair and nodded.

"Of course I do, since the day you spilled soda all over my shirt." That earned a soft laugh from her, which you gladly took. "Gwi-Ma gets in my head sometimes, but he can't force me to do anything. He can't drag me down there or summon me, I just wanted to live my life as a normal person." You stood in the hallway in silence for a moment, before pulling away and gently wiping her tears. "It's okay, I'll leave you alone if that's what you really want."

Unexpectedly, she pulled you in for another hug. The remnants of her tears you wiped staining your shirt. "Stay. Please. I'll deal with them, just.. be my partner. I don't want you to leave." And of course, who are you to deny your girlfriend?

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ♫ ⋅.} ───── ⊰

She was still dealing with inner turmoil about the whole situation, but she found ways to cheer the both of you up. She painted her nails the color of your marks, and made sure to hide song lyrics about you in Huntrix's singles.

Yeah, you two would be okay.

[sarahroutldge]

caveman.

a/n: I wrote this for the brilliant 'make rafe great again' campaign by @zyafics!! It's a bit of a mess and unedited but I hope someone enjoys it!

summary: you may love rafe cameron, but that doesn't mean you have to love his borderline toxic possessiveness and jealousy.

word count: 4k

warnings: angst, fluff, creepy guy behaving creepily (nothing graphic), violent rage on rafe's part (what else is new), alcohol, weed, smoking, mentions of past messy relationships, I'm lazy so I didn't proofread this... uh I think that's it. lmk if I forgot anything!

Parties at the Boneyard are practically rites of passage for the kids who grow up there; whether you’re a kid from the cut or the heir to a multi-million-dollar fortune on Figure Eight, you’re probably spending those summer Friday nights getting drunk or high—most likely both—at the Boneyard. In high school and college, those nights are treasured, rare moments where the parents and grandparents aren’t eyeing their kids, waiting to see them fail. 

And sure, maybe, on occasion, things get messy. The Pogues and the Kooks are never quite at peace for long, but usually it blows over before anything truly terrible can happen, as the Kooks involved know that once Deputy Shoupe gets notified, so will their parents. And for the Pogues, one run-in with the police is a future discarded—a scholarship taken away, a college acceptance thrown out, a job opportunity lost. 

But it’s hard to care so much about that when you’re a bit tipsy, a bit high, and dancing with your friends under the moonlight. Your boyfriend is just across the beach, drinking with his friends, and you can almost swear that the winks he sends you every once in a while feel like a jolt of electricity. Truly, they’re almost as intoxicating as the weed and the alcohol.

Kiara spins you around, and the two of you twirl across the makeshift dancefloor (which is really just sand), as you enjoy a drama-free night. The wind is just strong enough to provide an extra breeze to what would usually be a much hotter, much more humid Outer Banks night. And the music has mellowed from Top 40 hits to some softer, bedroom pop. You don’t know the words, but you’re having too much fun to care.

Unfortunately, though, nothing in the Outer Banks is ever truly uneventful. The bliss you’ve taken for granted is shattered without warning, when you feel a sweaty, unfamiliar hand grasping at your midsection. Immediately turning around, your hand drops from Kiara’s, and you make eye contact with the tall, unfamiliar man before you (a Touron, if you had to guess). Not wanting to make that much of a fuss, you simply shake your head, hoping he’ll get the message. But he’s either too wasted or simply doesn’t care, and he reaches for your waist again, and this time his grip is strong enough to pull you back into his chest. 

“What the hell, dude?” Kiara bites, before pushing him off of you. “Get off our beach if all you’re planning on doing is acting like a perv,” she adds. You grab her hand, squeezing it in thanks. 

The man raises his hands up as if he’s totally innocent, and you just scoff. Thankfully, though, he seems to finally take a hint, as he turns around. Kiara looks up at you, and opens her mouth as if to speak. But unfortunately, before she can, you hear the familiar but worrying shout of your boyfriend, Rafe Cameron, from behind you.

“Hey, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Rafe starts, before shoving the man’s back. 

You can immediately sense where this is going, and frankly, you’re not up for it. “Rafe, it’s fine. Let’s just go.”

Rafe turns around. “It’s not fucking fine. He’s scum.” 

And just as you’re about to grab your boyfriend’s hand and pull him away, the stranger turns around. “Hey man, it was an honest mistake.”

“Yeah? Well, next time, ask a girl before you put your fucking hands on her, especially when that girl is my girlfriend.” 

“Rafe, please, let’s not do this. I just wanna go home,” you chime in, hoping that you’re loud enough for him to hear over his rage. 

“You didn’t want to go home until this prick put his hands on you,” Rafe argues.

And while you were annoyed before, now you’re irritated. “Rafe, let’s go,” you say, colder. 

He stares at you for a minute, and then looks around, noticing that the man who touched you has walked away. He huffs, his fists balled in anger, and then he walks away from you. You watch as Rafe walks across the sand, away from the crowd.

“Do you want to go after him?” Kiara asks, feeling awkward about the obvious tension between you and your boyfriend.

“No. He just needs to blow off some steam.”

Kiara nods. “Are… are you okay?” she asks, seeming genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just… That was gross. And I’m mad at that guy, but unfortunately, shit like this happens. And I’m tired of having to deal with Rafe’s temper tantrums every time we go out.” 

“Any other time, I’d get it. Believe me. But this wasn’t just a guy getting too close—he wouldn’t back off. That piece of shit deserved whatever punch Rafe was gonna give him.”

“It’s not about what the guy did. Trust me, I’d be happy to see him get punched. It’s the possessiveness that bothers me. It’s like Rafe thinks I’m helpless without him,” you explain.

“I promise that’s not true,” Kiara assures you, but even she seems a little unsure of the words she’s saying. “Look, I’m not Cameron’s biggest fan—”

“I’m aware,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes.

Kiara chuckles. “But this time, I think that guy deserved what was coming to him. And it’s so obvious that Rafe loves you. Maybe your anger is a bit misplaced.”

You shake your head, trying to get her to understand your point of view. “Shit like this has happened before, Kie. And with guys that were way less upfront than that one. It’s not that I’m mad he defended me; I’m mad that he sees me as some damsel in distress, someone who can’t function without him as a bodyguard. I just wish he’d have a bit more faith in me.”

Your friend considers your words for a minute, ultimately giving you a tight smile. “C’mon, let’s get out of here. You can hang with us at the Chateau while your man figures his shit out.”

She tosses her arm around your shoulder, and your mouth curves into a reluctant smile. As the two of you make your way off the beach, your head turns behind you, looking out for your troublesome but usually well-meaning boyfriend. He’s far away now, but you can still sense the frustration radiating from him in waves. 

A few days pass before you see Rafe again. You’ve texted a bit back and forth, putting some space between the two of you. You know you’ll forgive him eventually, but you need time to consider how to move forward. Rafe’s issues with anger and jealousy span far back into his childhood. And it might not be your job to “fix” them, but you can’t help but want to. 

Rafe is complicated, always has been. From his issues with his father to his struggles with hard drugs and history of getting into fights, there’s a lot of darkness swirling around in that brain of his. For the longest time, he struggled with asking for help, lacking the attention and care of a parent who could teach their child how to deal with the toughest emotions. But you won’t deny that he’s gotten better at it. He’s matured in a way that his younger teenage self would never have imagined, and the responsibilities of adulthood combined with the weekly therapy appointments (that only you and his sisters know about) have helped to mellow him, giving him the tools with which to face his demons. 

And that’s why you won’t give up on him. 

Midsummer’s is just around the corner. Though balls and galas in the name of “charity” are certainly not rare on Figure Eight, Midsummer’s is always one of the grandest and most important (at least in the minds of the Eight’s parents and authority figures). For the teenagers, it’s a time to converse with adults about the future, hopefully landing connections that will help with the process of college applications and even internships later on. For the parents and grandparents, it’s the perfect time to show off the family unit; those who live on the island year-round and the families that stay just for the summer all come together to brag about the past year’s “achievements.” For those in their early twenties like you and Rafe, it’s a time to take advantage of the open bar and see the friends from high school that you haven’t seen in a while.

This year, however, is the first year that Rafe and you are attending as a couple. Your table is a mix of the Cameron family (plus Sarah’s boyfriend John B. who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else), your own family, and a few singles. Normally, this would be an occasion for pressure, but your families have known each other throughout the years, as the Figure Eight scene has always been a tight circle.

After the main courses have been served and the parents have swapped conversations about business for the latest gossip, the band’s music starts to slow. The sun has set and the moon looks stunning over the country club, reminding you of just how lucky you’ve been to grow up in a place so beautiful. And even though you and Rafe are a bit rocky, you almost forget it. The tipsiness from a few too many unclassy shots behind the bar with your friends has set in, and Rafe’s hand on your thigh feels almost too hot for a night like this. He squeezes the bare thigh uncovered by the slit in your dress every once in a while, as the two of you shift in and out of conversations with your family. It’s almost going too well. 

That is, until your father mentions your cousin’s upcoming marriage when he speaks to Ward.

“She’s the first of my nieces to get married. We’re all thrilled, and the wedding is only two months away.” He shifts a bit, seeking your attention. “Y/N, honey,” he says, and you turn your head to face your father, away from the pleasant and lighthearted conversation you’ve been having with Sarah and her boyfriend.

“Yes, Dad?”

“I still need to book the tickets for your trip with your cousin, so please send me the dates tomorrow at the latest. Or else you’re going to have to find your own way to pay for them,” he adds, laughing at himself like it’s the most ludicrous thing in the world. 

“Will do, Dad,” you add, and as soon as the words have left your mouth you go back to the conversation with your friends. 

But before you can speak, you feel the hand that’s been on your thigh move to your hand, squeezing to get your attention.

“What trip was your dad talking about?” Rafe asks, unsure of why this hasn’t been mentioned before.

“Oh, Rafe, I’ve told you about this. I’m going away with my cousin and a few other girls in a few weeks for her bachelorette party.” 

Rafe considers this. He knew you’d mentioned a vacation, but he could’ve sworn it was a family trip up to visit your grandparents. His jaw clenches, though his tone remains the same. “Where is it?”

“Miami. We’re all staying in one large suite at a beach resort that I can’t remember the name of.”

He nods. “Why can’t I come?”

You hesitate. He did hear the word bachelorette, right? “Rafe, it’s a bachelorette party. You’d be the only guy there.”

And yet he doesn’t seem to get it. “Exactly. Babe, you’ll be going to bars in Miami without me or any other guys. And as much as I love you, you’re the clumsiest drunk I know,” he adds, with a smirk. Clearly, he thinks you’ll find his comment funny. Though you normally would, he says it with a condescending tone that makes you drop the hand you’ve been holding.

“I can take care of myself, Rafe.”

“Can you?” he asks, not yet sensing the change in mood.

“Yes!” you respond, more sternly but without raising your voice. “I’ve taken care of myself drunk way longer than you and I have been together. I think I can manage a few days in Miami with my cousin and her friends.” His eyebrows furrow in confusion, not understanding where your anger is coming from.

“I know you can take care of yourself, babe, but you shouldn’t have to. I’m a guy—I know how guys behave. And you’re nice—sometimes too nice—and it makes me worry about you.”

“I am a grown woman, Rafe. I’m not helpless.” 

“I never said you were helpless, and you know it. Why are you fighting with me over this? It’s like you think I’m the bad guy, and not whatever perv is gonna start groping you in a sticky Miami bar.” 

Frankly, you’re stunned, and a thought comes to your head. Is he really worried for me—or does he not trust me? But you don’t feel like voicing your opinion out loud, and you need to cool off. You stand up out of your seat, and shove your chair in. The action draws the eyes of your family, but you ignore your mother asking where you disappeared to. You need fresh air.

Taking the path you and every other Figure Eight kid knows from the time they’re fifteen years old, you follow through the winding hallway of the club that leads out back, to where the waiters and other club employees take their breaks. The immediate gust of wind feels refreshing on your face, and you walk to the edge of the parking lot. 

Your feet take you to the abandoned dock that, for whatever reason, was never taken down when the country club was renovated a few decades ago. It’s hidden behind overgrown trees and weeds, and you breathe in relief at the absence of anyone else there. Though from here you can still faintly hear the sounds of the event behind you, it’s quiet enough to where you can also hear the swamp waters crash against the dock, and the night bugs buzzing around you. 

The edge of the dock is too dirty for you to sit down on—your eagle-eyed mother would immediately notice any stain on your dress and berate you for it—so you simply stand there, thinking about the boyfriend you left at the table. The look on Rafe’s face just makes you let out a harsh chuckle. It occurs to you at that moment that your boyfriend is either an idiot or really entitled. Maybe he’s both. 

You’ve dealt with this shit before, and Rafe knows that. He knows that your most recent boyfriend before him was controlling and overprotective in a way that made you feel uncomfortable. It’s why you broke up in the first place.

Does he not even listen to me?

The small but effective cardigan that covers your shoulders begins to itch, and you reach to take it off, only to stumble upon something in the left pocket. When your hands grasp the item, you immediately sigh in relief, pulling it out. 

The pack of cigarettes is old, of course; you haven’t worn this sweater since high school, but it was the only one that even somewhat went with your dress tonight. And Outer Banks summer nights have always had a bit of a chill to them. Your fingers carefully open the pack, pulling out one of three cigarettes left, before setting the pack down next to your feet. You drag it to your lips, holding it there as your fingers naturally reach for the lighter in the opposite pocket. 

It takes a few flicks before a flame is successfully lit. You draw it to the end of the cigarette, an inhale.

About halfway into your second cigarette, you hear the sounds of footsteps on the creaking dock. 

“You hate when I smoke,” he says, and though the immediately recognizable voice of Rafe Cameron should be comforting, in the aftermath of the argument it’s only agitating.

“I don’t want to do this now,” you say without turning around to face him. He nods, though you don’t see, before walking a few more steps.

He’s about a foot away from you, and you still haven’t turned. “Look, Y/N, I only—”

And his insistence on talking only adds to your irritation. Turning around your heel, you look him right in the eyes, meeting his blank face. “No, Rafe, you don’t get to speak.”

“But I—”

“No,” you say, and he finally seems to understand. 

A beat passes, and he nods, encouraging you. 

“Rafe, I love you. I really love you. But I don’t love you enough to deal with distrust that clearly comes from a place of insecurity rather than genuine concern. I’m not saying that you don’t have any concern for me; I’m saying that whatever your little interrogation was back at the table felt more like an insult than anything else. And you know the shit I went through with Noah. So don’t act as if my rage is misplaced or coming out of nowhere. I’ve done this shit before and I know I deserve better, Rafe.” 

You take an inhale of the cigarette, before exhaling right in his face. He rolls his eyes at the action, but you remain unbothered. “Can I say something now?” he asks. 

“Sure.”

He looks hesitant, but he proceeds anyway. “I’m not great with words—you know this. I’m not good at expressing myself eloquently, and one of the things I like so much about you is that I don’t ever feel like I need to. You know what I’m feeling even when I can’t find the words to describe it, and you don’t push me to.”

He waits a bit, eyes searching your face to ensure that you’re paying attention. When he finds at least a bit of interest in your eyes, he continues. 

“I’ll be honest. I didn’t get why you ran off before.”

“I can tell.”

He ignores the snark in your comment. “But it doesn’t matter whether I get it or not. What matters is that I love you and I trust you. And I did sound a bit like a dick.”

“Just a bit?” you ask, and he tries not to smile at your question. Clearly, he’s headed in the right direction with his speech if you’re willing to even joke with him.

“Fine, I deserve that,” he accepts. “I mess up a lot. Like a lot. I don’t always say the right things and I don’t always express my feelings in the most polite way, but I’m working on it. I promise.”

“Rafe, that’s just the problem. I’m tired of hearing you say that you’re working on it—I want to actually see the change. I can’t do the possessive caveman shit again, I can’t. And I don’t like feeling like your teacher. I’m your girlfriend; as much as I care about you and want to help you with shit like this, it can’t be all our relationship is.”

He nods. “I know, babe. You deserve better than that.” And something in his tone makes you want to lean into his sincerity, trusting that he actually gets how you feel. You drop the butt of the cigarette, and he stomps it out with his foot. “Your mom would go insane if you ruined those heels.”

You smile… just a bit. Testing the waters, he brings a hand up to your face, and your body reacts by leaning in, craving his touch. Even when you’re mad at him, he’s the one you yearn for. But before you can get swept away in the magic, you need to make sure that he gets your point. Your hand reaches up to his and pulls it down. He immediately frowns at the action, and it takes all the willpower you possess to not abandon your speech when his lips pout in that adorable way that they do. 

Instead, you squeeze his hand in assurance, and his pout morphs into something less worrying, more hopeful. 

“Rafe, I don’t mind that you get worried sometimes. I don’t even mind that you get a little jealous. They’re your feelings and you’re entitled to them. But you’re not entitled to talk to me the way that you just did. I love you and I would never, ever do anything to risk that.” You punctuate your declaration by bringing your hands to his face, pulling him down to meet you. He settles into the familiar action, and leans in.

“I’ll work on it, I promise,” he says, only an inch away from your lips. 

You nod, sensing the truth in his words. “Thank you.”

His blue eyes look into yours with a gleam of hope. With the natural habit that comes with almost a year of dating, his lips come to press against yours, as his hands fall to your hips. The moment is picture perfect, and your hands run down his tux-covered chest. It’s gentle at first, almost hesitant���just like when you first started dating. But then it moves into something deeper, as you feel his hands squeeze at your hips and his lips move against yours, his tongue finding its way into your mouth. What started out as something soft and romantic quickly becomes something much more crazed and heated, with whines and sloppy kisses drowning out the noise of the waters behind you and the country club in the distance.

You make out like teenagers, hidden away from everyone else as if you’re not both grown adults in a serious committed relationship. It’s thrilling and messy, filled with passion and earnestness, as if he’s trying to convince you of his promise with the kiss. And you love it.

But unfortunately, the fog of youth can only last for so long. Your immature but intoxicating makeout session is too-soon interrupted by the sounds of your boyfriend’s closest friends, Kelce and Topper. 

“I told you they’d be making out,” Topper says, and you and Rafe immediately jump apart as if your parents have caught you. But he refuses to drop you entirely, instead pulling you with him as he turns to face his friends. 

His mood quickly shifts from slightly annoyed to severely unimpressed when he sees Topper take a twenty dollar bill out of his wallet, passing it to Kelce. “Really?” he asks. You roll your eyes at the juvenile bet. He pulls you in front of him, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Hey, you have no reason to be mad, Cameron. You’re not the one with twenty dollars less in their pocket,” Kelce bites back, and Topper just snickers.

“Not really my problem and also not my fault,” Rafe retorts. You can’t help but giggle at the petty argument, and Rafe’s heart swells knowing that your argument has been resolved. Maybe not completely, but he knows the two of you will move forward. You always do.

As the two boys in front of you begin to bicker more about God-knows-what, Rafe leans down to your ear. “You reek of cigarettes by the way.”

“And since when does that bother you?”

“Oh, I couldn’t care less. But your mother—”

You huff, not letting him finish. “Don’t even go there. Let’s sneak out through the back parking lot.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth. Come on.” He grabs your hand, tugging you forwards. The two of you shove through Topper and Kelce, but Rafe couldn’t care less. You quickly make your way across the parking lot, hand-in-hand. 

“And maybe since I won’t be joining you on the Miami trip, you could give me a little show of all the bikinis I won’t get to see,” he adds with a smirk. 

You gasp in mock agitation, but the mischievous glint in your eyes tells him that you’re back in tune with him. “Only if you’re on your best behavior,” you tease back. 

I'm soooo bad at endings so apologies for that - but otherwise hope y'all enjoyed!! and here's a reminder that requests are very much open :)

also again - shoutout to zyafics for this clever campaign!! I loved participating and I encourage y'all to read the other great fics written for it <3

[beast3end]

Happy birthday, my dear~

Summary: You were born as a soul jam for Virtue. You are their friend, mentor, and guiding light. You are closer than any other of the Virtues. You are the light, and they are your protectors. Characters: platonic!shadow milk & reader; platonic!burning spice & reader; platonic!mystic flour & reader; platonic!eternal sugar & reader. WC: 2,5k CW: gn!reader; there may be mistakes in the text because English is not my native language; light of knowledge!reader is very chatty; light of Change!reader is a bit toxic; Silent Salt will be added after their release.

The general beginning:

For the first time you wake up in someone else's arms: the heat scorches your cold body, and a quiet whisper penetrates into your very core, resonating, filling to the brim.

A figure made of the purest light is smiling — you can feel it because thin lips are touching your… body. Or something that can be considered one.

You don't remember anything, you're the snow-white first snow on the mountain tops: just as untouched and innocent.

But you know that this is not a kiss — life itself is being breathed into you.

"Nice to meet you, my dear," a voice sounds like the tinkling of bells. "I hope someday you will find the strength to forgive me. This is the best uniform I could make for you."

You want to reassure her that everything is fine. You can't move to stroke her warm light. You're shouting that you're not mad. But nothing works. Her don't hear you, or maybe they just ignore you. You can't understand — you can't see someone else's face.

"You will become a companion and a support for one cookie. Lead them by lighting their way with your power—don't let them get lost in what awaits them."

You swear, but your oath hangs in the air, unheard.

When her palms approach the baking tray, you see them: have cookies, sleeping peacefully and waiting in the wings. Four of them are decorated with large stones that began to twinkle and hum more and more the closer you got.

You got it.

You're just like them.

And you are destined the last cookie, still deprived of stone, future light.

It's like love at first sight.

Your body is heating up more and more with every second, now not you who's being burned, but about you. The impatience to cling to someone who would become your legs and arms almost sizzled inside you.

"Happy birthday, my dear light ◆◆◆◆◆◆…"

Shadow Milk:

Before he saw the other Virtues; before he heard the voice of the Witch of Life… His consciousness is shuddering from your excited voice, shouting "hello!!"

It was the speedrun of Virtue's acquaintance with his soul jam, congratulations to him.

He quickly realizes what it means to be a Virtue of Knowledge. You're quite talkative.

No, it's not like that.

You literally won't shut up.

"Shadow, what is this?" "Shadow, what do you think, how to do this?" "Shadow, why do they do it this way?"

Probably, if you had been in the wrong hands, everything would have ended badly. The same Burning Spice is not very patient — Shadow Milk has more than once caught moments when he openly cursed with his souljam. But he's not like that! In fact, being a Fount of Knowledge, he was delighted with your every question. You knew how to find a gap in everything and turn everything upside down.

Shadow Milk is a curious cookie. Curiosity was baked before he was — after all, how else can you gain knowledge without having an ounce of curiosity? But you're literally on another level. Maybe it's because you're not a cookie; maybe it's because you're the purest quintessence of what he's supposed to bring to the world. The question that was just beginning to form on his tongue, you already voiced it as if it were your breath.

Sometimes even the night itself wasn't a hindrance to you. You buzzed and scratched his mind from the inside, your insistent whisper of "Shadow, Shadow" pulled him out of the world of dreams.

"What is..?" "If we burn circles of filling, limiting and drawing mana from the moonlight on the bottom of the jug, we can make the jug fill on our own, but so that the contents do not spill out from the edges?" "There is only enough space at the bottom of the jug for two circles…" "And if we combine circles of restriction and mana drawing? Half of the symbols echo each other, and they also have a similar energy flow structure!" "…" "…" "It's useless, but let's try" "Yay, yes!!"

Without waiting for dawn, the Fount of Knowledge went to the library. He was looking for books that could be useful, and you remembered every article about double magic circles: how they work, what needs to be considered, how it affects the effectiveness of the spell.

Shadow Milk hated the session season as much as the students hated them. But he had one advantage that they didn't have: you.

"I don't know who wrote this nonsense, but he clearly has the brains of a chocolate frog." "Who do you have to be to confuse the circle of teleportation with the circle of summoning? Brave! Instead of escaping, this cookie will be able to throw her Pokemon into danger." "I don't know what kind of potion this cookie was trying to make, but it's tea. Shadow, don't laugh! It looks like tea, smells like tea, and I'm sure it tastes like tea too!.. Are you seriously drinking this?!"

The longer he lived, the more authoritative his words were. Every year, fewer and fewer cookies appeared ready to challenge him — they simply retreated, admitting defeat in an argument that had not even begun. This annoyed Shadow Milk. It annoyed you.

In the end, you were the only one who dared to try to change his mind about one thing or another. It wasn't always successful, but sometimes you won over him!

Eternal Sugar:

You didn't talk to her right away.

When Sugar of Happiness asks itself, "How can I make cookies happy?" you ask immediately, without hesitation, "What would make you happy yourself?"

Sugar of Happiness doesn't know. She, who had just been born, born for the mission of making others happy, did not know what happiness was.

"It's okay," you reassure her in a soft, warm voice. Your voice is gentle and caring, like a cloud of cotton candy, and Sugar of Happiness feels the anxiety dissipate in an instant. "We can figure this out together. Step by step. That's going to be our priority right now, because only a happy cookie can make everyone else happy, right?"

And that's how your journey began.

You pulled her along to meet the sunset on the hill. You offered her to try every food she could lay her eyes on. When you saw how some cookies taught young cookies to draw, you pushed her to test themselves in this.

Not every one of your ideas was successful. During some classes, the Sugar of Happiness fell asleep, she didn't like something else, and in the third she just couldn't see what you saw. And with every failure, you felt as if a crack appeared on your body, even though it wasn't.

"We've just wasted our time…" you muttered with guilt in your voice. Instead, you could have tried to find something else that would definitely make Sugar of Happiness happy! "I don't think so," Sugar of Happiness herself sings with a smile. "After all, we realized that it doesn't make me happy, right?"

In the end, the first thing that finally aroused interest in Sugar of Happiness is playing musical instruments. She was especially good at lyra. Sometimes she would sit in the town square and gather a crowd of cookies listening to her play. And you… as if under hypnosis, you started singing.

When this happens for the first time, Sugar of Happiness feels the lightness in her dough, as well as the warmth curling somewhere in the center of her chest. You notice it right away. Now, every time her fingers pluck the strings of the lyre, you sing. Only for her.

When the Garden of sweet Delights is ready, you congratulate her. The first step in realizing your mission has been accomplished. Now it's a small matter.

You are surprised to notice that Sugar of Happiness imitates you: she greets each cookie with a gentle, gentle voice; she helps each one find something to do in the Garden that makes the cookie happy. Someone likes to take care of flowers, someone likes to bake, someone has a rich imagination and a silver tongue.

She gives her all for the sake of others, stopping only when you insist on rest.

After all, Sugar's of Happiness mission is to make cookies happy, and yours is to make Sugar of Happiness happy.

Mystic Flour:

While the other Virtues managed to establish contact with their soul jams, you remained silent.

Mystic Flour felt your invisiblepresence. The power that you shared with her when she fulfilled the wish of another cookie was warm. But this feeling you of watching and studying her froze her fingers so much that sometimes she couldn't even bend them.

Anxiety ate the Mystic Flour from the inside out: don't you accept her? Maybe you're not rejecting her completely just because you two are connected because of the witches.

On the other hand, you were… at a complete loss.

Mystic Flour was a kind, gentle, and generous cookie. You, who were born as a guiding light for her, were just a ridiculous flicker of a candle. Flour itself was the light that one could blindly follow.

But at some point, it became impossible to remain silent. The cookies that followed her sometimes annoyed you with their frivolous desires. This time, as many as three of them clung to the Mystic Flour at the same time — everyone was sure that it was he who should be listened to first, and the rest could wait.

Mystic Flour stood and watched the growing dispute, anxiously shifting her gaze from one cookie to another. It was at this moment, when her discomfort level began to go through the roof, that she heard you: "Straighten your back and lift your chin higher. Relax your shoulders and don't look into your eyes, look at they forehead. It'll make you less nervous. And then tell them to calm down, otherwise none of their wishes will be fulfilled."

Your voice is clear and unbiased. Maybe a little commanding, but firm and confident. This confuses her even more than the scolding of cookies, which is why she follows your instructions without a second thought.

"You should remember," you continue when the situation has calmed down. "These cookies have come to ask you for a wish, not the other way around. You have the right to refuse the stupid, you have the right to ignore the overly arrogant."

You weren't very talkative. You only made yourself known at certain moments, giving advice on how to behave to Mystic Flour in certain situations. Sometimes meager praise was what Flour expected when she did what you were just about to ask.

You realized what your mission was as a soul jam. You were supposed to be the inner core of the Mystic Flour. Make the right image out of her soft dough, so that they can't look down on her, and send her to the oven so that this image doesn't crumple under the impact. The main thing is not to let her lose this kindness and sincerity.

"We should make a temple in the mountains," you insist, when Mystic Flour chooses a place for his temple. "The higher, the better. Maybe then there will be fewer fools, and there will be more worthy fulfillment of desires. Let them think whether it's so important in the face of a ladder of a thousand steps."

Burning Spice:

The way you first made yourself known was not by talking. At that moment, there was a battle going on against the monsters — Burning Spice was trying to protect the village that sheltered him and the rest of the Virtues. He was about to strike with a parashu when the ground beneath his right foot changed, turning into quicksand. Before he could react, he stumbled absurdly, and a second monster flew over his head, which he did not notice, and bit the neck of the one Spice was going to cut down.

"Oh Witches," your doomed voice rang out, full of suffering. "My cookie is an idiot!"

Any one of the Virtues, watching they friend, was sure that he did not get along with his soul jam at all. Every time he addressed you, it was more like an endless, incessant argument.

It's not just his fault. You've been adding fuel to the fire too. "You can't really protect yourself." Your voice is mocking and snide, Burning Spice is sure that if you had a mouth, you would have bared your teeth in a wide grin. "Then how are you going to protect others?"

He had to listen to it after every battle, when he returned with serious wounds, and sometimes even almost crumbled. Stupid, weak, stubborn — you hit his sore spots with a vengeance, picking at the wounds and penetrating under the crust like the most terrible virus. He didn't want to admit it, he hated to admit it, but you were right.

Hard training wasn't the only thing he did. He fought tirelessly every day with his only opponent, you. And this battlefield was different from the battles against monsters. You didn't try to hurt him, but every little victory you win is a humiliation for him.

When a small stone falls on his head, the impact is stronger than it should be. "What is it?" you giggle when Burning Spice tries to lift that stone, but it doesn't work. "You don't have enough strength? And I said that you need to develop fine motor skills!" "How is this related?!" "You'll spend a couple of weeks modeling clay and you'll understand! Or you won't understand—I just remembered who I'm talking to, haha!"

Burning with rage and indignation, he follows your words — he must prove that your words are utter nonsense! But time passes and Burning Spice realizes that the parashu begins to feel different: he feels where it is more convenient to grab so that the base does not slip, as well as how to keep the balance of the weapon. His movements become clearer and his punches more precise. It makes him even angrier.

Damn clay modeling!

One day, his patience bursts like a soap bubble. He bites you. Trying to bite through, well, or at least cause just a small crack. Anything! Instead, he feels you vibrating against his teeth because you're laughing. "Oh witches, what are you trying to achieve?!" you scratch somewhere inside him, testing how much he will last. "If I could be broken so easily, I would have already broken, considering how often you fall!" "And for who am I falling?!" "I'm developing mindfulness in you, since the witches have deprived you of brains! Since there is no strategy when you rush into battle, then be kind enough to at least pay attention to the situation around you!"

When the first temple is being built for him, you are silent. Burning Spice feels his dough itch with a sense of emptiness: he was so used to your caustic comments that the silence seemed uncomfortable. Unpleasant. Alien. He never contacted you first—it was always you, your advice, and your jabs at his weaknesses.

"Are there any complaints again?" snorts Burning Spice, leaning back against a pillar. You don't answer. "Hey? Knock knock, is the splinter in touch?" You're still silent. "If you answer me, I'll jump out of the window."

He always knew that even though you were like that, you were worried about him. You expressed it in her own way. Your banter has always been aimed solely at making him stronger. And if you were too soft… he would just brush off your words.

"Have pity on the poor cookies," you say without enthusiasm. "Anyone is traumatized by the sight of some fool jumping out of a fourth-floor window." "It's the first time you've been silent for so long." "I was thinking." "About what?" "Perhaps my presence is no longer necessary. Maybe you can handle it without me now."

There's silence at first, and then Burning Spice laughs, loud and raucous, so that it takes his breath away. "This is the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life!" You hum in displeasure on his chest. "If it wasn't for you, I would have turned into crumbs back then, on the first day of our baking!"

You're silent, now considering his words.

"This temple was built for me. What do you think?" "…I think it's too luxurious for someone like you." "I'm in a good mood today, so I'll pretend I didn't hear that."

You're mumbling awkwardly. Burning Spice can feel the warmth spreading through he body from the dough touching you. "Congratulations, Spice. You've grown a lot during this time and you deserve it all."

[mona-risms]

HII!! it's 🪷 Anon, I saw ur reply to my request and it's totally fine! If it's still possible could I request a demon that was made by gwi-ma specifically but hates him just as much as huntrix does. So reader(either fem or nb) helps defeat gwi-ma and live happily ever after with the girls(platonic if that's ok)

-🪷 Anon

◆ MAIN COURSE: HUNTR/X and Gwi-Ma's demon!gn!Reader

◆ TYPE: SFW, platonic

◆ ALLERGEN WARNINGS: None I think???

◆ NOTES: YAYAYAYAY THANK YOU FOR UNDERSTANDING 🫶🫶🫶

Gwi-Ma would probably be severely Picky when it comes to ever using his power for anything. So in this case, you were probably created as some sort of failsafe/watcher/whatever the fuck for Jinu and his plan with the Saja Boys. You ARE made by him after all, made w his very essence. Why would you Ever fail him or go rogue, right? Lol

Hence, you observe. Not HUNTR/X, not at first. You observe humans first; all the way from how they move to how they speak and even how they breathe, and then you adapt. Using whatever demon magic tomfoolery there is, you manage to get yourself into their personal staff team, probably thanks to some poor guy's soul that you ate tf up so you could gain whatever skills they had that'd qualify. Yk, like Kirby

You get close to Bobby, their manager. And as a result, you also get close the HUNTR/X trio, or at least as close as you can manage for a short amount of time obvi. You learn their likes, dislikes, how they are professionally and how they are personally. And as you do so, you even start to learn about Yourself—things you like, dislike, preferences, how you respond to certain things—even though you're not supposed to be anything else but an observing demon in disguise that serves Gwi-Ma. But the more you 'observe' aka spend time with them, the more you begin to question what the need is to terrorise and kill humans, especially this specific lot

Zoey shows you her turtle collection and the notebooks of ideas and pure vibrant creativity. Mira teaches you some of their choreo just for the fun of it, if you wanted to learn, and takes you shopping to the cutest punk fashion stores (girlie the plug frfr), and Rumi would want to go out to EAT EAT EAT and bask in the very rare quiet w you, maybe even involving her lightly strumming or fingerpicking her guitar. These girls are so unbelievably welcoming w you and Bobby is so happy asw. I think Bobby gets really happy when he sees his staff and his girls getting along :((( he's like a silly dad or an uncle

But wait. You weren't just sent to observe HUNTR/X though, were you? While yes he can see and hear what his demons can anyway, you were sent to watch the Saja Boys and make sure they're not being fucking incompetent. And yet when Jinu sees you ohhhh man

You feel his presence before you hear him—a discordant chime in the winds, like an old rusted bell.. or a weathered bipa.

"You're getting a bit too comfortable with them, don't you think?"

You scoffed and crossed your arms, pointedly looking at the horizon, "Like you're one to talk. How's seducing Rumi going for you?"

"As planned, obviously," Jinu walks over to stand beside you. "And you? Any developments in your.. friendship approach?"

"Yes, actually. Though it's not like I report to you—I report about you too, don't forget that."

"Right, right. My mistake." He leaned on the metal bar as he watched you quietly, though as he spoke your attention is mildly stolen by a certain blue tiger-demon lightly headbutting your hand, with the magpie fluttering to stand on the railing. "I shouldn't overstep, right? Might make him angrier if I even dared to suggest that his precious servant is deviating."

You felt yourself stiffening at Jinu's words, though your hand went to scritch the tiger's head anyway, "No, Jinu. We shouldn't—we wouldn't want to make him angry over false accusations, would we?"

You see his eyes narrow at the corner of your eye—he caught on to the sudden mirrored circumstances, of course, he wasn't slow in the least. He pushes himself away from the railing and places his hands in his pockets, "Guess not. ..Just be careful of where your loyalties lie."

And he teleports away before you could respond.

"Asshole."

When the Saja Boys start their plan, that's when you start fully going down the descent of an existential crisis. Every time they/random demons attack, even when HUNTR/X doesn't know it, you're there. You're there to watch and observe, to see if everything's going to plan or it's all going to shit. But you can't interfere, not without Gwi-Ma's permission—just watch and consume souls. But as you're watching it's like. What the fuck. What the hell. Why is this necessary dude

It's the train scene when it all comes ahead and very much apart, where you're inside the train and very much aware of what's going on, and you hear Gwi-Ma in your head, pleased at how the trio is falling fucking apart bc of Rumi's secret

You heard singing from inside the train, singing that went on as perfect as usual.. until Rumi.

You heard hesitation. You heard the shame. And the worst part of it?

You could feel Gwi-Ma within you watching, anticipating.

...

One moment you were inside the train, the next?

You were right in front of the ogre, with Rumi pushed away from your proximity. Your hands, once human, had changed its form to the claws Gwi-Ma blessed—no, cursed—you with as you held back the giant club with a demonic growl. You bore your teeth, and your patterns blazed as bright as your eyes; the colour couldn't belong to anyone else by the one who made you.

Even the hulking demon had to take pause at the sight of you, at the sheer presence of Gwi-Ma on your person, and the trio could actually see something like genuine fear in its eyes.

"You..."

You could hear Rumi's shattered confidence in her voice, and you dare not look back in case you see the three of them look at you as anything but a monster. You don't know if you could take it, take feeling like you were wrong.

So instead, you barked out, the demonic cadence layering on top of your voice—a voice he even doctored to make you more trustworthy, "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! THE PASSENGERS!"

And you push against the ogre before forcing a teleport to the demon realm on the both of you, the scream leaving your lips gutteral and inhuman.

Gwi-Ma is worse than unimpressed. Furious, actually! Congratulations, you pissed off a Demon King! And you still see the souls drawn right into his fire, which would've looked beautiful, if it weren't for the implications of the sight—they couldn't kill of the demons on time. His mark on Rumi's breaking down their entire dynamic and Rumi herself, and the amount of people he's killed and consumed was staggering

His fire's looming at you, fed and absolutely enraged at how his own fucking creation went AGAINST him. He was lenient with his treatment on you, biding his time and leaving you to do your thing because he was expecting you to act upon his will perfectly, NOT grow attached to the people he wanted GONE. Jinu is one thing—someone self-serving, even if the look he casts on you at the top of the shrine with his pets looks like it belongs to someone who's anything but self-serving—but you were made of his very self. His essence. And if you weren't going to make yourself useful? He'll unmake you as easily as he made you

Skip to the near end, when the Saja Boys perform Your Idol and everyone's brainwashed into sacrificing themselves to Gwi-Ma before Rumi interrupts it all. By now, you're probably most likely fused back into Gwi-Ma, seeing as how you're useless sentient when you're not going to serve him. But the remaining consciousness of you can hear Rumi sing.. then Zoey, and then Mira. And Jinu not only hears them too, but he feels that lingering something from within Gwi-Ma himself

When he sacrifices himself, he gives half of his soul to Rumi. The other half? To the person who never got the chance to have a soul of their own—you. Because at least he knows you can put your loyalties on the trio where he couldn't. You're the one who grew much closer to the three of them, it's only right

Deapite your body still originally designed by Gwi-Ma, you've made it your own. With your sentience and with Jinu's soul, you successfully help HUNTR/X and you get to witness the new iridescent Honmoon that only they could make—it's so much more beautiful than the streaking soul retrieval you saw just before your 'death'

You disappeared after that day. For a little while, anyway.

Your sustenance came in the form of mostly people who weren't going to be missed, namely criminals, or people who much preferred death to whatever fate they had—an ugly thing, but half of you still lived because of Gwi-Ma's essence, even if Jinu's soul had minimised the need to feed enough that you can sustain yourself temporarily via human foods.

But eventually you were found anyway. You were leaning on the railing that Jinu had contronted you at, his friends sticking close to you, when you hear three sets of footsteps from behind you.

"Ahh, guess I've been found," you turned around to look at them, your expression softer than it's ever been this whole time—you felt much more free, and judging from the way the trio had stuck to each other stronger than ever, judging from the way Rumi had opted for a simple short-sleeved shirt that showed her markings, iridescent as the new Honmoon? You figured they felt free too.

You raised your hands slowly in surrender, though you made no other move, "If you're here to kill me off, I-- oomph!"

You don't even manage to finish your sentence before you feel Zoey immediately on you, practically glomping with you with her short frame, and you feel your shoulder getting wet. You look back up at the other two, and even they're making their way over with teary looks and quivering lips before immediately joining in the pile.

"Are you-- what-- why are you three crying? I--" Your eyes start to sting, and your arms hesitantly wrap around the three of them, as if scared that one wrong move could make this moment dissipate. "Why--"

A large sniffle from Zoey as she buried her face even deeper into your neck, "We looked EVERYWHERE for you! After we sealed the demon realm away, we-- we couldn't find you and-- and--"

"We thought you got sealed off too," Mira piped in, her voice noticeably much raspier and thicker than usual, "but we looked everywhere. Even had Bobby use whatever contacts he had 'cuz he was looking for you too."

"You're not.. mad? You're not gonna kill me?"

You feel claws digging into you—Rumi's, still uncontrolled, you realise—at the question, "No. Are we mad? Sure, for not telling us and disappearing at the worst time possible, but I know what it's like to-- to hide. We just.. missed our friend."

Friend.

Because that's what you are. Not a demon, not Gwi-Ma's creation. A friend.

You felt yourself crumple in the pile, and the others followed suit as all four of you end up crying on the ground. The only spectators are the magpie and the tiger.

[mentalbreakdownsarenormal]

"The carefree shamelessness of a kid." That... entirely recontextualizes her relationship with Lancer in chapter 1, doesn't it.

(Long rant about the two under the cut)

I mean, consider what chapter 1 must have been like for her. The human freak she hates has just caught her eating school property, and if they report it it'd be the last straw that gets her expelled. Considering what she said to them in The_Newist_Girl post, they will probably do so immediately and remorselessly. It is only because of their mother and her kindness towards her that she doesn't cause a major incident on the spot. She begrudgingly agrees to just get some more chalk and head back to class.

(She also drops the line "If you haven't gotten it by now... Your choices don't matter" which uh. Speaking of internalization.)

Of course, it isn't that simple. The closet is both impossibly dark and impossibly big. And when the two of them go to leave, the door is slammed in her face and locked. The floor collapses under her and she falls through. The drop is impossibly far.

She wakes up in a new world that does not make sense. The first person (barring the freak) she sees starts shooting at the two of them. She finds an entire abandoned town, complete with a castle. And, perhaps the strangest thing of all, she meets a hooded figure who tells her about a prophecy. One she is a part of.

One that calls her a hero.

She doesn't believe it. When asked to accept her destiny as one of the Delta Warriors, she refuses. The hooded guy is knocked away by a kid on a bike. And he's the first person to finally give her a clear answer when she asks a question.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm... The Bad Guy!"

This is the first and only thing she has understood in the last few hours. He's a bad guy. He's getting in her way. Someone's getting beat up. After the fight, two facts make themselves clear. One, she needs to go east. Two, people are gonna try and stop her.

So she goes, alone, and makes herself a menace of the enemies. Beats them up, steals their stuff, and other sorts of things you would do in a normal RPG. That's what the enemies are for, after all. Why would she be nice to someone trying to kill her. Eventually, she's blocked by a door she can't open alone until the other nerds show up. She needs to follow them, but like hell she's actually gonna help them or change her behavior at all. There's no point. Kris and Ralsei are good and she's bad. They fell right into their roles, being all nice and stuff, but she's not like them. She can't think of anything good to say about someone trying to kill them like they can. She isn't delicate. She isn't skilled at anything. But she can smash things. And so smash things she shall. Just like she always has, and just like she always will. Don't know why anyone's expecting anything else.

She won't, she can't grow as a person like they can, not now not ever.

Susie's arc where she grows as a person begins after two rooms. It's the scene where Lancer mistakes Susie trying to intimidate him as advice on how to be scary and thanks her for it. His praise surprises her and having someone who appreciates her motivates her to become better. That's the basic reading anyway. But in hindsight...

Lancer is a child. A young child. Why? Lancer's age, for the most part, is irrelevant to his character. If you wanted him to parallel Susie, why not write him to be the same age as everyone else? How does the relationship between the two of them benefit from Susie needing to babysit the kid half the time they hang out?

She's his mentor. The one she never had herself. Lancer is bad at being scary. His evil laugh sounds like a baby Santa Claus. He has no idea what he's doing, he's just trying to be "scary and badass" like his dad. And it just so happens being scary is one of the few things Susie knows how to be "good" at. And with that in mind, Susie's words suddenly take on a whole new meaning.

Susie interrupts with a single word. "Stop." What Susie says next, about wannabe tough guys and bitten faces isn't her trying to scare him. It's her trying to crush him. The same way she was when she tried to play. You need to stop because you're bad, now here's someone who can do it better. But unlike back then, the person who told the kid to stop was the better person. The kid got the chance to see it be done properly and was told what exactly needed improvement.

And the next time they meet, Lancer acts far more intimidating. He's still not good, to be sure, but he did improve. He then immediately asks for feedback to try to improve more. He doesn't even have guys, he just wanted to practice.

And this shatters Susie's world view. This kid, this young, carefree kid who's just playing around improves. The kid who's the only person around she could understand or relate to, the kid who introduced himself as "the bad guy" *improved*. Whatever was wrong with this kid that made him a bad guy, that made him an outcast, didn't end up mattering. The support around him did.

In the very same scene Lancer shows improvement, he realizes your team doesn't have a name. To fix this, he asks everyone to drop a name in his bucket to be randomly selected. Kris doesn't and they "look like they don't care." But Susie does add a name. She might not put a lot of effort into it, but she plays along. Susie, who walked through puzzles, who disobeyed commands, who left the party behind, who repeatedly complains about you being slow, who refused help stop the very world from ending, put a name in the bucket.

And in every following scene the two are together, she encourages everything he does.

She expected to be able to play it because she was. She wasn't trying to be good: she liked the piano and she wanted to play it, so she did. Playing for the sake of playing with the carefree shamelessness of a kid.

But because someone thought she was "bad", they told her to stop. It's a role she's been assigned all her life. Without explanation, without justification, without fault, something as inherent to her as her voice, her claws, her skin.

So she internalized it. "Good" must be a role too, right? No one's ever cared enough to teach her about practice or training or perseverance. "Good" is something Susie would simply never get to be.

[erwinsvow]

Omg let’s talk Robby’s shy wifey!!

Is she shy with him? I picture she’s open with him and comfortable but he can easily make her go all shy and bushy if he wants to esp with sex stuff

Also he is the perfect guy to cling to if you’re feeling shy in a public setting ughhh he’s so big and beautiful and I love him

Also, I clocked your tags girl & I love it! She’s comfy with jack ofc 💖

i think she's really shy with him at first.. he's pretty intense even when he's trying to be normal like the eye contact and probably trying to diffuse and calm her down because she seems skittish and whatever he's doing isn't working. it'd have to be a non medicine setting so idk how to explore this relationship when he's not at the hospital like what context he'd see her in... maybe if she is a florist or owns a bakery or whatever cute tropes we love to give our readers and he's a regular.. why is he a regular at the florist i don't exactly know but assuming this man comes in regularly for his- okay interrupting myself mid thought because her being a baker makes much more sense. bakery with good coffee near the hospital and you're always the quiet one baking in the back and if no one's there you have to check him out and give him his large hot coffee labeled michael in your pretty handwriting and whatever sort of pastry you made. hmmm this makes much more sense to me. when you look up at him and then look back down quickly and avoid eye contact and it sucks because he's so cute and becomes a regular but you're just soooo not the kind of girl who flirts up customers, because normally you don't even talk to customers. one day you're not there in the back organizing the displays like you normally are and he asks where you are and ooo boy is that a mistake. the other workers tease you until you're ready to hand in your apron and quit altogether from the sheer overwhelmedness of it all. start calling robby your boyfriend like "oh your boyfriend's about to walk in. i'm gonna go take my break, you got this, right?" like making you talk to him. however... nothing happens besides a slightly prolonged conversation though you get better at eye contact over time and he kind of paints a picture of the sort of girl you are in his head—definitely way too good to be with him. and then you get into an accident with a hot tray or a frosting knife and they take you to the emergency room and you're with one of the residents but robby sees you and maybe takes over your care.. cue exchanged glances between everyone.. dana stopping by to see what all the fuss is... people staring at robby tenderly wrapping you wound while you stare up at him with huge wet eyes and he's being quiet and telling you you'll be okay, kid and back to baking in no time. and then you have to be like "michael?" "yeah kid?" "why is everyone staring at us?" [shuts curtain quickly]

okay that was a loooot. i do think though he's the type to pick your head back up and hold you in place if you bury it into his neck or a pillow because you can't hold eye contact during sex. veryyyyy eyes on me, kid. kind of breaks through the shyness because he has a very dirty mouth and you kind of are forced to break through because you enjoy it so much and you don't want him to stop. shy sweetheart wife has layers and he peels them all away. goes from girlfriend to wife really quickly, like, surprisingly quickly. it's because of the type of girlfriend she is, the waiting at home with dinner and dessert and making his house feel like a home with the smell of cookies and just really bringing warmth into that old man's bones. lots of you're killing me here, kid, when you're just staring up at him confused because what did you even do???? (gave him the reality of a life he thought he'd never have or be able to keep). an anxiety emotional shy girl.. lowkey perfect for him. lets him decompress and breakdown after a really bad day and wipes away his tears and somehow ends up crying too which just makes him smile because he knows how much you love him. i'm sure she brings in treats from the bakery to the hospital all the time around five thirty when the store closes, and she can be found hiding behind robby while he tells someone to bring it to the break room and thank his girlfriend (turns into don't forget to thank my wife real quick though). but it's endearing to robby. it's endearing to jack too, but that's for another time.

[yuujispunches]

The things he doesn’t say ~ M.F.

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

Summary: Megumi doesn’t know how to deal with having a crush and his strategy of deny deny deny might just cost him everything he longs for when you overhear him talking with Yuki and Nobara.

CW (content warning): maybe some cursing but that’s it, this is mainly just fluff.

AN: I’m back! I finally finished my exams and I’m free so I’m back to writing. I’ll be going through the requests as soon as I can 🤍 English isn’t my first language so I’m sorry if there’re any mistakes. Hope you enjoy and let me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send yours! (you can check the list of characters I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist

The late spring air buzzed with the hum of insects and the smell of sun-warmed concrete as training wrapped for the day. A warm breeze danced across the open field behind Tokyo Jujutsu High, rustling the sleeves of uniforms and the grass that sprouted between cracks in the stone tiles.

Megumi Fushiguro stood with his arms crossed, gaze locked across the yard.

You were training with Yuji, your laughter ringing out as you clumsily dodged one of his exaggerated mock punches. There was a smear of dirt across your cheek, sweat shining on your forehead, and your smile. God, your smile, every time he saw it, it was as if it caught the sunlight like a net.

Megumi couldn’t look away. Not that he wanted to stare. But it was like his eyes had a mind of their own like his heart was some stupid, traitorous thing that leaned toward you every time you got within ten feet of him. He didn’t even like most people. But you? You made him feel… soft. Stupid. A little terrified.

“Okay.” Nobara said behind him, voice sing-songy. “You’ve been watching her for like, ten minutes straight.”

Megumi frowned. “No, I haven’t.”

Yuji snorted, having appeared beside him at some point. “Bro, yes, you have. It’s getting creepy.”

“I was making sure she didn’t overdo it.” He shifted uncomfortably. “She sprained her wrist last week.”

“Aw, so you’re able to care about someone?” Nobara teased. “That’s cute.”

“It’s not- ” Megumi's tone sharpened. “I don’t have a thing for her, okay? Drop it.”

——————————————————————————

You had just stepped around the back of the toolshed to get a drink from the water tap, coming back toward the group when the words hit your ears.

"I don’t have a thing for her, okay? Drop it."

You froze.

Your heart stumbled in your chest, awkward and loud. You stayed back, hidden by the shed’s corner, not even daring to breathe.

“She’s just a classmate.” Megumi continued, his voice clipped and cold. “There’s nothing going on. You guys are imagining things.”

The air between them seemed to shift. Nobara muttered, “Wow. Harsh.”

Yuji laughed nervously. “Y/N’s cool, though. I mean, I’d get it if you did like her.”

“I don’t.” Megumi said again. And this time, it was more than just annoyed. It was sharp. Final. “She’s annoying sometimes, honestly. Always asking questions, always smiling like we’re not about to die on a mission. I don’t get it.”

You didn’t hear the rest.

Your hands had gone cold, water bottle clutched tight to keep them from shaking. The back of your throat burned as you slowly backed away, heart hammering.

“She’s annoying sometimes, honestly… I don’t get it.”

His words kept echoing in your head. It felt like someone had slapped you, hard.

——————————————————————————

That night, you didn’t come to dinner.

You weren’t mad, exactly. You didn’t think Megumi meant to hurt you, he probably thought he was protecting something, like he always did. That didn’t stop it from stinging like hell.

You sat in your dorm room, fingers curled loosely around a hot mug of tea you didn’t feel like drinking. Your phone buzzed a few times. Yuji, probably. Or Nobara. You ignored them all.

Across the courtyard, Megumi sat outside on the steps of the dorm, arms resting on his knees, gaze distant. Something felt off. You weren’t you tonight. You hadn’t looked at him once after training. Usually, you’d nudge him with your shoulder, say something quietly, something that made the tension in his chest ease.

Tonight, nothing.

He didn’t know why it bothered him so much. Or maybe he did. Maybe he’d just spent so long pretending it didn’t matter that he forgot how much it did.

——————————————————————————

The first time he noticed you was on a mission.

You weren’t like Nobara, loud and stylish and sharp-edged. You weren’t like Yuji, either, overwhelmingly bright, brimming with impossible optimism. You were quieter, not in a shy way but in a present way. Focused. Observant. You asked questions no one else asked. You noticed things.

During the mission, you’d pulled a cursed spirit off his blind spot without hesitation, taken a shallow gash to the ribs for it. Megumi remembered the way your hands shook, the blood blooming through your uniform and still, the only thing you said shocked him.

“I’m fine. You okay?” A concerned look on your face.

He’d looked at you like you were a different species.

Since then, something had shifted. And it scared the hell out of him.

——————————————————————————

The next day came with clouds heavy in the sky, the promise of rain clinging to the air.

You avoided him.

Not in an obvious way, there were still group training sessions, still shared missions but the warmth was gone. No small talk. No soft, thoughtful comments that made him feel seen. No casual touches or gentle teasing.

Megumi noticed.

It ate at him in quiet moments. During breaks, he’d glance over to find you talking with Yuji, laughing but never looking at him. When Nobara dragged you into town for shopping, you didn’t ask if he wanted to come.

And worst of all you’d stopped smiling at him.

One afternoon, he caught you in the courtyard alone, bandaging a scrape on your arm after training.

“You should disinfect that better.” He said, stepping up without thinking.

You looked up, then back down. “I’m fine.”

He hesitated. “You haven’t been talking to me.”

“I didn’t realize we talked much anyway.” You replied, tone even. Not cruel. Just… distant.

Megumi flinched inwardly. “Did I do something?”

You finally met his gaze. There was no accusation in your eyes just quiet resignation. “No. Not really. I just don’t want to bother you.”

That landed like a punch to the ribs.

He sat down beside you, legs crossed, staring at the grass. “You don’t bother me.”

“You said I was annoying.”

Silence.

You didn’t say where you’d heard it. You didn’t have to.

Megumi stared straight ahead. “That wasn’t… what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You asked quietly, not looking at him. “Because I was starting to think we were friends. But maybe I read too much into it.”

Megumi’s throat closed up. He couldn’t say it. Not here. Not like this.

“I’m sorry.” He said instead.

You stood, brushing off your pants. “Don’t be. It’s my fault. I let myself think you cared.”

He looked up sharply, eyes wide. But you were already walking away, each step driving nails deeper into the floor of his chest.

——————————————————————————

Later that night, Megumi sat in the common room with Yuji and Nobara, both chattering about something or other while he stared at the floor.

“You okay, bro?” Yuji asked between bites of chips.

Megumi didn’t answer right away.

Nobara narrowed her eyes. “It’s Y/N, isn’t it?”

“I messed up.” Megumi said simply.

Yuji blinked. “Did you two fight?”

“No.” He exhaled through his nose. “But I lied. I said I didn’t care about her. And she heard it.”

Nobara grimaced. “Yeah, okay. That’s bad.”

“I didn’t want you two making a big deal out of it,” Megumi muttered.

“Dude, you made a big deal out of it.” Yuji pointed out. “You went all ice-prince ‘I don’t like her at all’ of course she’s hurt.”

Megumi scrubbed a hand over his face. “I thought if I pretended it wasn’t real, it wouldn’t hurt.”

Nobara crossed her arms. “And now?”

“Now it hurts worse.”

——————————————————————————

The clouds broke open just after you and Megumi were dispatched together on a joint mission outside Tokyo.

A cursed spirit had been stalking a neighborhood near Kyoto, an old manufacturing district turned residential. It wasn’t high-grade, likely a grade 2, maybe 1 but it was slippery and fast, and the higher-ups wanted it gone discreetly. Gojo had paired you and Megumi “You two are quiet and competent.” He said. “No property damage, please.”

You’d barely said a word to Megumi on the train. He hadn’t tried to start a conversation either. The air between you was heavy, like a storm about to break.

Now, trudging through the damp streets just after sunset, the rain soaked through your jackets, making your breath fog and your hands cold. Your cursed energy flickered outward, on alert.

“It’s close.” You murmured, scanning the alley ahead.

Megumi nodded, summoning Divine Dogs. “Split left. If you catch it, don’t engage alone.”

You nodded stiffly. “Copy.”

He hated this. Not the mission, he could handle the mission. He hated the way you moved around him like a stranger, your voice clipped, movements economical, eyes never quite meeting his.

He wanted to reach out. But every time he opened his mouth, the words died on his tongue.

——————————————————————————

The cursed spirit was stronger than expected.

It lunged from the shadows behind a warehouse, fast and wide, all teeth and claws and thick, bristling curses that slashed like wire through the air. You ducked under its first strike, slashing upward with your blade. It screeched, retreating, and you pursued.

Then, too late, you felt the shift.

A second spirit dropped from the roof behind you, small, but fast. Its claws raked your side before you could turn, searing pain flashing hot across your ribs.

You cried out. Megumi’s blood ran cold.

“Y/N!” He shouted, moving fast. Shadows burst outward, his wolves intercepting the small one before it could strike again.

He reached you in three heartbeats.

You staggered, one hand pressed to your side, blood seeping between your fingers. “I didn’t sense the second one.”

“You shouldn’t have been alone,” he snapped, eyes dark. “I told you not to engage- ”

“I had to.” You hissed. “It was going after a kid- ”

“Goddammit, Y/N.”

He didn’t mean to sound so furious. But fear twisted in his gut, ugly and choking.

He moved fast, summoning Nue to stall the remaining spirit as he caught you, half carrying you out of the danger zone. His grip was tight, protective, anchoring, and trembling just slightly.

You winced. “I can walk- ”

“Don’t argue with me right now.” He said, voice low.

He didn’t let go.

——————————————————————————

You sat against the wall of an abandoned convenience store, blood soaking your uniform. Megumi worked silently, cleaning the wound with water from his canteen and bandaging you as best he could.

You stared past him, jaw clenched. “If this is about me being annoying again, don’t bother.”

Megumi’s hands froze.

“What?”

“I get it.” You muttered, not meeting his eyes. “I smile too much. I ask too many questions. I’m a burden. I’m not as strong as you or Yuji. You don’t have to pretend.”

His voice was quiet. “You really think I feel that way?”

“I heard you, Megumi. That day. You didn’t just say you didn’t like me. You sounded like the idea of liking me was disgusting.”

Megumi sat back on his heels, breath unsteady. The rain had stopped, but thunder still rolled distantly in the sky.

He looked wrecked.

“I didn’t mean it.” He said finally. “I was trying to shut Yuji and Nobara up. They wouldn’t stop teasing me. I panicked.”

You stared at him, hollow. “And the part about me being annoying?”

He swallowed. “I was angry. Not at you. At myself. I’ve felt this way for months and I didn’t know what to do with it. So I turned it into something ugly so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.”

Silence.

He looked down, ashamed. “You were never annoying. I lied.”

Your throat burned. “Why?”

“Because I like you so much it scares the hell out of me.” He said, finally meeting your eyes. “You make me feel like I’m not just a weapon. Like I’m allowed to be human. And I didn’t want to lose that.”

You stared at him.

“I thought if I kept it quiet, I could protect it. Protect you. But I ended up hurting you instead.”

Your voice cracked. “You really like me?”

His answer was immediate. “Yes. A lot.”

The silence between you changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It buzzed warm and uncertain.

You exhaled shakily. “I thought I was just being stupid.”

“You’re not.” He said, leaning closer. “You’re not stupid. You’re brave. Kind. Smarter than me, half the time. You see people for who they are and you still smile like the world doesn’t deserve you.”

You blinked fast. “That was… a lot.”

He blushed furiously. “Yeah. Sorry. I’ve been holding it in.”

You reached for him without thinking, hand brushing his wrist. He stilled, then turned his hand under yours, fingers closing around yours.

Your voice was small. “I like you too, you know.”

Megumi let out a breath like he’d been drowning and finally found air.

“I know.” He said softly. “I just didn’t want to believe it. Thought maybe if I ignored it, I wouldn’t mess it up.”

You smiled weakly. “You kind of did mess it up.”

He nodded. “I’ll fix it.”

“How?”

“I’ll stop hiding.” He said. “I’ll be honest with you. From now on no more running away.”

You were quiet for a beat.

“Okay.” You said. “But that means telling Nobara.”

He groaned. “Please no.”

“She knows.”

“She’ll never shut up.”

“She deserves the satisfaction.”

He scowled. “You’re cruel.”

You smiled, softer now. “You like that about me.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached up gently, pushing a damp strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was light, reverent. You leaned into it.

“You’re not allowed to lie again.” You whispered. “Not about how you feel.”

“Promise.” He said.

And when he leaned in, tentative but sure, and pressed his forehead to yours, you felt the shift not just in the air, but in the weight you’d both been carrying.

This time, it didn’t feel so heavy.

——————————————————————————

The next day, back at the dorms, Nobara cornered Megumi on the steps.

“So” She said with narrowed eyes. “Y/N looked very happy this morning.”

Megumi sighed. “Don’t start.”

Yuji leaned around the doorway. “Wait- wait. Did you finally tell her?!”

Megumi muttered. “Yes.”

Both Nobara and Yuji exploded with noise.

“I KNEW IT!”

“ABOUT TIME!”

“I GIVE IT THREE WEEKS BEFORE HE PANICS AGAIN!”

Megumi, for once, didn’t snap at them. He just shook his head and let the teasing roll off.

Because when he looked across the courtyard and saw you waiting, smiling that real, soft smile just for him and nothing else mattered.

Tags: @hawkwithsocks @pickledsoda @savagecatsuga @suna-yoshihara @grignardsreagent @noooo-onee

Taglist is open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[astrae4]

TRY NOT TO SPILL YOUR SECRET RELATIONSHIP ON A BUS FULL OF NOSY STUDENTS: HARD MODE | Kim Woonhak

pairings — boynextdoor’s student!woonhak x student!reader (non idol au)

genre — romance, secret relationship, tooth rotting fluff

warnings — none! (wc. 1.2k)

note — had a lot of fun writing this hehe…woonhak’s so cute..

more works: navigation | bnd!masterlist

THE BRIGHT CHATTERS of loud students hits your eardrum before you even step foot into the bus. It’s expected, of course. Even your homeroom teacher isn’t able to get the class fully quiet unless he shouts at all of you.

Today’s conversations seem to be louder thanks to the school trip you’re about to experience in a few hours. Excited gossip flowing all around you as classmates try to find a seat and catch up on all the tea they missed while focusing on midterms.

You move to the back of the bus where your friend group’s seated. A snowman keychain on your sparkly pink backpack jingles as you try shoving your way to the end of the bus.

You’re dressed up more than usual like everyone else. After all, it’s the one day in school where you and the rest of the class can wear free clothes ( although there were lots of rules as well…like no shorts and crops ) and not your boring ol’ uniform.

You find your outfit sort of matching your glittery bag—fitting for your personality. You’re wearing a pink shirt with light blue overalls, your hair in low pigtails and your favorite pair of pink sneakers on.

You giggle slightly to yourself at the thought of Woonhak’s reaction.

You and Woonhak had just called the night before, initially on voice chat to play co-op video games which then led to just vid-calling on what to wear during the school trip.

You were asking him what overalls you should use ( you had two: one in light blue and one in dark blue ) when Woonhak dropped a bomb on you. The conversation kind off went like this…

“I like the light one, but doesn’t the darker blue contrast better with my pink shirt?” You had asked seriously.

Woonhak blinked, then squinted his eyes as if that’d help him see better even though he’s still on the other side of the screen, in his green pjs, and eating a bag of chips. “I don’t see the difference. You’d look too pretty anyways for me to pay attention to the contrast of your outfit.”

You remember almost dropping your pair of overalls, face getting hot at the sudden flirting.

Of course, like teenagers do, you responded dumbly. “Oh.”

It was quiet for a moment as Woonhak processed what he said—always the type to speak without thinking first.

“WAIT I MEAN—“

You had ended the night with a newly acquired boyfriend after cutting Woonhak off of his rambling with a ‘why don’t we just date then?’.

Woonhak’s your first boyfriend too. ( giggles )

For the plot, you and Woonhak decided to keep your relationship a secret from the rest of your friends. There was even a wager.

The first person to spill the tea to your friends has to buy the other premium ice cream.

You should have known that it wasn’t going to be as easy as your ego had thought it was.

Your first mistake was sitting next to your new boyfriend.

Your second mistake was forgetting that the back of the bus is premium gossip territory. It’s where rumors are born, spread, and mutated into something unrecognizable by the time the bus even leaves the school gates.

Woonhak greets you with a lopsided grin as you plop into the seat beside him. His hair’s slightly damp—probably rushed through his morning routine—but his hoodie looks ironed, which means he probably changed outfits three times before leaving the house. You know this because you’ve been dating for 13 hours and can already tell.

“Hi,” he says, like he didn’t already talk to you for two hours last night and react to your Story this morning.

“Hi,” you say back, lips twitching.

It’s awkward. The good kind. The butterflies-in-your-stomach kind. The kind that makes your cheeks warm and your fingers fidget with your keychain.

Across the aisle, one of your friends raises a brow. “You two are matching.”

You both freeze.

You are matching. Pink top, denim on both ends. You try not to glance at Woonhak’s pink hoodie and jeans. Bad idea. Now you’re hyper-aware that he smells like citrus body spray and your knees are touching and you are so screwed.

He plays it cool. “Really? Guess we’re both just fashionable.”

Lies. You both panic-picked outfits over video call while lying on your stomachs like you were in a teen romcom.

Your third mistake was laughing a little too hard at his joke.

Like, really hard. Like you just watched a viral meme edit with distorted screaming and subtitles in Comic Sans ( The amount of Woonhak x Comic Sans stories I’ve read are diabolical. Let me add on to it.. ). You even slapped his arm for dramatic effect.

And that’s when the heads really started turning.

“Okayyy,” someone two seats in front of you says, dragging the word out like they’re already suspicious. “What’s so funny?”

You immediately sit up straighter, hands clutching your backpack like it’s a life raft. “Nothing. Just—Woonhak said something dumb.”

“Nothing new,” Woonhak says smoothly, trying to save it, but you can hear the slight waver in his voice.

Someone from the other side of the bus pipes in. “Why are you two matching though?”

You blink. “Matching? We’re not matching.”

“You’re literally both wearing pink and denim,” a voice says from the row behind. “That’s couple-coded behavior.”

“Not everything is couple-coded!” you say quickly, way too defensive for someone supposedly not hiding a relationship.

“Oh my god,” one of your friends whispers, eyes widening dramatically. “Are you guys…dating?”

“NO—” you say.

“YES—” Woonhak says.

Silence.

Actual silence. Like, someone-even-paused-their-music silence.

You turn to him so slowly it could be played in a horror film with violin screeches in the background. Woonhak’s eyes are wide. He knows what he just did. He’s already mouthing sorry sorry sorry, like that’s gonna save him.

You force out a laugh. “He’s joking. He thinks he’s funny. He’s not.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Woonhak nods quickly. “It’s like… a bit. We’re doing a bit. For content.”

“For what content?” someone asks.

You blink. “…Our documentary. On, uh, teen relationships. That we’re not in.”

There’s a beat of silence before your best friend leans over the back of the seat and squints at the two of you.

“You’re lying.”

You try to look offended. “I am not!”

“Then why is your face red?” they ask.

You panic-laugh again. You sound like a broken squeaky toy. “Because it’s hot!”

“It’s literally air-conditioned.”

“Maybe I’m allergic to lies,” Woonhak mumbles under his breath.

You jab him in the ribs. He coughs.

This is fine. Everything’s fine. The bus hasn’t even left the parking lot and you’re already on the verge of fumbling the whole relationship.

You lean against the window dramatically. You whisper, “I swear to god if I lose this bet—”

“You’ll still be my girlfriend,” he whispers back, annoyingly smug.

You groan.

This is gonna be the longest field trip of your life.

Hard mode? Try impossible.

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NETWORKS: @k-labels @k-films @onedoornet

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