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shark vs the universe
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roma★

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Anyways
*finds good summary of a fic* "male!reader"
THE DEVIL'S BRIDE ── JENNIE
04. Forked Tongue
» » SYNOPSIS: A priest fell to his knees, wept before Satan's child itself and he wasn't as pure nor sinless as people thought he was. Meanwhile, Y/N arrived at the musicians' night—networking event looking beautiful and guilt-edged relevancy that she was aware that she hasn't entirely earned.
» » pairing: devil!jennie x artist!fem!reader
» » genre: supernatural-horror romance, dark comedy, satirical work of fiction and psychological thriller
» » what's in here: jennie being casually terrifying, themes of death and soul collection, brief depiction of a morally compromised religious figure, supernatural elements, morally ambiguous protagonist, themes of dishonesty and manufactured success
» » author's note: basically a filler chapter and I'm so sorry that I took over three months to complete the 5th chapter and this is very boring I'm sorryyy and ISTG I'LL HAVE THE CONTINUATION READY‼️
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A theology carved in stones—in walls and soaring pillars. That was how one might describe it: a passage between earth and heaven, architecture as devotion, silence as the sermon. The vastness of the space was almost eerie, the kind of eerie that pressed gently against your chest and reminded you how small you are.
The distinct scent of beeswax candles mingled with the sweet, earthy perfume of incense and somewhere beyond the nave, a choir's distant singing echoed—was beautiful and irritating all at once, the way holy things often were.
Her shiny heels; Christian Louboutin, soles the color of fresh blood, tapped against the stone cold floor, each click echoing too long, as though the cathedral was announcing her sudden arrival. She walked until she reached the wooden door of the confessional, gripped the knob and pulled it open, stepped into the dark little box like a cat exploring somewhere it absolutely should not be.
She sat with her legs closed, ladylike and her handbag resting beside her, the picture of propriety.
“Father,” she began, “I have killed a person,”
What a wonderful way to open a confession.
In the adjoining booth, the priest sat clutching his Bible and his rosary. His breath caught. He had heard many confessions over the decades—infidelities, thefts, envies both petty and catastrophic—but this one reached across the partition and took him firmly by the collar. Not for the crime itself, though partly. For the voice. It was unbothered.
His eyes flickered to the latticed screen beside him.
A beat.
“Did you intend for this person to die,” he asked carefully, the shakiness in his voice barely contained, “or did your anger get the better of you?”
On the other side of the partition, her long red hails tapped a slow idle rhythm against the wooden wall. She shifted, crossed her legs. “It was work,” she answered.
“I don't get paid for it. So I suppose it was entirely intentional.” She spoke about it the way one might discuss a mildly inconvenient errand.
The nonchalance did not go unnoticed. The priest swallowed. He steadied himself, kept his voice level, choosing his words with great care. “Do you feel the weight of this soul upon your own?” he asked. “Do you truly regret taking a life made in God's image?”
A pause. On her side of the booth, the woman raised one perfect eyebrow. She inspected her nails with faux curiosity and let her bottom lip push forward in a small, thoughtful pout.
“Regret?”
Another pause.
“I feel none of it.”
The priest nodded even knowing she could not see him, it seemed the appropriate thing to do. He pressed forward, navigating the conversation carefully. “What did this person do to warrant their death?” he presented his next question, testing water one careful toe at a time.
There were small perforations carved into the partition between them—little holes meant for whispered dins and quiet absolution. The woman leaned forward and brought her lips close to them, her voice dropping to something soft. Intimate. Intended only for him.
“He was a stupid, stupid pig,” she whispered pleasantly. “He sold his soul to my father in exchange for a longer and more prosperous life. But the stupid pig overstayed his welcome and Daddy sent me to collect what was owed.”
Then she giggled—a small, bright, delighted sound, utterly incongruous with everything she had just said, it was clear that she was enjoying this—enjoyed watching the color drain from a face they couldn't see.
A sharp, high-pitched ringing detonated in the priest's ear—sudden, impaling into his ear. He slammed his palm against the side of his head, the Bible momentarily forgotten on his knee. The sound wasn't loud in the usual sense. It was ear deafening.
Heat rushed over him. Cold followed immediately behind it or they arrived together—simultaneous, his rosary beads pressed into his palm.
She rolled her eyes, gathered her handbag and stepped out of the confessional box.
She strode across the stone floor with the unhurried elegance of someone who had never once in her existence been late for anything that truly mattered—which given the nature of her work, was entirely plausible.
Behind her, the booth door swung open with a bang and the priest stumbled out, struggling to keep pace. His balance, unfortunately did not cooperate. He went down. One palm flat against the cold stone, his long vestments spreading around him like a fallen flag, his Bible still clutched in one white-knuckled hand.
The woman stopped mid stride. She tilted her head, she did not turn around yet and she allowed him a moment.
Behind her, the priest trembled. His mouth hung open. Desperation had painted itself across his face, the kind of expression one reserves for moments of sincere theological crisis. He was sweating profusely. He looked up at the back of the woman who had just confessed a murder to him with the eerie calm of someone discussing the weather.
And then—Jennie turned around.
She looked down at him the way one looks at something interesting one has found on the bottom of a very expensive show. Hierarchy, after all, probably mattered.
“You—” The priest choked on his own breath. “Did your father...” He dug his nails into his palms. “...send you here too?” His eyes were very wide.
The corner of Jennie's lips curled. Her fox-like eyes caught the light filtering down through the stained glass; all that colored holiness falling across something that was very much not holy and she glanced briefly at the enormous crucifix looming at the altar before returning her gaze to the trembling man on the floor.
“Yes.”
One word. Devoid of emotions.
What happened next was, depending on one's perspective, either deeply tragic or darkly, horribly funny.
The priest—the man of God, the shepherd of souls—abandoned his Bible entirely. He got up onto both knees, hands pressed together, they were tremoring and he bowed. His forehead went to the floor. He was not praying to the God to whom he had devoted the better part of his youth. He was praying to the one he had sold his soul to instead.
It was perhaps the most honest prayer he had ever offered.
A sick little plot twist.
He wept. Eyes red, hair damp with sweat, he pressed his hands together and sobbed with the full-bodied commitment of a man who had just remembered, very suddenly, that all debts eventually come due.
“Please,” he begged, looking up at Jennie. “Please, don't take me today! I didn't mean to— I was afraid of dying! I'm still afraid!”
Jennie looked at him. She let out a slow, quiet sigh. It was an icky display of desperation. She raised one finger and wagged it at him as if he was a child who made a small mistake.
“You are one hundred and eighteen years old today,” she said, crouching down to his level with effortless grace. She placed one hand atop his head but not gently. “Your agreement with my father was to live another ten years. Ten years to repent. Ten years to be for forgiveness.” Her voice remained soft. Almost pleasant.
“But instead, you went and made a separate arrangement with a lowly demon. To extend the extension.” She clicked her tongue. “Did you think he wouldn't notice?”
“I... I can give you the demon's name!” He sobbed palms upturned toward her like an offering. “Please, not today... just not today!”
Jennie took his chin between her fingers and drew his face toward hers—she was not gentle. Their lips nearly brushed and the light inside the cathedral shifted, as if the sky outside had begun to bleed bruise and black at the same time.
Like a storm about to brew.
“Stupid,” she whispered softly, “stupid pig.”
Then Jennie shoved his face away, his head snapped back. She stood, smoothed the front of her cloth with one hand, flicking her hair back into perfect order. A long, theatrical sigh escaped her lips—setting down the weight of the situation.
“Not today, then,” she told the priest and her voice had shifted entirely—lighter, almost cheerful. She grinned down at him, a bright and very pretty thing that did not reach whatever lived behind her eyes.
“I promised my insufferable human wife I would attend her big night.” She shrugged one shoulder, the gesture loose and almost fond in a way and began to resemble affection. “Apparently that takes precedence.”
She straightened up, cast one last glare at the weeping, terrified priest on the floor of the cathedral and she turned back towards the door.
Her heels tapped against the floor—each sound ringing out and the choir somewhere above was beautiful as well as deeply annoying ass Jennie was making her way to the door. She pushed open the heavy door and stepped out into the world and the light swallowed her whole.
The sleek black sedan pulled up to the hotel entrance and Y/N stepped out with the kind of grace that comes from having practiced it, the door held open by a young man in dark clothing who kept his eyes appropriately forward. She looked exceptional tonight. She knew it. Jennie helped to choose the outfit she's wearing tonight.
The mirror in the card had confirmed it and the brief appreciative pause of the doorman had confirmed it again.
What she lacked, however, was her wife.
Jennie had told her in advance, casually, the way Jennie told her most things, as though the information were a small object being dropped into her hands from a great height that she would arrive at the function separately. On her own. In her own time.
Y/N had simply nodded and let it go. It wasn't as though she could actually stop Jennie from doing whatever Jennie wants to do. The mental image of herself physically restraining Jennie—arms wrapped around those shoulders, heels dragging across the floor, Jennie looking mildly inconvenienced—was a little funny. She would have laughed if it weren't also a little terrifying.
A tall young man in black escorted her to the elevator. She stepped inside and pressed the button. The display numbers climbed—floor by floor, digit by digit and Y/N watched the numbers rise with the quiet certainty that whatever this gathering was being held, it would involve velvet drapes, low lighting and wine with names nobody at the table could confidently pronounce aloud.
She was correct on all counts.
The elevator exhaled its doors open and Y/N stepped out into, there it is: flash of light hit her almost immediately from cameras, phones, the small bright explosions of people who recognized her and wanted proof of it. Her name, called out from two or three directions at once.
She had almost forgotten what this felt like.
It had been a while.
But it came back quickly, the muscle memory of being seen, of mattering in rooms like this. Her spine straightened almost on its own. A smile arrived on her face, it was genuine. Perhaps the current chapter was better than the ones that had come before it; she had known recognition once, years ago but not like this. Not this sharp and immediate, not this warm.
The small, honest part of her heart which is the part that still kept accounts, knew exactly why.
There was very little merit involved in her recent revival. Very little honest labour. The music that had put her name back into people's mouths had not come entirely from her own hands and she was aware this was the way one is aware of and with the specific discomfort of something one has chosen, for now, not to address.
She accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and turned to survey the room.
That was when she saw her or thought she did.
A glimpse. Jennie, leaning against the bar across the room, one hand curled around a glass of red wine, dark intense eyes catching the low light and holding it. Those eyes found Y/N through the rim of the glass, steady and red-tinged and then Y/N blinked, Jennie was gone.
Y/N turned, her eyebrows knitted together and she scanned the room again. The ballroom was full of faces and for a strange moment, she thought she saw Jennie's face amongst them—a flash of that particular grin, those eyes, surfacing briefly between strangers.
Has she arrived already?
The room itself was beautiful in the way that expensive rooms always are—bathed in a honeyed, amber glow, the kind of dim that turns champagne into bubbles of rising gold. Shadows gathered nicely in the corners. The floor hummed with the sound of a trumpet and a brushed drum kit, jazz threading its way through the air like smoke, unhurried and warm.
Blues underneath it.
Y/N felt something in her shoulders unknot quietly. Of all the genres she had moved through over the year, the RnB, the co-writing for other people's pop songs, the work that paid well and meant little but jazz had always been the one that felt like coming home to.
Around her, very attractive people in very expensive clothes were networking with the focused determination of people who had already decided the evening was an investment. They nodded at things they hadn't quite heard and laughed at punchlines they hadn't quite caught.
Y/N pressed the rim of her champagne glass to her lips and watched them with quiet, comfortable judgment.
“You are...” said a voice beside her.
She turned and a fairly tall man had materialized at her elbow, whiskey glass in his hand, one finger raised in her direction as though he was identifying a painting in a gallery. His face, when she looked at it properly, was—well. It wasn't offensive. It was the kind of face that had tried reasonably hard and gotten about three quarters of the way there.
“...Y/N,” he finished, arriving at her name with a satisfied air of someone completing a puzzle.
His smile was small and seemed genuine, it reached his eyes. He rocked his glass gently just to stir the rock in his whiskey. Y/N offered a polite nod, a small dip of the chin.
“I'm sorry,” she said, the smile dimming just slightly at the edges. “Do I know you?”
“I was kind of rude, sorry.” He had the grave to look briefly sheepish. “I'm ONE. The name's River.” He extended a hand and Y/N shook it.
“Ten months into producing and music-making. Still relatively new to all of this.” He added, gestured vaguely at the room with this glass.
She was quietly impressed. Ten months was nothing in this industry and yet here he was, at a gathering that most people spent years trying to get into. River reading her expression, grinned. He explained that the team he worked with had deep ties to several major labels—feels a bit like cheating, he said and chuckled.
Y/N laughed too and meant it.
They found a small table somewhere in the middle of the room and stayed there longer than either of them had planned. The conversation moved easily, back and forth, easy as the jazz beneath it. They traded stories. Horror, according to Y/N and River. Singers who had been difficult. Collaborations that had gone south magnificently.
River had a gift for a good delivery that made his worst anecdotes somehow funnier for how calmly he related them and Y/N found herself matching it, her posture relaxing, the champagne doing its quiet work.
She was having a good night.
River noticed something on her shoulder—a fleck of something, a small piece of lint or debris caught on the fabric of her cloth. He leaned forward slightly, hand already lifting to brush it away, a harmless and considerate gesture.
And then another hand appeared.
It arrived quietly from seemingly nowhere, settling over Y/N's shoulder, managed to simultaneously block River's hand. The nails were immaculate. Red. Perfectly manicured.
“Uh-uh.” The voice was sweet and playful. “Not so fast, soldier.”
Y/N and River both turned.
Standing at Y/N's shoulder—probably appeared out of the thin air—was a beautiful woman. River didn't recognize her but Y/N recognized her immediately and with the particular mixture of relief and a deep personal exasperation.
Her wife.
The source of her revived relevancy, the architect of her comeback. The one she sold off her soul to through an unholy matrimony. The devil.
Jennie.
to be continued...
taglist (open): @saysirhc @somedaydream @chocolatestrawberrykryptonite @minaripenguu @fruityg0rl @itssrayy @rorovrorw @valuyhh @goofymickeyr @ohlexs @pikachuu115 @stewpidchezcat
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Andrea tops Emily btw
ex marks the spot ◞ daniela avanzini.
❦ getting into a relationship with daniela's ex wasn't the plan— but neither was getting with her instead.
daniela avanzini x fem!reader · explicit sexual content · fingering · scissoring · cheating?? (he treats everyone badly) · slight voyeurism · daniela's really who you've been after · not proofread [mdni]
❛ i built that boy by brick by brick by brick
A/N || just a little something. kisses, brooklynn.
how dani felt when yoonchae and lara were arguing
they keep asking me why im on instagram so much but
Secret Admirer - Part 1
Jeung Yoonchae x SecretAdmirer!Reader
Synopsis: what was harder than love? An unrequited love.. or rather.. is it really that unrequited? Aka, you try to get your classmate's love by giving her drawings in secret, becoming her secret admirer.. just.. small problem.. you are a girl..
Warnings: fluff at start kind of.. but the ending is angsty.. this is for @jhgifdbki since they wanted a bit of angst..
Words: 5.4k
I LOVE THIS
WHAT IN THE SCISSORCITY IS THIS.
EXECUTIVE ORDER: LOVE
—A Yoonchae SMAU
Rule #1: The president doesn’t date. Rule #2: Don’t get caught breaking Rule #1. Yoonchae plans to break both.
Synopsis: In a school where rules are everything, no one dares to cross the student council—especially not its cold, untouchable president, yn. But when junior Yoonchae is challenged by her friends to make the infamous president fall for her, what starts as a harmless dare quickly turns into something far more dangerous. Between late-night conversations, stolen glances, and a growing list of broken rules, the line between strategy and sincerity begins to blur. Because in a place governed by order, falling in love might be the biggest violation of all. Pairing: Jeong Yoonchae x fem!reader Genre: social media au, high school au, enemies to lovers, slow burn, angst, fluff, comedy. Warnings: swearing, and idkkk yet STATUS: ongoing A/N: Had this idea based on something my gf said and I'm finally publishing it after MONTHS. THIS IS MY FIRST SMAU guys me scared
↳Featuring: KATSEYE, NEWJEANS, members of IVE, members of ENHYPEN, members of LE SSERAFIM, and Joshua Hong.
The Board of Questionable Decisions pls don’t tell yn headaches no. 2
CHAPTERS
chapter 1: what's heated rivaly?
chapter 2: danielle our savior
chapter 3: fuckass bald eagle
chapter 4: DARE?
chapter 5: oh no
chapter 6: please make her stop
chapter 7: annoying
chapter 8: stop acting
chapter 9: we opps now
chapter 10: what did she just say.
chapter 11: YOU'VE GOT TO BE KIDDING
chapter 12: mom pick me up im scared
chapter 13: i hate group projects
chapter 14: can you shut the fuck up
chapter 15: delivery rider got the wrong number
chapter 16: im going to beat this bitch
chapter 17: no to group meetings, yes to detention
chapter 18: JA-LO-SI: an incurable disease
maphinz if you can hear me, pls save us from these dark times🥲
Érotas || Jeung Yoonchae
Pairing: Daughter of Hades!Jeung Yoonchae x Daughter of Apollo!Reader
Summary: Where no one ever imagined that the only daughter of Hades would fall for the most troublemaking, extroverted daughter of Apollo.
Note: English is not my first language.
Warnings: Sunshine x Grumpy, Yoonchae is described as taller than the reader, Manon and Daniela playing matchmakers, and lots of fluff/comfort!
Katseye Masterlist
The midday sun beat down on Camp Half-Blood with an intensity typical of August. You were lying on the grass near the archery field, arms stretched back as if trying to hug the ground itself, eyes half-closed against the golden light that insisted on invading your eyelids.
"You're going to get burned," Manon commented, sitting beside you with her legs crossed, sharpening a dagger with an expression of amused boredom.
"Daughter of Apollo, manz. Burning is kind of my thing," you replied, bringing a hand to your forehead like a dramatic soap opera damsel. "The problem is I'm dying of boredom. Where's the excitement? Where's the danger? Where's—"
"Yoonchae?" Manon finished, a mischievous smile curving her lips.
You sat up so fast you nearly got dizzy.
"I wasn't going to say that."
"Of course not," Manon rolled her eyes, but the smile remained. "You've just spent the last fifteen minutes staring at the Hades cabin like a dog waiting for its owner to come home from work."
"I'm worried about the newbie they assigned to her today. You know how Yoonchae is… intimidating."
Manon snorted a laugh.
"Yoonchae is only a threat to people who don't know what they're doing. And from what I know, the newbie is a daughter of Athena. She'll be fine."
"Still," you murmured, adjusting the strap of your bow on your shoulder. "She could come train with us today. I promised Mrs. Dawn I'd help the newbies with archery handling, and you know Yoonchae's a beast with swords. It would be the perfect pair."
Manon raised an eyebrow.
"'Perfect pair'? You mean you're going to spend the whole day openly flirting with her while the newbies watch in disbelief?"
"I don't flirt."
"You call her 'Pretty Shadow.'"
"Because she's a pretty shadow. It's a nickname."
"You bought an asphodel flower-shaped bone pendant and left it on her bed with a note that said 'even darkness has its garden.'"
You broke into a wide smile, utterly shameless.
"It was poetic."
"It was passionate. And kind of disturbing, considering asphodel flowers are associated with the Underworld."
"She liked it."
Manon opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by a deep voice that seemed to cut through the hot air like a cold blade.
"Are you two going to sit there all day or are you going to work?"
You turned your head so fast you nearly cracked your neck.
Yoonchae was standing a few meters away, arms crossed over her chest, expression impenetrable. Her midnight-black hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, contrasting with pale skin that seemed to glow faintly against the sun. She wore the camp's black t-shirt—always black, because Hades would approve of nothing less—and combat pants that made it clear, even from a distance, that she wasn't there for games.
She was taller than you. A good five centimeters that you felt every time you stood on your tiptoes to whisper something in her ear or when you had to lift your chin to look her in the eyes.
Which happened often. Because you loved looking into her eyes.
"Yoonchae!" You exclaimed, jumping to your feet in a move that would make any Olympic athlete applaud. "I was just talking about you."
"I heard," she replied, dryly. "You were talking quite loudly."
"Great! Then I don't have to repeat myself." You approached her with long strides, completely ignoring the "do not approach" aura that Yoonchae emanated like perfume. "You're helping with the newbies today, right? Mrs. Dawn said you'd be my partner."
"She said she'd consider it."
"And did you consider it?"
Yoonchae held your gaze for a long second. Her dark eyes were like bottomless wells, capable of making anyone back away. Anyone but you.
"Yes," she finally answered, her voice so low it sounded like a secret. "But no funny business."
"Me? Funny business?" You placed your hand on your chest, feigning indignation. "Yoonchae, you wound me. I am professionalism itself."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Manon slowly stood up, tucking the dagger into its sheath.
"Well, I'll leave you two with the newbies. I have to find Dani for team combat training." She passed by you and, in a quick move that Yoonchae pretended not to notice, whispered in your ear: "Archer, aim for the heart."
You smiled, and Manon disappeared toward the Aphrodite cabin with one last meaningful look.
—
Mrs. Dawn, a silver-haired nymph who coordinated newbie training, gathered the group in the main clearing. There were five new kids, all between twelve and fourteen, with wide eyes and expressions ranging from fear to excitement.
"Today," the nymph announced in a voice that echoed like bells, "you will have the honor of learning from two of the camp's best warriors. Yoonchae, daughter of Hades, will command the sword session. And Y/N, daughter of Apollo, will command the bow and arrow."
The children looked at Yoonchae with a mix of admiration and terror. She was truly imposing, standing there with the black sword hanging on her back as if it were an extension of her own body.
You, on the other hand, received more curious looks. Because you didn't look like a warrior. You looked like someone who had just walked out of a rock concert, hair tied in a messy bun, colorful bracelets on your wrist, and a smile as wide as the horizon.
"I'll take the archers," you announced, pointing to three of the children. "You, come with me. Yoonchae, you take the swordsmen?"
She just nodded, without a word, and guided the two remaining newbies to the opposite side of the clearing.
—
The next twenty minutes were… productive, as far as possible.
You taught the newbies the basic stance, correcting their arm positions and how to hold the bow with a patience that surprised even yourself. There was something gratifying about seeing the sparkle in their eyes when the arrow finally hit the target, even if it was on the outermost edge.
"Good job, Leo! Now take a deep breath before you release. Archery is about calm, not strength."
The boy, a blonde son of Hermes, nodded, clearly trying hard to imitate your technique.
While they practiced, your eyes involuntarily slid to the other side of the clearing.
Yoonchae was in her element.
She held the sword as if she had been born with it in her hand, moving with a hypnotic fluidity as she demonstrated a basic strike. The two children watched slack-jawed, and you couldn't blame them. There was something almost unreal about the way Yoonchae moved, as if darkness itself danced around her, making every gesture both beautiful and deadly.
She said something you couldn't hear, and the newbies repeated the move, clumsy in comparison but dedicated.
You were so distracted watching that you almost didn't notice when one of your newbies, a red-haired daughter of Demeter, called your name.
"Y/N? Are you okay?"
"Hm?" You blinked, bringing your focus back. "Of course! Why wouldn't I be?"
"You've been looking at the other group for a long time."
The other kid, Leo, laughed.
"She's looking at Hades's daughter."
"I am not," you lied, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. Damn sun. Or damn Apollo heritage. Or damn heart that couldn't disguise itself.
"You are too," the redhead insisted, a mischievous smile appearing on her lips. "Do you like her?"
"Like is a very strong word. I just… appreciate her sword technique."
"You appreciate her."
"Sofia, focus on the target before I make you run twenty laps around the lake."
The girl laughed but obeyed.
You sighed, running your hand over your face. It was getting too obvious. You needed to disguise it.
—
Twenty minutes later, Mrs. Dawn announced a break and suggested you mix the groups—archers and swordsmen could train together, simulating real combat situations.
That's when things got interesting.
"Yoonchae!" You called, running toward her before the nymph even finished the sentence. "Let's pair up for a demonstration?"
She raised an eyebrow.
"A demonstration of what?"
"How an archer and a swordsman can fight together. You in front, covering hand-to-hand attack, and me behind, providing support from a distance." You were already taking the bow off your back, eyes shining with excitement. "It'll be perfect."
Yoonchae looked at you for a long moment. Her expression was impenetrable, but you had learned to read the little things—the slight tremor in her fingers, the way her jaw relaxed a little when she was considering something.
"Only if you don't shoot an arrow into my head," she finally said.
"Yoonchae! I would never do that."
"Remember last year? During the night training?"
"That was an accident. The lantern was broken, it was dark, and you just disappeared into the darkness. How was I supposed to know you were exactly where I was going to shoot?"
"You could have warned me."
"I yelled 'SHOOTING'."
"You yelled 'CLOSE YOUR EYES, YOONCHAE'."
"Details."
She shook her head, but you saw it. You saw the corner of her lips curve, just a millimeter, just enough to be considered an almost-smile.
Your heart did a somersault.
—
The demonstration was, to use an understatement, electrifying.
You and Yoonchae moved as if you had rehearsed it your whole lives. She advanced against the moving targets Mrs. Dawn had conjured, the black sword cutting through the air with a threatening hum, while you fired golden arrows that exploded into light upon impact, covering the flanks she left open.
It was a dance. A dance of light and shadow, of sun and moon, of chaos and control.
The newbies watched slack-jawed.
"Now!" Yoonchae shouted, retreating in a quick move to open up space.
You needed nothing more. Three arrows. Three targets. Three perfect hits, each one dead center.
You turned to her with a triumphant smile, and that's when you noticed.
Yoonchae was looking at you.
Not the normal way, not with that expression of boredom or impatience she usually had. She was looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world worth seeing.
Your heart stopped for a second.
And then her expression closed up again, as if she had remembered herself, and she turned to the newbies with a cold voice:
"That's how it's done. Now you try."
—
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of arrows, swords, and excited shouts from the kids. You divided your time between teaching and observing Yoonchae, who seemed determined not to meet your gaze again.
But you were a daughter of Apollo. Persistence was in your blood.
When training ended and Mrs. Dawn dismissed the newbies, who ran off toward the dining hall, exhausted but happy, you approached Yoonchae with slow steps.
"You were great today," you said, stopping beside her.
She didn't answer immediately. She was putting her sword back in its sheath, her movements precise and economical.
"You too," she finally murmured, her voice so low you almost didn't hear.
"What?" You brought your hand to your ear, posing as if you hadn't heard properly. "Can you repeat that? I think the wind carried it away."
Yoonchae slowly turned her head, and you saw those dark eyes shining with something that could be irritation… or maybe, just maybe, amusement.
"Don't be insufferable."
"Impossible. It's my natural state."
She sighed, and it was such a human sound, so tired, that you almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
"Why do you do this?" Yoonchae asked, and for the first time that day, you heard something fragile in her voice. Something she clearly didn't want you to hear.
"Do what?"
"This." She made a vague gesture in your direction. "Talk to me. Approach me. Insist."
You frowned, confused.
"Because I like you?"
Yoonchae laughed. It was a short, bitter laugh that made your chest tighten.
"No one likes me, Y/N. At best, they tolerate me. And you…" She shook her head. "You're the brightest person I've ever known. You're the daughter of the sun, of light, of music. I am… I'm Hades's daughter. I'm darkness. I'm death."
"You're Yoonchae," you interrupted, and your voice came out firmer than you expected. "You're the person who spent three hours in the rain teaching me how to handle a sword when I broke my bow. You're the person who left a note in my cabin after I lost Lara saying I was 'strong enough to shine even in the darkness.' You're the person who—who makes me feel like the sun is rising every time you almost smile."
Yoonchae fell silent.
The wind blew, swaying her dark hair, and for a moment you could have sworn you saw her eyes shine—not with tears, but with something rarer still.
Hope.
"You're terrible," she whispered.
"I know."
"And insufferable."
"I know that too."
"And—" Yoonchae hesitated, and then, in a move that seemed to have required all the courage in the world, she reached out and touched your face. Her palm was cold, as expected of Hades's daughter, but the touch was so delicate that you felt shivers run down your spine. "And I think I like you too. Even though it's the stupidest thing I've ever done."
Your heart exploded. Literally exploded. You were sure some god somewhere was laughing at you, because there was no way someone could feel this much happiness at once.
"Yoonchae," you said, and your voice came out strangled. "Yoonchae, did you just say you like me?"
"Don't make me repeat it."
"I'll repeat it for you. I'll tell everyone. I'll write it in the clouds. I'll—"
Her hand covered your mouth.
"Don't you dare."
You laughed against her palm, and then, on an impulse you couldn't contain, you turned your head and kissed her hand.
The blush that rose to Yoonchae's cheeks was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.
—
From the top of the hill, watching through a pair of binoculars that were definitely not appropriate for spying, Manon and Daniela shared a look of pure victory.
"I knew it," Manon said, a huge smile on her face.
"You didn't know anything," Daniela shot back. "You bet it would take months."
"But I hoped it would be today. That counts."
Daniela rolled her eyes, but she was smiling too.
"They're pathetic."
"Completely," Manon lowered the binoculars, watching the two figures down there—one golden and one black, so different and yet so perfectly complementary. "But they're our pathetic."
Down below, completely unaware of their secret audience, you and Yoonchae remained in silence, hand in hand, the setting sun painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
And, for the first time in a long time, the daughter of Hades didn't feel cold.
She felt warmth.
banana bread banana bread i love banana bread
𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ꒰ 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 2 ꒱ Sophia Laforteza
Notes: The wait has finally come to an end! Here is part 2!! I copied it from Ellipsus so if the format is wonky it's because of that. If you see a typo, no you didn't 😀Also, this isn't proof-read, so be aware of that.
Tags: Red String of Fate, Supernatural elements, kinda soulmate AU. Angst(? (Or my attempt at it). Jealousy. Happy Ending. Useless gays being useless gays.
Word Count: 8.0k
Part 1 Here!
˚₊‧⁺⋆♱ ideal foreplay | sophia laforteza
݁ᛪ༙ synopsis it starts with dishes and a built chair—but Sophia’s quiet competence and care quickly become impossible to ignore. somewhere in the small, everyday moments, attraction deepens into something that leaves you completely undone
݁ᛪ༙ disclaimer friend! sophia laforteza x simp! fem! reader, wlw, fluff, quite comic, reader is down bad for sophia, originally inspired by tears by sabrina carpenter
݁ᛪ༙ a/n i’m genuinely so down bad for this unbelievable woman, leon’s so lucky istg…
݁ᛪ༙ song playing tears — sabrina carpenter
⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧
the first time it happens, it’s honestly ridiculous
Sophia is standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, quietly doing the dishes
not half-doing them. not leaving “to soak” dishes that will absolutely not be touched again. no—she’s actually doing them. properly. efficiently. even drying them and putting them away
you lean against the doorway, watching
“you don’t have to do that,” you say, because that’s what you’re supposed to say
Sophia glances over her shoulder, soft smile, completely unbothered. “i know. i want to”
and that’s the problem
because something in your brain just—short circuits
you cross your arms, trying to act normal, but your gaze keeps drifting. the way her hands move, steady and sure. the quiet focus. the fact that she noticed the mess before you even said anything
“you okay?” she asks
you laugh, a little too quickly. “yeah. why?”
“you’re staring”
“i am not—” you pause, then sigh. “okay, maybe a little”
she turns off the tap, drying her hands slowly. “should i be concerned?”
“deeply,” you mutter
---
it gets worse… way worse
a few days later, a flat-pack chair arrives—your impulsive purchase, abandoned in the corner of the living room because the instructions look like a puzzle designed by a sadist
you mention it casually. “i should probably build that at some point”
Sophia doesn’t even hesitate. “i can do it”
you blink. “you can?”
“yeah.” she’s already opening the box. “i like this kind of thing”
of course she does
you sit on the couch, watching her spread out the pieces, organizing screws into neat little piles like some kind of domestic goddess
“pass me the allen key?” she asks
you hand it over, your fingers brushing hers… electric
you swallow
“this is… impressive,” you admit
Sophia huffs a soft laugh. “it’s just a chair”
“no, it’s not just a chair,” you say, leaning forward. “it’s… initiative”
she pauses, glancing up at you with a raised brow. “initiative?”
“yes,” you say, very seriously. “highly attractive quality”
she smirks. “good to know”
and then she goes back to building the chair, completely unaware that you are internally unraveling
---
it peaks the night you’re both exhausted
you’ve had a long day, everything piling up—messages unanswered, responsibilities half-finished, your brain buzzing with too much
you’re sitting on the bed, staring at your phone, overwhelmed
Sophia notices immediately
“hey,” she says softly, sitting beside you. “what’s going on?”
you shrug. “just… everything. i feel like i’m behind on life”
she takes the phone gently from your hands and sets it aside
“okay,” she says. “talk to me”
and you do
you ramble. you complain. you admit things you don’t usually say out loud—how you feel like you have to manage everything, how tiring it is to always be the one holding things together
Sophia listens. really listens. no interruptions, no dismissing, no fixing unless you ask
when you’re done, she nods thoughtfully
“that makes sense,” she says. “you don’t have to do everything alone, you know”
you let out a shaky laugh. “yeah, i do”
“no,” she says gently. “you don’t”
and then—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—she starts listing things
“i can handle groceries this week. i’ll take care of the bills tonight. and tomorrow, we’ll go through your to-do list together, yeah?”
you stare at her
“you’d do that?” you ask
“of course,” she says. “we’re a team”
something in your chest tightens
because it’s not just the words. it’s the certainty. the follow-through. the way she’s already reaching for her laptop, already opening tabs, already doing something
competence. care. communication
it hits you all at once
“oh my god,” you whisper
Sophia looks up. “what?”
you shake your head, half-laughing, half-dying. “nothing. it’s just—”
you stop, searching for words that won’t make you sound completely unhinged
she tilts her head. “just what?”
you meet her eyes, heat creeping up your neck
“it’s just really, really attractive when you do that”
her expression softens, something warm and amused flickering there. “yeah?”
“yeah,” you say, quieter now. “like… unfairly attractive”
she closes the laptop slowly
“well,” she murmurs, leaning closer, “good thing i plan on doing it a lot more”
your breath catches
because suddenly, it’s not about dishes or chairs or to-do lists
it’s the way she shows up. the way she chooses you, over and over, in small, tangible ways
and somehow—
that’s what undoes you the most.
I love this
FILMLOVE FILMLOVE FILMLOVE