#I’ve spent SO long trying to perfect this design

[shiningstarr15]

The World’s Smallest “Doctor”

Behold! My official GGY/Dr Rabbit design! Based on multiple different sources of inspiration. The primary sources being Dr Hare from Poptropica and Max from Max and Ruby (aka my childhood) (don’t judge me)

Just wanted to polish this baby up to prepare for ggy week 😃

A little info

His schtick is basically “mad scientist/mad doctor” (think Dr Frankenstein, Dr Jekyl, etc)

He is the second follower of Glitchtrap (Vanny being the first)

He is tasked with two main jobs; keeping Vanessa in check, and is Vanny’s partner

Rab is not a switch, he’s in complete control at all times. Vanessa is aware that “someone” is working behind the scenes pulling strings, but is completely unaware of Rab’s existence (they are kept in separate living quarters so Rab is out of Vanessa’s eye when she takes control)

Gregory is in the “dark place” where he has no idea what’s going on in the outside world. He’s essentially in the equivalent of a comatose state.

Rab is created using the “fragmented mind theory,” in which Gregory’s own mindset is used to create what is essentially the “dark” version of himself. (With heavy influence and supernatural tweaking from glitchtrap)

Two Sides of the same coin

Vanny and Rab are both similar in many ways while also simultaneously being each others polar opposites

Vanny is wreckless and chaotic, Rab is more calculated and orderly

Both like to play games with their victims, with Rab being more about the “psychological” torment, and Vanny prefers the physical stuff

Rab’s charismatic energy allows him to entice potential victims into a false sense of security, using masterful manipulation tactics to make one start questioning their own thought processing and being able to listen to instincts (they trust him, despite their gut screaming at them not too)

Rab is a mastered hacker, able to completely rewrite coding in both simplified and complex machines as well as implement different programs into them (ie programming the virus into the pizzaplex systems)

Rab prefers to leave the actual dirty work to Vanny, whereas they have perfected a routine in which Rab will lure the victims to the pizzaplex, incapacitate them with a syringe, and deliver them unconscious to Vanny (he sometimes assists in her “work” but usually prefers to stay on the sidelines)

Dressed for success

Unlike Vanny, rab does not have a full on fursuit

He does, however, have off black overalls to perfectly contrast Vanny’s off white fursuit

His oversized jacket is spruced up and accessorized with rabbit ears and patchwork that was added on by Vanny herself (excess fabric from her own suit)

The overalls also have patchwork as well as cyan colored star buttons and lightning bolt stitched onto the chest

Freddy’s merch underneath it all since he lives at the pizzaplex

He also wears massive goggles as protective eyewear (he also thinks they look cool)

Note: patchwork and patterning of outfit contain subliminal 3 star/binarystar foreshadowing :3

[pencil-n-pen]

SUDDENLY I HAD A VALENTINE

𓏲𝄢 ⋆. ୨୧ ˚⋆ 𓏲𝄢

post prison!spencer x hopeless romantic! civilian!reader

masterlist | kofi

i’ve rejected affection for years and years, now I have it, and damnit, it’s kind of weird

Valentine, Laufey

summary: spencer reid isn’t a genius or renowned criminal profiler- he’s just the guy who frequents the same coffee shop you do; the guy you’re probably, maybe, a little bit in love with. But you’re not the kind of girl guys like him like— right?

cw: honestly genuinely cannot think of any this one is just soft and sweet (with a touch of angst bc it’s me)

tags/tropes: strangers to lovers, spencer is so whipped, reader is a hopeless romantic, spencer finds this cute, romance novel references (i have read a LOT of them), no colleen hoover jumpscares, however there are of ali hazelwood references bc Love Theoretically is my favorite romance book of all time

a/n: something short and sweet !! trying to get over my perfectionism by just posting <3

title taken from Valentine by Laufey (GO LISTEN TO LAUFEY)

𓏲𝄢

There’s a coffee shop within a twenty minute walk from your apartment that you like to go to. It’s more a cafe, really. They’ve got a little case with a small selection of pastries and such, as well as a nice, calm little atmosphere. Cozy.

You’d decided that you wanted to read more. You’d always enjoyed it, before—

Before. And now that you have more free time on your hands, you’d thought “what better time for some good old fashioned escapism?”

Your tbr pile was a mile long and you’d found the coffee shop and it seemed like a perfect little scenario.

That was probably about a year ago. Things are different now. Not in a bad way, just the way that things change as time goes on. You’d ended up moving apartments- somewhere smaller, but you’d gained a window that overlooks the street, so win, you’d switched jobs —you work from home now— and you’d kept your nose firmly away from any and all real life romantic endeavors.

Almost all of your friends you’d met through your ex. The unfortunate thing about that is when you broke up, they were more attached to him than you, so things got a little… lonely. You have other friends, of course, but most of them have busy lives— boyfriends, husbands, kids, successful jobs, travel. You text them when you can, hang out when they’re available, but you spend most of your day, everyday alone.

You’d struggled a lot, at first. But then you take a page out of all of your books: romanticize a quiet life.

You’d stared at your empty apartment, your new desk set up for your job and decided to romanticize the shit out of your new life.

It was slow going at first. You didn’t really know how to get started, what you wanted your life to look like, so the first few months were spent primarily on Pinterest. But ideas formed, plans were made, rooms were carefully designed and days were quietly spent.

Which leads you to where you are now: a mostly lone woman leading her ideal, romanticized life. Romance books, working from home, coffee shops and thrifted sweaters and everything on your Pinterest board. You’d picked up (and dropped) several hobbies, everything from scrapbook journaling to watercolor painting to simple embroidery and sewing. You adore the lopsided and ugly-cute DIY Jellycat rabbit (appropriately named Elizabeth Bennet.)

It’d taken a year, but you felt safe and comfortable again. And throughout this entire process, you still managed to avoid or kill any attraction you’ve had for any passing man.

Except Spencer, or as you’ve dubbed him in your head, Hot Coffee Shop Guy.

You only know his name because the barista’s call it out when he takes his coffee to go, which he doesn’t always do. Sometimes he takes his coffee or tea in the cafe, sits at the same table in the far corner (almost directly across from you, as you like to sit right next to the large windows at the front of the cafe) and read.

You and him read very different books. Sometimes he reads large, thick textbooks. Sometimes he reads dusty old books. Sometimes the things he reads aren’t even in English. A very stark contrast to your fine readings of Ali Hazelwood, Elsie Silver, and Anna Huang.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve had a thing for guys who read. Not casual reading, but reading-reading. And you can’t help but think you compliment each other in aesthetic— you with your brightly colored romance books and cozy clothes, soft and cute in that way that screams “I listen to Laufey”, and him with his old books and faint smell of pine and his button downs and grandpa cardigans, looking like he listens to Tchaikovsky and The Swan by Camille Saint-Saëns.

And it’s kind of fun to daydream about. You’d never act on it, of course, guys who look as hot as him don’t seriously go for girls like you, but it’s easy to read The Love Hypothesis and imagine yourself as Olive and him as Adam.

And then he starts saying hi.

Which, okay, admittedly, is not much. But besides the barista’s —whom he’s come to recognize and strike up conversations with— you’re the only person in the cafe he says hi too. Even though there are other regulars he no doubt recognizes.

Even when he takes his coffee to go, he gives you a little wave. It’s become your thing. A “hello” if he stays and a wave if he goes.

It’s a nice little thing to have, is the problem. Who doesn’t want a jaw-droppingly hot man to make time out of his day to say hi to you specifically?

But it won’t go anywhere. Even if you hadn’t sworn off love until you’re in your mid-thirties, you’d be too shy to actually do anything about it.

You’ve seen how this goes down. He waves, you smile, you work your way up to going up to him, and he either has a girlfriend or isn’t interested. And even if, for some reason he is interested, he won’t stay interested.

So there isn’t a point to entertaining it, but you still do.

It’s fun. A little change in routine. A star-burst of excitement in your usual unchanging schedule.

—

Apparently, just because you’ve sworn off romance, doesn’t mean the universe has sworn off romance for you.

You’re at the cafe as usual, book in front of you and scrapbook behind your coffee. You’re considering making a coffee ring stain page, but you’re worried about mold and the possibility of it ruining other pages.

It’s late evening, the usual time Spencer comes in, and you’d preemptively ordered a ham and swiss croissant because you tend to end up too self conscious to get up or move around too much when he sits down, which is stupid, because he isn’t even looking at you.

He walks in right after you sit back down from ordering, so you entertain yourself with Love On the Brain so you don’t catch yourself staring at the soft brown curls and light stubble on his jawline. It’s very addicting, staring at him. He just has one of those stupidly attractive faces that beg to be stared at.

Today, he offers you a little wave, dipping down to catch your vision and a little “good evening,” as he goes by.

Wow. A wave and a hello. He must be in a good mood.

One of the barista’s —Sarah, she has two cats— drops off your croissant and rushes away, a hand pressed to her mouth, which is odd. She usually lingers so she can show you new pictures of Tweedle Dee and Microwave (her two cat’s names, respectively.)

You look down at the plate and notice a little something sticking out under the croissant. It’s their business card, but it’s upside down, and something’s written on it.

You take the little piece of cardstock, carefully reading the words written in scrawling but strangely delicate handwriting:

You look really cute today.

-Spencer

Ho. Lee. Shit.

You stare at the card, reading it and reading it and reading it and reading it and reading it and then reading it one more time, just in case.

But the words don’t change.

You look up at him, face hot, and make eye contact with Spencer. Who’s looking right back at you, textbook open on the table in front of him and a small smirk on his face.

You look back down at the table.

See, you don’t really get flirted with often. Or ever, really. You’d grown up watching early 2000s rom-com’s and then started reading romance novels in late highschool, so the disappointing reality once you hit 20 that you’d never had a boyfriend and the most romance you experience is in your head was something you had to adjust to. You’d had crushes of course, but then never went anywhere. And the few times they did never ended well. Hence the total life makeover after you last break-up.

You’ve never really experienced cute romance. Nothing like looks across a cafe and notes passed by barista’s.

He doesn’t come over and strike up a conversation, which you’re thankful for. That would be too much. He goes back to his reading, and you press the note into the pages of your book and pretend to go back to yours.

You don’t end up doing much reading that day.

—

It becomes a new thing. The notes. He doesn’t write them all the time, and they don’t always come with whatever pastry you’ve ordered. Sometimes they’re tucked under your coffee on its saucer, sometimes he slips them silently onto your table. But you always tuck them into whatever book you’re reading, so the way it’s worked out is that there’s little pieces of Spencer spread throughout a good portion of the books you own.

I like your sweater.

I think that hairstyle suits you.

Maybe we should trade books one day. Any chance you can read French?

You always look so cozy in your little spot.

Have I ever told you I think you’re pretty? (Joking, I know I have, just wanted to say it again.)

You were right about those ham and swiss croissants.

How do you get your annotations to look so pretty?

I like it when you smile.

It’s a lot. It’s tempting.

The little notes and his smile have (pathetically easily) wormed their way into your affection. You’re both afraid to get more and unwilling to go back to your normal life. You should, by all means. Appreciate the notes and then let this entire thing sail right on by.

So you do exactly what you always do when something like this happens. Consult your friends.

“He’s been giving you notes?” Penelope gasps, hand on her chest, “Hot coffee shop guy has been giving you notes, flirty notes and you’ve haven’t given him a single one?”

“I’m nervous!” You exclaim, face hot. “There are so many ways this could go wrong, and not just romantically. What if I take off the rose colored glasses and there’s this… this person who isn’t at all like I thought he’d be?”

Her expression gets a little sad at your words, and she reaches across the table to take your hand. “Okay, first of all, I have never known you to wear rose colored glasses. You’re a romantic, but you’re also too logical for that. Secondly, and I’m saying this because I love you, you need to get over yourself.”

You blink. “What?”

“No, really! You’ve concocted this entire, horrific scenario in your head about this guy who you haven’t even officially spoken to. You’re getting waaaaay ahead of yourself.”

“I know,” You look down at the cup of coffee you’ve been sipping on. Coffee at your apartment isn’t as exciting as coffee from the cafe, but Penelope wanted to hang at your place to catch up when you called her. “But I just keep thinking- what if the same thing happens again?”

She rolls her eyes, but the action is fond. “And what if it doesn’t? You’ve gotta try, babycakes. That’s what the whole romance thing is about. Taking the risk.”

“But risks are scary.” You whine.

“They are,” She says, laughing now, “But they’re also fun. I think you should give it a shot. At least hear the poor man out before you condemn him to being an axe murderer.”

“I don’t think he’s an axe murderer,” You say, “I think he might secretly be a self absorbed dick.”

“Trust me. I’m pretty sure in this case, the chances of that are pretty low.”

—

The next time you go to the cafe, Spencer is in fact there. So you push through your racing heart and sweaty palms and all the thoughts in your head that scream that is a bad idea and you take the little folded piece of paper and ask the barista to give it to him with his coffee.

Your deliberated over what to write in the note for a long time. Probably too long considering the fact that if this goes well, you’ll be writing more. But in the end, your favorite pen in hand, you’d written out a simple little:

Hi. I think your sweaters look really nice too. ♡

You’d felt like you were back in elementary school— giggling and passing notes. Unlike elementary school, though, the note passing doesn’t end in mild humiliation or heartbreak.

When he gets the note, he looks up at you, the same surprised expression on his face that you wore when you’d received his note the first time. Then, he looks down, reads it, and you get the honor of watching the most kissable blush spread across his cheeks as he readjusts his sweater.

It becomes your little thing. Your new little thing.

It’s easy to slip into, this cute little routine with Spencer.

Penelope has other thoughts on the matter.

“Sweetheart,” She says, and you can’t see her expression over the phone, but you can picture the set of her brows and the downturn of her lips, “I’m so glad you took that first scary leap and sent him a note back. But it’s been a month. Don’t you think it’s time to pick up the pace?”

“I’m taking it slow.” You say, voice half muffled by your scarf. It’s getting colder and colder and you wish the cold snap would just snap and snow already. If it’s going to be freezing, it might as well be freezing and pretty.

“No, you’re stalling. I swear to you, if I don’t hear about a date by the end of this week I’m going to go down there and ask him out for you.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that.”

“Exactly. Okay, I have to go. Love you bye!”

The dial tone sounds and you slide your phone into your pocket, further burying your face into your scarf.

You’re not really watching your surroundings as you approach the cafe, the walk too familiar, so when a hand larger than yours reaches for the door handle at the same time, you glance up in surprise.

“Sorry—“ Oh.

It’s Spencer.

He smiles at you, the same, really nice smile that you desperately want to kiss.

“Shame that our first official word together was ‘sorry’.”

You feel your face heat despite the chill outside. “Not true. I think it was actually hello.”

His smile widens. “Hello to you too.”

You blink. “Oh. Oh, I see what you did there.”

He nods to the door. “Do you want to head inside then? It’s a bit chilly out here.”

“Yeah,” A smile tugs at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

He opens the door. “After you.”

So maybe taking the first leap won’t be that scary after all.

[seumyo]

museum dates with bf!tsukishima.

NOTE. oh, certified tsukishima luvr @solvisun for u <3

You hated museum dates. 

No, really—loathed them with a passion that only grew with every agonizing hour you spent trailing after your boyfriend through echoey halls and glass display cases. It wasn’t even that museums were boring. That wasn’t fair. You liked the exhibits, genuinely. The restoration work was incredible, the artifacts were fascinating, and it was kind of cute how your boyfriend lit up every time he got to explain something. Which was often.

Because Tsukishima Kei, your darling pain-in-the-ass boyfriend, worked part-time at the Sendai City Museum, and apparently that gave him a divine license to deliver play-by-play commentary like a snarky academic podcast with legs. Tall, spectacled legs. One with particular moles that even make a heart (not that you ever told a single soul, because you knew he would be after you if you did).

“So this piece,” he would say, already a few steps ahead, pointing casually at a weathered samurai armor set, “was from the late Edo period. See the difference in the breastplate design?”

You would squint through bleary, dry eyes, clutching your water bottle (which he somehow allowed—through sheer persuasion and outright begging on your knees) like it was your only link to life. “Yeah,” you mumbled. “Looks… shinier?”

Tsukishima turned to you, shrugging. “You didn’t even look.”

“I did!” you insisted. “I just… I’m not a samurai historian like you, Kei.”

“You should be grateful,” he said with mock arrogance, adjusting his glasses. “People pay for this kind of tour experience.”

“I’m paying,” you said, trudging after him. “With my soul.”

But you followed him anyway, like you always did. Through the samurai wing, the early Jōmon pottery, and the textile restoration gallery. He knew you were flagging when you started leaning on the handrails more, moving slower, and falling behind like a rebellious school kid on a class trip. You would never think that he thought you were awfully cute like this.

A true sadist in the making, really.

“Hey,” he called, halfway through the Meiji industrial section. “Are you dying?”

“I’ve been dead since the third hour,” you grunted. “My ghost is haunting your dumb little tour.”

Tsukishima turned to you, walking back a few paces with his hands in his coat pockets. “We’ve only been here two hours and forty minutes.”

“Time doesn’t pass normally in museums,” you said. “It’s like a black hole of walking and standing and standing and walking. And it’s too cold.”

He snorted, then took your hand. His palm was warm, steady. It feels perfect against yours. “Come on, we’re almost at the dinosaurs. You like the dinosaurs.” as if he’s talking to a child—trying to coax and/or motivate a reaction out of you.

“I like sitting.”

But you went with him anyway. Because, yeah, okay, you did like the dinosaurs. Not in a prehistoric nerd way, but in a watching-his-face-light-up-as-he-explains-how-paleontologists-determined-the-size-of-a-femur kind of way. It was kind of endearing, the way Tsukishima got subtly excited. His voice would go just a pitch higher, and he’d push his glasses up with his knuckle like he was restraining actual joy. 

“There,” he said, stopping in front of the towering fossil of a Futabasaurus. “That one’s my favorite. Native to Japan.”

You blinked up at the enormous skeleton, rubbing your shoulder. “Big,” you said.

“Articulate,” Tsukishima deadpanned.

You yawned, long and unashamed, before leaning into his side like your bones had turned to jelly. “If I die here,” you muttered, “bury me under the plesiosaur. Let my suffering be remembered.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m tired.”

“You didn’t have to come.”

You pulled back just enough to give him a weak glare. “I wanted to come. For you.”

He looked down at you, something shifting subtly in his expression. “You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m a very good girlfriend.”

“You just took pictures to post on your socials and barely listened to what I’ve been telling you.”

“I thought I could be one of those museum lovers—and academically inclined aesthetic girlies on Pinterest.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes, but you caught the way his thumb brushed lightly over your hand, how he slowed his pace after that. Maybe it was a little thing, but you noticed it. You always did.

By the time they left the museum, dusk had settled in, and your legs were practically jelly. You said nothing, just collapsed into the passenger seat of his car, and groaned like an elderly crypt keeper.

“You survived,” Tsukishima said, starting the engine.

“Barely.”

“Want to go again next weekend?”

“I will stab you with a fossil.”

-

So you were right.

A fever was heading straight to you after that whole museum date. Oh, and you felt like your body was boiling from the inside out.

You lay in bed, cocooned in three blankets and clutching a half-full water bottle like it was the only thing that could save you from ascending with the light. Your head was pounding, your skin too warm and too cold at the same time, and every time you tried to sit up, the world tilted sideways like you were on a carnival ride from hell.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You groaned and fumbled for it with the coordination of someone wearing oven mitts.

Grumpy [10:12AM]: How’s the museum hangover?

You didn’t reply immediately. It took real effort just to squint at the screen. Instead, you turned over with a muffled groan and tried to sleep again. You really had no energy to even quip even a single like emoji.

An hour later, the doorbell rang. Twice. Thrice.

So maybe if your dorm was on fire, you really didn’t care right now.

You, still feverish and fuzzy-headed, dragged yourself to the door in a hoodie three sizes too big (which was definitely Tsukishima’s; his brows furrow in that accusatory expression whenever he sees you wearing it, but he decides to let you keep it because he isn’t a total jerk of a boyfriend, duh) and mismatched socks. You cracked it open and blinked blearily at the tall figure standing there with a plastic bag and an expression caught somewhere between concern and guilt.

“Kei?” you croaked.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he said, stepping inside before you could tell him not to.

“I’m sick.”

“Yeah, I figured.” He reached out and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

You swayed a little under his touch. “Told you I was dying.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You were already exhausted yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?”

“Because I wanted to see you. And dinosaurs.”

Tsukishima let out a slow sigh, setting the bag down on the kitchen counter. “That’s stupid. I guess idiots really do get colds.”

“You dragged me across natural history for three hours. I’m not the stupid one.”

“I didn’t drag you.”

“You gave me a guided death march through time.”

He looked at you, arms crossed, then unfolded one to hand you a small bottle of sports drink. “Drink this.”

You took it, pouting. “You’re only being nice because you feel guilty.”

“Yes.”

You blinked at the bluntness.

Oh.

Oh?

“I feel extremely guilty,” he said flatly. “I thought you were just being dramatic.”

“I was being dramatic.”

“You also had a fever brewing, apparently. And I laughed at you. So now I’m going to cook you porridge and feel bad for the rest of the week.”

You blinked at him. Again. “…You’re going to cook?”

“Don’t look so alarmed.”

“I just… didn’t think I was hallucinating yet.”

Tsukishima rolled his eyes and moved into your kitchen, already unpacking the bag. Rice, eggs, green onions, a tiny bottle of sesame oil, and some store-bought pudding cups.

“I wasn’t sure if you had groceries,” he muttered. “So I brought my own.”

You leaned your head against the wall, watching him, hugging (more like wanting to become one by just leaning into it) the cold surface to cool your temperature. Your throat was sore, your skin felt like it was in flames, but somehow you still found the energy to smile. Of course, you weren’t going to miss the chance of still being pretty in front of this man.

“You’re kind of sweet when you feel bad.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“I won’t. You’ll annoy me again by Thursday.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, deadpan. “Wednesday, probably.”

You chuckled weakly, then let out a sigh as you slid back into your bed, the bottle still in hand.

“You’re forgiven,” you called out hoarsely. “But next time we go to a museum…”

“I’ll bring a wheelchair?”

“Or a coffin.”

From the kitchen came a long-suffering sigh, followed by the sound of a pot hitting the stove.

But Tsukishima stayed. All day. Quietly watching over you with guilt etched between his brows and the same quiet steadiness he brought to everything.

And though you hated museum dates, truly and deeply, you didn’t really mind the fever. Not if it meant he’d look at you like that, hovering in your doorway with a bowl of too-thick porridge and a stubborn determination to take care of you. 

Worried boyfriend Tsukishima in your fever arc? Finally unlocked.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[pillow-coded]

To Have and to Hold — Chapter 1

Summary: finding a lost toddler's mother in the library wasn’t how Spencer expected to spend his afternoon. Later, when her mother arrives—panicked, breathless, and beautiful—Spencer starts to forget how to breathe. Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Slow Burn Series (NSFW, 18+) Content Warning: Brief depiction of a lost child, mild panic from a parent, emotional vulnerability word count: 5.3k

A/N: This is the first work I had the guts to post (genuinely scared lol), slow updates! (so sorry, but uni is killing me), and lastly, English isn't my native language, so please do let me know if i got any grammar mistakes! (also not proofread cause i'm too embarrassed to show any of my friends)

Series Masterlist

Libraries have always been a great comfort for me. It’s a place full of knowledge, warmth, peace. Maybe it’s the smell of old books and how I can easily link that smell to the amiable parts of my childhood.

Those Autumn nights when everything was fine, where my wires were still intact. Mom was doing well back then. She’d read to me those old books she collected from all her years of teaching. That’s how I saw them back then... Old, decrepit books that contained the most fun stories... At least, I found them fun. Like Shakespeare’s Tales Retold – child-friendly versions of Shakespeare’s works.

Nowadays, they’re more than just fond stories or old books. Those books are relics and a memory of when my mother was... well, more lucid.

What I loved most about libraries was the quietness of it all. I spent a couple of hours of my day when I could, basking in the quiet. It was nice not to have to hear the gruesome details of some innocent woman murdered in cold blood.

Days like these only made the quietness feel even better. Soft Autumn day, nearing Winter already. We had just come back from a tough case, children were involved. Thankfully, we managed to get on time.

I had watched that boy while JJ tried to talk to him, trying to understand what had happened to him. He was barefoot, his hair disheveled, and he looked achingly thin. We later found that the boy’s parents held a “discipline ring.” According to his parents, it was a “behavior modification” experiment—one they claimed was “research-backed,” designed to “train” their child into being the perfect prodigy. The boy was denied food, affection, and even basic care when he disobeyed. But worse? The parents live-streamed it all on private forums for a group of like-minded “disciplinarians.”

It didn’t matter that we caught his parents. That the live-stream was shut down. That the others in that so-called “discipline ring” were going to prison. None of it mattered when he looked up at me with those eyes—hollow but obedient. Like love was something he still thought he had to earn.

I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone more than I hated those people.

I’ve done a lot of pretending in my life. Pretended I wasn’t scared. Pretended I wasn’t lonely. Pretended I didn’t want a family of my own. But that boy—he didn’t know how to pretend. He didn’t know how to fake normal. He just waited patiently in that hospital bed for someone to love him back.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, which is why I had decided to come to the library instead of resting after the case like a normal person. I needed a moment of peace, a moment of quiet.

That moment of quietness was rudely interrupted—torn apart by high-pitched, desperate sobbing. I turn to my left, and there's a girl at the end of the long corridor full of bookcases. A tiny one at that, since the whole corridor looked gigantic compared to her.

She couldn’t have been more than five, barely tall enough to brush the second shelf. A statistical outlier in this ocean of silence, suddenly very, very loud. There was something unsettling about how her tiny fists rubbed at her eyes. Children cried in a language everyone understood.

“Are you lost?” I ask hesitantly, not moving from my spot in the corridor. The little girl stops crying for a brief moment. Well, not stop, but slowed down. Her big eyes are still so full of fear and tears, but they open wide to look at me as if she hadn’t been expecting someone to help.

She doesn’t say anything.

Just looks at me—eyes still shimmering, lips trembling, chest stuttering around hiccuped sobs. She’s scared. That much is obvious. But it’s the way she clutches the fabric of her little coat that really gets me. Like it’s the only thing tethering her to the earth right now.

I walk towards her. I'm not close—just close enough to show I’m not a threat. A non-threatening stranger in a cardigan and tie, kneeling among the books like I’m part of the furniture.

She stares, still trembling, still silent.

“It’s okay,” I murmur gently. “I’m not going to come closer unless you want me to. I just want to help.”

Her little hand scrubs clumsily at her cheek. She sniffles, her shoulders curling inward. Still holding it in. Still trying to be brave.

Then, finally—after a moment that feels like something unspooling—she shakes her head. And her voice, when it comes, is a soft, crumpled thing:

“I can’t find my mommy.”

I nod, matching her quietness. “Okay. Thank you for telling me.”

A pause.

“I’ll help you find her, alright? No rush. We can check the kiddie section together. That’s probably where she’ll look first.”

I didn’t offer my hand. It felt like too much for both of us. Instead, I walked beside her, slow and steady, letting the silence settle between us like soft dust. She kept sniffling quietly the whole walk down.

I desperately needed a way to make the little cries stop.

“What's your name, sweetheart?” I asked softly.

She tilted her head back to look up at me—really look this time. She was so small she had to crane her neck to find my eyes. Her expression still carried that flicker of uncertainty, her trust not quite earned yet.

“I’m Spencer.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just stares for a second, like she’s still deciding whether I’m safe. Then, in the tiniest voice—barely above a whisper—she says:

“...Maddie.”

Maddie.

I nod, repeating it once under my breath to make it real.

“That’s a beautiful name, Maddie.”

She says nothing, but her fingers curl tighter around the hem of her coat. She’s still scared, but she’s not looking away anymore.

Progress.

I scan the rows of shelves ahead. The kiddie section’s not far now—colorful bean bags, tiny chairs, picture books splayed on wide tables.

“Do you like magic tricks, Maddie?”

She nods her tiny head, her eyes warming up to me at the thought.

I felt something in my stomach… I wasn’t sure what it was. Maybe yearning?

She nods—just once—and I see it. That flicker of trust, like a light turning on behind her eyes. Not quite safety, but something near it.

And something stirs in my stomach.

I don’t know what to call it. It’s not adrenaline, and it’s not fear. Maybe it’s yearning. Not for her, necessarily—but for what she has. What she’s lost. What she’s looking for.

For someone to come back for her.

For someone to call her name.

“Okay… how about I show you some magic tricks while we wait for your mommy to get here? that sound fun, Maddie?”

This time she nods enthusiastically. Her big eyes excited to see what sorcery I had planned to show her.

I dig the pocket of my pants, my movements slow and deliberate. I pull out a simple quarter. It’s nothing special. Just a plain, shiny quarter that for some reason, I’ve held on to for way longer than I should’ve.

“Behold,” I announce, holding it up between two fingers like it’s enchanted. “A perfectly ordinary quarter.”

She leans in, captivated—eyes locked on the coin like it’s something rare. A small smile starts to tug at her cheeks.

“It’s your everyday quarter,” I say, twirling the tiny thing between my fingers, doing my best to keep this unfamiliar girl comforted—as if her calm is the only thing keeping me steady.

“Watch closely.”

I place the coin on my open palm and slowly close my fingers around it. Then, with my free hand, I give the air above my fist a little wave—like I’m stirring something invisible.

“And now… it’s gone.”

I open my hand. Empty.

She gasps.

I see it—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes light up like I’ve just rewritten the rules of the universe.

I lean in, just a little. Not too close.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur, pretending to look around her, behind her, above her. “Where could it have gone…?”

And then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I reach behind her ear, and pull the coin free like I just plucked a star from the sky.

Her breath catches. She stares at the quarter in my fingers like it’s a miracle.

“It was behind your ear this whole time,” I whisper, grinning.

She beams at me, her fear momentarily forgotten. Her laughter is soft but real, bright and bubbly and innocent in a way that makes something sharp tug behind my ribs.

“Are you a sorcerer?” She asks, her big, curious eyes staring into my soul, trying to get answers out of me.

I blink, “A sorcerer?”

She nods, completely serious, “like the ones in Harry Potter.”

I chuckle fondly at her question, “Well… I don’t have a broom. Or a wand. Or an Owl.”

“But you made the coin vanish…” She pouts slightly, and although the sight of her minor pout was adorable, I would’ve given anything to see her smile again.

I didn’t know why. Maybe it was the case that had me feeling so fond of a child I just met. Maybe it got all the loose wires within me, all frayed and sparking from things I still hadn’t worked through. But there was something about this moment—this tiny human with tear-streaked cheeks and a Harry Potter reference—that made something ache deep in my chest.

I felt it so sharply it almost hurt.

This... this mattered.

And I hated how much I wanted it—interactions like this. Not just the comfort or the connection but the permanence. The possibility of something that was mine.

Kids of my own.

I glance down at her, still wide-eyed, still waiting for more magic. Her little hands twitch with excitement like she’s ready to believe anything I say.

“Yeah, but it’s only a magic trick, sweetheart,” I murmur, trying to offer the truth gently, without breaking the illusion. Without hurting her feelings.

But maybe I shouldn’t.

Maybe I should let her believe in it a little longer. Let her live in the dream. Give her what I wish someone had given me at that age—a reason to believe in wonder.

So I sigh, dramatically, like I’m about to confess something world-altering.

“Okay… you got me. But you can’t tell anyone, alright?”

She leans in, eyes shining.

“I’m actually a wizard.”

She gasps, delighted. A smile blooms across her face so fast it nearly knocks the air out of me.

“I knew it!” she squeals.

“Yeah, you did,” I grin back. “You’re a smart one, aren’t you?”

She looks like she’s about to burst with thousands of questions. Eyes wide and shining with a special curiosity. I just hope her parent doesn’t murder me for fueling these wizard dreams that she has.

“Are you friends with Harry?”

I try my best to suppress a warm chuckle, but I can’t help the smile that shines through.

“Harry Potter?” She nodded so hard at my response that I worried her head might pop off. “Well… I haven’t seen him in a while. He’s mostly busy these days. But yes, we’ve met.”

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hands, and this time, I couldn’t subdue the fond chuckles that her reactions got out of me.

“Can you show me more magic?”

I smile, helpless to deny her. “Alright. One more, but you gotta sit down for this one.” I say, holding up a finger like I’m laying down a rule neither of us will actually follow.

She hurries to a small chair in the kid tables. Wiggles in place, hands clasped in front of her like she’s bracing for something incredible.

I reach into my pocket again, fingers brushing against the familiar coolness of the coin.

“But you have to pay very close attention, okay? This one’s advanced wizardry.”

She nods like she’s preparing for a test at Hogwarts.

“We have, the very same coin from earlier,” I move the coin to the center of my palm, “But if I place it right here… and you keep your eyes on it…”

I curl my fingers over it, give them a little dramatic wiggle.

“This simple quarter will just…”

Disappear. Or—it’s supposed to.

Everything was going fine. The coin’s in my palm. My fingers close around it. I make the usual gesture—slight misdirection, a practiced flick of the wrist, the classic illusion.

Except this time… something goes wrong. There’s a soft metallic clink followed by—

“Ow!”

Not me. Behind me.

The little girl’s eyes go wide, delighted at first by the trick. But then her head snaps toward the voice—the one behind me, the one that just yelped in surprise.

And just like that… the magic disappears.

“Mommy!” She takes off running.

I stand and turn instinctively, ready to reassure the parent—let her know her daughter’s safe, that I was only trying to help. Maybe even apologize for the quarter that, somehow, made impact.

But then I see her.

And for a moment… I forget what I was about to say.

She’s standing there, breathless, eyes wide with relief, and the softest kind of panic still clinging to her expression. The kind that says she’s been searching—not just through the aisles, but through every possible worst-case scenario in her head.

And yet, despite the tension in her posture, despite the flurry of emotion on her face...

She’s—God, she’s beautiful.

Like something from another lifetime. Light catching in her hair. Autumn caught in her breath.

An angel.

I’ve always thrived on routine. Wake up, brush teeth, get dressed, go fulfill today’s duties… It wasn’t anything exciting, but it was dependable. Familiar.

That all changed when I had her.

My Madelyn.

Now, my mornings depend on a dozen unpredictable factors. Maybe Maddie wakes up before I do and cuts my desperately needed seven hours of sleep short. Maybe she had a nightmare. Maybe she wet the bed. Or—more often than not—she’s just too excited for the day and bursts out of sleep like it’s a celebration.

It’s exhausting.

But she’s my entire world. My sun. My moon. And I’d sacrifice every ounce of sleep or peace of mind a thousand times over if it meant making her life feel safe and full of joy.

Still, we do have one day of the week that rarely breaks pattern.

Saturdays.

Every Saturday, for as long as I can remember, I wake up early, make pancakes, get dressed, and head to the library—the one place where time slows down, where stories open like doorways and the world feels just a little quieter.

Bringing Maddie into that routine was surprisingly easy. I started taking her when she was just a month old. I would’ve done it sooner, but I was still figuring things out—how to be a single mother to a newborn. Just surviving those first few days was its own kind of story.

She loves our Saturdays.

Every Saturday morning, once the pancakes are ready, I head to her room—and without fail, she wakes up with the biggest smile.

She always knows it’s Saturday because of the smell. Like clockwork, the scent of warm batter reaches her tiny nose, and her whole body just springs to life. She throws off her covers, races into the kitchen barefoot and beaming, already asking for her syrup before I can even plate the first stack.

This Saturday morning was different.

I should’ve known things would go wrong the moment I decided to step even slightly out of routine.

“Good morning, princess,” I sing, beaming as I step into her bedroom—blueberry pancakes in hand. “Brought you breakfast in bed. Aren’t you a spoiled little princess today?”

Her face lights up like it always does. “Good morning, Mommy!”

She spots the pancakes, and her eyes sparkle. She bounces a little beneath her blankets, already reaching for the plate. “Blueberry?”

I nod, smiling. “Well, I know how much you like them, so I decided to change things up,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “Alright, eat up. The library’s waiting for us.”

She hummed as she ate, little legs swinging off the edge of the bed, syrup smeared near the corner of her mouth. It was such a small thing, but I remember thinking—this is what happiness feels like. A plate of blueberry pancakes and a five-year-old who thinks I hung the stars.

We left a little later than usual.

Just ten minutes. That’s all.

She insisted on picking out her own outfit—a striped shirt and a pink coat—and I let her. Another tiny detour from routine. Nothing dramatic. Nothing dangerous.

The nearest library, which we were used to visiting, was a three-story building. It was old, but they kept it clean. The library had a huge variety of books, from Children’s books to cookbooks.

It was just as it always was. Quiet. Warm. A kind of sacred.

We walked in together. I remember holding the door open while she skipped inside.

I remember telling her—“Stay close, baby.”

she nodding.

And then…Then I blinked. I looked up from the shelves. And she was gone.

I’ve never lost my Maddie before. She’s a curious child, and she loves to wander off on adventures. She probably inherited that from me. This need to find whatever’s glowing. I understand it. We’re moths, both of us. Fragile, flitting things, always blinded by the glow, unaware that it might hurt us.

But I’ve gotten better at spotting the danger.

At least… when it comes to her.

I watch everything. Every step she takes. Every handrail she climbs. Every crack in the sidewalk I gently guide her around. Not even the tiniest fruit fly gets near her without me noticing. I make sure of it. I always make sure.

So how did I miss this?

how did I lose her?

“Maddie?” I called out, trying to keep my voice steady. “Maddie, where are you, sweetheart?”

No reply.

Just silence. Just shelves. Just the sound of someone flipping a page somewhere far away.

I couldn’t see her.

I couldn’t hear her.

Panic bloomed in my chest, sharp and fast. I started moving—too quickly to think, too slowly to matter. I scanned every row, every corner of the first floor, spinning in half-circles, eyes darting, throat dry.

Think. You have to think. Breathe.

I forced myself to stop. Just for a second. Inhaled. Shaky. Exhaled. Useless.

That’s when I saw it.

A sign hanging above the staircase in soft, colorful letters:

Children’s Section – Second Floor.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken stairs that fast in my life.

I practically leapt two steps at a time, nearly tripping—twice—but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. My heart was pounding too hard, my breath caught somewhere between a prayer and a scream.

As soon as I reached the top, I heard it. Laughter. Soft, bubbling giggles echoing from the back corner of the floor.

Maddie. My sun.

I followed the sound like it was oxygen, rounding the shelves toward the children’s section—and there she was. She was fine. Smiling. Whole. Lit up with joy I hadn’t seen since breakfast.

I was so blinded by the sight of her—so completely caught in the gravity of that relief—that I didn’t see the small, shiny object flying straight at my face.

Thunk.

“Ow!” I yelped, instinctively pressing a hand to my forehead where the coin made impact.

“Mommy!” I blinked, still holding my forehead, and finally looked up to see my daughter running full speed to me.

I dropped my hand and opened my arms just in time, catching her as she flung herself into me.

The force of her little body nearly knocked the breath out of my lungs—and I didn’t care. I clutched her to my chest, my hands smoothing over her hair, her back, her arms—like I needed to physically confirm every part of her was still here.

Still mine.

“I was looking for you,” she mumbled into my shoulder.

“I know, baby,” I whispered. “I know. I’m here.”

I pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and only then—only then—did I let myself breathe. Let myself relax and look around with a clear mind.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man—tall, gangly, cardigan-ed, and completely mortified. His wide brown eyes darted from the coin in the floor, to my face and back again like he wasn’t sure which deserved more immediate attention.

“I am so sorry, I didn’t—I mean, the coin wasn’t… is your forehead okay?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence. He reached down and took the quarter in his hands.

He was nervous. The poor thing couldn’t even get a full thought out without stuttering or switching pitch. He looked like a deer caught in headlights—in the most endearing way possible.

I adjusted Maddie in my arms and slowly rose to my feet, brushing a hand over the spot where the coin had hit.

“Yeah,” I said softly. “I’m okay.”

“Mommy, that’s Spencer. He’s a wizard, but you can’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.” Maddie’s little voice cut in, muffled by my shoulder. Her tiny hands clung to my shirt like this secret was sacred. Like this moment mattered.

“Is he now?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

The poor man looked like he was about to spontaneously combust. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink, and he kept shifting like he wanted to disappear behind the nearest bookshelf. He was clearly mortified for making my daughter believe he was an actual wizard.

Meanwhile, Maddie looked like she might explode from sheer joy.

“He did magic, Mommy!” she beamed. “He made the coin disappear! And he’s friends with Harry Potter!”

I looked at him again—this tall, blushing stranger in a cardigan, holding a rogue quarter like it was evidence from a crime scene—and for the first time since the panic hit…

I smiled. No, not just that. I giggled.

“He’s friends with Harry Potter, sweetheart?”

“Yeah!” Maddie chirped, her little head nodding furiously against my shoulder. “He told me so!”

I glanced down at Maddie, still glowing with excitement in my arms, then back at him—this stranger with a guilty expression and a coin pinched nervously between his fingers.

“So you’ve met the famous Harry Potter?” I asked softly, more amused than anything else.

His mouth opened… then closed again. He looked completely out of his depth, like he wasn’t sure whether to defend himself or disappear behind the nearest bookcase.

“I… may have implied we’d met,” he said, almost apologetically. “In a—fictional sense.”

“Fictional,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

He nodded, eyes flicking anywhere but at me. “She asked if I knew him, and I just couldn’t say no. Plus, it calmed her down.”

My heart twisted, gently. Of course it did.

I crouched to set Maddie down, brushing a hand over her curls. “Don’t wander off, sweetheart.”

She nodded seriously—too seriously for someone who just believed she’d befriended a wizard—but she stayed put, her wide eyes still bouncing between me and the man standing awkwardly by the bookshelves.

When I stood, he was watching me. Not in a weird way. Just… watching. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say something, or leave before he embarrassed himself further.

I finally broke the silence.

“Thank you,” I said. “For keeping her calm. And for the magic tricks. Even if one of them involved hitting a complete stranger in the face.”

His eyes widened. “Oh my god—yes. I’m really sorry about that. That was not part of the trick. I swear it usually disappears. Like, away from people.”

I smiled again, gentler this time. “I believe you.”

A beat passed.

“You’ve got a very brave little girl.”

My chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” I whispered, looking over at Maddie, who was now spinning slowly in place, humming to herself like nothing had happened.

“She really is.”

I looked back again, and of course—despite being told not to wander—she had already drifted toward the toy shelf, her tiny fingers trailing along the edge of a plastic castle.

Moth. Always drawn to whatever glows.

He hadn’t stopped staring.

He kept looking at me like he wanted to tear me open—not in a violent way, but in that quiet, curious way. Like he needed to understand what made me me. Like he was trying to read my soul the way other people read books.

I hadn’t even noticed—Not until I turned my gaze back to him, and when I did, I nearly forgot how to breathe.

There was something behind his eyes—something searching. Gentle, but sharp. Not the kind of stare meant to intimidate. No, it was worse. It was the kind that saw. Saw too much.

The kind of look that made you feel like maybe you weren’t a collection of masks and moments. Like maybe you were a story he’d just opened to the first page.

It made my skin warm.

I looked away first. Not because it was uncomfortable—But because it wasn’t.

Because I didn’t know what to do with the way he looked at me like that. Like I was worth reading.

“So… she read the Harry Potter series?” he asked, breaking the silence.

His voice jolted me back to reality. I blinked a couple times, trying to shake myself free from whatever trance those hazel eyes had pulled me into.

“Has she read—? No, no. She still struggles a bit with reading. The only books she’s managed on her own so far are Frog and Toad Are Friends and The Tales of Oliver Pig.”

His lips twitched at that, like he was trying not to smile too hard.

“Do you mind me asking… how old is she?”

“She’s turning five in a couple weeks.”

He blinked. “And she’s reading at a first-grade level? That’s impressive.”

I smiled, soft and proud. “She’s always been a quick learner. Loves stories. I think it’s how she makes sense of the world.”

He nodded, like he understood that. Like maybe he did the same.

“So I take it she’s only seen the Harry Potter movies then?” he asked, circling back to his original question.

“Oh—no. I read to her a lot. We actually went through the entire Harry Potter series last summer.”

His eyebrows lifted, impressed. “All seven?”

“All seven,” I nodded. “It took us a few months, but she was completely obsessed. She didn’t want me to put the books down, not even to sleep. Had a million questions. Wanted to know why Harry had to live in the cupboard, how the time-turner worked, what butterbeer tastes like.”

He chuckled softly. “She sounds like someone I would’ve been friends with at her age.”

“You read a lot as a kid?”

He hesitated—not because he didn’t want to answer, but because he seemed to be sorting through too many memories at once.

“Pretty much all I did,” he said eventually. “Books were easier. Made more sense than people did.”

There was something in the way he said it—like it wasn’t just a fun fact, but a truth he’d learned the hard way.

I didn’t push. I just nodded, quietly understanding.

“Maddie’s the same,” I offered. “She talks to books like they talk back.”

He smiled at that. “That’s the best kind of kid.”

I was about to reply—to agree with the praise of my daughter, to maybe say something more—but then she came barreling back toward us, beaming.

“Mommy, Mommy! Look!” She held up a Rapunzel doll.

“Can I have her? Please? She has real brushable hair!” Maddie clutched the box to her chest like she’d just been entrusted with state secrets.

I chuckle, “That’s yarn, sweetie. You can’t brush it.”

“Can I have her? Please, Mommy?”

I looked at him, then at my daughter’s wide, pleading eyes. The panic from earlier was still fading in my bones, but the joy on her face grounded me again.

“Fine,” I said with a knowing smile. “Let’s check her out and ask if she’s ready for a new home.”

Maddie squealed and ran ahead toward the counter.

He straightened, glancing at me with the softest grin.

“She’s something else,” he said.

I met his eyes, the warmth still lingering between us.

“She really is.”

He smiled—soft, sheepish. A little unsure.

There was a pause.

My eyes flicked between him, the floor, and Maddie standing at the counter, rocking on her heels with the raggedy doll held up against her chest.

I didn’t know what it was about him. Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, so tender.

Maybe it was the way he panicked when I first approached them—all flustered and apologetic, tripping over his words like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days.

Maybe it was his eyes—big, toffee-colored, and far too curious. The way he kept looking at me like I was a puzzle he genuinely wanted to solve.

Despite everything in me that usually resisted introducing new people into our lives, I felt it—that pull.

I wanted to know him.

“I should get going,” he said, his voice low, like he didn’t really want to.

I nodded, even though something in me quietly hoped he’d stay just a little longer.

“Of course. Thank you again. For everything.”

He looked down, then back at me, like he was still trying to memorize something.

“It was… nice meeting you. Both of you.”

“It was nice meeting you too.”

He took a step back, then paused.

“I hope she keeps believing in magic,” he said, glancing toward Maddie with something almost wistful in his eyes.

“She will,” I said, smiling. “She has a good reason to.”

He didn’t say anything after that. Just smiled once more—brighter this time—before turning and walking away.

And even though I knew I’d just met him… I wanted to call out after him. Maybe invite him to eat with us, I had the pretense of him keeping my daughter safe. It would be so easy, just go, “hey wait!”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Because despite having every reason to call out to him, to try and integrate him into my life, the fear in me always ended up eating my intentions up.

Still. I had a feeling that wouldn’t be the last time I saw him..

I stayed still for a moment, just watching him leave.

It wasn’t until he disappeared from view that I finally moved—walking to the counter where my daughter was waiting, still cradling her new doll like a prize.

“Where did Spencer go?” she asked, as soon as I appeared beside her.

Spencer. So that's his name.

It fit him, somehow. A little old-fashioned, a little too soft around the edges for someone who carried so much weight in his eyes. But now that she’d said it out loud, I couldn’t imagine him being called anything else.

“He had to leave, sweetheart.”

Her little face fell just slightly. “Will we see him again? I want to see more magic.”

I crouched beside her, brushing her hair back behind one ear as I pulled her into my arms. The weight of the day finally caught up to me—settling in my chest like something too big to name.

“Who knows, Maddie,” I murmured, holding her tight. “Maybe someday.”

I pulled back just enough to look her in the eye.

“I need you to promise me something, okay?”

She blinked up at me, her Rapunzel doll dangling loosely from one arm.

“Don’t ever wander off like that again. Spencer was kind, and he kept you safe. But not everyone is like him. You could’ve gotten hurt.”

She nodded, serious now. “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

“I know, baby,” I whispered, holding her again. “I just need you safe.”

“I promise, Mommy.” She murmured.

“Thank you, honey.” I kissed her temple. “Now… let’s buy you this doll and go get something to eat.”

She grinned, her earlier worry forgotten, clutching Rapunzel to her chest like she’d just made a new friend.

We walked out hand-in-hand, the late morning sun spilling through the library doors as they shut behind us.

And even though I told myself it was just another Saturday…

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else had quietly begun.

Next Chapter

[spoiled-oatmeal]

Mhin x AFAB! Reader (Anatomy Lessons) 🔞

Mhin x AFAB! Reader inspired by this post from @rabidprey. This one took me a while to complete, my last class for my Bachelor's degree started, so finding a balance also took away some of my time. But it’s finally ready. This is the first time I’ve written smut, so hopefully it's not too bad. I’ve spent so much time rereading and proofreading this I can’t tell if it’s good anymore, but I want to focus on other projects so I said fuck it.  Enjoy!

MC is described with female anatomy, Mhin’s is left undescribed. The MC has hair long enough to tuck behind their ear.

*SMUT* MDNI!!

WC: 5,004

It’s been a busy night. Mhin’s started allowing you on their nightly patrols, or more accurately, stopped complaining when you showed up. But that might change after tonight. It’s not your fault, Mhin must have done something new with their hair, maybe got it cut or changed shampoos, they almost seemed to sparkle in the moonlight. You swear you were trying to pay attention to your surroundings, but every time you weren’t looking at them, you would see, out of the corner of your eye, the moonlight hitting them in such a way that it would be a crime not to stop and admire them. This lack of situational awareness resulted in an unexpected soulless attack and an upset Mhin. After enduring a harsh lecture that mentioned something about lacking brain cells and them leaving you behind as a soulless snack, Mhin proceeded to give you the silent treatment as you both made your way back to their dwelling. You would’ve thought that they were genuinely upset and wanted to be left alone if only they didn’t keep glancing behind them every few minutes to make sure you were still following safely behind them.

You’ve been to the place closest to what they would call a home a few times. It’s a small house squeezed between two larger buildings. Every time you’ve been there, you've nearly walked right past it due to it almost becoming invisible, overshadowed by its surrounding houses. Maybe that’s why they chose it as a place to call home, unnoticed and ignored, the perfect combination for privacy and silence. Mhin walks up to the door and pulls a brass key, embedded with intricate designs, from their cloak, unlocking it and leaving the door open as a silent invitation to enter. You’ve been here enough times to have an understanding of their routines when they get home. You quietly shut the door behind you and latch the various locks they've installed.

Inside their house is extremely minimalistic. Although calling it a house would probably be overzealous, it’s more like a small room. Walking from the entrance to the back wall can’t be more than ten steps. Inside contains just their basic necessities, lacking any decor, unless you count the books and scraps of medical supplies scattered around as decor. Their home consists of a small bed, a kitchenette, and a table that previously only had one chair, but a second one appeared after your first few visits. Mhin refuses to acknowledge this mysteriously appearing chair.

Upon entering their home, Mhin walks over to their kitchen, silently grabbing a kettle to brew some tea. Opening one of the small cupboards to pull out a small tin container, they told you that they have a small collection of different tea leaf blends that they occasionally find in the market. There was one night you managed to get them talking, and they revealed that they chose which one to try based on their mood. You always wondered what they drank when they were angry. You suppose today is the day you find out. The energy is still tense in the room; they're still upset that you managed to put yourself in danger, albeit without injury due to Mhin’s intervention. You decide the possibility of relighting their anger is better than sitting in the deafeningly silent room any longer..

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, quietly taking a seat at the table and keeping your head down, staring at your clasped hands in your lap. The clinking of cups and the crackling of fire that will soon be boiling the water in the kettle is the only response you get. You let the silence settle over the room again before trying once more.

“You were right, my negligence not only put me in danger, but also put you in harm's way.” You continue confessing your mistakes, hoping for their forgiveness or at least a response. “I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

They still don’t respond, but you hear the fire in their oven being put out and the sound of water being poured out of a kettle. Their footsteps approaching the table cause you to raise your head and finally look at them. They place one of the cups in front of you while taking their seat at the table. Despite them avoiding eye contact with you, lost in the cacophony of thoughts racing through their mind, you can tell they don’t seem angry; their face, almost neutral. That is, until you just barely see a minuscule muscle in their jaw start to tense. Without them telling you what they want from you, you’re left to guess. Maybe they’re tired. Maybe their still wired from the fight. Or maybe, just maybe, they were worried about you. Without Mhin giving you any more hints, you’re left to continue trying to guess the infinite things that could be running through their mind.

“How did you learn how to fight soulless?” you ask in the hope they’ll take the bait of conversation. Lucky for you, this question manages to make them finally make eye contact with you. They expected you to continue apologizing; a small part of them was wondering if you would start begging for their forgiveness. An even smaller part of Mhin was wondering if they would enjoy hearing you beg. You switching the conversation was just enough of a shock to pull them from their silent act.

“Practice,” Mhin says, leaning back in their chair, taking a sip of their tea, “I had to learn or else I wouldn’t survive.”

“Maybe you could teach me? Just in case you're not there next time,” you propose, mimicking their movements and taking a sip from your cup. Before the cup can even reach your lips, your nose is invaded by a strong, spicy, earthy smell. Cinnamon. You figured that with them being in a sour mood and being fresh from a fight, they would’ve chosen a more relaxing blend, maybe some chamomile or lavender. As it hits your tongue, the warmth begins to spread across your mouth, the spice of the cinnamon biting at parts of your tongue before you swallow. As the auburn liquid travels down your throat, the warmth begins to spread across your chest and leaves a soft warmth on your cheeks.

“Hmm, that's not a terrible idea, maybe learning something would help you stop being so idiotic,” they chide, drinking the rest of their cup before standing up from their seat.

You watch Mhin slowly make their way around the table, your eyes following their every move, before they stand behind your chair, resting their hand on the backrest. Their hand rises, thumb making gentle contact with your cheek. Your breath releases with a shudder, hands gripped tight around your cup. Their hand rotates to run the tips of their fingers over your cheekbone, guiding the stray strand of hair behind your ear. Mhin’s fingers drag, featherlight, down the side of your neck. Your head naturally tilting to give them as much surface as they desire. Until the gentleness suddenly leaves them, both hands find your neck and with a firm, but not painful grasp around the back of your neck, they force your chin to your chest. You feel them bring their thumbs dragging up your spinal cord. You let out a surprised gasp as they bring their thumbs up to the base of the skull, searching for something, but you’re not sure what.

“Do you feel this spot right here?” They massage their thumbs into the spot to accent their words. You know their fingers resting against the column of your throat can feel the swallow you take before you're able to croak out a response. 

“Y-yes.” You manage to get out through almost gritted teeth. Mhin slides their fingers resting on your throat to the side of your neck and gently presses them into your skin, checking your heart rate. Checking to see if it’s beating just as fast as theirs is.

“This spot connects the brainstem to the spinal cord,” they instruct, while you feel the heavy blush that has been creeping over your face manage to get deeper. Their calm, confident tone they take when teaching does not make it easy to focus. Especially when your mind keeps wandering to the other activities their hands, currently around your throat, might be suited for, “severing that connection will immediately kill any creature.”

“Okay,” You mutter, eyes not being able to focus since every nerve is focused on Mhin’s firm grasp on your nape and neck.

“Stand up,” Mhin commands, quickly withdrawing their hands from your neck and stepping away from your chair.

Obeying their command, you quickly, without sparing a single thought, slide out of your chair and face them. Eagerly waiting for their next touch. Finally able to look at Mhin again, you see them remove the bracers around their arms and roll up their sleeves, revealing their forearms.

“Every creature has almost the same weak points, their heart and their brain being the most important,” Mhin instructs. 

They seem more confident than you’ve ever seen them, like they're finding comfort in reciting their knowledge. And throughout your time knowing Mhin, although all parts of them are attractive, there’s something about confident Mhin that makes your heart rate spike.

“Maybe I should start with basic anatomy…” You barely manage to hear them mutter under their breath, trying to decide the best starting point for their lesson. Nodding to themself, they turn to you and begin to speak. “We’ll start with basic muscles and muscle groups. There are numerous benefits to understanding this basic part of anatomy. The muscles are made of thousands of small fibers woven together-”

You raise your hand to interrupt them before they get too far into their lesson, ”Wait, wait, wait, why are we starting with muscles? Isn’t this supposed to be for self-defense and killing soulless?” 

Jutting their lips and raising one of their brows, not happy about the interruption. With a sigh, they make a proposition, “Instead of telling you, why don’t I just show you,” they say, bringing their left foot behind them and twisting their body with it, getting into a fighting stance, “try to hit me.”

“Wha-What?” You question in utter disbelief, this was not how you saw this conversation going. You start to wonder if you heard them wrong, but your eyes only confirm what they said. 

“What are you worried about? It’s not like you’ll actually land a hit.” They say, with a ghost of a smirk on their lips. It’s almost as if they enjoy your confusion.

Their confidence calms your nerves; you know where Kuras’s clinic is, in case this goes wrong. With a final deep breath to push away the last of your nerves that scream at you to stop, you pull your fist back and throw your best punch. Mhin blocks the blow, pushing your hand out of its path while grabbing your wrist and side-stepping behind your back. Using their free hand, they place their hand on the back of your upper arm, twisting and pushing down with almost minimal effort. This movement, paired with their other hand around your wrist pulling it behind you, causes you to drop one knee to the ground. Using this momentum, you manage to break free of their grasp; it’s more likely they let you get out, but you’re willing to take a win where you can get them. You quickly stand up to continue your little spar, but before you can even turn around, you feel one of their arms wrap around your throat and their other arm caging in the back of your head, putting you in a chokehold. You attempt to grab their hands to try and pry them off, but your hands freeze as their grip tightens, resulting in their body pressing firmly against you. You can feel their arms hugging around your throat, their elbow tightens just right around your neck where you're not in any real danger, but your head starts to feel lighter for a variety of reasons. Mhin’s body is just barely a breath of distance away from yours, but every once in a while, you can feel the bite of their belt buckle dig into your back.

“This is why you’re learning anatomy,” Mhin whispers into your ear. Their breath tickles your ear, and you feel your face start to flush. Your entire body feels like pure fire runs through your veins. Every time your own clothes brush against your skin, it feels like an unbearable punishment.

You’ve felt arousal before, but nothing like this. This is punishing, like being stuck in a desert and looking at a glass of water you can’t even touch. Mhin might tolerate your presence for now, but you never know when the wind will change. And from what you know of them, it will change. You might wake up one day and have them decide that they’re tired of saving you… It might be better to avoid getting any more attached to them, but like a dog whining for a sweet piece of chocolate, you never stop wanting something that could kill you.

With a small huff of laughter that sends shivers over the skin it brushes over, Mhin releases you. You take a moment to try and compose yourself, knowing without a doubt that Mhin’s going to start their lesson, and your brain's still stuck, balanced between the dichotomy of wanting to taste every inch of them and to run away from possible future heartbreak.

Their words are a garbled mess of empty static in your ear as they begin to lecture again. You hear them mention something about muscles and the different uses they have, but your brain is so muddled with thoughts that their lecture becomes background music for your internal musing. You’re keeping your back to them as they keep talking, knowing that if you were facing their direction, they would be able to see your empty stare and blush immediately.

Their footsteps starting to approach your form cause you to finally manage to escape from your thoughts long enough to listen to their words. “There are some areas of the body where the nerves in the muscles are more sensitive; using these sensitive areas, you can create a distraction,” Mhin lectures. 

“These areas are typically on the feet, neck, underarms, …” When you feel their presence at your back, their sentence starts to trail off. Suddenly, you feel their hands ghost over your mid back. Your hands jump back, preparing to grab their hands. The new access to your sides allows them to slide their hands around your waist, stopping at the bottom of your ribcage below your chest. “And the ribcage,” they say, dropping their voice into a whisper that ghosts over your ear.

“It’s rude not to listen when someone’s talking to you.” Mhin chastises, their hands slowly starting to creep upwards, causing your back to arch, pushing your chest forwards, ”especially when you asked them to teach you.”

“I apologize.” You manage to say with a shuddering breath. You bite your lips together in a futile attempt to steady your breath. You squeeze your legs together to add some sort of friction to the parts of your body that are growing the most needy.

“I don’t think you are,” they say, pressing their body into you, maneuvering their head to the side of yours, brushing their lips to your ear as they continue their sentence. “Maybe I should try another way of teaching you, a lecture is obviously not working. Maybe a more… physical demonstration will help you finally listen.”

Their grip on your body shifts, their left hand moves to have a firm hold on the side of your waist to stop you from moving, while the right flattens and the fingers spread against your stomach. Your hands hover to the sides of your body, frozen in shock at their intimate touch and their close proximity.

“This is called the rectus abdominis,” they mutter into your ear. Their hand slides down to your lower stomach, the tips of their fingers lying on top of your pelvis. “This muscle assists with movements between the pelvis,” They say, punctuating their words by applying pressure where their hand rests. Dragging their hand up your torso, stopping just under your breast, their hand perfectly framing it, thumb resting in the valley between both breasts. “ and the ribs,” They finish.

As their hand slowly slides, checking to see if you show any signs of discomfort, before finally cupping your left breast. The feeling of their hand slowly kneading your chest and their fingers teasing your nipple through your clothes, you can’t help but let out various whimpers and squirm, causing their left hand to squeeze your hips even further, keeping you pressed into them.

“This is where your pectoralis major is located,” Mhin breathily whispers, pressing their nose to your shoulder, muffling their words, “its main functions are keeping the arms attached and allowing movement in the humerus bone.”

The only response you can give is whimpers, moans, and the muttering of their name like your personal mantra. Mhin pulls away from your chest, pulling a groan of protest from you. But, before you can miss their touch for long, they quickly guide you to rotate your body, facing them. Finally able to see them, you see that their face is coated red with a deep flush, their eyes are half-lidded and staring deeply into yours, and their lips are parted, allowing their quick, shallow breaths an escape. They place their hands on your jaw and pull you close before kissing you, surprisingly gently when compared to their previous actions. Their lips pressed firmly against yours, but not making any attempts to deepen the kiss. That is, until they break away briefly to grab a breath of air, before quickly bringing their lips to yours. Their right hand slides to the back of your head, getting lost in the strands as their left hand drops to your hip, pulling you tighter against them. You make quick work of their hair tie, throwing it in the direction you assume the table is, allowing their snowy locks to fall over their shoulders. One hand gets lost in their hair with the occasional tug that earns you a muffled groan from Mhin, the other exploring their back, grabbing tightly to their shirt. As their kisses start to get more feverish and greedy, you find Mhin walking forward, pushing you backwards, forcing you to walk until your knees hit the edge of their bed. Before you can fall back on their bed, they grab your waist to keep you upright, breaking their heated kisses to take your shirt and start to tug it upwards, telling you what they want without saying a word. You tear your hands away from their body to pull the offending garment over your head. You attempt to take off your pants as well, but before you can get further than one button, Mhin gets impatient and pushes you onto their bed. 

You attempt to push yourself onto your elbows to look at them, but before you can, Mhin parts your knees, crawling onto the bed, and hovers above you. Their hands start to explore your newly exposed skin while their lips start to kiss and mark your neck. Every fear you felt before has instantly vanished. The feeling of their lips brushing against your neck starts to feel more vital to your well-being than even the air you're breathing. You’re hands lacing in their hair and your legs wrapping around their hips, squeezing around them, encourage them to continue. After their lips bite on a sensitive part of your neck and their thumb brushes over your hardening nipple, your hips involuntarily buck into Mhin’s. One of their hands drops down to your hips as they start to roll their hips into yours. After marking your neck to what they deem an acceptable amount, they start to kiss past your clavicle towards your right breast.

 You’ve long lost your ability to make a cohesive sentence, barely able to say Mhin’s name, followed by a variety of curse words and grunts. As Mhin’s lips finally make contact with your nipple, you let out a surprised hiss and groan, your hands jumping to hold their shoulders. They freeze. Mouth disconnecting from your skin, hands moving to the bed next to you, hips moving away from yours, stopping all friction. Mhin looks up at your face, eyes wide and jumping over every feature of your face.

“Did I hurt you? Was it too much? Do you want me to stop?” They bombard you with questions, misunderstanding your cry of pleasure as cries of pain. You quickly reply with a shake of your head, hands gently holding onto the front of their shirt. Their hands slowly move to gently cradle your face.

“Are you sure you’re okay to continue?” They say with their eyes still looking into yours, searching for anything telling them to stop. You manage a small nod against their hands. They close their eyes and gently lean their head until your foreheads are resting against each other.

“I need to hear you say it… that you’re okay… please?” they implore, voice slowly trailing off. You feel a slight tremor in their hands, were they just that worked up from your heated touch, or maybe they were just that scared that they had hurt you. Swallowing the saliva building up in your throat and taking a deep breath, you manage to find your voice.

“I’m okay, I promise. Please don’t stop.” You beg. Taking a deep breath, fully processing your words and pushing away the last of their fears, Mhin slowly leans away from you. They look into your eyes before dropping them to your lips, leaning back in for another quick kiss.

“Good. I got… distracted,” They pause searching for the right words before continuing, “but now I can continue our lesson.” They say with a sly smile fueled with newly renewed confidence, knowing you want this as much as they do.

Mhin brings their lips down to your again before breaking away to linger kisses along your jaw and neck before stopping at your chest. Leaving soft kisses against each breast before dragging their tongue over your nipple. They continue to kiss their way down your stomach, they slowly bring their knees to the floor, kneeling before the bed as they loop their finger into the waist of your pants, slowly pulling them off. As their lips greet the new skin being revealed, stopping at the band of your undergarments, their hands run over the skin of your legs, squeezing the upper thighs before running their hands back down your legs. Your head rolls back in the anticipation of their next move, hand resting on their head thats pressing kisses to the band of your undergarments. 

They give a soft kiss to the mound covered by your underwear before looking up at you, silently asking if you’re ready. The nod you give is all they need before hooking their fingers into the waistband and finally revealing the entirety of your body to them. Seeing them take a deep breath through their nose and lick their lips in anticipation while staring at the last piece of your body they have yet to touch, to taste, causes your legs to reflexively close. Their hands catch your knees before you can hide their newly found treasure from them. Mhin’s glossy half half-lidded eyes catch yours and hold your gaze while they push your knees apart and slot themself between them. You can feel your slick, the evidence of your arousal, coating your lower lips and upper thighs. The breath Mhin releases near your aching core cools the liquid releasing in anticipation for whatever they give you next, the contrast between the almost unbearable heat from your aching desire and the cooling arousal making your eyes squeeze shut and your back arch in pure pleasure. Their hands slowly slide from your knees, traveling up your thighs, every inch their hands get closer to your core, you feel coils in your stomach tighten in anticipation of the relief only they can provide. Their hands stop at the point where your hips and thighs meet, sliding their hands into your inner thighs. Their thumb gently presses onto your lips, gathering your arousal before dragging it up your slit, teasing but not venturing any further yet. Their voice breaks you out of your haze of pleasure, pulling your head up only to look at them.

“This,” Mhin starts, gaze fixed on their ministration as they continue their previously forgotten lesson, they swallow the saliva pooling in their mouth before continuing, “is your labia majora, it protects the sensitive and fragile parts of the female anatomy.”

They finally press their thumb past your folds, dipping down to your entrance, gathering even more of your arousal. You can’t help the moans escaping from your mouth, finally fulfilling the dreams you thought you’d only be able to live while asleep, your hand slaps over your mouth in feeble attempts to quiet your cries of pleasure. The moment Mhin hears your noises become muffled their eyes shoot up to your face. As soon as they see your efforts to quiet down, they pull their hands away, crawling up the bed, hovering over you, and grabbing your wrist.

“Don’t-,” Their eyes look anywhere but your face, suddenly embarrassed with what they were going to say, “Don’t… do that. Hearing you lets me know you enjoy what I’m doing.”

They release your wrist, eyes looking into yours as a silent plea. Instead of a verbal response, you gently bring your hands up to Mhin’s face, cradling their cheeks. They tilt their face further into the palm of your right hand, you pull yourself up to them, and bring your lips to theirs. The kiss didn’t last long, but it was sweet, almost innocent, a jarringly different type of kiss you thought you’d have lying naked underneath someone. They pull back from you with a small smile gracing their face. They're amazed that, despite being cursed and constantly being at threat of soulless attacks, they can find solace and joy in you. They steal a few more kisses from your lips before they crawl back, settling into their previous position between your thighs. Before you can even lean back to enjoy whatever pleasure they plan on bringing you, their tongue delvies between your lower lips sliding from your slick hole to your throbbing clit. 

Your hands instinctively jump towards their head, wanting something from Mhin to hold on to. Mhin continues to leave kisses on your clit, while their hands rub and squeeze your thighs encasing their head. At some point they start to lecture again between kisses and light sucks, but the blood rushing to your head and your moans drown out their voice. They keep making out with your second pair of lips, at one point adding their hand to further add more stimulation to your dripping hole. As the pressure in your stomach starts to build, the only thing you're able to say is their name on repeat. With the encouragement of your almost pleading moans, Mhin seems to get more confident and determined, their lips wrapped around your clit seeming to barely pull themself away to even take a breath, their fingers deep inside you finding and abusing the spot that has you seeing stars, and their unoccupied hand moving to hold your bucking hips with a strength you tend to forget about. As the pressure building in your stomach finally snaps, your hands tighten around Mhin’s hair below you, your eyes are squeezed closed as your head throws back in a silent scream, and your body stops bucking and twitching as your muscles suddenly contract. Despite bringing you to a mind-blowing orgasm that makes you worried you’ll never feel satisfied without their help, Mhin still hasn’t pulled their lips from you or stopped their fingers from stretching and pumping from your spasming hole. The drawn-out pleasure that they keep pulling from you feels like pure ecstasy as you feel the sheets start to get soaked beneath you. When the feeling of their touch starts to become too much, you glance between your thighs to catch the sight of Mhin pulling away from you before they bring their hand to their lips, licking them clean.

“MC.” Mhin says your name, standing up to grip your chin, forcing you to look right at them, stealing a kiss before continuing their sentence, “What all do you remember from our lesson?”

Your eyes widen, trying to glance at anything but them, which proves difficult as their hand is still forcing you to look at them, you try to rack your mind, trying to remember anything they taught you tonight. You’re mind is only filled with images of them between your thighs and the sensation of their lips on yours. If you weren’t fresh from an orgasm, you might’ve been able to forge a response that would’ve appeased them. Unfortunately, or rather extremely fortunately, your legs are still twitching from the pleasure they just ripped from you. Your only response to their questions is a variety of stuttering apologies as they look down at you in faux disappointment.

“Tsk, if you don’t remember, I guess I’ll have to teach you all over again,” they punctuate their sentence by grabbing underneath your knees and dragging you towards the end of the bed again. “We’ll see which happens first, you finally remembering my lesson or the sun rising.” While you might not have been able to get much sleep that night and were only able to walk the next day on wobbly legs, you were now intimately informed about your own anatomy.

[dandylovesturtles]

I'm trying to get myself back into writing by doing some little things here and there. This is the first one that is actually worth it to post here lol

Awhile back I asked on discord for suggestions of things I could write and then for a long time I didn't actually do anything lol BUT I finally did something. This ficlet is based on a suggestion @abbeyofcyn gave me about Donnie feeling anxiety over a having a new home post S2 (at least I remember it being Cyn but the message is so old now I can't find it orz I'm sorry if it was someone else)

I hope you enjoy it!

---

The subway station has been closed to the public since the nineties. Most of the ways in are already blocked off, and it will be trivial to finish that work to keep out any intruders. The tracks and maintenance station make an ideal garage and workspace for the tank. The old electrical wiring and water pipes are easily accessible. There’s still functioning toilets in the old bathrooms, and ventilated spaces ideal for cooking. There’s easy access to the street, the rest of the subway system, and the sewers. Splinter hums approvingly as he circles an old staff area with a tape measure. His brothers shout as they call dibs on rusted out train cars. April enthusiastically notes that the station is close to her new campus.

It checks all the boxes on their list, and then some.

So why has the sick feeling in the pit of Donnie’s stomach gotten worse instead of better?

There must be something wrong with it. Some flaw they aren’t seeing, some con they haven’t considered. He needs to go over his lists again; double check and triple check from every angle. They’ve only been here an hour - it would just be irresponsible to make a decision so quickly!

He desperately fires up his tablet again and pulls up his list, scrolling with hard taps as his eyes fly over the compiled criteria. There must be something… Something!

It’s structurally sound. There’s ample space for skateboard ramps and arcade machines. There’s plenty of lighting that will only need simple maintenance to be functional. There’s a big space that can be used for a new lab. It checks all the boxes, but there must be at least one it’s not checking, or why would Donnie’s blood curdle at the thought of actually living here?

The way the air moves through the space is wrong. The way the sounds echo off the walls and floors is unfamiliar. The smell is not the one he spent his whole life inhaling. It’s all wrong in a way that embeds itself in Donnie’s very skin, leaves him feeling slimy and nauseous and off kilter, like everything was just tilted at a dutch angle.

He scrolls to the bottom of the list and taps a few more times to be sure. “Air feels right” and “Echoes are normal” and “Smell is bad” are not boxes to be checked, so it can’t be any of those things. It has to be something else… It has to be something!

He scrolls back to the top of his list. Then he scrolls back to the bottom. He can’t find it. But it has to be there.

“Whoa,” says Leo, and Donnie jolts, his head snapping up. “I’ve never seen Donnie look like he wants to murder a computer before.”

“Please don’t tell Raph that something’s wrong with the structural checks or whatever,” says Raph, just behind Leo. They’re all coming up to him, probably wondering why he’s been standing in the same spot for… 

Donnie glances at his screen and jolts again. Twenty four minutes and thirty seven second!?

“Come on, Dee, this place has got to be perfect,” says Leo. “I already know exactly where I’m putting my action figures in my new digs!”

“And I’m already getting sooo many ideas for graffiti!” says Mikey excitedly, bouncing in place where he stands next to April. “And I can’t wait to design the kitchen layout! I can’t believe I get to start from scratch and do it just how I want!”

“Raph already knows exactly where the dojo is goin’,” Raph joins in. When Leo blows a raspberry, Raph pushes him forward and smirks when he has to catch himself.

“I think this is the best you guys are gonna get,” says April. “Unless you wanna move to the Hidden City.”

“We can’t, Raph still has a warrant for his arrest.”

“I keep tellin’ you guys, that ain’t Raph!”

“I only wish I had known about this place earlier,” comes Splinter’s voice as he joins them. “So much square footage!”

They all start talking excitedly, so fast it blends into a whir in Donnie’s ears. They’ve all already decided, but don’t they see? They can’t live here, because it’s wrong!

“No.”

Donnie’s declaration kills the conversation in its tracks. Everyone stops to look at him, and the sudden attention doesn’t feel as good as it might otherwise.

“No,” he repeats, shaking his head and looking back at his list. “This won’t work.”

A chorus of “What!?” comes from everyone else. Donnie keeps his eyes on his list, scrolling frantically, looking for the problem that he knows is there.

“Is there something wrong with it?” asks April, tone measured.

“Yes,” he says, but doesn’t elaborate, because he doesn’t know what it is yet and how can he answer if he doesn’t have any data?

It’s clear they aren’t going to wait for him to come up with the answer.

“Well what is it? Ventilation? Structural integrity? The wiring? Come on, Dee, give us somethin’.”

“It’s… it’s just wrong. I know it is.” Donnie looks up from his list then, and their skeptical expressions make him coil around his tablet in defense. “We’ve barely seen all of it! How can we know for certain that it will really suit our needs?”

He’s protesting too much, and it’s no surprise when Leo catches on, immediately narrowing his eyes as he hones in on Donnie’s uncertainty. 

“You’ve said no to every place we’ve looked at, dude! Are your standards that high, or do you just like living in Barry’s crappy apartment that much?”

“I obviously do not,” Donnie snaps, because he has made no secret of the fact that he hates it there. Sure, it was nice of Draxum to take them in now that they’re homeless and all that, but the apartment is too small, and the sheets are too scratchy, and the way the air conditioner sounds is all wrong, and the street noises bother Donnie at night…

Of course he doesn’t want to keep living there! He never wanted to live there in the first place!

“Then what’s the problem?” Leo asks, folding his arms, and Donnie scowls back.

“I just think we shouldn’t rush into such a big decision just because it sucks to live in Draxum’s apartment,” he reasons, reasonably because he’s being very reasonable!

“And what, wait for our realtor to find us a few more listings?” Leo says with heavy snark. 

“Leo,” says Raph with a warning tone, before looking back at Donnie. “Look, we can take tonight to think about it,” he suggests. “But if there’s nothing really wrong with it, I think this is gonna be the best we can do.”

Donnie shrinks back. “You say we’ll take tonight to think about it, but you’ve all already decided.” He shakes his head. “But I’m telling you, we can’t live here. It’s wrong.”

“Donnie…” Mikey’s hand touches Donnie’s elbow, and it takes everything in him not to jerk it away. “Is there an actual problem with the place, or is this a feelings problem?”

Donnie jerks away.

Then he turns and sprints away down the nearest subway tunnel.

…

He only makes it to the next condemned platform before he collapses against the wall, panting. Maybe he really should take up Raph’s advice to do more cardio… If he can ever face any of them again, that is.

He sinks to the ground and rests his chin on his knees, looking around at the unfamiliar scenery. He knew the old tunnels of his home like he knew the curves and grooves in his favorite wrench. But his favorite wrench is lost forever under an insurmountable amount of rubble, and the tunnels around him are foreign and imposing.

He doesn’t want to live in Draxum’s apartment anymore.

But he doesn’t want to live here.

He wants to go home.

The ugly, bitter feeling in his stomach twists again, and he groans and presses his face into his knees, covering his head with his arms. He knows exactly what would fix this, and it’s something he can’t have.

He did the tests himself, over and over again. He knows that their old home would take years, decades to make livable again. They simply can’t fix it. It’s too big to be fixed.

Which means he cannot be fixed.

The understanding that he’ll feel this way forever washes over Donnie, leaving him desolated. How is he ever supposed to function again?

How can the rest of his family move on so easily when he’s still like this?

Footsteps echo off the walls, and he tenses up, curling tighter into himself. It’s no surprise that one of them came after him. He’s just glad it’s only one set of footsteps, and not five.

He doesn’t look up as they draw close. He doesn’t have to. A barefooted tread, light and airy with a bit of a hop to it even when the mood is somber. He’d know it anywhere.

Mikey plops down next to him and says, “Ready to talk to Doctor Feelings?”

Donnie shakes his head without looking up.

Mikey hums. “Wanna talk to Doctor Delicate Touch?”

Donnie shakes his head harder.

There’s a shuffle, and then warmth against Donnie’s side. “Wanna talk to your favorite little brother in the whole wide world?”

Donnie finally lifts his head enough to look at Mikey with one eye. “Winning by default isn’t something to brag about,” he notes.

A huge grin crosses Mikey’s face. “Hey, there you are!”

“Here I am,” Donnie notes dryly, and it sounds miserable even to his own ears.

Mikey’s expression falls into something more soft. He scoots around to Donnie’s front, then says, “You’re homesick.”

Homesick feels too small for the dark feelings that are swallowing Donnie whole. It’s just not enough.

“...I don’t want to live somewhere new,” he says, and it sounds like, I don’t want everything to be different.

“Yeah, it’s a lot,” says Mikey, even though Donnie knows he can’t be feeling it like this, or at least hopes his little brother isn’t. “You’ll get used to it, though!”

It almost makes Donnie laugh. He can’t begin to imagine it ever feeling anything but terrible. “How do you know?”

“Because I have experience,” says Mikey breezily, like it’s obvious. 

Donnie hopes the skepticism shows on his face. “Really? Micheal, we were both too young when Papa moved us to the lair.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember that. But I do remember when we all got our own rooms!”

Donnie considers that with some surprise. He vaguely remembers that… mostly because he was happy that Raph and Leo couldn’t put their stuff on his side anymore. “Ah yes. A joyous day for all of us.”

“Well it wasn’t too happy for me!” Mikey retorts, folding his arms. “I didn’t want any of us to get our own rooms. I… wasn’t ready to be without you guys.”

Actually, now that Mikey says that, Donnie does remember that part of it. “I also remember that you weren’t without us, because you slept in one of our rooms every night for two months.”

Mikey nods seriously. “Yeah! Because I wasn’t ready for change!”

“And we had to make a rotating chart so that each of us could get a full night of sleep once in a while.”

“Huh?” Mikey pouts. “What do you mean? I sleep like an angel!”

“Kicking and chewing on anything in grabbing distance seems more like demon behavior,” Donnie notes, and Mikey huffs and makes a big show of being offended. 

“The point, Donald,” he stresses, “is that it was a big change! And I wasn’t happy about it for a loooong time.” He leans back. “I didn’t get why you guys were so happy about moving out when I wasn’t. It felt like you were all leaving me behind.”

Donnie frowns. “But we were literally a few feet away,” he notes. “As you proved nightly.”

Mikey points at him excitedly. “Exactly! It was a big change, but I still had you guys. And eventually, you guys helped me get excited about it, too.”

Donnie tries to remember what exactly they did to accomplish that, but… “All I remember is that we helped you hang up your finger paintings and put glow in the dark stickers on the ceiling.”

“Yep!” Mikey nods sagely. “You helped make it my own. I got where I was excited to be in my room, because it was how I wanted it to be!” He falters, tapping his chin. “And also I remember Leo said something about all my toys being sad if they were alone in my room at night…”

“Ah. Manipulative tactics,” Donnie observes.

“But that’s not the point! The point is that when I made it my own, change wasn’t so scary anymore.” He waves back down the tunnel. “And that’s what’s going to work for you, too! Because you’re going to build yourself a big new lab and decorate your room just how you want it, and you’re going to love it!”

Donnie feels absolutely no confidence in that. The idea of building a new lab, of decorating his room, of getting used to the new space, doesn’t fill him with excitement. There is only dread there, and exhaustion, and an insurmountable realization that nothing is ever going to be the same as it was before.

“That might work for you,” he says softly, tiredly. “But I don’t think it will for me. I don’t think I will ever stop feeling…” 

He still doesn’t know what to call this. 

“...Homesick.”

“But you will,” says Mikey, putting a hand on his arm. This time, Donnie doesn’t jerk away. “You know how I know?”

“How?”

“Because you went through it with the rooms too, Dee.”

Donnie scoffs, shaking his head. “I was glad to have my own room,” he asserts. “The rest of you kept getting your things into my space. It was annoying.”

“Sure, maybe you were happy about that part,” says Mikey simply, “but do you remember the big storm? The first one after we moved into our rooms, that was sooo loud we could hear it?”

Again, Donnie thinks he vaguely recalls something like that. It clearly didn’t leave as large an impression on him as it did on Mikey, though.

“I… might,” he says.

“I remember,” says Mikey, “that I was so scared, I ran straight to Raph’s room! And he was already awake, and he was under the covers, and we made a tent together.” He giggles. “And then you came in, and then Leo! And I realized then, maybe you guys weren’t really as happy about sleeping in separate rooms as I thought.”

He shifts around again, pressing himself into Donnie’s side.

“We went through that all together. And we’re gonna go through this together, too. And that’s how I know it’ll be okay!”

Donnie can’t help but make a skeptical noise. He’s not sure it will be. It just feels like too much.

“We’re all homesick, too,” Mikey confides. “We show it different than you… But we are. We’re going through it with you.”

Donnie knows they miss home, too. He knows that. But still…

“What if you’re wrong,” he says, “and it’s not okay?”

“Then…” Mikey trails off, thinking. “Then I’ll use the money I saved up to buy you that limited edition Atomic Lass figure you wanted!”

Donnie twists his head to stare at him. “That figure currently values at eight hundred and fifty dollars,” he says.

Mikey grimaces. “I will give you all the money I have saved up to help you buy it!” he amends.

Donnie snorts. Then he laughs. Then he leans into the warmth of his little brother.

He doesn’t want to live somewhere new… but it won’t be entirely new. His family will still be there. Just a few steps away.

“Does the laughing mean you’ll come back with me?” asks Mikey. “Because this tunnel is cold.”

Donnie snorts again. “I will go back with you,” he agrees, “because I actually don’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Yes! I did it!” Mikey hops to his feet, extending a hand. “Another W for Doctor Feelings!”

“Winning by default is nothing to brag about,” says Donnie again. But he takes Mikey’s hand, and they go back to the station together.

[nameless-jamie]

PR Disaster

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, suggestive scenes

Jamie Tartt was a nightmare to work for on an average day. But on a day when he was desperate? He was unbearable.

Y/N had spent the last twenty minutes trying to get through her emails while Jamie sat across from her desk, relentlessly attempting to convince her to do something insane.

“Come on, love,” Jamie pleaded, drumming his fingers on her desk. “It’s just one night. Just a little thing. Barely even a date.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend at a charity gala.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Jamie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Y/N, you have to.”

“Oh, I have to?” She crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. "M'not getting paid for this so I don't have to do shit, Jamie."

"Don't be difficult, babe. I beg you!"

“Let me get this straight. You, a fully grown man, need a date to some fancy event, and instead of—I don’t know—asking out one of the many women who throw themselves at you, you come to me, your freaking assistant?”

He sighed dramatically. “I can’t take some random girl. That’d make it worse.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Worse than what?”

Jamie slouched lower in his chair and sighed. “Some wanker journalist wrote a whole article about how I’ve ‘lost my edge’ since I’ve been single. Said my game’s sufferin’ ‘cause I’m too ‘unfocused.’” He made air quotes, looking deeply offended. “He said I'm too horny for the pitch or some shit. Like, I can’t be single and good at football at the same time. It’s bullshit.”

“That does sound like bullshit.”

“Right?"

"Too horny for the pitch, is my favorite thing anyone has ever said about you, though." Y/N laughed, wiping a small tear out of the corner of her eye.

"Y/N be fucking for real right now. The plan is, if I show up with a girlfriend, it shuts everyone up. And if I take you, it don’t get messy. No expectations. No awkward post-date texts. Just you lookin’ dead fit in a fancy dress and me lookin’ like a man not in the middle of a public downward spiral.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes. “Why do I feel like you’ve thought way too much about this?”

Jamie grinned. “Because I have.”

She exhaled slowly, staring at him for a long moment. “This is a terrible idea.”

“Best ones usually are.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

"And if the press wants us to kiss it wouldn't be awkward because we already did that once!"

"Jamie, that is still a fucking accident. We don't talk about that!"

"I mean I want to talk about it—" Jamie couldn't finish that sentence before a pen was thrown his way.

"Pick me up at 7. Go away now!"

The night started when he picked her up for the gala, in a freaking stretch limousine.

Y/N opened her door.

Jamie’s brain short-circuited.

She stood there in a dress that was so—fuck. It was tight in all the right places, dipping low at the neckline, hugging her waist like it was personally designed to ruin his life. Her legs? Glorious. The slit in her dress? Criminal. Her makeup? Perfect.

He actually forgot how to breathe.

Y/N tilted her head. “Jamie?”

He blinked rapidly, forcing himself to speak. “Huh?”

Her lips twitched. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking like a fucking teenager. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, uh, you look—” He gestured vaguely at her, struggling to find a word that wasn’t fuckable. “Good. Nice. Decent.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Decent?”

Jamie winced. Fuckin’ idiot. “Nah, not decent. I meant, like, proper good. Like, unfairly good. Like—fuck, what’s the word—illegal?”

She laughed, and Jamie swore it was the best sound he’d ever heard.

“Well, that’s good to know,” she teased. “Considering I’m supposed to be your date.”

Right. The fake date. The one that wasn’t real. The one where he definitely wasn’t supposed to be thinking about how he wanted to keep her locked in his car all night so no one else could look at her.

Jamie exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. Get it together, Tartt.

Y/N gave him a knowing smile. “You ready to go?”

Jamie didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he just opened the car door for her, staring straight ahead as she got in—because if he looked for even a second longer, there was a very real chance he’d be showing up to the gala with a boner.

And that was definitely not part of the plan.

Y/N soon realized that the problem wasn’t the gala.

The problem was Jamie.

Because he was apparently way too good at fake dating.

For someone who was supposedly just trying to fix his reputation, he seemed very committed to the role.

He kept his hand on the small of her back all night, his thumb moving in slow circles against the fabric of her dress like it was second nature. He leaned in close every time he spoke to her, his breath warm against her ear. And worst of all, he kept looking at her like that. Like she was the only person in the room.

He also seemed to be having the time of his life making up a fake relationship history.

“Oh, yeah,” he told an interviewer from The Athletic. “She played hard to get at first, but I wore her down.”

“She pretends to be annoyed by me,” he added later, “but really? She’s obsessed.”

Y/N had to bite her tongue multiple times to avoid strangling him.

But then came the real kicker.

“She makes me a better man. I mean fuck— have you looked at her. She is not going to her own flat tonight, am I right love?”

Y/N nearly choked on her champagne.

What the fuck was he playing at?

She was fully prepared to murder him the second they got into the car.

But before she could, the event photographer asked them to pose for a picture, and—

Jamie pulled her in, his hand sliding around her waist, fingers brushing the bare skin at her side.

Her breath hitched.

And then—

Jamie fucking winked.

The camera flashed.

And just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, a journalist called out:

“Jamie! One more shot—how about a kiss for the cameras?”

She froze.

Jamie, however, seemed thrilled by the idea.

“Oh, yeah?” He turned to her, smirking. “What d’you reckon, love? Give the people what they want?”

She stared at him, genuinely considering murder.

But the cameras were waiting. The journalists were watching. And it's not like it would be their first one...

Jamie—the absolute menace—was already leaning in, his lips curling into something dangerously close to a real smile.

She had two options: make it awkward as hell by shutting it down, or commit to the bit.

FUCK, she was his freaking assistant. And she's totally into him. But that wasn't important right now. If she did not kiss him the press would know that Jamie Tartt brought a fake date or worse they would think that his own girlfriend hates him. If she kisses him though, the PR disaster after that would fucking suck.

Fuck it. With a deep breath, she reached up, placed her hand on his chest, and let Jamie close the distance between them.

It was barely a kiss—a soft press of lips, just enough to make it convincing. But Jamie’s hand tightened on her waist, just for a second, and her fingers curled against the fabric of his suit before she forced herself to pull away.

The cameras loved it.

Jamie did too, judging by the way he looked at her afterward.

“Not bad, love,” he murmured, his lips still inches from hers. “Please tell me that one was an accident too. Or else I might have to take you home with me tonight.”

She just rolled her eyes and shoved him. Idiot.

The next morning, Y/N woke up to absolute chaos.

Her phone had exploded.

Twitter was going insane.

She clicked on the first headline that popped up.

"Jamie Tartt Goes Public With Stunning Mystery Girlfriend at Charity Gala—And We Have ALL the Details"

She scrolled down, her horror growing with every paragraph.

"From the way he looked at her to the way he kept a protective hand on her waist all night, Jamie Tartt was absolutely smitten. Sources tell us that he was completely devoted to her the entire evening, barely paying attention to anyone else. And let's not forget the viral moment when he told reporters, 'She makes me a better man.' Our hearts? Melted."

“Oh, for fuck sake. I knew it.”

She stormed into Nelson Road, phone in hand. “Jamie fucking Tartt!”

Jamie, who had been laughing with Dani, turned at the sound of her voice. “Mornin’, love.”

She marched up to him and shoved her phone in his face. “Do you know how many people think we’re actually together?”

He barely glanced at the screen before shrugging. “Yeah. Bit mad, innit?”

“Mad? Mad?” She scrolled further. “People are already speculating about a wedding! I just got an email from Vogue asking if we’d do a couples photoshoot and a fucking interview!”

Jamie grinned. “Vogue, yeah? That’s kinda sick. Let’s do it. I can tell ‘em about how you snore when you fall asleep on the couch.”

“I do not snore.” She gaped at him. “Jamie. This is not funny.”

“Babe, you do,” he said, voice dripping with amusement, "And it’s a little funny.”

She groaned. “I hate you.”

“Nah,” he said, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “You love me, remember? You make me a better man.”

“You fucking prick. You even liked a post that said, ‘Jamie Tartt and his girlfriend are the it couple of the season’!”

Jamie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well, yeah. ‘Cause we are.”

Her jaw dropped. “We are not.”

Jamie tilted his head, a playful glint in his eye. “You sure about that, love?”

She refused to answer.

Jamie must’ve noticed her hesitation because he leaned in, dropping his voice. “Just say the word, and I’ll post a proper ‘soft launch’ photo of us on Instagram.”

She shoved him away.

But later, when she caught him scrolling through a fan edit of them kissing with that smug little smile, she had the sinking suspicion that Jamie had no intention of letting this fake relationship die anytime soon.

And worse?

She wasn’t sure she wanted him to. She had to clear the air, though...And the PR of all of it was going to be a fucking disaster.

[florencebirdsong]

More Than Duty

Agatha Harkness x Reader

Agatha All Along Week 2024 - Day 6

summary: you were given leave to choose your own bride until Agatha Harkness came along. Charmed and lured in by her promises of power, your King Father declared you were to be wed. Now, it's your wedding night and certain duties must be upheld.

Set in a world where one can get pregnant from a cum strap

tags: arranged marriage au, virgin reader, strap-on, breeding kink, fingering (r receiving), marking, pet names - princess & good girl, strap referred to as cock once, doggy style 

authors note: you're getting the largely unedited version for a little because if I have to read this one more time I'm going to despise it forever

Also don’t question the time I’m posting this I once again thought I only needed to write 100-200 more but it was actually OVER A THOUSAND. WHY DO I KEEP DOING THIS. Ahem. Anyway, here’s day six which is almost three times as long as the others.

Reader is referred to as princess multiple times, mentioned royal wedding dress, specified looking for a bride, described as wearing a plain night shift.

ao3 | masterlist

“I know this isn’t exactly what you had in mind, dear. But there’s no reason not to enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Your hands twist nervously in your simple shift. Your wedding dress had been elaborate. It needed more than one person to get you out of it. Which is not ideal for a wedding night.

You hadn’t had this in mind, exactly. You’d thought you had convinced your father to let you choose your own bride, as long as she met a few of his somewhat reasonable specifications. But then Lady Agatha Harkness had walked into his court. You don’t know whether it was her disarming charm, the power she holds, the boon to the kingdom the exchange would have or his own personal gain but he decided Lady Harkness would be the perfect match for you. He also decided you needed to get married the moment the decision was made. 

Thankfully, a royal wedding took months to prepare and you would have some time to get to know your future bride. Not that you had spent much time with her in the end. Only a few dinners here and there. She’s a busy woman, running her own region which she needed to organise another taking over. She can’t look after it and a whole kingdom, after all. Something she insisted despite your father’s good health. She also spent a lot of time with the court. Learning what her new duties will be and charming her way into their good graces.

It would be unnerving if you weren’t so relieved. One of the suitors your father had originally brought forward had no interest in what her royal duties would have been as Queen. Running a kingdom on your own would have been nothing short of hell.

So, small mercies. 

“Darling,” she says and you try not to startle.

She’s so much closer than before. She cautiously raises a hand to cup your cheek, like you’re a scared animal. You lean into it, eager to soak up any affection she gives you, and her thumb gently brushes over your skin.

“I know you’re nervous but we both have royal duties to attend to.”

You swallow harshly and look down. This is more than duty for you. You’re ashamed to admit you’ve been looking forward to this night. To having Agatha’s sole attention on you. You’ve dreamed about what could happen, what she’ll be like. 

You’ve only been told the very basics. That your wife will enter you with a specially designed device. That it may hurt for a moment but you will feel ‘a pleasure-like feeling’ afterwards. No one would explain exactly what that means. It makes you both more nervous and more excited. The only thing you know about the device is its shape and its intended use. Continuing the royal line.

“I know. It’s just,” you hesitate although Agatha has likely guessed already, “I’ve never done this before.”

“I’m aware,” she says and you flick your eyes up in time to see something flash in her eyes. “I promise to be gentle,” she says softly, a voice you haven’t heard from her before. You gently grasp the wrist of the hand cupping your cheek and nuzzle the hand. “The royal line must continue and it must be of your blood.”

You nod and leave the safety of her caress to cautiously lean closer. She waits for you to come to her and she waits for the first brush of your lips to move. She presses closer and her hands grab your waist and pull you against her. You make a surprised sound and cling to her shoulders for balance. Which you immediately lose as she begins to walk you backwards. The back of your knees hit the bed and she guides you to lay down in the middle of it. It’s hard to notice any of it with the feel of her lips against yours. The way her hands slide along your exposed skin as she leads you doesn’t help. She can’t keep her lips on you the entire time but you don’t mind so much until she pulls away properly. You chase her lips but she stops you with a hand dangerously low on your chest. 

Whatever look you’re giving her makes her eyes darken. One hand travels to the hem of your shift. You grab her wrist without thinking, anxiety rearing its head again. No one has seen you naked like this before. With the intention to- to touch. To feel.

“Let me see you,” she says, her voice firm.

You slowly relax your grip. This is your wife and someone who has shown how eager she is to see you undressed. She isn’t going to laugh or mock you. Your fingers slip from her wrist and she pulls your shift the rest of the way off.

It feels exposing in a way you haven’t felt before. You try to cover yourself instinctively but her hands grab your wrists and holds them down as she has her fill. You squirm but she doesn’t release you. Instead, she leans down and begins to suck deep, purple marks along the curve of your breast. It feels better than you were expecting it to (how can something feel so good when it isn’t down there?) but it doesn’t come close to the feeling of her lips wrapping around the stiff peak of your nipple. You gasp and arch into her. She flicks her tongue and your hand tangles in the thick curls of her hair. She does it again and a small whimper escapes you. You can feel her smile. She begins to trail kisses again and you think she’s going to repeat the same delicious thing until you realise she’s heading down instead of across.

“Wait,” you say, moving your hand to land on her shoulder. She lazily raises her head to look at you.

“Yes, princess?” she says in a tone you don’t have a name for.

It makes something spark between your legs and you determinedly ignore it to be able to speak.

“I want to see you too,” you try to speak as confidently as she did but there’s the tiniest waver to your voice.

She quirks an eyebrow before sitting up, taking her warmth with her. She pulls her own shift off and you think you understand her reaction. She’s beautiful. Your eyes devour every detail from her dark eyes to her pebbled nipples to-

Oh. You stare at it with wide eyes. It had looked so much smaller on the page. 

“Don’t worry, dear. Your body knows what to do.”

She leans back over you and the thing hanging between her thighs nudges your most sensitive spot. She muffles your whimper with a kiss. You cling to her. Excitement and anxiety swirling into a heady mix as she slowly, slowly begins to push inside of you.

“A-Agatha,” you say, your voice high and needy.

Agatha shushes you quietly and continues to slowly push inside of you. Your legs open wider instinctively. It doesn’t help with the stretching feeling. Nor the building tingling sensation. She continues to steadily push inside of you and the slight pain is overshadowed by the feel of her. Her hands tight on your hips, breath hot against your neck, her hips slowly getting closer and closer to yours.

“That’s it. Take it.”

You spread your legs wider, trying to do what she says. You don’t know why she felt the need to say it. You feel so full you can’t do anything but take it.

“Agatha,” you gasp as she bottoms out, nails digging in as you try to ground yourself.

She groans again and her next thrust is harsher than her last one. It forces a whining moan from you as it hits something inside of you that feels so good.

“Knew I had to have this sweet cunt the moment I saw you,” she grunts and settles into a slower, rougher pace. You can’t help the little noise you make every time she bottoms out. “When I found out about this little ritual of yours, I knew I had to fill this sweet cunt.”

Every word builds an unfamiliar fire inside of you. You don’t know what’s happening to you, what she’s doing to you,  but you can feel how big it’s going to be big. The feeling of your pleasure growing as it builds drowns out any worry you may have had. 

You wrap your legs around her waist and pull her tight against you, moaning at how full you feel. It forces Agatha to still.

“Princess,” she says warningly but you don’t care because that thread snaps inside of you.

Pure, unadulterated pleasure flows through you and you’re aware of nothing else.

You come back down to Agatha’s face hovering over yours, eyes devouring your every twitch.

“I- what?” you say, completely at a loss for words.

“You just came dear. And I just came in you,” the look on her face mirrors one of a cat that got the cream.

“You…” you stare up at her with wide eyes as you pulse at those words. “But you didn’t…?” you ask after a moment.

“No,” she confirms and your face drops. Her hand cups your cheek and you lean into the touch. “It’s the best time to do it to get the results we want.”

“R-Right,” you stutter and look away, somehow embarrassed by that while she’s still inside of you.

“But you can make it up to me,” she says and you nod eagerly, missing the darker edge to her pleased smile. She pulls out and you whimper at the sudden empty feeling. Her hands grip your hips again and you squeak as she manhandles you onto your stomach and then onto your knees. You automatically put your hands under you but a hand on the back of your head pushes your front back down. A pillow finds it way under your hips. This is a position you weren’t taught about.

Agatha’s hands run down your sides, over your hips, down your ass and stop at your thighs. Her thumbs gently hook around your inner lips and you whimper quietly at the feeling, especially since it feels like you’re dripping.

“You look so good full of my cum,” she says in a rough voice.

You feel that clenching feeling again and she chuckles lowly. Fingers brush your sensitive entrance and your hips jerk in surprise before needily pressing back against them. They start low and move up before gently pushing into you. Embarrassment flares through you when you realise that dripping feeling wasn’t just a feeling. She doesn’t comment though. Instead, she languidly pumps her fingers in and out of you, seeming content to enjoy the way you squeeze around her.

“Too bad I can’t feel this when filling you,” she sighs. You want to protest, you feel plenty full right now, but you know what she means. The idea of her pushing her strap back into you has you pressing back on her fingers again. “Probably a good thing. I’d never let you leave this bed.”

You whimper and try to open you legs wider, begging her to understand what you need. She must because she removes her fingers and a moment later the tip of her strap is dragging teasingly through your folds. You arch more, trying to get her inside of you again and unconsciously presenting for her. She groans and fills you with one thrust. She starts slow but hard, making you feel every inch of her. It doesn’t take you long to become a moaning mess again. Sinking into a hazy place you have’t been before. Filled with Agatha grunting above you, her cock filling you, her nails digging into your delicate skin. It’s all you could want.

Agatha gets louder, and slightly higher, and you realise the same thing that happened to you is happening to her. She’s coming. And you don’t get to watch her. 

A strange warmth fills you, one you didn’t notice last time. Agatha leans her forehead against the back of your neck, breathing heavy. 

“Good girl,” she says in such a deep voice that your toes curl.

You stay there for a long moment. Agatha buried deep inside of you, catching her breath as you try to even your own, fire still licking up your insides. It’s an awful sort of tease when she pulls out.

She removes the pillow and pushes you onto your side. Instead of getting up like you’re expecting, she curls around your back. Her fingers trail a light path down from your hip and your muscles jump at the feeling. They stop just above the sensitive button she’s so far neglected.

“Agatha? What’re you- “ you cut yourself off with a gasp as her finger begins to gently circle your clit.

“We have to make sure it sticks, don’t we?” she says.

You were so close to the edge before that it only takes a few firm circles and a swipe to fall over it again. It’s a lot gentler this time but it still has your body locking up in pleasure. Agatha leisurely strokes you through your high, her nose lightly nuzzling the back of your neck.

Her hand moves back to your hip and you bask in the warm afterglow.

Some time later, when both of your breathing has calmed and you’ve slipped into that soft space between awake and sleep, you decide that your mouth is dry enough to drag yourself out of bed for a drink. You don’t get far.

Agatha grabs you arm and rolls you onto your back. You give her a confused look as she climbs back on top of you.

“You are not leaving this bed until there’s no possible way I haven’t put a baby in you.”

Day 7: Royalty AU

[multific]

Simply Perfect

Dimitri Kravinoff x Reader

Summary: Your first Christmas with him.

The fire crackles softly, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

Outside, it was a rainy day in London, but inside, it was just the two of you, wrapped in the spell of Christmas.

The tree twinkles with the lights you placed on it that morning, and the smell of pine and cinnamon fills the air.

Dimitri sits next to you on the couch, his hand resting lightly on your knee as you look at him with a smile.

He looks so handsome in this light.

Despite the luxury of the room, there’s something wonderfully simple about tonight, just the two of you, sharing this special moment.

He reaches under the tree, pulling out a velvet box.

“I hope you like it,” Dimitri says, his voice low and smooth, carrying a hint of suspense.

Your heart skips a beat as you take the small box from him.

He’s always thoughtful, but there’s something about his sincerity tonight that makes your chest tighten in a good way.

You open the box, and your breathing stops for a moment.

Inside is a necklace, a beautiful silver necklace with a pendant which has intricate design that gleams like starlight.

It’s the one you’ve admired for months, the one you thought was out of reach.

It was simply too expensive and too beautiful for you.

You’ve talked about it before, but you never expected him to buy it for you.

“Dimitri… it’s perfect,” you whisper, your fingers brushing over the delicate diamonds.

You meet his gaze, his eyes dark and warm with affection. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he looks at you tells you everything.

“I'm glad you like it,” he says, his voice a soft promise.

You get the necklace from the box and drape it around your neck.

Immediately, he stands up, reaches behind you, and fastens the clasp with fast fingers.

His fingers brush your skin, and for a moment, you feel just how cold they are.

He must have been nervous to give you this beautiful gift.

"I feel spoiled." you laugh a little.

"You should be spoiled, you deserve it, My Love."

You reach for the gift you’ve been hiding in the pillow behind you.

It’s not nearly as extravagant, but it’s from the heart.

You spent months trying to find the best gift.

“I’ve got something for you, too,” you say, your voice a little shaky as you hand him the box.

He looks at you, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to, and it is only fair because you also bought me something,” you reply, your heart beating faster, now you understand why his fingers were cold.

Dimitri unwraps the gift slowly.

When he finally opens it, inside is a leather-bound journal. You watch as he makes a confused face.

Then he decided to open it.

The first page: For every moment we’ve shared, and every one we still have to come.

His expression softens, the stoic façade he often wears slipping just a little. His eyes flicker to you, searching your face but you just smile and motion for him.

“It’s… it’s beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with meaning. “You know, I’ve never been someone who writes down my thoughts, but… maybe I’ll start.”

As he flicks through the pages he notices that you have also written some things in there.

It makes him smile. You are so thoughtful.

You reach for his hand, squeezing it gently.

“I thought it would be nice. To have something for only you. Write your thoughts down since it has been a tough year for you. I have put some of mine in there. Some might be... dirty.”

His eyes lit up as he quickly began his search through the pages.

You only laugh.

He closes it, his thumb brushing over the cover.

“I’ll treasure it.”

For a long while, neither of you speaks. You simply sit there, in the quiet warmth of your home, the sound of the fire crackling in the background and the soft hum of Christmas music playing from the speakers.

"This is the best Christmas you know?" he speaks. "I never really liked Christmas... with my father... but you changed my mind."

"I'm glad I was able to help you. And I really do love the necklace."

He leans in and you kiss him.

It is a slow and soft kiss.

The world outside may be cold, but here, in this perfect, intimate space, you have everything you need and want.

You rest your head against his shoulder, the necklace he gave you gleaming softly in the firelight, and Dimitri pulls you closer, his embrace wrapping you in both warmth and affection.

He reaches for the remote and turns the TV to search for your favourite Christmas movie.

It was simply perfect.

A/N: Above photo is not mine! It's from Pinterest!

Taglist: 

@castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou

@mandoloriancookie @deliciousfestsalad @lilliumrorum @asgards-princess-of-mischief 

@fallout-girl219 @dracaryxzs @snowtargaryen @mel-vaz

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE, TO STEAL OR TO REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[haikyu-mp4]

Hello!! I saw your event and wanted to make a request. Asahi Azumane for I should have kissed you.

Thank you so much if you write it <3

Now playing... I should have kissed you

word count; 938 – f!reader, for my 1D x Haikyu event

While in university, you didn’t often think of your time in high school. You had made new friends and joined new clubs, yet those memories from the volleyball club especially came back to you every so often. You’d think of girls’ nights with Kiyoko and Yachi, scoldings from Daichi after setting up a prank with Suga, pep talks with Asahi…

Oh, Asahi…

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and your busy life has in no way diminished your crush on that guy. Fair enough, you didn’t think of him as often as before, but when you did, it came with those same butterflies you had grown so accustomed to. Most of all, you thought about that last night before graduation…

As you finished your schoolwork for the day, you slumped your shoulders and rubbed your eyes tiredly. Not even the many cups of coffee you drank during the past few hours could keep you going. Studying at cafés could be such a double-edged sword.

“Y/n?”

You didn’t remove your hands from your face at first, but they stopped rubbing and simply covered you from seeing the face that belonged to the voice you knew so well. The one you had spent all day thinking about.

“Asahi,” you answered softly, finally removing your hands, only to start running one through your hair and wondering if you looked as tired as you felt. “It’s been so long.”

The sweet man walked over, and you let yourself have a moment to look him over. To no one’s surprise, he looked good. Healthy and a bit more sure of himself, you thought. “It has. I was just thinking about you.”

Your eyes widened and Asahi immediately started stuttering, trying to explain that he didn’t mean it in a weird way, when you chuckled softly and got up from your seat. “I was just thinking of you, too.” The confession made his unsureness melt, but the blush on his cheeks stayed put. You glanced at all the empty coffee cups on the little table and back to him. “I’ve had way too many cups today, think you could find the time for a little walk?”

He did find the time. Gladly, in fact. That last night before graduation had haunted him for so long, making him curse himself every time he thought about it and how he should have kissed you.

It was the perfect moment, as you and him found some privacy from the rest of the third years at the party and finally got to tell each other that every moment you spent together for the last three years had been some of the most precious. You had both been a bit tipsy, but only to the point where it gave you that little extra courage. And yet, he hadn’t done it. He didn’t ask you out and he didn’t get to kiss you.

Then everything suddenly went so fast, in the blink of an eye you were off on different paths as he went into practice for clothing design and sowing, while you went off to university to pursue the job of your dreams. You had barely had the time to talk at all and now-

Now you’re right here. Same gorgeous smile framed by the most kissable lips, laughing at your own joke while trying to catch your breath to keep telling him about your last adventure. It felt like destiny was giving him a second chance.

By the time the sun kissed the treetops, you had found a little bench in the park, sitting close to each other as a slight chill fell over you in the shadow of the trees. “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked you, hands tucked in the pockets of his stylish jacket.

You looked to the side at him with a small smile. “No, I’m not. Are you?” you asked back, watching as he finally met your eyes for the first time since you sat down. There was the bit more sure of himself you had noticed earlier.

“The internship has been crazy. So rewarding but a lot of work,” he started, sighing and removing his hands from his pockets to rest on his thighs and, just like he used to in high school, calming himself by drawing patterns on his palm. You nodded to show you were listening, but your eyes followed his drawings. “I’ve liked this one girl ever since high school, but I was too much of a wimp to do anything about it.”

Your heart was beating in your ears when he once again moved his hand, slowly intertwining it with yours as if you would run away at the gesture. But you stayed, trying to contain the hope flooding your veins. “Me too. A guy, I mean. A friend of mine.”

Asahi drew in a huge breath, letting it out with a short chuckle. He didn’t want to assume it was him, but it would be so nice if it was. “Do you have dinner plans?”

“I do now.”

After he followed you home that evening, the air reminded him of that night. The night when he let you walk away, and he was not about to repeat that mistake. He faced you as you stood in front of the door to your dorm, rested a hand on your upper arm and slowly moved it upwards until he caressed your jaw. You leaned a bit closer, eyes moving between his lips and his eyes until he finally pressed his to yours. Rumours have it you both entered your dorm that night.

Better late than never, some say.

masterlist

[sylusonychinus]

Episode 11 – A Toast to the Unspoken

Series Masterlist Next Episode

Night had settled over the hospital, casting long shadows across the quiet hallways. The usual chaos had died down, leaving only the hum of distant machines and the soft murmur of the overnight staff. Reader had spent the entire day finalizing the convention booth, making sure every detail was perfect.

And now, standing outside Zayne’s office with the finished banner in her hands, she felt a strange mix of nerves and anticipation.

She knocked lightly before stepping in.

Zayne looked up from his desk, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise before his gaze dropped to the rolled-up banner in her hands.

"You finally figured it out," he mused.

Reader exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. "Yeah. Want to see?"

He gestured for her to come closer, and she carefully unrolled the banner, spreading it across his desk.

The bold heading stood out against the clean design:

"Where Life is Fought For, and Hope Never Fades."

Zayne’s eyes traced the words slowly, his expression unreadable. Reader suddenly felt self-conscious, but before she could say anything, he spoke.

"It’s perfect," he said simply.

Relief washed over her, warmth spreading in her chest.

"You did a good job," Zayne continued, fingers grazing over the edge of the banner. "I’ll make sure all the arrangements are in place for the convention."

Reader let out a small, tired laugh. "Good. Because I think I’ve lost a few years of my life trying to get this right."

Zayne smirked. "Then maybe you deserve a drink."

She blinked. "A drink?"

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms lazily. "I got a new bottle of whisky at home."

Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch.

She knew what whisky he was talking about.

His favorite brandy—the one he had mentioned before, saying he was saving it for a special occasion.

A strange feeling curled in her chest.

She tilted her head. "What’s the occasion?"

Zayne glanced at the banner again, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "This."

Reader’s lips parted slightly.

This?

The booth? The heading she had spent hours agonizing over?

Of all the things he could have chosen as a "special occasion," he chose this?

Something about that made her chest ache.

She should say no. Shouldn’t go.

But she found herself nodding anyway.

"Alright," she said softly. "Let’s go."

—

Zayne’s apartment was exactly as she remembered it—sleek, modern, effortlessly expensive. But unlike the last time she was here, there was no haze of alcohol dulling her senses.

This time, she was completely sober.

And it made everything feel sharper.

The way his cologne lingered in the air. The way the soft glow of the ambient lights cast shadows across his sharp features. The way her heartbeat picked up as he loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said, already heading toward his liquor cabinet. "I’ll get the drinks."

Reader, needing something to do, made her way to the kitchen.

"I’ll make some snacks," she called. "Something to go with the whisky."

Zayne’s voice carried from the other room, amused. "You’re gonna spoil me."

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

Opening the cabinets, she found what she needed—some fruit, a few crackers, and a box of macarons she had picked up earlier.

She was carefully arranging them on a plate when she felt movement behind her.

Then—

A hand stole a macaron right off the tray.

She whirled around.

"Zayne!"

He was already biting into it, looking completely unrepentant. "What?"

"That was for both of us!"

He smirked, chewing slowly, as if savoring it even more just to annoy her. "Tasted great. Good choice."

She swatted at him, but he dodged easily, reaching for another one.

"Zayne, I swear—"

Too late. The second macaron disappeared into his mouth before she could snatch it back.

"Unbelievable," she muttered.

"Lighten up," he teased, grabbing the bottle and two glasses. "C’mon, let’s drink."

—

The living room was quiet except for the soft clink of glass against glass as Zayne poured the whisky.

Reader took a sip, letting the warmth spread through her chest, easing the tension in her muscles.

Zayne leaned back against the couch, watching her.

"So," he drawled, "where’d you get the inspiration?"

She hesitated.

Because she knew where it had come from.

Or rather—who.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass. "I just… thought about what the hospital really means. What it stands for."

Zayne hummed, waiting.

Reader exhaled.

"And I thought about you," she admitted quietly.

Zayne’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t interrupt.

"You’re the best surgeon in Akso Hospital," she said, staring at the amber liquid in her glass. "But it’s not just that. You care about your patients. You fight for them. You don’t give up, even when things seem impossible."

Zayne was silent.

Reader hesitated, then laughed softly, shaking her head. "I guess that’s what the hospital is, right? A place where people fight for life. A place where hope never fades, because there are people like you who won’t let it fade."

The words hung in the air between them.

Then—

"Reader."

She looked up.

And she realized—

He was looking at her differently.

Something in his expression had shifted.

Something unreadable.

Something that made her breath catch.

For a moment, she thought he was going to say something.

Then, suddenly, Zayne’s lips quirked.

He let out a quiet chuckle.

Reader frowned slightly. "What?"

"You found it, didn’t you?" he said, amusement lacing his voice.

"Found what?"

Zayne tilted his head. "My old heading."

Reader froze.

And then it clicked.

The words she had come up with—Where Life is Fought For, and Hope Never Fades—

She had seen something similar before.

Buried deep in the hospital archives, among old proposals and records, she had come across a draft Zayne had written years ago when he was still a resident.

A draft for a hospital campaign.

And it had said something eerily similar.

Reader felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I—no, I didn’t—"

Zayne’s smirk widened. "You totally did."

"I didn’t do it on purpose!"

He leaned closer, voice low. "Still, I like that you remembered."

Reader swallowed, her pulse suddenly too loud.

Zayne set his glass down, and before she could react, his fingers brushed against hers.

A simple touch.

But it sent a shiver through her.

And just like that—

They were kissing.

But this time—

It felt different.

It wasn’t just heated desperation.

It wasn’t just tension snapping.

It was slower. Deeper. Like neither of them wanted to let go.

And when Zayne whispered her name against her lips, pulling her onto his lap, she realized—

This wasn’t the same as before.

And maybe, just maybe—

She didn’t want it to be.

Taglist: @nezuswritingdesk @divxvx @demon-master-zero @mcdepressed290 @syluslittlecrows @seris-the-amious @beaconsxd @wcelmedarling @kaiii07 @sickleddreamer

[emberdragon34]

HaDM 14: group/collabs pt 1: Convex

I have fanart coming later.

(Spoiler alert: It's more Convex because Convex are the best)

PoV: Cub

Baking the perfect cake is a science. 

And it’s one I’ve spent an awful lot of time studying.

I’ve read hundreds of books on baking and food science, memorised what every single ingredient does, tested every single quantity of every different kind of flour, sugar, dairy, fat, raising agent, flavouring. Hours spent testing, comparing, sampling. Of course, it was the secret ingredient that caused the most chaos, and Scar’s now officially banned from talking about the time he found me in the middle of the S6 shopping district, high on vex magic.

But it was all worth it. After hundreds of cakes, and hundreds of recipes, and hundreds of hours, I found what almost every hermit has unanimously decided is ‘the perfect cake’. I put the issue to rest. The hermits were happy, Scar particularly was happy, so I decided to be happy.

From then, it didn't take long to gain a reputation as the guy who makes perfect cakes. A reputation I refuse to take alone, as the only reason they’re any good is the stunning work Scar does in designing and frosting them. For every event, party, situation, we’re the first people any Hermit calls. 

And, so, 5 years later, it’s only natural that Impulse called us for Skizz’s surprise 1-year-of-Hermitcraft party.

I stand by the furnace, counting down the final seconds, oven gloves over my hands, poised to grab the final layer of our five-storey cake of Skizz’s pyramid at  the exact right moment. The rest are in varying levels of cooling and frosted on the table behind, Scar’s busy on layer two. 

The timer beeps. With well-practiced skill, I open the furnace, grab the cake, and place it on the surface behind, simultaneously slamming shut the furnace door with one foot. A quick check with a metal rod proves it’s cooked. I switch off the oven, smiling.

‘It is taking everything in me to just sit here and frost these instead of eating the entire thing right now…’ Scar calls, deep in concentration, from across the room. I chuckle back.

‘Cheers. You’re doing an incredible job, man.’

Scar glances up at me with, also well practiced, sad puppy eyes. ‘Do you have more cake scraps for me? As payment?’

‘Coming right up!’ I say, grabbing layer 3 to start trimming down, right as the timer for cooking finishes. I slip it from the tin, measure exactly the height it should and cut slowly and carefully across the whole layer.

‘Thanks, Cub! You’re the best! Layer two is very nearly done… I’ve just got a few more bricks to go…’

‘You love to hear it!’ I stick a crumb-covered finger in my mouth, taste-testing.

And freeze.

A sour taste fills my mouth, a blandness, a dry wodge where the texture should be light and fluffy. I can't swallow. I just stand there, dangerously close to crying, running through the recipe, running through everything I did, every step, every quantity I carefully sized down for each cake. How did I get too little sugar? This much too little sugar? So much that it’s not just imperfect, it’s almost inedible.

‘Cub?’ Scar says behind, noticing my silence. ‘What’s wrong?’

I sprint across the room, snatching the recipes from the side, the one I checked, and double checked, and triple checked, scouring until I see.

Fuck.

I put the quantities of sugar on the way round. On cakes three and four. There’s not enough sugar. 

Which means cake four is fucked up too.

And if we’re missing two of the cake layers, then the whole cake is ruined.

Skizz’s surprise cake is ruined.

‘Fuck!’ I slam my hand on the table, scrunching the recipe as tears blur it. 

‘Hey- hey, Cub? What happened? Come on- sit down. It’s ok. It’s gonna be ok. Just tell me what happened.’ Scar puts a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to face him. Tears run down my cheeks. I try to take deep breaths.

‘The- the sugar- I fucked up the sugar and now the whole cake is ruined-’

‘How bad it is? Is it a little messed up, or a lot?’

‘Messed up is messed up, Scar! It’s practically inedible. When it’s supposed to be fucking perfect.’

‘Ok. Cub, we’re just gonna sit down… sit down with me, Cub.’ Scar places a hand back on my shoulder, forcing me to the ground. I lean against the counter, tears running down my face. ‘Breathe. We have time.’

‘No we don't, I didn't plan time for me to fucking remake-’

‘Breathe.’ Scar repeats. ‘We can just sit together for a bit until you’re feeling better.’

‘We don't have time.’ I try to stand again.

‘I’ll get Impulse to delay. He’ll understand…’ Scar searches through his pocket until he finds the 

Indiana Jones flask always keeps on him. He passes it to me. ‘Here. Have a little. It’ll calm you down.’

I take a sip of what I know is infused with vex magic. Scar nods, squeezing my shoulder.

‘Good. Just breathe, Cub. It’ll be alright. What happened with the sugar in the cakes?’

‘I got them the wrong way around. Between the two recipes. And somehow didn't notice that. Because I’m an idiot.’

‘No you’re not, Cub.’

‘And now we’re gonna be late to the party, or have either half a cake, or have a whole cake that’s partially inedible, and in any case it’s going to be awful, because this is Skizz’s party, and he’s been waiting to try my cake for months, and he deserves to have the best, but not half an hour late because-’

Scar hugs me, silencing the ramble into shock. My mind still buzzes, the thoughts still prevail. I start sobbing into Scar’s shoulder. He rubs my back.

‘It’s ok, Cub,’ he whispers. ‘It’s ok. I know this sucks for you, especially with your whole reputation, and after all your amoyzing cake research that, honestly, Cub, I don't know how you didn't get bored of it, or give up, or throw up more… You’ve put so, so much effort into this, you should be so proud of even having a perfect cake recipe to mess up.’

I’m still sobbing. Every second is one I can't spend correcting my mistake, every second is another apology to all the other hermits waiting for us, all because I messed up, and more than that, I couldn't cope with messing up.

Scar’s communicator buzzes, repeatedly.

‘Oh, shoot- Grian’s calling me- hang on…’ Scar slips from the hug, answering. I stand, downing the water. My head clears enough to start thinking, remaking the cake. ‘Grian? Hello- yeah, it’s coming… there was a little incident… yeah… no, Grian, I can't come over… no- no I’m staying here with Cub, I’m still helping him. Bye.’

He hangs up. I start gathering baking equipment back from where it’s piled in the sink, taking deep breaths.

‘Do you want help?’

‘I’m fine. Keep going with the frosting, it looks amazing.’

‘Oh, it’s not much. Pretty simple design… I can help you and still have time…’

‘I’d rather do it myself.’ I glance at Scar. He nods, understanding. ‘If you don't mind.’

‘Oh, of course.’ Scar steps back. ‘Just say if you need help.’

‘I’ll have to do one big batch…’ I murmur, finding sugar and butter again. ‘That’s the only way…’ 

Ten minutes later, I’ve almost finished the new lot of cake batter. The only stage left is the most important, adding the tiniest amount of vex magic, just enough to make the cake ‘perfect’ but not enough to hurt the non-Vexling hermits. Scar’s finished icing the second bottom layer of cake, and positioned it on top of the first. I hear him racing across the room to grab the next one.

And then the crash.

I snap my attention to him, sprawled on the floor, right next to the ruined remains of the top layer of cake he just dropped, plate and all, on the ground. His bare hand, desperately scooping up shards of sharp porcelain.

‘Oh my gosh- oh- oh no Cub I’m so sorry!’ Scar apologises, in tears. ‘I didn't mean to, I just tripped and then- ow- ow-’

‘Shit Scar, are you ok?!’ I drop the vex-magic bottle into the mixing bowl and sprint over. His hands are bleeding. But more than that, his arm, where it must’ve landed on the wreckage, running with red.

‘Oh Cub- your cake- I dropped it- and- and now I’ve ruined the ones you were remaking by distracting you-’

‘I don't care about that, Scar, I don't care about that… oh man, that looks nasty…’ I carefully take his hand, assessing the tiny cuts right down his arm, where he landed. ‘Come on, sit down over here, we’ll clean this other mess up after the party.

‘But-’

‘Scar. You’re my best friend. I could be baking a cake for the Vex themselves and I’d still stop if you were hurt. Now, come on, I’ve got some tweezers somewhere, and some bandages…’ I lead Scar to the table where he’s been decorating the cakes, grabbing medical equipment from my 

pockets as I go. He’s taking deep breaths, clearly ashamed.

‘I’m so sorry, Cub. I just messed everything up again…’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I start picking the tiny bits of broken plate from his arm. ‘It’ll be ok.’

‘Be honest with me, Cub. Please. If you’re annoyed about the cake, be annoyed.’

‘I’m not annoyed.’ I look him in the eyes. ‘Certainly not at you.’ I’ve just moved on to cleaning the cuts as Scar’s communicator buzzes again.

‘Not now, Grian…’ I mutter. Scar answers it anyway.

‘Scar, where the hell are you?! Skizz is right outside, Impulse is doing everything he can to keep him there, and we still don't have a cake! Don't tell me Cub’s going insane trying to make it the ‘perfect cake’.’

Red creeps up my face at Grian’s words. Scar glares towards his communiator.

‘He’s actually helping me. I tripped over and hurt myself, Cub’s being a real gentleman and treating my gaping wounds!’

‘Oh SCAR…’ I can hear Grian’s exasperation through the screen. ‘You need to stop getting hurt, buddy!’

‘It’s not his fault.’ I interject. ‘He was rushing, because I’d messed up one of the cakes. Well- two of them,’

‘Right. Should someone order something instead? Or is this fixable within the next 2 minutes?’

‘We’ll bring what we already have.’ I decide, glancing at Scar’s two beautifully decorated cakes. Scar’s eyes widen with an are you sure? look. I nod, silently replying.

Better than being late, right?

Yeah. He signals. Even though I can see in his eyes he’s unsure.

‘Good. Make it quick- oh shoot- hi Skizz! What’s going on bud?’

Grian hangs up. I finish with the last of Scar’s cuts, gently his hands in bandages.

‘What do you want to do with the cake?’

‘It’s your cake.’

‘Our cake, Scar,’ I correct. ‘You’re in charge of decorating. Except you’re not going to do anything with your hands like that, so I’ll just follow your lead. What do you want to do?’

‘Well… we can't just deliver a grey cake to Skizz,’ Scar mutters. ‘We need to do something else with it.’

‘Any ideas?’

‘One. We’ll need blue food colour. And the frosting in the piping bag with the tiny detail nozzle.’ he says. I spot the food color amongst Scar’s collection of colors.

‘How much?’ 

‘Just a couple drops.’ He says. I obey, mixing it in and getting it all into the correct piping bag. ‘And hopefully, if we have time, we can still make this the most amoyzing cake ever…’

20 minutes later.

‘Oh my gosh- this is a trap, right? You’re gonna kill me?’

We all fall silent as Skizz stumbles, blindfolded, into Impulse’s base where all of us are waiting. Me and Scar have the cake. Grian and Impulse successfully distracted Skizz with his own base for long enough to get Scar’s plan for the cake complete. We now wait, near the middle of the room. My heart races. I stare down at the far less impressive two layers of cake we’ve got, covered in squiggles of blue frosting.

Impulse tells Skizz to stop, pulls off his blindfold and-

‘HAPPY 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY SKIZZ!’ everyone shouts. Except Scar, who very confidently says ‘Happy Birthday!’ instead.

‘I knew it!’ Skizz bursts out. ‘I knew you were planning something, Impulse!’

‘You did?!’

‘It was obvious, man! You were acting so shifty all week- this is amazing. Thank you. Wait- oh my gosh- I got my own Rubba-dub Cub cake?!’ Skizz notices the cake, running over.

‘No, you got yourself a Sir Scar AND Rubba-dub Cub cake.’ I correct, putting my free arm around Scar’s back. He smiles. ‘Happy one year of Hermitcraft, Skizz.’

We hold the cake closer. I look down at the blue icing messages of every single hermit on the cake. Only two layers, definitely not as impressive as I was hoping for. I await disappointment that never comes.

‘What- dude- this is incredible! Is that everyone’s name?! Rubbadub-Cub… you’ve outdone yourself.’

‘All Scar’s idea. It was going to be your base, but uh-’

‘Hey, accidents happen. This is Hermitcraft, man! And it’s going to taste amazing anyway- oh man, I’ve heard so much about this cake, Cub…’ Zedaph passes Skizz a knife. He cuts a generous slice of cake for himself, then every other hermit. We all wait for him to try, for his reaction… Skizz takes a huge bite of cake. He chews experimentally, giving us a billion hilarious expressions to go along with it, before swallowing. He opens his eyes.

‘Are you actually kidding me right now?’ I give a nervous chuckle. ‘Cub. Rubbadub Cub. Cubfan135. How are you amazing at absolutely everything?! This is incredible! How, man, just HOW?’

‘Baking cakes is a science, Skizz,’ Scar explains. ‘And if Cub here is one thing, it’s a scientist. And a wonderful, magic, magic man.’

‘It took a lot of attempts.’ I say.

‘...And wanderings of the shopping district, high on vex magic.’

‘You’re banned from telling that story, Scar! Remember?’

‘You didn't give me my chest of diamond blocks as bribe money, remember?’ Scar shoots back. We both laugh. Behind, Joel mutters something.

‘Honestly, I prefer Lizzie’s cake.’

Scar opens his mouth to protest. I just shrug.

‘Honestly?’ I say, turning to face him, thinking through all the hours of stress and trouble. ‘I think I do too.’

The end!

[sparklycometstuff]

This is the psychotic brainchild of me and a uni mate so please don’t take it too seriously. Also I don’t know very much about hairdressing (all the knowledge I have is based on my personal experience as someone with colored hair) so please forgive any glaring mistakes. This is also a really long post so 🤷‍♀️

Buuut we were discussing the trains’ “hair” 😅 (I know they are just wigs but I need this out of my brain) and we decided that once a month they have a designated “hair day” because literally all of them have colored/bleached hair that would require consistent upkeep.

I should also probably say this is based on the 2024 production and the wigs for that show because it’s the one I’m most familiar with. I’m also working with the principal casts wigs cause I know they change if swings are involved. (Please don’t ask me how long I spent looking at photos of the components trying to discern if they have streaks in their hair)

It always takes please in someone’s front yard so people can come by whenever their available and so that whoever’s shed is hosting doesn’t get a rainbow of hair dye trodden through their house. The host shed rotates for fairness. They have a proper portable shampoo basin but otherwise it’s just some deck chairs, the garden hose and whatever shampoos, conditioners and dyes the trains themselves supply.

Momma is there all day as supervisor because she definitely lived through the wack hair faze of the 80s and without her nothing would get done. The day would consist of insults and bleach tragedies. I feel like she would also be around to help those trains with tighter curls/coily hair.

Coaches: usually get theirs done relatively early in the morning since it gets chaotic later on. Always have a camera on hand to document the day because it gets sillier the more the day drags on and that is perfect blackmail material. Hair day gossip is the best gossip.

Pearl: her hair is naturally purple so she does multiple low volume bleachs and then toner to get her hair the right shade so getting started as soon as possible is key. She’s growing out her hair so in terms of cutting it, it’s just the split ends off the bottom.

Dinah: just tends to refresh the blue in her hair, which she doesn’t have much of but making pink hair blue is a MISSION. By the time hair day comes around, she usually needs to touch up her bangs as well and every few months if it starts to get to long, she’ll cut it back to her desired length.

Belle: in true sleepy girl fashion has a minimal and low maintenance routine. Just the split ends off the bottom and maybe some magenta hair tinsel if she’s feeling fancy. (I swear I’ve seen this somewhere but I cannot figure out where, I also might just be delusional)

Tassita: because of his hair style has a very specific routine. He takes his cut very seriously and will not let anyone else do it. Making his blue hair orange isn’t necessarily hard but there has to be special care taken to ensure that the orange bits are made orange and his natural blue stays blue.

Engines: they usually come in around lunch time in between their shifts. The amount of gel they put in their hair to make their silly shark fins means that clean hair is the first thing they focus on when it’s their turn. They have worked out a circuit so that everyone gets the same thing done. Like one will wash, one will cut, one will color, one will remove color/wash #2 and one will dry. It’s like a rotating chores chart, down to a science.

Silver Bullet: is vaguely impatient and spends most of their time tapping their skate obnoxiously. Is subsequently usually on the dry stage to keep them relatively occupied. Really enjoys the post cut and wash hair and is a little sad the next day when the gel comes out.

Orange Flash: steals Tassita’s orange dye when they’re out of their own. This has lead to them leaving with the wrong colour hair on more than one occasion cause Tassita switched the dye in the bottle in an effort to get them to stop. Doesn’t like the shampoo bowl cause it always kinks their neck but suffers though the wash anyway.

Golden Eagle: will fall asleep in the chair but only after the color is in because he is pedantic about it being the right shade. Apart from the top which has to be left reasonably long for the fin, he likes the rest of his head to be a short as possible. Claims it’s for aerodynamics.

Blue Lightning: is part of the reason why hair day is not in anyone’s shed anymore because their dye gets everywhere and it stains everything. They are the chattiest and will complain about anything and everything. The water is too cold, the hair dryer is too cool, Green Arrow keeps shaking their head and getting green water all over them etc.

Green Arrow: speaking of, GA is usually in charge of grabbing the trains food between shifts so they all behave. As such, is usually last to get their hair done but they get first pick of whatever lunch is so they are fine with it. Shakes like a dog after their last wash is done just to piss off BL.

Greaseball: has to be literally dragged by her ear from the tracks by Dinah. Is like a cat in my brain and hates having her hair wet. But she has committed to having her hair matching her fit so she sucks it up, that and her stupid mullet needs maintenance cause trying to make black hair yellow is just as much a mission as making pink hair blue. It’s also good bonding experience for her and Dinah, who is the only person she trusts to do her hair without purposefully messing it up (GE cut the mullet too short once and he didn’t race that year). She just likes that she gets to spend uninterrupted semi intimate time together.

Freight: if you thought the engines were bad the freight are worse. They work long hours and by the time they get home their hair is the last thing they want to worry about. They appear sporadically throughout the day unless they are tracked down by engines during work hours and reminded that hair day is mandatory. (I don’t mean for the freight to come across as gross, it’s just that, in my brain at least they are fuel trucks therefore they are energy, and sitting still especially for a long periods of time, like cutting and especially coloring hair, I don’t think would gel with them. They are busy bees)

Slick: thoroughly enjoys the head massage that comes with momma washing her hair. There are so many colors in the water that washes away thanks to all the oil and her yellow becomes like 3 shades lighter after it’s clean. High vis looking ass. Will only show up if it’s quiet. You’ll never see her there when the engines or electrics are there. Will sometimes help Momma wash Mommas hair if she’s the last one done. Has been know to start hair dye fights if the other freight are present and is the other part the reason hair day now happens in the yard.

Porter: dusty dusty man. Similar to Slick in the sense that the water is actually filthy and his hair goes from black to brown when it’s clean. The red goes from maroon to rose red. Loves hair products that smell nice, like will jump sporadically between products depending on what scent he’s feeling. Loves helping people with the hair washing process if they’re feeling antsy. Also very much enjoys the feeling of clean hair. Is a hairspray kinda guy though, as opposed to the engines who are gel all the way. There’s no other way for his hair to be that tall.

Lumber: will bring a speaker with him when it’s his turn although the music will vary wildly depending on who has control of the playlist. Is the chillest of the freight and has his routine down to a science. Him and Rusty will take turns doing each other’s hair. Cannot be relied upon to purchase the same shade of blue hair dye every time. Spends ages brushing saw dust and splinters out of his hair.

Hydra: spends the least amount of time initially cleaning his hair although his siblings have been known the chuck oil/sawdust/coal dust at him when he brags to much about it. Hogs the hair dryer. Is the reason Slick starts hair dye fights. Also hogs the hair straightener. Does not like doing hair day alone and will actively seek out a companion. Has to use a highly moisturizing conditioner so the constant cold of his tank doesn’t dry his hair out. Does the neatest dye job and will jump at the chance to help his siblings if they ask.

Steamers: Momma knows things about train hair that she shouldn’t and it never ceases to amaze Rusty. He hopes to one day have that kind of knowledge. Are unfortunately usually relegated to supervisors since behaving respectfully aroid each other seems to be a trait the entirety of Troubadour lacks. The most luscious locks you have ever seen. The glorious hair runs in the family.

Momma: uses products that the rest of the yard are sure were discontinued decades ago but seems to always have more than enough on hand. Wields hair tools like a knight. She will bless thee with beautiful locks. Is usually the last person of the day to do her hair but enjoys knowing everyone is clean for another month. Love letting her kids do her hair even tho they are “adults”. She just love them so much. It’s how her and Slick bond. Her favorite part of the day is watching the sunset while she lets the conditioner sit.

Rusty: has the tightest curls of any train and thus spends the most amount of time detangling and it always ends with him needing some WD40 on his elbow joints afterward. Regularly steals Mommas hair brushes. Use’s an entire bottle of conditioner to himself. Used only the tiniest bit of bleach and toner for the parts of his hair that are lighter. Momma has threatened to scrap him if he does anymore. Depending on who he’s staying with he will do his hair either with the freight or the coaches.

Electrics: the highest of high maintenance. They refuse to use the communal space that gets setup but will still have their hair day on the same day as the rest of the yard and will set up outside their shed so the option for interaction is there. There are so many sneaky Polaroids in the coaches shed of most of the components wandering around with shower caps on while they let their hair develop. None of them are naturally that blonde. Electra does all the components hair and then they work together to do theirs. Have thus far refused to host hair day but still participate in their own way.

Killawatt: makes sure that his hair is done indoors before they set up outside where he can keep an eye on everyone. He doesn’t have any grey streaks in his hair so he usually just needs his roots touched up. Loves the feeling of Electra’s hands going through his hair. When they move outside he is constantly either walking the perimeter or standing with Electra while they do another components hair. Is the only component the coaches don’t have a Polaroid of and it has become a mission of theirs to catch him with a shower cap on.

Volt: low-key a bit of an iPad kid while his hair is being done. Electra gives him a tablet to keep him occupied otherwise he would legit just sit there and stare at people, which freaks everyone out. It helps direct the restless energy. Always has new inspo pics but literally doesn’t care what Electra does to his hair - like as long as they all fit together he could not care less. Is in charge of making sure they are stocked up on all their hair day stuff. Has a favourite comb.

Joule: much to Electra’s annoyance, she will not sit still. Is the last component to get their hair done so she has the day to burn off some energy. Is the only component who will actually strike up a conversation with anyone who comes by their shed. Has everyone’s bleach and toner volumes memorized. Is the reason the coaches are on the look out for components in shower caps. Most frequently has the grey pattern in her chair changed (with Electra’s blessing)

Wrench: the model child of the group. Literally gets the same cut and color every time. The only thing she is pedantic about is her hair length because she needs to make sure it’s short enough that it doesn’t fall in her eyes while she’s working. Any new products need to go through her so she can check ingredients. Joule tried to use her trauma shears for haircuts once and she blew a fuse.

Electra: literally enrolled them all in a hairdressing course so they could all learn how to do hair properly. Has mastered the arts of speed and precision. No one gets a faster haircut than the components. Will literally whip out a ruler if they have to make sure the lines are straight. The shampoo is their favorite part of the process when they are getting their hair done. Loves products that smell good. Has and will refuse to use a product if it doesn’t, not matter how much Wrench insists it’s good for their hair. Strikes me as having thick hair that would be L’orel commercial worthy if they grew it out. Has the world’s worst helmet hair, especially during racing season, and thus always has a comb and anti-frizz dry shampoo on hand. Trusts the components implicitly to do their hair to their standard. Loves the pampering.

AAAND I THINK THATS EVERYONE. If I’ve missed anyone lemme know I’ll put the brain gremlins back to work. Please keep in mind that I’m Aussie and thus have not seen the show (everything I know come from Google, soundtracks and interacting with the fandom) so if anything is glaringly out of character I will happily take corrections.

If you have any questions, queries or concerns please yap at me. My DMs are open and I would love some more friends who also love singing trains on roller-skates.

If you see any grammar/spelling mistakes no you didn’t and if you’ve read this far, you have actually made my day and thank you for indulging this ridiculousness 😁

[kaontic]

*Long post*

And tho she be but little (even compared to a normal shark for reference lol), she is fierce. 💅

She has never done anythin’ wrong, ever, in her existence.

We know this. And we love her.

*Gives Shanix*

(Why is Shanix capitalized it’s a currency—)

Somethin’ tells me that some writer 40 years ago had it out for aquatic animals.

Thus, we got squid colonizers (in which one is referrin’ to the Cybertronian they abducted as their “brother”? And not anythin’ more demeanin’? Huh...Interesting…) and their piranha-anglerfish-shark hellhounds.

(And also their non-hybrid alligator bailiffs)

Yes, that’s what we’ve finally concluded after readin’ this issue 3 sparkdamn times, to try and figure out just what the actual frag’s goin’ on here.

‘N nothin’ else. :)

*Awkward silence* :)

*Awkward silence intensifies* :)

God, they really might be basin’ all of their designs + lore off of G1, are they? 🫠

(I’ve read some opinions regardin’ that, and they are understandably not very positive. I get it. G1 is honestly just pure source material, and should only be seen as such, if we’d all like to keep the remainin’ sanity we have left

Therefore, you can interpret whatever the frag happened and the way things worked in it however you’d like, and adapt whatever you like into your own fan continuities. That’s what DWJ’s been doin’, and doin’ good…ish. That matter can be a separate post)

Well, if they really do go through with it, at least they can finally acknowledge (and dare I say address, if they have the page time of course) the one origin for Megatron that I think I can actually get behind so far.

(K*rwa, make this former Pokémon fan look even more like a geewunner, why not? Why. Fraggin’. Not at this point? *Bangs my head against the headboard of the bed*)

It’s not like I made an entire scrappy post about it that I deleted later or anythin’.

(Although the points I made in it still stand, no post here is safe 🙂🙃)

✨ Anyway— ✨

Let’s review our notes:

. Megs has a clan, and by clan I think he means his warriors (“You will turn from my enemy…into my kin”), which means he’s been fighting before his abduction, which means that I’m still allowed to hate him yay—

. And his fusion cannon (so we have yet to learn how he acquired it)

. And that cathartic defiance of his that he has in common with Starscream (a major reason why I love ‘em both equally)

(I really need to stop makin’ Megatron centric posts to prove that)

. Oh, he’s a triple changer after all—! 😮

Wait, what is he doin’—? 😶

（・口・）

You guys

That was f**king AWESOME (╯°□°)╯︵ ┻━┻

NEW FAVORITE ISSUE I LOVE DRAGONS— *Flashbacks to Beast Hunters* 😍

. Imagine, instead, if he had to start over every time he died, and what I mean by this is that each new part of the trial is the next trial. So if he dies on the 500th trial he has to restart from the 1st trial and fight his way back up

(I think I’ve spent a little too much time with Shockwave—)

. Wow, there really is an evil matrix. Is that how he got all these new powers (e.g. revivin’ Ravage)? 😂

. Yes, this is Hell Megs (don’t ask how Cybertronians know what Hell is)

And in the future you are going to the 9th Circle. We call it Earth ❄️

(　〇□〇）

. Not to rip from that deleted post, but like—

*Pretends to insert Smokey and Craig’s “Dayuuuuuuuum!” cuz of the 10-image-per-post limit*

You guys don’t know how much I’ve wanted a character to talk to Megs like this. About this. In canon

And that character turning out to be a Quintesson is f**cking perfect

(*Gets unapologetically sidetracked* Other than, firstly, Optimus. Or Kiloton. Or Impactor. Or even a human in a scenario where they desperately try to get Megs to understand that he doesn’t have to be a gun à la Iron Giant

Yes, he has a literal gun as his alt mode but that’s not what I mean hear my pretentious ass out—

He doesn’t have to be a literal weapon programmed to serve the misguided or oppressive interests of individuals, who might not even be online at that point in the war—along with Optimus, Elita and Magnus. Oh why link them together, you may ask? Cuz they are all in the same boat!

They tell him that he can be so much more [DEZIMIR SAID THAT BUT IN A DIFF CONTEXT AAAAAAAAAH—], but here’s the twist: Megatron’s happy the way he is, and D-16/Megatronus/whatever his former name was consented [with no room for doubt in his spark] to becoming a tyrant—but they don’t know that, and that’s the point

They will always question whether or not Megatron has free will/agency/an understanding of “right” and “wrong” [they theorize that he’s mentally incompetent, but they can’t check his brain chips cuz ✨ ethics ✨ or somethin’], and he of course goes along with that to avoid facing justice [kinda like Joker’s situation but potentially way more complicated I’m trying my best to explain this lol]

Then the Autobots start questioning themselves and each of their mental states (as like I said, they’re technically all in the same boat) and it all just goes to hell

I want a fanfic of that lmk 😂)

(Secondly, Starscream. He could say all of this to Megs as well, esp during a particularly heated interaction, in order to criticize his poor leadership, but, Star’s unfortunate thing is that while he sometimes does have a point, he goes about his dissatisfaction/frustration in such a disastrous way, as to result in his words fallin’ on damaged auditory sensors oof)

. *Gun mode acquired*

. Aw, the dragon got slayed :/ 💅

. Is he puttin’ his servo on an optic? A little confused by that still 🤨

Update: Oh…we’re seein’ his servo through his optic 😶

. Some people are sayin’ the “Master” is Unicron

I mean, if that turns out to be the case, and he’s just lyin’ to Megs about bein’ on the same page screen as him in order to somehow c[REDACTED]e his brother again (wait I forgot is Primus a thing in this continuity)—

(Another update: “Primus have mercy!” *Gets executed by a douchebag and his own future douchebag*)

Well, this is Hell and he’s the Devil so— ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

(I should stop it’s Palm Sunday 😅)

As long as they don’t use him in anyway to excuse or downplay Megs’ actions, I’m fine with that

He’s always gonna be irredeemable (so there can’t be anyone written to be “worse” than him right?)

(R-Right…?)

Anyways, let’s go recruit younglings and ruin Ulchtar’s existence lol

PS: Wait, let me test somethin’ real quick: wouldn’t it be really funny if Megs actually apologized to Star next issue as a plot twist

I know that s**t only happens in fanfics, but with the way they’ve been writin’ his dialogue (as others have said, it’s givin’ self-righteous cult leader), and just the way he’s been conductin’ himself (in a frighteningly calm manner)—

Like he’s actin’ very humble/subdued after bein’ in CC’s custody, which I find weird since we now know that he’s been through this typa s**t before, so—

Idk…we’ll see. Oh, we will fraggin’ see

[spoonfulofmilo]

Contestant Number 21's Introduction

updates will be tues, wed and thursday my time at 7pm aest!

love y'all

the bachelor masterlist is here

part 1 is here

---

my masterlist can be accessed here

Please keep requesting - y'all have awesome ideas we agree on a lot of stuff :) - my guidelines are here, and if you want some prompts, they are here.

also feel free to come in and start chatting to me in my asks, would love to get to know y'all better

and if you want to be added to my taglist lmk :)

The moment he stepped out of the car, the air shifted, subtle, but noticeable. Like a ripple in still water.

He moved with quiet confidence, every step measured, precise, but never stiff. There was an ease in the way he carried himself, as if he didn’t need to command attention, attention simply followed him. His brown suit was perfectly tailored, hugging the broad line of his shoulders and tapering neatly at the waist, while a pale cream shirt underneath had two buttons undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone and skin, enough to spark curiosity but not arrogance.

High cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a subtle cleft in his chin gave his face a classic, almost timeless structure, like a marble statue brought to life. But there was nothing cold or remote about him. His olive-toned skin had the kind of glow that couldn’t be bought, sunlight, salt air, and just enough good fortune.

Then there were his eyes. Arresting. Green, flecked with hazel, like liquid gold caught in a wine glass at sunset. He held layers, depth, kindness, a flicker of melancholy, and something else… something Y/N couldn’t quite name yet. His gaze wasn’t demanding, but it held you still, like you’d forget your own name if he looked at you too long.

As he stepped up to Y/N, he offered a soft, slightly bashful smile. The kind of smile that didn’t try to be perfect, it just was.

“Salut. Je m’appelle Charles,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, with the kind of French-Monégasque lilt that made the most ordinary sentence sound like poetry.

“Tell me about yourself, Charles.”

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “I’m twenty-six. I’m a fashion designer from Monaco. I started sketching when I was young, mostly to escape the noise. But I fell in love with how clothes can tell a story. Now, I try to design things that feel like a second skin. Elegant but honest.”

Y/N nodded slowly. “Okay, I wasn’t expecting a fashion designer, but… this tracks. You’re very well dressed.”

Charles gave a quiet chuckle, brushing a hand through his tousled brown hair. “Merci. I thought I would dress well for you. I heard you like a few buttons undone.”

Y/N laughed, caught, and impressed. “Guilty.”

There was a pause, comfortable and charged.

“What brings you here, then? To the mansion?” Y/N asked.

Charles took a breath. “To be honest, I don’t do this kind of thing. Cameras, competition, it’s not natural to me. But I’ve spent a lot of time designing for other people. Other people’s moments. Other people’s weddings. I thought… maybe I should start chasing my own.”

Y/N blinked, taken slightly off guard. “Wow. That was… actually really sweet.”

“I meant it.”

“So, first date. What would that look like for you?”

A slight grin pulled at Charles’ lips. “I have… somehow acquired tickets to a Taylor Swift concert. I thought maybe, if you like her, we could go. Together. No pressure. It’s one of her European dates, the VIP tent. And I may have also arranged backstage passes.”

Y/N tilted their head. “And if I don’t want to go?”

Charles shrugged, cool and unbothered. “Then I give the ticket to a cousin. But I would prefer if you came.”

Y/N gave him a look. “You really love Taylor Swift?”

Charles gave a rare, playful smile. “She’s the only person who’s ever out-written my breakups.”

They both laughed, and for a second, Y/N forgot they were surrounded by cameras.

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?”

“Paris,” Charles answered without hesitation. “It’s where I learned to fall in love with fashion, and art, and wine, and silence. It’s beautiful, but it doesn’t beg to be admired. It just is. I like that.”

“Very poetic.”

“I try.”

Y/N looked at him, slightly amused. “Are you always this calm?”

Charles grinned again, softer this time. “No. Just when I’m trying not to mess up something that matters.”

Then, as if suddenly remembering, Charles stepped to the side and gestured toward the driveway, where a staff member approached, holding a black envelope with a golden seal.

“I do have a gift for you,” he said, offering it delicately.

Y/N raised a brow, intrigued. “What is this?”

Charles hesitated for just a beat. “Inside is the deed to a small yacht I had restored over the last few months. She’s docked in Monaco, but I had her renamed this week.”

He met Y/N’s gaze again, and his voice dipped lower.

“She’s called Second Chance. You don’t have to accept her, not unless we get far. But… if you ever need to get away, or think, or sail off into a new chapter… I wanted you to have that option.”

Y/N opened the envelope slowly, eyes wide, breath caught in their chest.

“You’re giving me a yacht?”

Charles offered the smallest shrug. “What’s the point of building a beautiful life if you don’t share it with someone?”

For a moment, there was nothing but quiet between them. It was the kind of moment that didn’t need music to feel cinematic.

Y/N looked at him, eyes soft. “You’re a hard act to follow, Charles.”

He smiled, modest, unreadable, a little shy. “I hope they try.”

(cut to Y/N’s interview)

“So... I just met someone who made me feel like I was in the middle of a very expensive, very French daydream. Charles. Monaco. Green eyes that made me forget my name for a second. And then casually, oh, casually, drops that he’s a fashion designer, offers me Taylor Swift tickets like it's a cup of coffee, and then gives me a yacht. A whole-ass yacht. I…I don’t even know how to process that. I was worried at first, you know? That someone that polished might feel… distant. Or fake. But Charles? He doesn’t feel like he’s playing a part. He feels like someone who means things. Someone who listens, who notices. When he looked at me, it felt like he was actually seeing me, not just the version of me that’s broadcasted, but the real version, the messy one. He said he came here to chase something for himself, and for once, I think I believe someone when they say that. There’s a weight to his calm. A stillness. Like… maybe the world doesn’t spin so fast when you’re with him. That’s rare. And kind of terrifying. In a good way? Anyway. I think I really want to find out.”

(cut to Charles’ interview)

“I… wasn’t nervous. At first. But then I saw them, Y/N. And I thought, Mon dieu, I hope I don’t look like a complete idiot. I’ve walked runways. I’ve stood in rooms with some of the most powerful people in the world. But there was something about them. Their presence. I felt like the floor tilted just a little when he smiled at me. He asked me why I came here. It’s strange, I’ve spent most of my life following expectations. Career, family, appearances. But love? That’s something I’ve never allowed myself to chase. This is… maybe the first time I’m doing something for me. Giving them the yacht, it wasn’t about extravagance. It was about… offering them the same kind of freedom I feel when I’m on the water. Peace. Escape. Space to dream. If he chooses to keep it, good. If not… maybe just the gesture matters. I don’t know if I made a strong impression. But I know how he made me feel. And I know I want to feel that again.”

taglist: @barcelonaloverf1life, @leosxrealm, @tallrock35, @wolf-knights, @janeholt3, @badblondebisexualboy, @ghostking4m, @fate-posts, @evelyn-4034, @jupiter-je-taime, @redcrescentmoons, @youraveragebritishamerican, @v3lnys, @thatonesblog, @bangbangdevotee, @annegrey, @pear-1206, @alchemxx, @koalapastries, @saucy-apples, @milessunflowers, @dramaticpiratellamas, @bunnisgreen, @jamesiesposts, @tammyfortis, @sleutherclaw, @blazecosplay, @toodeepintofandoms

[heartforsunoo]

INTERVIEW

NI-KI: “Moments like that make me think I was born to do this”

ENHYPEN ‘ROMANCE : UNTOLD -daydream-’ 컴백 인터뷰

2024.11.18

NI-KI is turning his long-held dream into reality. And in the process, he’s discovering the unique style of singing, dancing, and everything else that defines him.

Your ASMR’s becoming really popular. (laughs)

NI-KI: Really? That’s good to hear. (laughs) I honestly didn’t expect it. I’m glad it’s not just ENGENE but ASMR fans who enjoy it, too. I never thought it would get such a good response. (laughs)

You use items from around your room when you do ASMR that reflect your personal style. Is home decor something you’re into?

NI-KI: I’ve always liked decorating things. Once I got my own room, I picked out the furniture and decor, and spent some time researching designs to try and make it a comfortable place to hang out. I don’t really like bright spaces, so I bought a lamp with a warm light to make my room feel darker. It makes watching movies a really immersive experience. (laughs) I always watch movies that line up with our concepts whenever we’re about to have a comeback. For the latest album, I watched 18×2 Beyond Youthful Days to explore the emotion of love.

What about it resonated with you?

NI-KI: The female lead is Japanese, and the male lead is Taiwanese, and there are times where they struggle to communicate with each other because of the language barrier. I had similar issues communicating when I first came to Korea since I’m Japanese. I could relate to the challenge of getting to know someone under difficult circumstances, too.

On that note, what do you see as the message behind your new single, “No Doubt”?

NI-KI: Being in love can make you worry or feel anxious, but when you’ve been together a long time, there’s trust there, too. I approached it with that sense of trust in mind. Even though we have no choice but to be apart from ENGENE at times, we trust each other after coming this far together. When I was practicing, I had my mind on that reassurance that we love each other. I tend to sing in this really breathy way, so it felt natural expressing those emotions. The song’s also got a lot of low notes, so I felt like it was a good fit for me. (laughs)

Where do you place your focus when recording vocals to really bring out your vocal strengths?

NI-KI: I spent a lot of time thinking about how best to bring out my voice when singing in the low to mid-range. I don’t like it when my voice sounds even the tiniest bit like it’s not me, so even if they say it’s okay, I still ask to do it again. Every one of us has to find our own signature sound. I’ve become determined over the years to come up with my own style for singing and dancing that nobody but I can do. I might not be great when it comes to high notes, but being able to hit low notes like I do is a plus by itself. It means my voice sounds soothing when I sing ballads and things, and I can also add a lot of oomph to harder ones like hip hop songs, which is another strength of mine.

You also brought your signature carefree vibe to the “No Doubt” choreography.

NI-KI: The song has sexy, stylish, sophisticated choreography. I believe a song’s message should always be reflected through facial expressions and movements. I put a lot of thought into the facial expressions, like how I frown on the words, “you’re my answer,” and I focused on dancing softly at a controlled pace since it’s a chill track. ENHYPEN’s going into our fifth year now, and I hope people can feel the difference in how much sexier we are after five years. (laughs) Everyone in the group brings something unique to their parts, so I hope people enjoy watching it.

What’s the most important point to consider for a perfect performance?

NI-KI: Personally, I find what I do with my head is super important. It’s what makes the performance feel dynamic and energetic. I practically use a full can of hairspray to hold my hair in place for concerts. Even if I use that much spray to give myself bankkan bangs [down over one side of the forehead, slicked back on the other], by the time we get to the end, it’s turned into deommeo bangs [covering the whole forehead]. (laughs) And when ENGENE cheers really loudly or gets me excited, I start ad-libbing without realizing it, which is really weird but cool. I don’t even plan it in advance—it just comes to me on the spot, like, How about I try this? Moments like that are so amazing that they make me think I was born to do this.

You did some old-school hip hop for the STUDIO CHOOM Artist Of The Month series, and it was really fascinating to see a different side of you from when you’re with ENHYPEN.

NI-KI: One of the backup dancers was my hip hop dance instructor back when I was a trainee. It was a little weird. I wanted to show how much I’ve improved since my trainee days, and all the feelings I had when I first fell in love with dance came back to me—like I was a trainee again. (laughs) Back then, I was absolutely determined to debut. It was do or die. So I approached Artist Of The Month with the same kind of determination, looking at it like my first and last chance—like I couldn’t not take the opportunity to show people an image that’s uniquely me. And anyway, I was there representing ENHYPEN, so I felt I had to do a good job. That’s why I insisted on doing hip hop. Thankfully, everything I wanted to do was incorporated into it, and I’m truly grateful and happy with the high-quality result.

I heard you had a lot of input on everything from the outfits to the choice of song, choreography, camera angles, and lighting.

NI-KI: I always watch a lot of videos of dancers doing choreography and at competitions. Not only are they amazing at making choreography, but they have great fashion sense and even work on the lighting. Watching stuff like that made me want to get actively involved in making content. Actually, I was busy with so many different things when the request came in, so part of me was worried, but once I got started, it was a ton of fun. I reviewed my dancing so much because I wanted everything to be perfect right from the outset, so now I have tons of videos of me practicing on my phone. We shot 14 hours’ worth of footage—long enough to fly to the US and back. (laughs) But it was so fantastic that sometimes I fantasize about going back to that time. I still watch that video.

You have a well-documented interest in fashion, and your old-school 1980s fashion in that video is really attention-grabbing.

NI-KI: I thought it was a good fit for the choreo. There’s so many styles of dance from the ’80s and ’90s that are still legendary even today, so we talked a lot about wanting choreography that would fit the outfits while getting ready for Artist Of The Month. I gave them some ideas on how I could dress in a way that would both make me stand out and look good with dancers dressed in the classic ’80s matchup of baggy jeans with Timberland boots. I was in constant talks with the visual team and I think we managed to find a good style.

Your outfit at the ‘WALK THE LINE’ IN GOYANG sound check got people talking, too. You seem to be good at pulling off unique fashion choices.

NI-KI: At some point, I started wanting to dress well at sound checks and places like airports, even when I’m just wearing regular clothes. I wanted to show ENGENE that I can dress well, so I’ve been studying up on my own and talking it over with the styling team. I search through popular magazines and fashion archives for fits and tones I can pull off. But finding clothes I truly love is hard. (laughs) I’m really into clothes with patches lately. What I’m wearing right now has patches. I searched really hard to find it, so I love it all the more. I love it.

There are many points in your concerts where teamwork shines through, like at the ‘WALK THE LINE’ IN GOYANG show, where you playfully teased SUNOO during “Your Eyes Only,” and encouraged JAY with a “you can do it!” during the encore.

NI-KI: When I’m at a concert, I lower my guard. I bounce around when things get exciting, feel close to the rest of the group, joke around when I feel like it. (laughs) I’ve had ENGENE tell me lately, “All you want to show anymore is your cool side!” But that’s not true. I want to be a cool guy, obviously, but I don’t like forcing a fake look. ENGENE seems to like it more when I’m emotionally open during our own concerts. They still see me as a little kid. Oh well. Can’t be helped. (laughs)

But you do have a serious side. After the FATE PLUS tour, you wrote on Weverse, “Thanks to the rest of the group, the seven of us can overcome anything. I’m extremely thankful for them.”

NI-KI: I want us all to do a good job and make it together. I think the reason we’ve made it this far is because we all make up for each other’s shortcomings. I have a lot to be thankful for. There was plenty to worry about when we first started getting ready for concerts and tense moments, but the more we’ve worked together, the more things seem possible. They’ve all been a huge source of strength for me just by quietly taking care of me and being there by my side. I felt too embarrassed to say it out loud, but on the inside, I depended on them. I want to do whatever I’m able to and help them out whenever they need it. I’m really proud of all the hard work we put into our concerts and what we make in the end, and I’m glad ENHYPEN loves it just as much.

Come to think of it, you’re the same age now as HEESEUNG was during the Mnet series I-LAND and as SUNGHOON, JAKE, and JAY were for BORDER: CARNIVAL. (laughs)

NI-KI: Heheh… At the time, I wanted to hurry up and be an adult like them so I could pull off every concept like them. That might just sound like I was saying “I wanna grow up!” but what I really wanted was to have a competitive edge as an artist. (laughs)

You became an adult this year. How have things felt different since then?

NI-KI: My personality’s changed a lot. Even as recently as the year after we debuted I was still really extroverted, but I’ve calmed down a lot since then. And I feel like I’ve really grown since I can assess different situations with an objective eye. I used to follow along with whatever other people wanted me to do, but I’m a lot more driven and proactive now. I’m happy with that since who I am now feels like the real Nishimura Riki. I’m in the process of showing my true colors.

In your debut interview, you said that being onstage at the Tokyo Dome for a SHINee concert made you determined to “be the one on that stage someday.” What was it like returning to the Tokyo Dome?

NI-KI: I got really emotional. Riding the lift by myself and looking out from the stage, I saw the same view from when I was a kid dancer for SHINee. I could even see my parents looking at me and smiling. I tried to hold it in all the way to the end, but once I got to “BLOSSOM,” I couldn’t hold back anymore. It confirmed to me that all my hard work had been worth it, and that was extremely moving for me. I was overjoyed. It was one of the single most memorable performances I’ve ever put on. It made me hope that ENGENE feels the same way as I do at all our concerts. I still get sentimental when I watch videos from that day.

Is that why you’re always saying that you want to repay ENGENE by putting on even better performances for them?

NI-KI: Yes, because performing onstage is, in my opinion, the most important part of my job, and what I strive to do best at. I believe that doing my very best onstage and sending good vibes their way is how I can return the love ENGENE gives me.

You can’t see love with your eyes, but I think it’s visible to ENGENE thanks to all your effort. Are there moments for you, too, where you almost feel you can see ENGENE’s love in concert?

NI-KI: While on tour, I saw deaf ENGENE in the audience signing with their friends. They might not be able to hear our music, but they still came to enjoy our concert. And isn’t that true love? That’s something I was able to feel and experience because we had the opportunity to meet so many ENGENE, and that made touring even more special to me. It was like my heart was singing from that moment on.

After the FATE world tour, you wrote on Weverse, “One long journey comes to an end, only for a new one to begin, so I hope you’ll come find us again soon.” In your original Japanese, why did you describe your concerts not using the more common term “tour” but instead using the word “journey”?

NI-KI: For me, that whole experience added up to a journey. Visiting all those cities, regions, countries, feeling the culture unique to each place, trying the food only available there, breathing in their air, meeting all the people… That’s what makes tours so exciting. I had such a wonderful time getting to see so many ENGENE during that, so I wrote “journey.”

What kind of “journeys” do you hope to have with ENGENE in the future?

NI-KI: A journey held together by a strong bond. (laughs) I want to work hard at what I love, take good care of ENGENE, and be with them for a long time. And I want to stay true to myself—not put up a facade, just be genuine. So I’m living my best life and giving it my all so I won’t have any regrets later on. Even if I can’t change the past, I can still shape the future through my actions.