#and editing her out for the final panel

[tastycitrus]

Cygnus: This roast is absolutely incredible, how did you make this? Oz: Some idiot left a 40-ft bird lying around! Cygnus: Cygnus: Oz, I swear to god— *404 Error - Shinsoo not found*

[asmodeusamaryllis]

Goootcha ❤︎

[skrunksthatwunk]

landing

[every-shiraishi]

[hiiragi7]

Not my usual content, but I made something I wanted to share...

Edit: Now with an ID from @a-captions-blog! Thank you for writing it!

[Art description: A Pokémon-themed comic featuring OP as a Pikachu. Long description follows.

1. The tips of Pikachu’s ears are shown with text that says, ‘I’m a Pikachu / My world is filled with lots of cool stuff. Sometimes it feels like anything is possible!’ Under this is a collage showing a Charizard, a Pidgeotto, a Nidoking, an Eevee, and an Ivysaur, all in the background as the Pikachu looks up in wonder. Text reads, ‘All sorts of types, all sorts of attacks, all sorts of Pokemon.’

2. Text says, ‘But...only two ways a Pikachu’s tail could look.’ Two boxes in the upper corners show the male and female Pikachu tails, respectively. The male has a rectangular end to his tale, and the female has a heart-shaped end to hers. Text continues, ‘So then, what am I?’ A large drawing of the narrator Pikachu is shown, with an arrow pointing to their tail, whose end is split somewhat like scissors and doesn’t match either the male or female drawing above.

3. Text says, ‘Too pointy to be [female], too much of a V-shape to be [male]. I thought there was something wrong with me.’ Under this are three cascading panels showing the Pikachu from below at an angle emphasizing their tail. The second panel shows mel further away, and in the final panel she have disappeared entirely. Text on the panels reads, ‘I felt / very, very, very / alone.’

4. Text says, ‘But then, something happened. I found others like me.’ The art shows the narrator reaching out to another Pikachu. Under this are three other Pikachu. One has a rounded tail, one has a tail that has been stitched up to be rectangular, and one has a tail with a slight spike at the tip.

5. Closeups are shown of each of the tails from the previous panel, with text that says, ‘Round tails, scarred tails, spiky tails.’ Under this is a drawing of the Pikachu all hugging with lightning coming from their cheeks. Text reads, ‘They told me nothing was wrong with me, and I wasn´t alone anymore.’

6. Text says, ‘There are many ways a Pikachu’s tail can look. I’ve heard there’s at least over 30 different variations.’ Under this are two panels. The first panel shows the narrator lying on their back on a background of male and female symbols. Text reads, ‘Some days are still hard.’ In the second panel, the Pikachu with the scarred tail is shown with text that says, ‘My friend tells me her tail used to look just like mine. It was taken from her.’

8. The narrator is shown sitting and looking upwards. Text reads, ‘Some trainers won’t accept Pikachu that aren’t [male] or [female]. They alter our tails without our consent. But things are getting better. We are making change. We’re fighting so that our tails will be left alone.’ Under this is a panel showing the four Pikachu running happily towards the right. Text reads, ‘We’re all on a spectrum. Every tail looks different; anything is possible.’

The final text reads, ‘This is a comic about intersex people.’ The watermark in the lower right says @ PostManic. \End descriptions

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting��casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! ����

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[vanteguccir]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDRESS TO IMPRESS IN REAL LIFE * MATT STURNIOLO

SUMMARY　::　where Y/N, Matt's secret girlfriend, participates in the 'Dress to Impress in real life' video.

FEATURING　Matt Sturniolo x reader　REQUESTED?　yes.

WARNINGS　::　none.

AUTHOR'S NOTE　::　that is my work, I DON'T authorize any form of plagiarism; copy, "inspiration" or translation! | english isn't my first language, so I'm sorry if there's any grammar error.

The triplets were buzzing with energy, their house a hive of activity as they set up for their newest video; Dress to Impress, real-life edition. Each round had its own theme, and the first one was Summer Vacation. Y/N had been roped into joining as a surprise guest, and secretly, Matt couldn't have been more thrilled.

The boys had already pulled out all the stops with their outfits. Chris sported a chaotic ensemble: a bucket hat with panels of clashing colors, lime green slides, and denim cargo shorts.

Matt was rocking a relaxed, dad-on-vacation vibe, complete with an oversized straw hat, patterned swim trunks, and a shirt that screamed, 'I don’t care, I’m on island time'.

Nick had gone full beach prep with a striped tank top, sunglasses that were almost too tiny for his face, and a retro cooler box tucked under his arm like an accessory.

As the camera rolled, Y/N was still getting ready in Matt’s bathroom, leaving the boy's to discuss who went better between the three of them.

"Alright." Chris said, pointing a finger at Nick’s cooler. "I’m just saying, if you don’t actually have anything in there, that’s a waste of a prop."

"It’s called committing to the bit, Chris." Nick shot back, adjusting the towel draped over his shoulder. "The cooler is the vibe."

Matt, who was adjusting his sunglasses, glanced toward the bathroom door, his face lighting up as if he could sense Y/N’s presence through the walls.

"Y/N better bring it. I know she’s got something amazing up her sleeve."

Nick rolled his eyes, looking at Matt with a boring expression.

"Why do I feel like you’re already planning to give her every win, no matter what she’s wearing?"

"Because I am." Matt replied bluntly, grinning like the lovesick puppy he was.

The door finally creaked open, and all three boys turned as Y/N emerged. She had nailed the summer vacation aesthetic, wearing a flowy, tropical-patterned sundress, bikini top below it, oversized black Prada sunglasses perched on her nose, and sandals that matched her outfit perfectly. She’d even added a straw beach bag for good measure.

"Okay, Y/N, I see you!" Chris exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

Y/N laughed, grinning widely before twirling to show off her look.

"Alright, that’s tough competition. You actually look like you're ready to spend the day at your beach house." Nick gave a low whistle, his blue eyes traveling from her face to her feet and back again. "But I'd say you're in fourth place. You're ready for the beach, not for any summer vacation."

"Fair." Y/N shrugged, take a quick peak at her outfit again before looking at Matt. "What do you think?"

Matt's eyes seemed to be shining like the whole cadence of stars, wandering through every detail of her choice of clothes.

"Are you kidding? That’s... that’s so good. You look like you stepped out of a summer vacation catalog or something." His voice sounded slightly high-pitched with excitement. "Nick's just jealous."

"What? No, I'm not!"

Chris rolled his eyes, already sensing where this was going.

"Oh, here we go."

"Like, if I saw you on the beach." Matt continued, ignoring his brothers entirely. "I’d probably just pass out. That’s how good you look."

"Okay, Matt." Nick said, holding up a hand. "We get it. Obsessive fucker."

The room filled with laughter, Y/N shaking her head but unable to hide the grin spreading across her face, her cheeks heating up.

"Right, first round? I'm second." Matt declared, gesturing toward himself. "Obviously, Y/N was first because, you know, she's Y/N." He gave her a little smile. "Then Nick was third, and Chris was fourth. That’s the average."

"Yeah, unfortunately." Nick muttered, throwing his hands up.

"Well." Chris turned dramatically to the camera and pointed. "They can vote."

Nick, not missing a beat, leaned closer to the camera, his voice dripping with mock confidence.

"Oh, I already know they’re gonna vote for me. Mine’s obviously the best. Unless..." He paused for dramatic effect, raising an eyebrow. "These girls wanna sleep with Matt and vote for him."

"What?!" Matt’s eyes widened in pure shock as he whipped his head toward the camera, looking utterly scandalized.

Y/N’s eyes flicked between Nick and Matt, her lips tightening slightly trying to suppress a laugh. It was impossible not to be amused by Nick’s antics.

She knew Nick wasn’t wrong, Matt’s popularity with their audience also had to do with his charm and, let’s face it, how good he looked on camera. There probably were plenty of girls who’d vote for Matt purely because of his looks, even if one of the other boys dressed better.

Nick continued without missing a beat.

"It’s the straight man advantage! You guys..." He gestured wildly at the camera. "Are gonna discriminate against me because I’m gay, and I don't like 'yall back."

At that, Y/N couldn’t help but burst into laughter, shaking her head.

Matt, still recovering from Nick’s bold accusation, raised a hand defensively.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold on a second." He looked straight into the camera with that intense, sincere gaze that Y/N loved. "Just for the record, I’m completely off-limits. Completely."

The way he said it, firm and definitive, sent a wave of confidence through Y/N. Her lips twitched into a small smile as she crossed her arms, clearing her throat to contain her reactions, trying to play it cool.

Nick, however, wasn’t done.

"Oh, yeah? You really think they care about that?" He teased, smirking as Matt shook his head in disbelief.

Chris rolled his eyes, still laughing.

"Nick, stop trying to guilt-trip them into voting for you."

"I'm not doing anything." Nick replied with a wink, sending the group into another fit of laughter.

"Now, bring the runway on, boys!"

The camera cut to Chris, who had appointed himself the first to strut down their makeshift runway that started from the stairs.

He walked in quick steps before stopping in the center of their camera lens, dramatically fanning himself with an imaginary hand fan.

"Where did you even get the idea of the imaginary fan?" Y/N teased, laughing with the others.

"Shh, it’s part of the vibe." Chris replied, flipping his bucket hat backward with flair. He strolled toward the camera with exaggerated confidence, striking a series of ridiculous poses. "Yeah, you’re welcome." He said as he walked off-camera, leaving the other three in stitches.

Nick went next, cooler in hand.

"Get ready to witness greatness." He said, lifting the retro cooler above his head like it was the Holy Grail, showing it off.

"You go, queen!" Y/N cheered, nodding her head while watching him.

Nick smiled brightly, placing it down carefully and reached for the towel draped over his shoulder, unfolding it with slow, deliberate movements. Too slow.

"This is taking forever." Matt groaned, crossing his arms.

"Nick, it’s been 30 seconds. Just lay the towel down!" Chris yelled.

Nick ignored them, carefully smoothing out the towel on the floor, his face the picture of focus. Once he was satisfied, he walked down the "runway", throwing some expressions to the camera before almost gluing his face to the lens, taking his glasses off.

"Iconic." Y/N said between laughs.

"Thank you, thank you." Nick replied, bowing before dramatically kicking the towel aside as if to signal the end of his performance, his right hand fanning himself as the last act.

Matt was up next.

"Alright, let me show you how it’s done." He said confidently. Grabbing his sunscreen, he opened the cap and squeezed a dollop onto his fingers, dabbing it on his cheeks like football player stripes.

"Well, you gotta stay protected, I guess." Y/N muttered, smiling with how Chris was rooting like crazy.

Laughter escaped her lips as Matt sauntered toward the camera, showing off the sunscreen like it was a designer handbag. He struck a confident pose, holding the product up, before walking back off the camera with an over-the-top smile.

Finally, it was Y/N’s turn.

"Your move, Y/N." Nick said, gesturing grandly toward the imaginary runway.

"Alright, alright, give me a second." She said, thinking fast.

She reached into her straw bag, pulling out the pair of oversized sunglasses that she had thrown there at some point, dramatically placing it on her face. Then, grabbing a small beach towel she had tucked inside the bag, she draped it over one arm like a sash.

"What’s happening here?" Matt asked, intrigued.

Y/N strolled onto the "runway" with slow, exaggerated movements like a madame arriving at a five-star resort. Halfway down, she pretended to feel the heat, pulling an actual bottle of water from her bag and taking a sip before fanning herself with her hand.

"It has to have the fan move!" Nick applauded, grinning to the scene before being interrupted by Chris’s comment.

"Of course, I created it."

At the end of the runway, Y/N stopped, tossed her sunglasses off dramatically at the ground, and struck a ridiculous pose with one hand on her hip and the other shielding her eyes as if she was shielding her face from the sun.

"That was solid!" Chris exclaimed, clapping.

Matt, meanwhile, was in awe, hands on his head.

"Are you kidding? That was really good. A thousand points. Game over. Y/N wins. Everyone go home."

Nick scoffed.

"Matt, stop simping for two seconds so we can keep this contest going."

"I’m not simping." Matt argued, clearly lying. "I'm just stating facts."

"Shut up, Matt."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

For the Mix-Matched Madness theme, the camera panned to the boys standing in a line, proudly displaying their chaotic ensembles.

Chris was clad in a bright red varsity jacket over a striped shirt, camo pink shorts, and mismatched knee-high socks with chunky boots.

Matt decided for plaid shorts layered over one plaid pant leg, a pastel blue and yellow sweater vest, and a floppy dog-ear cap.

Nick went to a plaid jacket layered over a striped shirt with a perfectly coordinated tie, and matching sweatpants and sneakers.

"Guys, I’m clearly superior." Nick started, raising his eyebrows as he adjusted his glasses. "My outfit is actually intentional, look at this synergy! It screams fashion-forward."

Matt groaned, rolling his eyes and looking at Chris with a 'is he serious?' expression.

"Nick, you’re wearing matchy-matchy plaid in a mix-matched challenge. You’ve missed the assignment!"

"It’s ironic." Nick shot back, crossing his arms. "I’m doing intentional matching. If I were in a real runway right now, people would actually like my outfit."

Chris scratched his head, looking between them.

"Isn’t that kind of cheating, though?"

Before the debate could escalate further, Y/N stepped into the frame, causing all three boys to give her their attention.

Her outfit was next level: a bright purple sequined crop top paired with one lime green legging on her right leg and a fluffy, neon orange sock on the other. She wore a skirt made of layered, clashing floral patterns that didn’t quite match the fuzzy checkered cardigan she threw on top. To finish it off, her accessories included a leopard-print beanie - the one she stole from Matt's closet -, oversized sunglasses, and two entirely different shoes, a silver stiletto on one foot and a Croc on the other.

The boys gawked.

"Okay, now that’s mix-matched madness." Chris said, pointing at her.

"Girl, you look like you fell into a thrift store... and it worked." Nick added, looking both impressed and slightly annoyed.

"How can you still look so good while wearing... that?" Matt asked, pointing at her outfit with his hand while shaking his head in disbelief.

Y/N twirled dramatically, holding out her skirt as she grinned at the camera.

"Thank you, boys. I like to call this 'chaos with confidence'." She invented the random name, throwing a quick kiss to the lens.

Chris threw his hands up.

"Alright, I’m officially placing second now."

Nick groaned, shaking his head dramatically.

"No way. She’s great, but I’m still winning. Look at this tie!"

Matt laughed.

"Nick, your tie doesn’t save you from breaking the theme. You’re disqualified."

The scene cut to the "runway", where each of them showcased their chaotic outfits with an equally chaotic performance.

First up was Nick. He confidently strutted forward, reaching for the end of his tie. With exaggerated flair, he lifted it as if someone were pulling him forward, his face a picture of mock shock and drama, stumbling forward.

"Ey, keep going!" Chris hollered, nodding enthusiastically.

The moment he reached the end of the runway, he grinned mischievously, running his hand dramatically through his hair and tossing a sultry look at the camera before taking off his pink glasses.

"Work it, Nick!" Y/N chimed in, her laughter mixing with the chaos.

Nick turned on his heel with a laugh, sauntering back to the start and throwing a praying gesture, ignoring how Matt laughed, mockingly imitating his act.

Next, Matt stepped up, adjusting his floppy dog-ear cap before suddenly spinning it backward.

"Showtime." He muttered under his breath, earning immediate chuckles from the others. He walked to the camera with a cocky stride, crossing his arms and bending slightly to the side.

For the final move, he pivoted and moonwalked his way back to the start, nearly slipping on his mismatched shoes but recovering with a grin.

"Did you see that? Effortless." Matt declared, earning boos and laughs from the rest.

"You almost ate it, Matt." Y/N teased, shaking her head.

Chris stepped up next. And, of course, he brought drama.

"Hold my jacket." He said, then immediately shook his head. "Actually, no. The floor will."

With exaggerated aggression, he ripped off one of his red lobster gloves, throwing it to the ground with flair. The glove was followed by his belt, which he unbuckled and tossed with equal energy.

"Oh my God." Y/N looked at the camera with wide eyes.

"What is happening?" Nick cackled, practically doubling over, slapping Y/N's arm.

Chris wasn’t done. He walked up to the camera with an intense expression, holding his hands out and touching the screen, acting as if zooming in.

"Enhance." He said, squinting into the lens. Then, as if the camera wasn’t worthy, he spun dramatically on his heel, walked back, and threw off his varsity jacket mid-stride before striking one final pose.

"Now that’s how you do it." Y/N joked, looking at the camera. "Like and subscribe if you want Chris to make a strip tea-"

"Y/N!"

For Y/N's turn, she adjusted her oversized leopard beanie with a dramatic flair and tilted her sunglasses low on her nose, revealing a dead-serious expression underneath. She strutted forward slowly, dragging her stiletto along the ground for added effect. When she reached the camera, she whipped her head to the side, making her orange fluffy sock the star of the moment.

But it didn’t end there. Y/N suddenly crouched down into a deep squat, raising one hand in the air and striking a pose like she was ready to pounce. The boys immediately broke into cheers and laughter.

"Yes, queen!" Nick shouted, jumping in the place and clapping, laughing loudly.

"She nailed it." Matt said with a proud grin, nodding his head.

Y/N slowly stood, turning to the side as if the camera had disappeared, and walked off like nothing had happened.

"Thank you." She said nonchalantly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as the others applauded.

"Alright, I officially retire." Nick said, throwing his arms to the air in a surrender gesture.

"Same." Chris picked up his lobster glove from the floor, grinning.

Matt sighed, smiling at Y/N's figure.

"She’s unbeatable. Let’s not do these challenges anymore if she’s in them."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The scene cut to the next category: Rock Concert. The boys had gathered in front of the camera, each flaunting their edgy outfits.

Chris leaned casually against the wall, dressed in all black with his bandana tied around his head. His sunglasses were perfectly placed, and a Bluetooth speaker hung over his shoulder like a statement piece.

"Clearly, I’m the embodiment of rock concert aesthetic." He said confidently, adjusting his speaker strap.

Nick crossed his arms, giving Chris a side-eye. He was sporting his long-sleeved shirt adorned with skulls and intricate spiderweb patterns paired with black cargo pants and chunky boots.

"Please." Nick retorted. "I’ve got literal death on my shirt. That’s as metal as it gets."

Matt, standing in the middle, smirked. He wore a black leather jacket over a white shirt, complete with a silver skull belt buckle and leather pants that practically screamed rockstar.

"Yeah, but have you seen my belt?" He argued, lifting his white shirt slightly to show it off. "This is peak rock concert material. I even coordinated it with my jacket."

"Okay, but who do you think the crowd would look at first?" Chris challenged. "The guy with the bandana, all black, and sunglasses? Obviously me. The speaker only makes it better."

Nick rolled his eyes.

"You look like you’re trying to be a cool dad sneaking into a concert." He teased.

"Alright, alright." Y/N interrupted from off-screen, stepping into the camera frame and effectively stealing the show.

Y/N’s outfit was on another level. She wore a black 'Bon Jovi' cropped top with silver detailing that matched the chains on her leather mini skirt. Fishnet tights peeked out from under the skirt, leading down to a pair of knee-high combat boots that added an extra edge to the look. To top it off, she wore a cropped leather jacket with studs on the shoulders and accessorized with chunky silver jewelry and a black choker.

The boys fell silent for a second, staring.

Y/N smiled brightly at them before turning to the camera, raising her right arm and making the 'rock and roll' gesture by raising her pinky and index fingers and lowering the others.

"'Cause we all just wanna be big rockstars and live in hilltop houses driving 15 cars..."

"Girl, what the fuck?" Nick widened his eyes, looking from Y/N to the camera with a look that screamed 'are you guys seeing this?'

Matt laughed loudly, recognizing the song from one of the TikTok trends that Y/N had been obsessing over the past few weeks, being quick in imitating her position, and starting singing with her.

"... the girls come easy and the drugs come cheap, we'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat-"

"Okay, that's enough of that." Chris interrupted the pair, gesturing to them while shaking his head in disbelief. "So, Y/N wins."

Nick groaned dramatically.

"Let's take her out right now. I don't wanna play with her anymore."

Matt couldn’t stop smiling.

"Can we just talk about how she’s nailing this? Like, can we get her to join the band we don’t have?"

Y/N laughed, giving a mock bow.

"Thank you, thank you. Now, let's just be clear, I already won." Y/N said with a sly grin, stepping forward. "You'll all lose time if you keep discussing who's the best between you three."

"How can you be so sure?" Chris crossed his arms, carrying a superior instance.

"Because I actually listen to rock." She said, shrugging like it was obvious. "AC/DC, Bon Jovi, Kansas, Asia... should I keep going?"

Nick groaned.

"Okay, that’s true, but it doesn’t count!"

"Doesn’t count?" Y/N repeated, feigning offense. "I think you’ll find that the fact I actually know rock makes me the winner by default." She turned to Chris. "Tell me. Have 'yall even listened to ‘Highway to Hell’ all the way through?"

Chris hesitated, playing with his earphones.

"Uh... I mean." He looked at Nick. "Probably?"

Y/N laughed, shaking her head.

"Thought so." She crossed her arms. "So, I don’t need a skull belt, all-black everything, or death on my chest. I’ve got the actual music taste. Rock is in my veins, boys."

Nick groaned dramatically, throwing his head back.

"She wins. I hate it, but she wins."

"Alright, fine." Chris muttered. "But we still look better."

"Not a chance." Y/N teased, spinning in place again and winking at the camera. "This outfit screams rock goddess."

　　　　　༻﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡﹡༺

The boys were now proudly sporting their "Zoom Meeting" outfits. Chris held up his MacBook, Matt adjusted his glasses with a goofy smile, and Nick tugged at his black tie, looking down at his bright heart-shaped boxer shorts with fake professionalism.

"Alright." Chris started, addressing the imaginary Zoom meeting in front of him. "Gentlemen, let’s get to business. As you can see, we’re all clearly dressed to impress."

"Except for Nick." Matt teased, nodding toward his brother's boxer shorts. "The hearts? A little too much, don’t you think?"

Nick scoffed, feigning offense.

"Excuse me, at least I have this tie that says I’m both professional and emotionally available. A winning combo."

Matt rolled his eyes and gestured to his own look.

"Meanwhile, I’ve got balance. Business on top, relaxation on the bottom."

"That’s literally the whole theme." Chris pointed out with a smirk. "You’re not special, Matt."

Y/N watched from her spot leaning against Matt's bathroom door, her legs crossed as she sipped from her mug of coffee that she made while waiting for them to get ready. She was dressed comfortably yet stylishly, rocking an oversized beige knit sweater that draped perfectly off one shoulder, paired with black leggings and fluffy white socks. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, with a few strands framing her face. Despite the boys' chaotic energy, she was nailing the whole "effortlessly cool" vibe.

"Y/N, you’re way too cozy for a Zoom meeting." Chris said, pointing at her as he adjusted his loose white shirt.

"Well." Y/N said with a playful grin. "Unlike you guys, I know how to mix comfy with class. You all just look ridiculous."

Nick gasped, dramatically clutching the box in his hands.

"Ridiculous? Ridiculous?! Look at this tie! I’m the epitome of professionalism!"

Chris leaned toward Y/N, pointing at Matt.

"What about him? He’s literally in boxer shorts."

Y/N rolled her eyes, sipping from her mug to hide her smile.

"You're all wearing it, dumbass." Her eyes lingered on Matt's red boxer shorts for a moment too long. "It’s really interesting that someone would think boxer shorts are appropriate for a Zoom meeting, actually."

Matt smirked, striking a random pose.

"Are you jealous?"

"No?" She said quickly, shaking her head. "I mean, it’s not like anyone else on the Zoom would see them, right?"

The other two brothers caught on instantly, grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Y/N." Nick teased. "Are you saying you wouldn’t let your Zoom co-workers see your boxers?"

"Nick!" She exclaimed, throwing an exasperated look at him. "That’s not the point!"

Chris chimed in, laughing.

"Yeah, Matt. She’s definitely jealous. She wishes she could wear boxers to a meeting."

"I do not!" Y/N huffed, crossing her arms, though a smile tugged at her lips. "I just... don’t understand why he’d even bother wearing the shirt if he’s just going to go full casual anyway."

"It’s called commitment to the aesthetic." Matt said, walking over to her and placing a hand on her shoulder, discretely squeezing the exposed skin. "Something you clearly wouldn’t understand."

"Oh, I understand commitment." Y/N shot back with a smirk, meeting his eyes momentarily. "But let’s be honest, none of you are winning any awards for those outfits."

"Excuse me?" Nick said, pretending to be outraged. "I’m clearly the winner here."

"Winner?" Chris scoffed. "You’re wearing socks pulled up to your knees, bro. That’s not even close to a win."

Y/N chuckled as she watched them descend into a full argument over who had the best Zoom look, but she couldn’t stop her gaze from flickering back to Matt’s outfit. Something about the casual confidence he exuded - boxers and glasses - had her feeling just a little possessive and turned on.

"Alright." She announced, clapping her hands to get their attention. "If you’re all done arguing, let’s see who can really sell their look with a runway walk."

The boys' faces lit up, and they quickly got into character.

Nick was up first, confidently sliding across the wooden floor in his socks, arms spread wide like a figure skater. As he came to a stop, he reached for his boxer shorts and dramatically lowered them until they hit the ground, shouting a little "Oh!".

Matt immediately yelped.

"Nick!" He yelled before lunging forward to cover Y/N's eyes with both hands.

"Matt! What are you doing?!" Y/N laughed, trying to swat his hands away while Chris doubled over in hysterics.

"Protecting your innocence!" Matt declared, keeping his hands firmly over her face.

Nick, unfazed, quickly pulled his boxers back up and began walking toward the camera with exaggerated confidence, tugging at his tie and making ridiculous faces as though he were a real model.

"You’re unbelievable!" Chris murmured through his laughter, wiping a tear from his eye.

"Well, we've got 2 strippers now-"

"Y/N!"

Nick turned dramatically to face her and winked.

"You’re welcome for the show."

Next, it was Matt’s turn. He walked to the middle of the floor, cracking his knuckles with a sly grin before suddenly dropping to his hands and knees.

"Uh, Matt?" Y/N asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What...?" Nick added, genuinely confused.

Then, without warning, Matt lifted his left leg to the side like a dog at a fire hydrant.

The realization hit everyone at once, recognizing the movement from one of the rounds of DTI that Matt and Chris played, and the room erupted into cheers and laughter.

"That was perfect!" Chris shouted, clapping his hands.

Matt stood up, brushing imaginary dirt off his shirt with a smirk, and walked toward the camera with crossed arms, striking a serious pose like a model in a high-fashion commercial.

"Okay, that was actually cool." Y/N admitted, giggling as he walked back to join them.

When it was Chris’s turn, he shook his head with a grin.

"I’m sitting this one out." He said.

"What? Why?" Nick asked, incredulous.

Chris shrugged.

"I’m already the main event. I’ll let Y/N steal the spotlight this time."

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up.

"Oh, so now I have to go?"

"You got this!" Matt encouraged, nudging her toward the runway.

"Fine." She said, standing up and straightening her oversized sweater dramatically.

Y/N walked off the camera and took the book she'd been reading the past few days from the coffee table, walking back to the frame before delicately putting it on her head like a balancing act. She strutted confidently toward the camera, balancing it all the way, then stopped to pull out her mug, striking a victorious pose before taking a slow, exaggerated sip. The boys erupted in applause.

"You can call me Barbie now." She started, turning to the boys while opening a wide smile before pretending that her hand was a microphone. "On top of the world where I can see everything before me reaching up to touch the sky-"

"Okay, singer girl, pipe down a bit." Nick raised his right hand, exchanging perplexed looks with Chris, who was laughing.

"Okay, she wins." The youngest admitted, shrugging in defeat.

"Unreal." Matt said, looking at her with obvious pride. "You’re way too good at this, Y/N."

"Okay, okay, she wins. No one can top that." Nick nodded at Y/N. "But I think Chris gets second place in this one."

"No, I give you number one." Chris insisted, pointing to Nick while Matt just observed.

"I can't accept that. I'm just happy Matt's wearing his blue light glasses again." Nick's voice turned dramatically high-pitched, clearly imitating the fandom.

Before anyone could react to him, Matt ripped his glasses off of his face, bending it backward until it snapped, small pieces flying everywhere.

"Matt, why would you do that?" Y/N yelled, looking at him with wide eyes and open mouth - just like the other two - before pouting, looking miserably at the shattered pieces. "I liked that one."

"I don't like those stupid jokes." Matt simply replied, looking unfazed at his brothers and Y/N.

Nick and Chris kept looking from Matt to the camera and back, their expressions full of shock.

"You're going to buy another one just like that one, I don't even care." Y/N ordered, crossing her arms and looking directly at Matt, raising her eyebrows as if to say 'dare disobey me.

"Fine." He sighed. "Sorry."

extra - comments:

"okay but can we talk about matt literally saying ‘I’m off limits’? someone tell me what’s going on here 🤡"

"nick casually calling out matt girls for voting on matt only bc they want to sleep with him had me SCREAMING 😭"

"why was Y/N blushing when matt said he was off limits? I SEE YOU, GIRL!!!!"

"the dynamic between Y/N and matt is giving major dating vibes"

"wait, why does matt always seem to hype Y/N up just a little more than chris and nick? like, we get it, dude. she’s awesome. but tone it down, or we’ll all start connecting dots 🤨"

"as a fellow rock fan, I have to say Y/N listening to AC/DC and bon jovi automatically makes her my fave"

"not Y/N convincing matt with zero effort to do the rockstar trend with her 🤧"

"I’m not saying I ship Y/N and matt... but I also kind of ship Y/N and matt. the way he looked at her with that dress??? man, I know that look"

"matt breaking his glasses and then Y/N ordering him to buy another one and him ACCEPTING IT???? and saying sorry???? omg that's just girl boss right there 🙏���"

© vanteguccir

[demonic0angel]

Health Insurance (click for clarity)

I have a headcanon that Maddie and Jack did not have health insurance or insurance at all tbh, so Jazz really enjoyed the benefits of marriage.

So basically, in this idea, Dick and Jazz marry (bc Dick needed custody of Damian but he’s a single 20-something year old man, while Jazz was getting hounded by the Ghost Zone/her parents idk) but never fall in love. The two of them make a deal to get married and then parent Damian together, but then Dick finds out that they’re falling in love with each other’s siblings so he’s like “let’s divorce”.

It goes well and they both split things evenly or equally and it’s a very peaceful, amicable divorce.

Until they get to the custody of Damian. And then all hell breaks loose.

One of the dirtiest, most underhanded, and vicious custody wars ensue. In the end, they get split custody of Damian between Gotham and Blüdhaven. (He’s weirdly happy with it bc they fought so hard for him and they didn’t involve him at all except for courtesy questions).

Part two

Image description below:

Panel 1 has Dick’s solemn face as he’s looking away.

Dick: Jazz… we need to talk. I know that you’re in love with Jason…

Panel 2 has Dick’s side profile while we see Jazz stare at him in shock, holding a spilling teacup as she’s dripping tea.

Dick: *still looking sad* And I’m also in love with your brother Dan, so I think we should divorce.

Panel 3 is the both of them across from each other, in a very simplistic style. Jazz still looks vaguely shocked and Dick still looks sad.

Dick: I know that we both care for each other, but we’re in love with different people.

Panel 4 has Jazz finally snapping back to reality, as Dick continues talking.

Dick: It’ll be an amicable divorce, so I think that—

Panel 5 has Jazz standing up with a BAM! and knocking her teacup when she slams her hands on the table. Dick looks startled.

Dick: !

Panel 6 has a close up of Jazz’s panicked expression as she’s shouting.

Jazz: BUT WHAT ABOUT THE HEALTH INSURANCE?!

Edit: I changed the pictures to add the right font and a ring on Jazz’s finger.

[mmochammoss]

Fan behavior

Izuku Midoriya had burner accounts. Plural.

Some were obvious, like the ones he used to scroll through hero discourse on Twitter or reply to fans anonymously. But some were…

more specific.

A private Instagram that followed pro-hero fanpages, analysis pages, and even a few shipping accounts. A Reddit username dedicated to lurking in threads like r/heroranks and r/candidproheroes. A TikTok profile with zero posts but a very suspiciously curated ‘likes’ tab.

He had always been like this. Always online. Always watching. Not in a creepy way, just in a lifelong fanboy kind of way. Most people assumed he didn’t have time for any of that anymore now that he was the number-four hero. But Deku made time.

Especially when it came to you.

You had taken the hero world by storm. All strength, grace, and confidence, with a quirk that could split pavement and a smile that could break the internet.

He remembered watching your first solo billboard debut while eating convenience store snacks on the rooftop of a building at two in the morning, freezing mid-bite because you looked that good.

You were always beautiful. Always capable. Always you. And he was always… just a little bit obsessed.

Not in a weird way, of course.

You were old classmates. Friends. You had trained together, cried together, fought alongside one another back in the U.A. days. You’d even defended him online after his first public interview when his voice cracked halfway through a sentence.

You’d always been sweet to him. Gentle. Supportive.

He used to chalk up his crush on you to proximity. Just another harmless high school thing. Everyone had one, right?

But his thoughts of you didn’t fade the way most high school crushes were supposed to.

They only grew.

And now, years later, every time your face popped up on the side of a building or in his timeline, he remembered just how thoroughly and hopelessly he had not grown out of it.

Especially when he saw the fan content. And there was always so, so, so much of it.

It made total sense to him though. You were internet gold.

There were memes. There were fancams. There were reaction edits, deep-dives, lore threads, shipping compilations, whole Discord servers dedicated to analyzing your every move and wondering which pro hero you might be dating (if any).

Izuku tried not to pay too much attention.

Until one night, curled up in bed after patrol, scrolling on one of his private burner accounts, when he saw it. A fan edit titled simply:

“She looks at him like that’s her favorite person alive.”

It was under some viral TikTok audio, something soft and emotional.

The clips were nothing special on their own. Moments pulled from interviews, red carpet footage, post-battle recaps.

But they were all of you and him.

You glancing at him across a press panel. Smiling at something he’d said in an old agency interview. A photo someone had taken where you had your hand on his shoulder after a tough mission, face full of quiet pride.

And his favorite:

A short clip where you’d been asked about what hero inspired you most these days.

You had smiled, eyes soft, and answered,

“Ouuuuu? Who inspires me the most?… Probably Deku! I look at all he’s done and all he’s gone through and it reminds me that I can always push harder, do more, be better, y’know?”

He watched it three times.

Then a fourth.

Smiling through every rewatch, until…

“Shit.”

He threw his phone onto the bed, face hot, heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling and groaned.

Because he knew. He finally, finally knew. This wasn’t just some crush anymore.

He’d liked you once, of course.

Back in school, it was simple. You were warm, kind, devastatingly beautiful, and you always treated him like he mattered, even when he barely believed it himself.

But this? This was different. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t innocent. It was full-body want.

The kind that lived in his soul, tight and aching, every time your name lit up his feed. And God, he felt so guilty for it sometimes.

Because you were more than beautiful.

You were brilliant. Respected. One of the top heroes in the country. And a good person. And he admired you for that. He did.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wanted to imagine you whispering his name.

Not “Deku.” Not “Midoriya.” Izuku.

He wanted to hate himself for how his mind wandered. For how badly he wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To pull you into his lap and feel your fingers drag through his hair as he got drunk on your lips.

He wanted your body wrapped around him after long missions. Your thighs warm against his sides. Your mouth against his skin. Your voice soft with pleasure, telling him just how much you’d missed him.

And worse than all of that? He wanted you to want him back. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. But as something real.

He rolled over onto his stomach, face burning as he buried it in the pillow and groaned. He shouldn’t think like this. He knew better. But it was too late.

Because it wasn’t just about how badly he wanted to kiss you anymore. It was about how deeply, desperately, helplessly he was in love with you. Not some idealized version of you. Not the you from glossy spreads or high-res fan edits.

You.

The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you chewed on pen caps when thinking. The way you’d always text him congratulations after a good mission, even when he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

You were real.

And he wanted you in every way a person could be wanted. He felt ashamed of it. Guilty. Like he was crossing some unspoken line just for thinking it. But how could he not?

How could he not dream of kissing you until your knees gave out? Of holding you so close he’d feel your heartbeat match his? Of letting you ride the high of your shared victories straight into his arms, or his bed, into something so perfect it made his brain short-circuit?

He wanted you. He was so far gone.

Maybe, someday, if he could stop hiding behind burner accounts and start being brave again he’d tell you.

And if you let him, he’d love you for real. Not from a distance. Not through a screen. Not like a fan.

Like a man who wanted to be completely and totally yours.

[dastardlyromanticart]

EDIT: I was missing a panel!! Orz Now the whole thing is there It's done!! GOOD HEAVENS this was an undertaking with a bunch of going back and editing drawings to be more cohesive!! But I am so glad to finally have it done, for Pokemon day! This all was inspired by a few AUs I've seen by people such as @waywardstation and @parasolladyansy , as well as an AU RP I did with a friend where humans who were Deeply Wronged became the wrathful Hisuian Zoroark (With her Akari nearly becoming one herself) I totally have more drawings I thought of for the whole song, ("But the voice of the ghost was coming from a ghost no more" being Emmet, having a side by side with Emmet going on a journey looking for Ingo and comparing his journey to Akari's) but it was already like, 14 drawings and I wanted to tell a cohesive story without burning out instead;; Happy Pokemon Day!!

[aimfor-theheart]

thinking about mafia!reader going lingerie shopping and vi having to be there; reader obviously is gonna be an insufferable tease, parading around in one of those massive private changing rooms (she's getting free champagne too, bc ofc she is) posing in front of the full length mirrors like "what do you think, vi? do you like this color on me?"

i’m grabbing you by the shoulders. you can’t just put this in my head. i'm so cooked.

brush the sky no. 3: fantasy

minors and ageless blogs dni, 18+

vi x reader || part two || masterlist

tags: mafia au, bodyguard!vi, femme!reader, longing, a little angst.

wc: 2.7k what the hell

cw: alcohol mention/very suggestive. nsfw-ish. not beta read or edited at all lol.

Vi is not known for her patience.

In a spacious, private changing room of a boutique lingerie shop, she scrubs a hand over her face and tries to prepare herself for the next time you come out from behind the plush, velvet curtains.

Her glass of champagne sits untouched besides yours, which is nearly halfway empty.

This is only the second set you’re trying on but—to Vi, it might as well be the twentieth. The first set had already sent her spiraling, when you had come out in dainty lilac, some little baby-doll dress that you flounced around in. It had inspired images and fantasies of you the morning after, hair tousled and still sleep warm, the sun streaming in through your bedroom window. Some picture of domesticity that Vi cannot be thinking of you in.

The curtain swings back.

You’re in crushed blue, dark and rich and silky. A slinky little slip dress which allows for a peak of the lace blue panties underneath. Vi's eyes go towards the ceiling and she swears she's gonna keep 'em glued there as you come out to strut around and look at yourself in the large, three panel mirror.

And you do that for a moment, Vi can see it in the blurry peripheral of her vision. You twist and turn, examining yourself, and the lingerie and how it moves.

Then, "Vi?"

Your voice is so sweet and inquiring that she grinds her teeth together so hard she fears she'll chip one.

"Yeah, princess?" She doesn't take her eyes off the ceiling.

"How do you like this one?" You press innocently, like the absolute demon you are.

"Not about how I like it," Vi tries to say evenly, "more about how you like it."

"But I want a second opinion." And she can almost hear the pout in your voice and she really can't look or she'll—

"Are you tryin' to kill me, sweetheart?" Vi finally asks.

And she jolts a little when she suddenly feels the careful press of your fingertips to her chin, her jaw. She hadn't even heard you move and—suddenly you're there—in front of her, gently guiding her face down to your gaze.

She swallows hard as she takes you in, the silk fabric shimmering like a night sky, like the ripple of dark waters. Some siren song, the way it dips to reveal the swell of your—

"Can't you help a girl out?" You ask sweetly, mischief dancing in your eyes, her chin still delicately trapped between your fingers. "I'm having a hard time deciding."

Vi has to drag her eyes back up to your face. And then she tips back, slouching into the plush couch, releasing herself from the hold you have on her. She groans, head tipping back as she desperately searches for some other excuse but—

At the end of the day, she can't deny you.

"Alright," she says and feels like she's signing her soul away, "let's see."

And then she picks herself back up, sits up, and takes a full look at you.

She inhales sharp and small.

You're a vision in midnight blue.

Of course it looks good on you, and she's already thinking about how those little straps look mighty thin and weak—

"What do you think?" You ask, smoothing out the fabric with a quick pass over your torso and hips that Vi watches carefully.

"I mean, you'd look good in a paper bag, princess—"

"But what's it saying, you know? Pretend you're my partner." You say and Vi feels her heart kick up into some unsteady, miserable rhythm. The tips of her ears burn, too. "And you come home from a long day—" Your voice drifts softer and Vi, without thinking, leans towards you like she's hypnotized, caught under your spell, "and walk into the bedroom, looking for me, and I'm in this."

You take a step back and showoff the set.

And Vi, heaven help her, pictures it all. Pictures you on the bed in this little number, waiting for her. Pictures the cat's curl of your lips, the mischief that she'll taste when she kisses you. Mostly, she pictures you as her girlfriend, pictures you waiting for her, singing her name when she comes home to your arms and—

"I mean, if I'm your partner, no lingerie is staying on you for long." She says before she can stop herself.

You laugh, and scold, "Vi!"

And she's smiling because she made you laugh, but she knows what you mean—she knows what you're asking for.

"But—it's classy. You know? It's definitely the lingerie of a mobster's wife. Powerful. A little cold, maybe."

You hum in thought, turning towards the mirror again to examine yourself. You announce, "I agree." And in a flurry of silk, you're back behind the curtain, and you're stripping into the next set.

Vi lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

But when you emerge again, she sucks it right back in—sharp, quick.

Damn.

You're in lacy black. Far less fabric this time around. Swirling pattern, dark panties, and a lacy bralette that clings to you in all the right ways. You look—

Vi whistles.

Dangerous. Sinful. You look—

"Oh, you like this one?" You ask over your shoulder as you turn towards the mirrors to examine yourself.

"This one's—" Vi searches for the right words and simply comes up empty handed, "yeah, I like this one."

You laugh, posing and primping in the mirror, straightening out the fabric resting along your breasts or seeing how it looks to jut your hip out. Vi watches your body, the way it moves beneath the lace, and has to keep her thoughts from spinning away from her.

You turn to face her, to show the set off a bit more. "So this one is better than the previous. What's this one saying?"

Vi gathers her patience. Swallows around it.

"That you want your makeup ruined." Vi says and she's not just trying to be funny, but you laugh anyways. And it's scandalized, a little surprised, but bursts from you in a sweet sound. Vi glows in it, leans into it. "Like you're looking for trouble."

You bite your lip, smile tucked beneath teeth, "I guess I am." You agree, but then you press, "does it look—?"

Vi waits for you to find the word.

"Too slutty?" You ask. "Is that a bad thing?" You then follow up with. And you're seeking, earnest, as you look at her. Something about this flicker of insecurity—or, genuinely seeking her advice, sets Vi off in a new way. God, you're cute.

Vi's fingers curl into a fist.

"I mean, not when it's a surprise for your partner. Nothing's too slutty for that." Vi drawls, "I wouldn't want you wearing this around anyone else—" Her eyes, burning blue like the too-hot part of a flame, sweep up your body to find your eyes, "if I was your partner."

And for once, she sees you audibly fluster. She watches as your lashes flutter a little, at the way you blink at her. Your mouth pops open a little. You clear your throat.

"Right—" You get out, "who else would I wear it in front of?"

"Your bodygaurd, apparently."

You laugh, recovering again.

"Ah—" You wave her off, "that's just because it's you. If I had a different one, they'd be waiting outside."

"You like tormenting me." Vi finally complains, "who knew you were such a little sadist?"

Your smile turns wicked, a little sharp, "Oh yeah, poor you, getting to oggle me in lingerie."

"You know what you're doing, princess." Vi retorts, "Letting me look but not touch."

You linger nearer to her, stepping carefully to stand between her spread legs. Vi holds perfectly still, feels her traitorous heart ratchet up inside her chest.

"You could touch if you wanted, you know?" You say softly, looking down at her. You even reach out, let your fingers skim along her jaw. "You're the only one imposing this rule—who knew you were such a masochist?"

Vi looks up at you, leans into the touch at her jaw, "Yeah, I'm a real glutton for pain, huh?"

Your knee comes up on the outside of her thigh, almost straddling her waist. "It could be you that I'm waiting for—in bed, in this."

Vi curses.

Your lips lift into a smile.

Vi sounds genuinely mournful, "You know I can't be, sweetheart."

You sigh, fingers skimming around the slope of her neck, "It could be our secret."

Vi considers it for a moment; sneaking around with you, slipping into your bed in the middle of the night. She thinks about what it might be like to be yours, even in secret. But she knows—she knows it's too good to be true. In this line of work, secrets are dangerous. Secrets put those you love in danger.

Vi reaches up, hand coming up to your waist for a moment. She let's her thumb trace the lace at your hip, even slips beneath for a moment to feel your skin, unobstructed. She hears your inhale of breath, feels the way your eyes burn through her.

"You got more to show me?" Vi asks.

"Yeah," You breathe, "One more."

She taps your thigh a little, urging you up, urging you away, "Go on then," She says gently, "Show me, sweetheart."

You look at her a moment, fully, with all of your desire and your—feelings for her. It's more than lust, she realizes with a start, the look in your eyes. It's sincere—it's something tender and desperate and—

Reluctantly, you part from her, returning behind the curtain and Vi wonders if you can see the same feeling mirrored back in her own eyes. She wonders if she looks at you that way, too.

When you step out again, Vi doesn't have anything smart to say.

This set is burgundy. It's sheer, with these beautiful, flower details. And the straps are all silk ribbon. Two small bows at your hips, one over the nape of your neck. It's dainty but it's—blush dark and sultry. It's classy, but warm. It's the perfect amount of risque. Vi can only think about how delicately she'd unlace those bows, unwrap you slowly—

(She wants to ruin your makeup in it, yeah, but she also wants to make love to you in this set—wants it slow and dirty and passionate—)

You fix the ribbons in the mirror, you adjust your hair and you turn to her. Stand there, in all your beauty.

"How's this one?" You ask.

"Perfect." Vi says, a little more hushed than she intends. "I mean they all are but—" She let's out a breath, shaking her head, "This one's a knockout, princess."

"Yeah?" You ask, lighting up, and Vi wants to kiss you so bad she almost aches. She wants to take you home.

"Yeah." She agrees, knowing she's not the one who'll be seeing you in this.

(And you're smiling, but thinking, you'll buy it—and no one'll see you in it. Who else are you going to wear it for, except her? Who else, except Vi?

After this, it'll sit in your closet, untouched, until she wants you.)

"Now go change, before I do something I shouldn't." Vi says, dragging a hand through her hair, scrubbing it down her face. "You've tormented me enough for one day, sweetheart."

"Maybe I should tempt you a little further, then." You say, "kept hoping you would suddenly join me behind the curtain, step into there while I was changing and—"

Vi says your name, short and sharp and desperate to get you to stop because she can't take the thought of it. Her face flushes with warmth.

"Go put your clothes back on." Vi commands, trying to scrub the thought from her head desperately.

"Sure you don't wanna join me?"

"No—!" Vi says, rubbing at her eyes, "I mean—fuck. Of course I want to. I can't. Go change!"

Your laugh retreats, back behind the curtain, and Vi blows out a breath of air. A huff of a laugh. When you emerge, you're dressed again, back in your blouse and your skirt and your little heels and frilly socks. You head to the front of the store to check out. The price is too high and at least, that might stop Vi from ripping them, if she knew—

While you're walking home, you tuck into her side. Vi can't deny you, so she let's herself have this; her arm falls around your shoulders. It feels natural, easy, to have you like this.

"You know, I got both sets." You say, impish smile tugging at your lips, "the black and the burgundy one."

Vi's brows raise.

"So, if you ever wanna see them again..." You trail off, "You can pick."

"God, you're such a brat."

You laugh, bright and wonderful and filling the air—Vi aches, happy and longing and so full of you she could burst.

You duck out from her arm, wander further ahead. The city gleams from fresh rain, and you seem to as well. The sun has just returned and fuck, it must favor you—with the way you look, golden and lovely.

You turn over your shoulder to look at her, smile sharp and brilliant, "I'll get you yet, Vi."

"Gotta work a little harder, sweetheart. I'm stubborn." Vi says, but even then, she doesn't mean it.

Even when she says it, she's thinking;

Oh, don't I know it, princess.

(And—you already have me.

I'm already yours.)

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | O9

“𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋”

“We’re designed to fit,” he says, and you don’t know if he means your powers, your patterns, or the way your hand doesn’t shake in his.

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 6,7k

content: reality anchors, the quantum physics are quaking, yoongi being bossy again (and hot about it), elevator scene tension 10/10, jumping across buildings like it's casual (it is NOT), spatial distortion flirty edition, golden tendrils 2.0 (they touched... physically and emotionally??), temporal signature matching (yes it’s hot), someone finally says “we’re designed to fit” and i screamed, drone murder attempt ig, jungkook makes a dramatic entrance and is so annoying about it, team regroup ft. unexplained powers and too many secrets, portal time but make it traumatic.

— author’s note

KAY. LISTEN.

I know I say this every chapter but THIS ONE. this one fried several neurons and may have permanently altered the molecular structure of my spine. I started with “hm what if they walked through a reality anchor” and ended with “what if they synchronized their temporal signatures mid-freefall and touched tendrils in public like absolute whores.” I don’t know what to tell you. I blacked out. This is between me and my caffeine addiction now.

Let’s talk about the jump scene. Yes. You clocked it. That moment where Noma is calculating the distance and Yoongi says “don’t think, just need” and then she LAUNCHES HERSELF INTO THE VOID? Yeah. That may or may not have been deeply inspired by Neo’s rooftop jump in The Matrix (1999, my beloved). I am a massive Matrix nerd. That whole visual of someone standing on the edge of a building, trying to defy the physics they were born into, and being told “your mind is the thing in your way”? It’s been living rent-free in my frontal lobe since I was 13 and thought trench coats were peak fashion.

Because this chapter is, like, extremely about trust. And control. And the horror of not understanding what’s happening inside your own body. It’s about Noma confronting the fact that her mind—her beautiful, precise, analytical mind—is what’s limiting her. And Yoongi, who already knows, who’s BEEN like this longer, who knows what it’s like to break through that threshold and feel the laws of reality tilt around your perception, he’s just THERE. Guiding her. Softly threatening to reset time like a feral little guardian angel.

Also… let’s not ignore the fact that she destroys a drone with her brain and he’s like “cool. moving on.” Sir?? She just folded metal into origami. But okay go off I guess.

AND THEN THEY SYNCH TEMPORAL SIGNATURES. don’t even look at me. I wrote that and sat there like “huh. interesting. so that’s what soulmates sound like in science fiction.” I had to go walk around the block. I made them fit on a molecular level. I made their body chemistry harmonize. Why? Because I am unwell and this is my therapy.

Anyway. Thanks for reading I love you all. Scientifically.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

Reality Anchors are alive.

No one ever told you that part. No briefing, no memo, no research paper had ever mentioned that these imposing structures breathe.

The anchor in front of you rises 37.2 meters from ground to apex, its surface composed of quantum-stabilized alloy that shouldn't—couldn't—pulse like that.

Yet it does. Every 7 seconds, a wave of molecular adjustment ripples from base to tip, disturbing air molecules in concentric patterns that register against your skin at precisely 0.3 pascals of pressure.

Fascinating.

Your retinas register the faint blue luminescence emanating from seams in the structure-temporal energy bleeding through containment fields. 

It feels like reality itself is being compressed into a more efficient configuration.

"Mesmerizing," you murmur, cataloging the observable data. "The quantum-stabilized glass panels are oriented at exactly 73 degrees to maximize temporal field distribution. And the energy consumption must be—”

"No."

You blink, neural processes stuttering at the interruption.

Agent Min has stopped walking and turned to face you fully, his stance registering as 37% more rigid than his baseline.

"I didn't say anything," you point out, tilting your head 12 degrees in genuine confusion.

"Didn't have to." His eyes narrow by approximately 0.3 centimeters.

"Then what are you saying no to?"

"You know what."

"I genuinely don't." Your brow furrows, creating a 0.4-centimeter depression between your eyebrows. "It seems statistically improbable that you could accurately predict my thought patterns without established baseline data."

His mouth twitches—suppressed micro-expression, 0.7 seconds in duration.

"Were you or were you not thinking of using a little detour to satiate that insane curiosity of yours?"

Your silence registers at approximately 3.2 seconds. 

Longer than optimal for casual conversation.

"Exactly. No."

"I find your anticipation of my mental processes presumptuous," you counter, eyes returning to the reality anchor when the uppermost floors shimmer slightly—a temporal distortion effect that standard human vision would filter out. “And I do not appreciate it.”

"Get used to it," he says, resuming walking at a pace 7% faster than before. "You will."

You match his stride automatically.

"The probability of you developing accurate predictive models of my cognitive patterns seems—”

"Already developed," he interrupts, checking his modified Chrono-Sync Watch with a quick glance. "Seventh time you've tried to investigate a reality anchor. Always the same pattern."

This statement contains multiple logical inconsistencies. You've never attempted to investigate a reality anchor before. Your security clearance wouldn't permit it.

Yet your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How would you know that?" 

He doesn't answer, instead gesturing toward the adjacent tower—a colossal structure of similar materials that rises at least 100 floors into the artificially blue sky.

"Travel spot is somewhere in the upper levels," he says, eyes scanning the building's facade. "We need to access it through the anchor first."

You process this information, calculating optimal routes.

"Why can't you pinpoint the exact location?" you ask, question emerging from your analytical centers. "Your previous statements implied familiarity with the network."

His jaw tightens by approximately 4.3 newtons.

"Travel spots shift position by 0.7 meters every 73 minutes," he explains, voice roughened. "Quantum uncertainty principle applied to spatial coordinates. Prevents CHRONOS from establishing fixed monitoring."

"That seems inefficient for a resistance network," you observe.

"That's the point." He checks his watch again—third time in 7.3 minutes. "Inefficiency creates unpredictability. CHRONOS systems are designed for pattern recognition."

You approach the base of the reality anchor, where a standard-looking entrance is monitored by temporal signature scanners disguised as decorative elements.

"How do we bypass security?" you ask, noting at least three visible monitoring devices and calculating a 94.7% probability of additional concealed systems.

"We don't," he says, reaching into his jacket and extracting what appears to be a standard CHRONOS identification card. "We walk in like we belong."

The card in his hand triggers your pattern recognition— holographic security features match authorized maintenance personnel credentials.

"Falsified identification carries a minimum penalty of 73 days in temporal isolation," you note automatically.

He almost smiles—left corner of his mouth lifting 0.2 centimeters.

"Only if you get caught."

He approaches the entrance with casual gait, and you follow—still processing the anchor's structure. 

The quantum equations rippling across its surface follow a pattern that suggests...

"I told you to stop analyzing," he murmurs, voice barely audible at 17 decibels. "Your temporal signature fluctuates when you're thinking too hard. Makes you detectable."

You attempt to modulate your thought patterns, an unusual exercise that creates a 0.3-second lag in your cognitive processing.

He swipes the identification card through the scanner, which responds with a soft tone at exactly 432 Hz—the standard confirmation frequency.

The interior of the reality anchor is even more fascinating than its exterior.

The lobby appears standard-neo-minimalist design, temporal-stabilized plants arranged at mathematically significant intervals—but your enhanced perception detects the subtle wrongness of the space.

The air pressure is precisely 0.7 kPa higher than standard atmospheric conditions. 

The lighting pulses at a frequency of 7 Hz, which is imperceptible to normal human vision but clearly designed to reinforce temporal compliance in visitors.

"Maintenance elevator is on the left," Agent Min says, guiding you with a subtle gesture. "Don't look at the central column."

Naturally, your eyes immediately flick toward the center of the lobby.

The sight momentarily overloads your visual processing. 

A column of pure temporal energy rises from floor to ceiling, contained within quantum-stabilized glass. The energy moves in patterns that defy standard physical laws—simultaneously flowing upward and downward, existing in multiple states… at once?

"I said don't look," he hisses, fingers closing around your wrist to redirect; not enough to cause discomfort.

"What is that?" you ask, unable to fully suppress your curiosity despite his warning.

"The anchor point," he says, voice tightening as he guides you toward the maintenance elevator. "Direct connection to the Master Clock. Looking at it too long causes temporal vertigo in most humans."

You save this information, filing it under high-priority data.

"And in non-humans?"

His steps falter—0.3-second hesitation.

"In Outliers," he corrects quietly, "it can trigger awakening."

The maintenance elevator requires another scan of his falsified credentials. 

As the doors close, enclosing you in a space of approximately 2.3 cubic meters, you notice the absence of standard temporal monitoring devices.

"Why aren't there cameras?" you ask, scanning the ceiling corners where monitoring equipment would typically be installed.

"Reality anchors generate too much temporal interference for standard surveillance," he explains, pressing the button for floor 30. "Creates blind spots in their system."

"That seems like a significant security vulnerability," you observe.

His mouth quirks again.

You don’t know why you’re starting to find the gesture attractive.

"Why do you think we're using it?"

The elevator ascends at precisely 3.7 meters per second, which you note is faster than standard civilian elevators but slower than executive transport. Your inner ear registers the acceleration, adjusting automatically.

"The travel spot," you begin, mind working through the problem. "You said it's in the upper levels of the adjacent tower. Why can't we access it directly?"

He leans against the elevator wall, posture relaxing by approximately 7%.

"Security protocols," he says. "The tower has standard monitoring. The anchor doesn't. We cross through the anchor's 30th floor-maintenance level, and then we use the connecting bridge to access the tower."

"And after that?"

"After that, we find the travel spot." He checks his watch again—fourth time in 12.7 minutes. "It should be somewhere between floors 90 and 97."

You calculate the search parameters.

"That's approximately 7,432 square meters of potential location space," you note. "Seems inefficient."

"I'll narrow it down once we're closer," he says. "My temporal sense can detect the quantum fluctuations at closer proximity."

The elevator slows as it approaches floor 30, and Agent Min straightens, resuming his alert posture.

"When we exit, walk like you're supposed to be here," he instructs. "Maintenance personnel check this level every 73 minutes. Current interval gives us approximately 47 minutes before the next sweep."

"Understood," you confirm, automatically adjusting your posture to match standard CHRONOS maintenance staff parameters—shoulders back, gaze forward, movements economic and purposeful.

The elevator doors open to reveal a stark corridor illuminated by temporal-stabilized lighting. 

Walls are lined with quantum-reinforced panels marked with mathematical equations that your pattern recognition identifies as temporal field calculations.

Agent Min steps out first, fluid and confident. 

You follow, checking every detail of this restricted environment that few civilians ever see.

"Don't touch anything," he warns, leading you down the corridor. "Some of these panels are directly connected to the temporal field generators."

You resist the urge to examine the equations more closely, focusing instead on maintaining the appropriate walking pace and posture.

"The connecting bridge is 23 meters ahead," he says, voice low. "Once we cross, we'll need to take the service stairs. The tower's elevators are monitored."

"Stairs?" you query, calculating the energy expenditure required to ascend approximately 60 floors. "That seems—"

"Necessary," he interrupts. "Unless you'd prefer to explain to CHRONOS why we're accessing restricted floors."

You concede the point with a slight nod.

15 degrees downward, 15 degrees upward.

As you walk, your mind continues processing the reality anchor's structure, the equations on the walls, the subtle vibration beneath your feet that suggests massive energy manipulation occurring somewhere below.

"You're thinking too loud again," Agent Min murmurs, not turning to look at you.

"That's not physically possible," you counter automatically.

"Your temporal signature disagrees," he says, tapping his temple with his index finger. "I can feel it fluctuating."

This statement contains another logical inconsistency. 

Standard humans cannot detect temporal signatures without specialized equipment.

Yet once again, your temporal analysis centers don't flag it as a falsehood.

"How—" you begin.

"Bridge is just ahead. Stay close."

But the bridge…

It’s not offline. It’s gone.  

You stare at the empty space where reinforced glass and temporal alloys should’ve formed a secure pathway. 

Only support beams remain, jagged edges still glowing from whatever energy weapon severed them.  

Agent Min’s eyebrows do something statistically improbable—contracting inward by 0.9 centimeters while the skin between them folds into three distinct creases. 

You’ve never seen his face execute this particular combination of micro-expressions before.  

“They altered this sector’s infrastructure,” he mutters, more to himself than you. 

His left hand twitches toward his Chrono-Sync Watch, aborting the movement halfway.  

You pivot toward the window, retinal sensors catching a faint outline-maintenance door, 3.2 meters left of the destroyed bridge. 

Beyond it: a sheer drop, then the adjacent tower’s western face. 

Your mind calculates the distance before your ethics committee can veto the idea.  

“We could jump.”  

He doesn’t immediately dismiss it. 

That’s how you know things are bad.  

“Distance?” he asks, joining you at the window.  

“14.7 meters horizontally, 3.3 meters vertical elevation differential.” You tap the glass, triggering a subconscious visualization overlay. “Structural analysis indicates the target building’s exterior has adequate grip points for—”  

“For me,” he interrupts. His breath fogs the glass near your fingertip. “Not for you.”  

You tilt your head, analyzing his profile. “You’re suggesting I remain here while you—”  

“I’m suggesting you stop suggesting suicide vectors.” His jaw works, a muscle ticking at 2.7-second intervals. “There’s another route. Has to be.”  

You let him pace—eight steps toward the elevator, twelve back—before interrupting.  

“Average human long jump record is 8.95 meters. My enhanced musculature could theoretically—”  

“Theoretically splatter across sixty floors of neo-Brutalist architecture.” 

You frown. “We’re only thirty floors up.”

“From the anchor,” he says. “The tower’s foundation sits two levels below base-grade. It drops into a full infrastructure pit—ventilation shafts, temporal gridwork, CHRONOS substation access. You fall here, you don’t just hit pavement. You keep falling.”

He gestures down through the glass.

“Sixty floors straight into the sector’s hollowed-out gut. Like getting thrown down a well lined with concrete and death.”

How does he even know all that?

But before you can let curiosity get the best of you again, he stops mid-stride, pinning you with that look again. The one that makes your internal processors skip. 

“But—”

“No.”  

You frown, press your palm against the window, feeling the tower’s vibration through the glass. 

“Then you go first. Anchor a line. I’ll follow.”  

He’s already shaking his head. “Temporal energy doesn’t work like that. Can’t manifest solid constructs without—”  

“Without triggering every sensor in the sector. Yes.” You turn from the window, meeting his glare. “So, again, that leaves one option.”  

For three seconds, the only sound is the reality anchor’s low-frequency hum. 

Then he swears—a creative combination of English and technical jargon your language centers can’t fully parse.  

The maintenance door handle feels colder than ambient temperature suggests. You’re calculating wind shear variables when his gloved hand covers yours, halting the motion.  

“If we do this,” he says, voice stripped to its raw edges, “you follow my instructions exactly. No deviations. No calculations mid-air. Understood?”  

You nod, the movement precise. 

15 degrees down, 15 up.  

He releases your hand to grip both shoulders instead, leaning in until his mint-and-ozone scent overrides the tower’s sterile air. 

“When you jump, you don’t think about falling. You don’t think about distance. You think about needing to be on that ledge. Your entire existence becomes that single purpose.”  

You open your mouth to request clarification on biomechanical feasibility—

“No.” His fingers tighten. “No questions. Your body knows how. You just have to stop overloading it with doubt.”  

The paradox registers immediately. 

“But without understanding the mechanism—”  

“Understanding comes later.” His thumb presses into your collarbone, exactly where that freckle hides beneath synthetic fabric. “Surviving comes now.”  

You glance past him to the abyss. 

He opens the door.

The wind’s howling at 37 knots now, whipping hair into your eyes. 

“Probability of success?”  

He doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Sixty-eight percent. If you focus.”  

“And if I don’t?”  

For the first time, his face contracts—a fractional widening of pupils, a minuscule catch in his breathing rhythm.  

“Then I’ll reset time until you do.”  

The words register as raw, hovering between you for a few seconds before he finally turns toward the void.  

You watch him leap—no hesitation, no visible calculation. Just pure intent translated into motion.  

He makes it look effortless.  

And then it’s your turn.  

The wind screams. The city sprawls below, a mosaic of blue-lit grids and shadow. 

You psych up the variables: air density, potential updrafts, the exact angle of your target ledge.  

Then you stop thinking.  

You launch, and the world narrows to wind and numbers.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no up or down. Just velocity and the impossible distance between you and the ledge. 

Adrenaline floods your system, not sharp but heavy, like a stone pressed to your sternum. 

You’re aware of your own mass, the drag of your body through air, the way your limbs cut a path no algorithm could ever predict.

Agent Min is already there, turned halfway, eyes tracking your arc. His mouth moves—maybe a warning, maybe your ID number—but the rush drowns it out. 

You think of the other side. You need to reach the other side. 

The imperative is simple, absolute. 

Not crossing means plummeting. Not crossing means becoming a data point in a CHRONOS incident report.

You make the mistake of looking down.

Thirty floors up, the city is abstract. 

Cars, people, light—all reduced to static. 

The void is real. 

You feel it in your teeth, in the way your stomach seems to invert, in the cold sweat prickling your palms. 

Your calculations fracture. The ground is coming up fast.

You look up. 

Agent Min’s silhouette sharpens against the skyline, mint hair a streak of color in the blue haze. His eyes widen—first time you’ve seen that particular fear. 

He’s reaching for something, or maybe just reaching.

You’re falling.

The world tilts. Air roars past your ears. Time dilates, then contracts. 

You’re aware of every heartbeat, every useless attempt your muscles make to grab onto empty space. 

The ledge is gone. The city is too close.

Then—discontinuity.

You’re upright. Feet planted on solid ground. Breath caught in your throat. 

Your hands move before your mind does, fingers flexing, checking for fractures, for blood, for any sign of what should have happened. 

Everything responds. No pain. No missing time.

Agent Min spins, posture radiating pure stress and panic. 

His face is a study in shock—mouth open, eyes blown wide, like he’s seen a ghost.

You blink. He blinks.

Your heart is still racing, but your body is whole. You’re here. You made it. The numbers don’t add up, but the outcome is undeniable.

You’re alive.

Agent Min’s gaze darts between your left and right pupils, rapid assessment mode engaged, as if he’s scanning for damage or data.

“Damn it, Noma,” he mutters, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “Holy hell.”

His hands clench into tight fists at his sides, knuckles whitening under the strain. 

You note the micro-tremor in his fingers-2.3 hertz, consistent with suppressed impulse. 

He exhales, a controlled release of 1.7 liters of air over 3.1 seconds, then drags a gloved hand down his face, smearing frustration across his features.

Before you can catalog further, a mechanical whine pierces the air-high-pitched, 17 kHz, consistent with a CHRONOS surveillance drone. 

Agent Min’s posture shifts instantly, weight forward, arm half-raised to shield or shove you aside. 

“Watch—”

You tilt your head back, a reflex, not a decision. 

There’s a sound—metal crumpling, like foil under pressure—and the drone’s frame twists mid-flight, folding inward at impossible angles. 

It drops, a lifeless heap, 4.7 meters below the ledge.

He stares at the wreckage, then at you. 

“Well. Alright then.”

Your mind is already running diagnostics. 

“Did I cause that?”

He lets out a long, resigned breath, shoulders dropping by 1.2 centimeters. 

“Yeah. You did.”

“How?” 

Your spatial awareness logs are blank—no memory of intent, no record of action. Yet the evidence is undeniable: twisted alloy, a perfect collapse. 

You flex your fingers again, searching for a trigger, a mechanism. “Was that a manipulation of spatial configuration? A localized distortion field? I need parameters.”

He steps closer, mint and ozone cutting through the sterile tower air, but his expression is all weariness. 

“We gotta move, Noma. Now.”

You plant your feet, shifting your center of gravity to counter his subtle pull. 

“Explanation required. Did I alter the drone’s physical positioning? Compress its structural integrity via spatial warp? Or—”

He makes a sound full of resignation. 

“Look, Noma, I l—”

He cuts himself off, jaw snapping shut with an audible click. 

A recalibration. 

“I get it. I do. But we don’t have the luxury of a debrief right now.”

Your brow creases, a 0.5-centimeter furrow. 

“Understanding the mechanics of an undocumented ability is not a luxury. It’s a necessity. If I can replicate—”

“You will,” he interrupts, voice low but firm, carrying a weight you can’t parse. “Just not here. Not with drones sniffing our temporal signatures.”

You glance at the wreckage again, mind spinning through theoretical models. 

No data, no precedent. 

Just a gut—deep certainty that you reshaped reality without conscious input. 

The implications are staggering. 

If you can do this instinctively, what else lies dormant? What are the limits? Energy costs? Detection risks?

He’s watching you, reading the cascade of queries behind your eyes. “I know that look. And I’m telling you to shelve it. We’re exposed.”

“Five seconds,” you negotiate, already cross-referencing the drone’s design against known CHRONOS tech. “If I can isolate the method—”

“Zero seconds.” He grumbles, fingers wrapping around your wrist and pulling you behind him. “Survival first. Science later.”

Your logic centers protest, but the risk assessment aligns with his. 

You exhale—petulant, probably, but you do not care. 

Because whatever you did, it’s a piece of the puzzle. A fragment of who—or what—you are. 

And you’ll dissect it, variable by variable, until the equation balances.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air shifts.

Up here, it tastes different. 

Thinner. Filtered, maybe. Like someone cleaned it too well, stripped it of anything real. 

The ground is nothing but blur—washed out in streaks of artificial white and synthetic blue haze. Designed to erase depth perception. To flatten the concept of below into something distant. Forgettable.

CHRONOS engineering at its finest.

You step closer to the edge, boots scraping faintly against the metal grating. 

The city is unrecognizable from this height. Not a city at all, just layers of grids and light. Soft pulses of movement that don’t quite feel alive. No wind reaches this far up, only some sort of hum—low, steady, mechanical. 

You wonder if the workers stationed here can still hear it when they sleep. 

If they ever sleep.

You’ve read the reports. Rotating shifts, twenty-hour cycles, neural stimulants to bypass natural fatigue responses. Cognitive degradation flagged as acceptable collateral. Worker retention rate at 37.2%.

In other words: not sustainable.

But great pay.

You press your fingertips lightly to the edge of the railing. Cool to the touch. Grounding, somehow. 

You scan the skyline, calculating angles, distances, escape vectors you’re not sure you’ll ever need but catalog anyway. 

That’s what you do. 

What you’ve always done.

But the sky pulls at you. Quietly. Persistently.

Dark velvet stretched wide above your head, broken only by the scatter of stars. 

You tip your chin back, gaze locking onto a thousand silent points of light, each one burning impossibly far away. 

Data points you can never reach, but something in you reaches anyway.

And there—framed in that endless black—

The moon.

Not in any model you’ve ever studied. Not filtered through facility-grade optics or distorted by atmospheric interference. 

Just… suspended. Brilliant. Whole. A perfect sphere painted in shades of silver and shadow. 

It’s too much, too big. 

Your breath catches again, chest tightening like something fragile just cracked open inside you.

It escapes before you can stop it. A single word.

“Beautiful.”

Soft. Uncalculated.

You freeze the second it leaves your mouth, pulse stuttering in your throat. 

You didn’t mean to say that. 

You never mean to say things like that.

A breath stirs the space beside you. Not yours.

“…Yeah.”

Quiet. Barely more than air.

“…Beautiful.”

The confirmation scrapes against something unsteady inside you. 

You shouldn’t turn. You know you shouldn’t. But your gaze shifts anyway, slow and reluctant, as if giving your body too much permission might undo you entirely.

He’s already watching.

Agent Min.

Not the skyline. Not the moon. Not the impossible stretch of space yawning above you.

You.

And he doesn’t look away.

For a suspended second, nobody speaks. 

Then his eyes flicker gold. 

It's the seventeenth time you've seen it happen. Seventeenth. You've been keeping count, tracking when it occurs, searching for the pattern. Not random—nothing about him is ever random—but the trigger remains frustratingly elusive. 

Is it emotional response? Memory access? Some kind of power regulation failing?

You step closer until you can detect the subtle heat radiating from him—always running warmer than human baseline. 

His pupils track your movement, dilating slightly.

A measurable response.

His fingers tighten on the railing, leather creaking under pressure. You note this detail, file it away. 

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"I've been meaning to ask," you say, keeping your voice even despite the strange pressure building under your sternum—like something's trying to expand beyond the confines of your ribcage.

His throat shifts as he swallows. Blinks once.

“Ask what?"

"Your eyes." 

His gaze slides away, avoiding yours for exactly 3.2 seconds before returning. Avoidance behavior. 

Why?

The silence grows heavy between you. 

If you were better at social interactions, you might understand why he doesn't respond. 

But you're not, so you elaborate.

"I have noticed they appear to shine at certain moments." You tilt your head slightly. "The same color as your tendrils. But I can't seem to figure out the why."

His focus drops briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. Quick. Almost imperceptible. But you catch it—and the flash of gold that accompanies it. 

Interesting correlation.

He looks at your lips = eyes change.

Cause and effect?

Sexual response?

Your gloved hand lifts toward his face, hovering in the space between you. 

Not touching. Not yet. Just... there. Testing a hypothesis.

"Noma," he says, your nickname rough around the edges. "That's... not advisable."

Why does that name feel so familiar when he says it?

"Why not?" The tilt of your head increases, curiosity sharpening. "I'm collecting data. Your ocular anomalies appear to correlate with specific emotional states."

You watch his pupils expand, blackness swallowing the iris except for that gleaming ring of gold.

"It's not a lab experiment." His jaw clenches, muscle rippling beneath skin.

He's restraining something. But what?

"Everything is data," you counter, your hand still suspended between you. "The gold appears when proximity decreases between us. When conversation shifts toward personal topics. When you look at my—"

You stop yourself. Recalibrate.

"When certain visual attention patterns emerge."

His breath changes rhythm—slower in, quicker out. You track this shift automatically. 

"And what conclusion have you reached based on these... observations?" His voice has become unsteady. 

In it, a roughness that wasn't there before.

The scientist in you needs to categorize it.

The rest of you just wants to hear more of it.

"Insufficient evidence for definitive conclusion." Your palm drifts closer to his face. "Hence the need for additional testing parameters."

"Agent." Warning laces his tone, but you note the contradiction in his body language—the slight forward tilt, the micromovement toward your hand. 

Your watch beeps softly. Temporal variance: 0.87%.

Why does your temporal signature fluctuate around him?

Why does your body recognize patterns your brain can't access?

"The gloves provide sufficient barrier protection for initial contact testing," you say, though in the back of your mind, you know that's not why you want to touch him. Not really. 

"It's not about the barrier," he says, still not pulling away.

"Then what is it about?" 

His eyes lock with yours, longer than his usual pattern. Something shifts in them—not just the color, but something deeper. 

Like barriers cracking.

"It's about..." He pauses, searching for words. "Restraint."

"Explain." 

Not a request. A need.

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Demanding tonight, aren't we?"

Your hand inches closer. 

"Is that why your eyes change?" You push for answers, always pushing. "A failure of restraint?"

A sound catches in his throat, something between amusement and pain.

"They change when I'm..." He stops, recalibrates. "When I feel things too strongly."

"What things?"

"Anger. Fear." 

His gaze drops to your mouth again, longer this time. 

"Want."

The word settles into your chest, makes a home there. 

Your lungs feel suddenly insufficient, breath coming shorter despite oxygen levels remaining constant.

"And now?" Your voice sounds different to your own ears, pitched lower. "Which is it?"

His hand leaves the railing, wraps around your wrist. Not pushing away—just holding. Containing—touch gentle but unmistakably firm.

"What do you think, Noma?" Your nickname sounds different this time. 

Softer. Almost tender.

Why does it affect you when he says it like that?

You mentally catalog his physiological responses: dilated pupils, elevated respiration, muscle tension patterns indicating both arousal and resistance.

"Want," you determine with absolute certainty.

His eyes flare gold again—holding this time, not flickering away.

"Good analysis," he murmurs, still not releasing your wrist.

Your pulse thrums against his fingers. You can feel it jumping, betraying things your clinical mind refuses to name.

"May I?" Your gloved hand moves closer to his cheek.

Why are you pushing this? Why does it matter?

This isn't efficient data collection.

This is... something else.

His throat works as he swallows. 

"We shouldn't," he says, strain evident in every syllable. "That's my professional assessment."

"We're both still wearing gloves," you argue, logic centers frantically constructing justifications. "Barrier intact. Risk parameters acceptable."

"You know it’s not about statistics." His grip loosens slightly. 

He doesn't elaborate. 

Something complicated moves across his face, too fast for even your pattern recognition to decipher.

You need to know. You need to understand.

Why him? Why you? Why now?

Decision made, your hand pushes forward, breaking through his weakened resistance. Your gloved fingers make contact with his cheek.

And—

Oh.

The sensation defies categorization. Despite the barrier of fabric between you, something passes through the touch. 

A current.

An echo. 

Something your scientific vocabulary can't properly name.

His eyes close. He looks suddenly vulnerable in a way that makes your chest ache.

"Your temporal signature," he says quietly, "it just... aligned with mine."

Your eyes drop to your watch. Temporal variance: 0.00%.

Perfect stabilization.

That's impossible.

There's no precedent for this in any temporal physics model.

"How?" The question slips out, unfiltered and raw.

His eyes open slowly, gold filling them completely now. 

Steady and bright and impossibly beautiful.

Beautiful.

"Because," he says simply, "we're designed to fit."

You should process this information. Should file it away with all your other observations about Agent Min and his inexplicable abilities. Should create new theoretical models to explain the perfect temporal alignment currently registered on your watch.

Instead, you just... feel. 

The warmth beneath your fingers. The impossible gold of his eyes. The way your body seems to recognize him on some cellular level your mind can't access.

‘We're designed to fit.’

The implications of that statement should terrify you. 

Instead, they feel like coming home.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

You're staring into his golden eyes when a low whizz cuts through the air. 

Your auditory processing centers register the sound at approximately 17kHz—just within human hearing range, but with a distinct mechanical oscillation pattern consistent with CHRONOS drone propulsion systems.

Before your brain can fully process the threat, Agent Min's head whips around—reaction time approximately 0.3 seconds faster than optimal human baseline. His pupils contract, gold flares brighter, mouth opens to form what appears to be a warning.

Too late.

Something hits you from behind—force vector approximately 47 newtons, angle of impact suggesting deliberate trajectory. The pressure against your back lasts precisely 0.7 seconds.

Then nothing.

Air rushes past your ears at increasing velocity. Your inner ear fluid shifts dramatically, sending conflicting data to your vestibular system. Gravity reasserts its dominance with brutal efficiency.

You're falling.

Again.

Acceleration rate: 9.8 meters per second squared.

Terminal velocity approaching.

Probability of survival without intervention: 0.003%.

The analytical part of your brain calculates these figures automatically while your body experiences what can only be termed as terror—heart rate spike of 73%, adrenal glands flooding your system with cortisol and epinephrine.

"NOMA!"

The sound tears through the rushing air—raw, primal, carrying a frequency range your pattern recognition flags as desperate. 

You twist mid-air, arms instinctively moving to shield your head from inevitable impact.

That's when you see him.

Agent Min. 

Yoongi. 

Falling just above you, body positioned in a perfect diving form that creates maximum aerodynamic efficiency. 

His trajectory indicates purposeful action.

He jumped after you.

He's saying something—lips moving rapidly—but the blood rushing in your ears creates a noise barrier approximately 84 decibels. His words are lost in the chaos of your fall.

Your abilities.

The thought crystallizes with sudden clarity. 

You teleported earlier. Spatial manipulation. If you could replicate that effect now—

Focus. But how? What's the trigger mechanism?

Your thoughts scatter across multiple processing centers, frantically searching for the neural pathway that activated during the previous incident. 

Agent Min never explained the mechanics.

He should have.

You’ll make sure to have that conversation later.

If you survive, that is.

Golden tendrils emerge from his outstretched fingers, extending at velocities that defy standard temporal physics. They reach toward you, pushing against the air itself as if trying to accelerate his fall beyond normal gravitational parameters.

You struggle to replicate whatever neural pathway activated before. Nothing happens. Your fingers flex, your mind focuses, your desperation builds.

What triggered it before? Survival instinct? Specific neural configuration? Direct threat vector?

The golden traces stretch further, now mere centimeters from your reaching hands. Their movement creates visible distortion in the air, like reality itself warping around their influence.

Then—

Something shifts within you. 

Not gradual. 

Not building.

A sudden quantum change in your neural configuration. 

Your cognitive perception splits for exactly 0.7 seconds—awareness operating in multiple states simultaneously.

Tendrils emerge from your own fingertips.

Golden, like his, but fundamentally different. Where his flow like liquid, yours crystallize like faceted gold. Where his move in clockwise patterns, yours rotate counterclockwise.

Opposing rotations. 

Perfect complements.

They reach out—not by your conscious command but through some deeper programming—and intertwine with his traces. The contact creates an immediate energy transfer that registers across your neural receptors as both hot and cold simultaneously.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the world blurs. Spatial coordinates shift in ways that violate every physical law you've ever studied. Distance compresses, then expands.

You're in his arms.

The transition happens without intermediate steps—one moment falling separately, the next secured against his chest, his left arm wrapped around your waist with exactly 82% more pressure than necessary for stability.

You register multiple data points simultaneously:

- His elevated body temperature: 39.1°C

- His heartbeat: 172 BPM

- His breathing: rapid, shallow, 24 respirations per minute

- His face: positioned 3.4 centimeters from your cheek, over your shoulder

So close. One small movement would bring skin against skin. 

Your temporal readings spike at the mere possibility.

Before you can process this new configuration, another force vector impacts you both—lateral trajectory, approximately 93 newtons. 

Not from Agent Min. 

External source.

Someone else.

Your coupled bodies are propelled sideways at high velocity. 

The world blurs again as you and Agent Min, still locked together, phase through what appears to be solid matter. 

Glass. Concrete. Steel. 

Your molecular structure should be encountering significant resistance, yet moves through these barriers like they're nothing more than projections.

Quantum tunneling? Spatial displacement? Molecular phasing? Your scientific vocabulary struggles to categorize the experience.

Impact comes suddenly—both of you hitting a solid surface at approximately 37% of terminal velocity. The force disperses through your skeletal structure, joints absorbing kinetic energy at efficiency rates that exceed normal human parameters.

You roll, momentum carrying you across hard flooring. Pain signals to your central nervous system—data indicating tissue stress but not structural failure.

When you finally stop, every bone in your body aches with the signature of controlled landing trauma. 

Not optimal, certainly not comfortable, but survivable.

Survivable by design.

You inhale sharply—2.1 liters of air in 0.8 seconds���and your eyes search frantically for Agent Min.

Where is he? Was he injured in the landing? Who pushed you? How did you phase through solid matter?

Your golden tendrils have vanished, leaving only lingering warmth on your fingertips where they emerged. 

Your watch beeps an unfamiliar pattern: Temporal-spatial variance detected. Recalibration required.

You blink rapidly, visual processing recalibrating as you scan the environment. 

Sleek walls. Polished concrete floor. 

Location unknown. Sector indeterminate.

Blood drips onto your hand. Your nose is bleeding again—heavier flow than before. Your fingertips come away stained crimson. Your skull throbs in pulses, each one making your vision blur at the edges.

"For fuck's sake, Jungkook, you almost killed them!" 

Taehyung's voice cuts through the fog in your head, sharp with that specific tension you've cataloged as his version of concern.

"I was literally on the clock before they became sidewalk art!" Jungkook shoots back, hands gesturing wildly. "Next time maybe give me more than a seven-second window!"

"Seven seconds is generous considering—"

"Generous?" Jungkook's voice cracks slightly. "Try mimicking two completely different abilities at once! My brain feels like it's been microwaved!"

The argument washes over you in waves as you press your palm to your forehead. 

The pain isn't unbearable, just... insistent. 

Demanding attention like everything else in this mess of a situation.

Your eyes find Agent Min, seated on the floor several meters away. His right hand grips his left shoulder, features tightening in a microexpression of pain he's clearly trying to suppress. 

The joint looks wrong—angled slightly off anatomical baseline.

"We don't have fucking time." His voice slices through the bickering, rough-edged and final. "They're onto us."

Jungkook whips around. 

“No shit? Why do you think we had to pull this stunt?" His hand sweeps through the air. "We couldn't even reach you with Taehyung's interfacing—you were completely out of range! Thank god Y/N's abilities are something else entirely."

Agent Min's eyes narrow, focusing on Jungkook with an intensity that carries clear warning. 

Not a word. 

Just that look. 

The one that stops conversations dead.

Jungkook registers it immediately, jaw snapping shut, body language shifting from confrontational to compliant in under a second.

Interesting.

They're hiding something about your abilities.

What exactly don't they want you to know?

Taehyung clears his throat—a sound designed to redirect attention. 

He points behind him toward what can only be described as a tear in reality itself. A circular formation pulsing with quantum uncertainty, its borders shifting between states of matter in ways that shouldn't be physically possible.

"What about base first, arguing later?" he suggests, voice calm in that way people get when they're trying too hard.

You wipe blood from your upper lip. Your eyes find Agent Min again, seeking his reaction. His gaze meets yours briefly before sliding away, gold still lingering at the edges of his irises.

Why won't he look at you properly?

What does he know that you don't?

"What is that?" The question falls from your lips before you can stop it, analytical systems demanding data despite everything else.

"Travel spot. Portal to headquarters," Taehyung answers, shoulders relaxing slightly at the subject change.

You shift your weight, preparing to stand, when your temporal readings spike without warning. The numbers flash red: 3.17%

That's not good.

"Stabilize her," Agent Min orders, voice clipped. "Temporal cascade imminent."

Jungkook moves fast, crossing the space between you in under a second. 

His fingers press against your temporal monitor, executing adjustments with practiced precision.

"Breathing," he instructs, tone sliding into something steadier. "Seven in, seven out. Match me."

The contact triggers something—a flash of memory that doesn't quite feel like yours:

Different hands.

Same words.

"Breathe with me, Noma. Focus."

Pain spikes behind your eyes as incompatible memory patterns try to align. The room tilts slightly.

"What happened up there?" Taehyung asks, attention on Agent Min.

"Temporal ambush," he answers, face tight. "Drones masked behind a reality field."

Taehyung's eyebrows rise. "That's still in R&D."

"Apparently not anymore." Agent Min pushes himself upright, grimacing as his shoulder shifts. "They're adapting faster this time."

This time.

As opposed to when?

"Your tendrils connected with his," Jungkook says quietly as he monitors your readings. "That's what stabilized you both mid-fall."

You blink, memory fragments of golden light intertwining in freefall. 

The way your body reacted without conscious direction. 

The impossibility of the physics involved.

Agent Min moves toward the portal with measured steps. "We need to move before CHRONOS tracks the spatial distortion."

"She deserves to know what she can do," Jungkook says, voice low but firm.

Agent Min stops, spine stiffening visibly. 

“When she's ready."

"And who decides that?" Jungkook challenges, though his hands remain gentle on your monitor. "You?"

The tension between them feels old somehow. Well-worn. Like terrain they've crossed many times.

"Portal stability dropping," Taehyung interrupts, hand cutting through the air. "Either we go now, or we're stuck here."

Agent Min's eyes flick between you and the portal, calculations running visible behind his eyes.

“We are leaving.” He simply mutters, final.

“Of course we are.” Jungkook replies with a hint of something almost like resignation.

Your temporal readings begin to stabilize: 1.47% and decreasing.

Jungkook's hands withdraw from your monitor. "Stable enough for transit."

Agent Min approaches, movements careful despite his obvious discomfort. His right hand extends toward you, gloved palm up.

"The first transit is... disorienting," he says, voice dropping to something softer. "Holding on helps with the spatial realignment."

You stare at his outstretched hand. The leather creases in familiar patterns. The angle of his fingers seems to match your palm perfectly.

‘We're designed to fit.’

His earlier words echo through your mind, connecting dots you didn't even know existed.

"Noma," he says quietly. "Trust me on this one."

The nickname bypasses all your analytical systems, triggering responses you can't explain or quantify.

Your hand moves before your brain fully catches up, fingers sliding into his with strange, impossible familiarity.

Your watch beeps once more: Temporal variance: 0.73%.

Stabilizing.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

“Let’s go.”

goal: 275 notes

next | index

— taglist

@cannotalwaysbenight @taevanille @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @ktownshizzle @yoongiiuu93 @billy-jeans23 @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @hobis-sprite0218 @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx

© jungkoode 2025

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[fleurdels]

ELLIE WILLIAMS — lights៸ camera៸ acción ★ 1

SYNOPSIS ✶ They've never spoken. Never shared a screen, never crossed paths beyond red carpets and distant glances. But when an interview question goes off–script and the answer is unexpectedly honest — the internet spirals.

actress ! ellie ♡ • part 2 •

You were on time for the interview.

The questions began effortlessly, almost breezy at first. Your latest role, the buzz around the film's premiere, and the exciting projects you have lined up. One after another, they came. It was becoming something you were all too familiar with by now. You answered them all, media–trained responses on standby just in case. Everything was smooth until the very end, when the interviewer decided to shake things up.

They started randomizing the questions, turning to the audience, pulling in "this or that," some personal favorites, and finally. . .

"Okay, tell us. . . blow the whistle. Who d'you think is the most attractive celebrity right now?"

Laughter played on your tongue, scanning the room like you were looking for an out. A part of you considered dodging it, maybe twisting it into something wise or thoughtful. And yet, there were no eyes on you. No knowing looks from the team, no silent cues to perform. So you just. . . decided to wild out.

You had them that smile. The one that says "I'm thinking" — but truth is, you already knew. And you've known for a while.

"Ellie Williams," you said.

The room paused. Undoubtedly, because no one had expected that.

They thought you'd name a guy. Someone familiar. Especially after that exhausting tabloid mess where people swore you were "flirting" with a male co–star, when really, you were just being polite. But this? This was deliberate.

You've seen Ellie Williams backstage at festivals, and in the velvet–drenched glow of afterparties. You've seen her on your feed. Fragments of her sets, the gleam of her red carpet glide, behind the scenes at award shows. Press junkets and panels where she walks in like she's not the moment, even though everyone knows she is. And yes, she's beautiful, seamlessly so.

So when the video of the interview aired, when people around the world decoded it, it became another hit.

Clips went viral. Edits surfaced overnight, your scenes next to hers, layered with soft piano or slowed–down alternative tracks. Fan pages posted side–by–sides of red carpet glances that probably meant nothing but suddenly looked like everything. Some people claimed they knew. Others were just wailing in the comments.

You honestly didn't think people would care so much.

You weren't even trying to make a moment. You were just answering a question.

And then came the final stroke. The kind of twist that turns murmurs into full–blown conversations.

Another event. Though you weren't there, Ellie was.

She was doing what she always did. Signing for fans, talking to them in that low, thoughtful way she did when cameras were half–watching, laughing softly at inside jokes with strangers. Flash after flash. Paps shouting questions over one another, most of them forgettable.

Until one rose above the clamor.

"Have you heard what she said?"

The video didn't cut. Someone was filming from their phone, a little shaky. Ellie didn't look up right away. She was signing a poster, your movie, actually. One you weren't even in together, just happened to premiere in the same week as hers.

For a moment, she stayed quiet. So calm. They assumed she turned it into another meaningless question.

Then, just as she handed the poster back to a fan, she looked up.

Ellie didn't look at the camera. Not at the press. Just somewhere slightly off to the side.

And smiled. . . slyly.

It wasn't a fake one. Not for show. Just a little sharp around the edges. Knowing. Like she had heard it, and that she wasn't surprised. Like maybe she'd been thinking about it too.

Best believe you went scarlet. So stunned, and speechless. Your friends were losing it right beside you.

[usersanon]

Please be aware of the user @/saintsugu also known as Ezra.

Past pseudonyms include (but are not limited to: @/aces_high

I never thought that I would have to create a post like this. In my near 12 years on the internet, I never thought I would have to write down the words I am about to type, especially about a fellow fanfic creator, one I used to enjoy before I found out about the type of person he really is. I apologise for the long post, however I want to make sure I am as thorough as possible so I can bring this person to justice.

Before opening the read more/ continuing with this post, please read the trigger warnings. This will deal with heavy topics, ones that make me sick to my stomach. I apologise for all of the censoring in this post as well.

TW: P*DOPHILIA, UNDER*GE, SEXUALIZATION OF EDS AND SH

I would just like to start off by saying how difficult this post is for me to write. I have had to take multiple breaks while typing this out. I have felt disgusted since I first saw the posts on his twitter. Like I need to take a shower and scrub myself clean, however, at the same time I feel like I cannot sit idly by while Ezra still has a platform.

The posts I have seen on his twitter, what he actively endorses is just disgusting and predatory in nature. I have done my best to censor them so as to not continue the spread of such material. As of the time of this post, his twitter is still public.

HIS TWITTER (X) IS CURRENTLY UNDER THE NAME @/ezr_ace

First, I’ll give evidence I have to prove that the twitter account stated above is in fact his. I was wary at first as well, however, I believe this evidence in fact proves that beyond reasonable doubt that the account is his.

The obvious reasoning is as follows: Ezra goes by the pseudonym Ezra currently, and has gone by the pseudonym Ace in the past. Both the twitter account and his tumblr state that he is 21. Both twitter and tumblr themes are the same in nature, featuring manga panels of Suguru edited in the same way.

If you’re familiar with Ezra at all, you would know that they are very close with another user, Flora, also known as @/fyogasm. Previously known as @/pussydrunkfyodor on tumblr. When going through the followers of this twitter account, I noticed someone by the name of Flora following him (one of about 34 followers), with the user @/floratumblr. This account had their tumblr linked in the bio of the profile, and it led straight to Flora’s tumblr. Screen recording is posted below:

UPDATE: since Ezra has been called out, Flora has unfollowed Ezra’s Twitter as well as deleted her account. I can only assume it is to try and dodge the backlash of being associated with him. Here are screenshots proving they are moots/ interacting with each other.

Note: I do not know what this means for the content of Flora’s character. All I can say for certain is that she is close friends with him (to the point they have each others numbers), and that she follows his Twitter. I did not dive deep into her Twitter before she deleted it. But I can say that I do believe she knew the content he was posting about, otherwise she wouldn’t have deleted her Twitter the second he was called out while remaining mutuals with him on tumblr.

UPDATE 1/19/24 1:50 pm: Since creating this post, Flora has reached out and stated that they have broken all contact with Ezra. They state that they are not frequently on twitter, and was completely unaware of the type of content he was posting on the account. They state that the content found on the account has made them feel sick and that they are no longer friends anymore.

Back to the main point, this only adds to the similarities listed above. A close mutual that he has been seen actively talking to on his tumblr also follows him on twitter, endorsing his behavior. This alone was too much for me to ignore. However, one final factor came into play that solidifies that user ezr_ace and user saintsugu are the same Ezra.

He not only posted to his tumblr about hateful anon messages, but also his twitter at the same time. Right after the messages were sent, he tweeted the following, as well as posted the following messages on his tumblr. Screenshots with time stamps posted below:

This for me, confirms that the two accounts are the same. There are simply too many coincidences for me to ignore. I feel that there is no argument about the validity of the accounts, as there are just too many similarities to ignore. Now, I can delve into what the post is really about. The content of the Twitter account.

P*DOPHILLIC ACTIONS AND UNDRE*GE CONTENT.

To put it simply, I was horrified when I first opened the profile to be greeted with Shotacon artwork. Full on artwork of an adult Toji a*saulting a child Gojo. In this artwork, Gojo looks as if he can be no older than 10. Most of the image is censored for obvious reasons, however, part of the screenshot appears in the video above as well. Proving that it cannot have been doctored in any way.

As you can see, the post is tagged with tw sh*ta. For anyone unaware, the definition of Sh*ta is as follows: “Sh*ta is a term used in manga and anime fandoms to indicate sex involving an under*ge boy.” (Fanlore.org) Aka, CP.

It is disgusting to see someone who I once enjoyed, once trusted, interact with literal cp. Drawing or not, the effect of it is still massive. Viewing children (ANYONE UNDER*GE) in a sexual nature is harmful to everyone. It breaches past dark content into something horrible. Something dangerous.

I felt sick seeing someone be as brazen as to repost a picture of a child being a*saulted. To get off on it. It is p*dophilic. That is the only way it can be put.

Further on this, he has written smut of, in his words, “not necessarily under*ge” Suguru in highschool. There is a whole thread on it on his profile, however, I will not be showing it here. The screenshot below describes the nature of the whole post from his own words.

When I first read “not necessarily under*ge”, my first and only question was literally, what the fuck does that mean? Either he is under*ge or not. There is not some fuzzy grey area coating the world between adults and children.

But sure, give him the benefit of the doubt. That does not excuse him liking multiple posts tagged with under*ge content. The most recent being less than an hour ago. Posts censored to the best of my ability below.

These posts all point to the same thing. The disgusting, undeniable truth that this man is attracted to under*ge content. Content depicting minors in sexual scenarios. Content that no member of society should ever consume. He is a p*dophile. For viewing this content of his own accord. For liking it, for reblogging it. For creating it on his own. He is a disgusting person.

FOLLOWING MINORS.

Him interacting with content like that above, consuming it in any capacity at all makes him unsafe to be around. For anyone. Especially minors.

Even though his blog is 18+, even though he preaches that minors should stay away from his blog. He still found himself following a 16 year old. Becoming mutuals with them. The fact this person is 16 is clearly displayed on their blog as well (in their pinned post).

Screenshots shown below. The individual’s user is censored out as, once again, they are a minor and I don’t feel they should have to be wrapped up in this mess.

Once again, Ezra is someone who preaches about minors staying out of adult spaces. Multiple times he has complained on his blog about minors following him and having to block them. You would think he does the same and would be more careful about curating his online spaces, however it he fails to do that.

I don’t believe this can be boiled down to a simple case of missing the age in their bio— this user has their age in their pinned post, as well as their about me. Along with the sexualisation of minors prevalent on his Twitter, it makes me extremely uncomfortable to know that he is following a minor in any capacity. I’m sure it would make anyone.

SEXUALIZING EDS AND SH.

To end the laundry list of posts on his twitter, we have him writing smut glorifying eds, as well as liking posts depicting sh in a sexual light. As always, screenshots are shown below, censored to the best of my ability.

In the post listed above, Suguru is described in a way that is hard to stomach. While it is not nearly as bad as everything else stated above, I feel it is still necessary to include, especially because in this pairing he has often described and implied Suguru to be a minor. There is a line and he has crossed it several times, this is just another example of such. Serving as the cherry on top to further demonstrate his mindset.

Dark content and discussion of these subjects in fiction are not the problem. The disturbing part of this is that Ezra often uses these tropes within his min*r/adult sexual fantasies, and when paired with the sh*ta and under*ge content, leaves a very poor taste in the mouth. It comes across as not only a gross f*tishization, but a gross f*tishization of taking advantage of a minor that way.

A DISCUSSION ON THE LIMITS OF DARK CONTENT.

In this section, I feel that it is important to touch on how dark content plays into all of this. I’d like to expressly state that this is NOT a condemnation of dark content or its consumption.

Dark fiction and dark content are a fine line. It’s a fantastic tool for exploring taboos and emotions or experiences that aren’t often talked about openly. DC creates what is essentially a safe space for exploring things that are not typically done or seen in the real world, with the knowledge that writing or engaging with it does not necessarily mean condoning it. That being said, this callout post is NOT about being anti-dc. Dark content is a literary or artistic tool. Keeping all of this in mind, to actively engage with sh*ta content in which a character is depicted sexually not only as a minor, but as a child, and to be sexually aroused by that image is the definition of p*dophilia. Writing or drawing children and engaging with that content in a sexual capacity is p*dophilia and at the very least, has p*dophilic tendencies. This is not dark content, this is p*dophilia.

It is one thing to write or create dark fiction between adults for the purpose of gratification or exploration of social dynamics and it is entirely another to engage with art of a child engaging in sexual acts with an adult for (seemingly) the intent purpose of sexual gratification. Everyone draws their own line, but it is also important to acknowledge that there are some depictions of taboo subjects that border (if not fully step-into) harmful, p*dophilic content that perpetuates behavior and mental tendencies that truly are dangerous.

To engage with a drawing of a child and a full grown adult in sexual acts for the purpose of sexual gratification is incredibly fucked up. And the fact that minor and adult p*rnography are not just common, but dominating Ezra's twitter page, should be an absolute red flag. It’s okay to acknowledge that dark content is a medium for fiction while also acknowledging that there are some ways of engaging with it that are harmful, especially when it is so glaringly obvious that the content is between a child and an adult (the art I am talking about specifically really is a child. I don’t urge anyone to look at it, but it is gojo depicted as a child of maybe 8 - 10 years old. I’m not using the term child as an umbrella term for minors here).

The problem, stated very plainly, is that the post/s he is engaging with are sexual depictions of a child with the purpose of sexual gratification. That’s the point here. It’s not the dark content, but rather that he is retweeting posts depicting a child of about 8-10 engaged in sexual acts and created for the purpose of sexual gratification.

Once again, this is not a condemnation of dark content. Dark content can be used in so many valuable ways— facing trauma, dealing with taboo subjects, exploring the literary world in a safe and healthy way. As someone who actively consumes dark content, I will be the first to tell you this. However there should always be limits to the types of content produced. Gaining any kind of gratification from looking at a child being a*saulted is disgusting. It is p*dophillic. Especially when he actively engages with minors on his platform.

This is not a conversation of morals— which side is right and wrong. But rather a conversation about the safety of children. This is not a conversation about ageing up as that is not what he is doing. The characters being depicted here are not being aged up, rather are being depicted as minors, or literal children being used for the sexual gratification of adults.

The issue here is a p*dophile. Not dark content. Not anything else.

CONCLUSION.

I’ll be honest, post was extremely hard for me to create. Discovering that someone I once thought was close to me is this kind of person feels disgusting and abhorrent. I honestly wish I never had the displeasure of meeting them in the first place.

Hopefully, by the end of this post you are able to see the kind of person Ezra really is. I could not be silent about this. I knew that the moment all I found all of this out. This post has been very difficult for me to write, but I hope by the end of it some good will come. Some people will be able to avoid interacting with this man.

I believe Ezra needs professional help, and truly hope that he is able to get it some day soon.

Please be careful with who you interact with on the Internet. Adults and minors alike, there are predators everywhere. Please try your best to stay safe in your own online spaces. All of the love in my heart goes out to anyone who has survived child expl*itation. I hope for nothing but the best for you in the future.

Thank you all for taking the time to read this post. I know it is long and triggering for most people. I hope you all have wonderful days and try your best to take care of yourself.

Listed below are some important numbers I would like to bring awareness to before this post is over.

National Child Ab*se Hotline (USA): 1-800-422-4453

National Center for Missing and Exploited Children (USA): 1-800-843-5678

The National Sexual A*sault Hotline (USA): 1-800-656-4673

Childline (UK): 0800-1111

International Child Helpline: 116-111

TLDR: Ezra has a Twitter account where he retweeted artwork of a child gojo being a*saulted by an adult toji. He liked as well as created posts depicting under*ge characters (literally tagged with ‘under*ge’). All while being mutuals with a 16 year old on tumblr.

Tags used to try and spread awareness. I tried to mostly include fandoms that he is in.

UPDATE: lmfao, he has since deleted the retweet of sh*ta gojo after he was called out. Literally proving that it was him.

[pb-n-jen]

THE yellowjackets cast panel debrief

okay, guys, so I JUST got home, here's everything I can remember from the panel! I have a few videos too, but I'll try and post those tomorrow bc I have to lock in for my final after this ☹️

first of all they all looked BEAUTIFUL and all three of them were in like six inch heels like bad bitches

the mod asked a bunch of questions about how they got cast in the first place etc. which was cute

sammi talked abt how she was originally called in for nat and that she wore black lipstick to the audition LOL

she ended this conversation by saying 'anyways i love you sophie thatcher' .... don't we all

melanie is SO sweet every time they would talk abt all the crazy shit shauna's been doing in the adult tl there would be a pause and we'd all look at melanie and she'd be sitting there like 😇

they were talking about the funerals/death parties for the teen tl and the mod asked melanie and christina if they did anything like that for the adult tl deaths and they were talking about how they literally have to film scenes sometimes and then fly home to their kids and melanie was like 'yeah one time i literally got onto the plane with fake blood still on my face'

basically steven kreuger is everyone's fav cast member bc when they got ask whose death shocked them the most/they were saddest about they all said him 😭

they also hope he'll come back to haunt someone next season (nat or misty) so they can have more scenes with him

per the above point melanie said that alexa told her that mari was pit girl when they were walking in to sammi's baby shower so she just walked into the shower already sobbing

everyone joked that javi would've had to die at some point bc luciano grew up rlly fast and he wouldn't have looked like he was aging at the right rate LMAO

sammi is all in on all the fan theories and constantly reading reddit, meanwhile christina's google account is set to the wrong language and sophie nelisse sends melanie tik toks all the time but melanie doesn't know how to open them

when asked who they thought the final one standing would be they said they hoped it was more than one but if it's anyone they joked it was gonna be walter

talked a LOT about the details of the set and the outfits, sammi drew attention to the fact that even though the huts looked really advanced the showrunners put a lot of effort into making sure everything was plausible. like the wire holding much of the huts together is from the plane's electronics, etc.

she talked about how one of her wilderness outfits (i think for when they ate mari or during the hunt) was sewn out of the seats from the plane

the mod asked whether they thought the teens or adults were more scary and sammi brought up a rlly interesting point (aided by christina) that the teens generally seem 'scarier' because in the wilderness they have literally nothing to lose. but by the end of s3 they've once again lost everything (shauna losing jeff and callie, misty being all alone, tai losing van) that now they're starting to become more and more similar

and now, my favorite parts of the panel (aka mistynatgate)

so, the whole conversation begins with the final girl convo i previously mentioned and the mod asks them all if they've seen the discourse online about it and it devolved into a conversation about fan theories and reddit etc.

mod asks sammi what her favorite fan theory she's seen is after sammi mentions being chronically online and she goes "wow that's such a tough question...." and then thinks for a little bit and comes up with "well, i don't know but i really enjoy all the shipping and how people ship the characters together"

at this point melanie and christina are looking at sammi like girl fym and so sammi is like "yeah like saying how certain characters are in love and making edits of them and stuff" and then UNPROMPTED by the crowd or anyone:

sammi goes: "like mistynat!"

at this point everyone in the crowd loses their shit and christina is like wait HUH

and she goes "wait but nat is so mean to misty"

and they crowd is like playfully arguing and sammi goes "oh i have an edit i need to show you later then 😏"

HUH?? HUH?? TEARS IN MY MISTYNAT EYES

also other mistynat crumbs include: sammi mentioning sophie thatcher ANY chance she gets, telling the mod the thing she's most excited for in s4 is to see what happens to nat post-crash, and christina telling the mod that out of everyone she wants nat to come back and haunt misty because she wants to get "heckled by juliette"

whole room constantly losing it over this

a couple other cute things:

sammi told everyone the teen cast constantly sends edits and tik toks to each other and that their groupchat is called 'nasty 90s'

nuha (krystal) and nia (akilah) are flying down to cali next week and they're going on a road trip with sammi! 🥹

butcherqueen crumbs when mod asked melanie who she'd most want to be haunted by and she answered "simone. obviously, because....obviously" and then subsequently ranted about how courtney was the most gorgeous person to ever walk the earth

sammi getting emotional talking about alexa/mari dying and how sad she's going to be when she's not on set next season and subsequently going "well, no, she'll be there" like SAMMI??? WHAT DO YOU KNOW GIRL??

melanie telling a story about how they accidentally found out melissa survived to the adult tl because when they filmed the bar scene after nat's funeral the call sheet said 'adult melissa double' bc of the bathroom scene but the showrunners hadn't told them yet

and, finally: SOPHIE T SENDS THE NAT IMPRESSION TIK TOKS TO SAMMI ALL THE TIME 😭

anyway guys best 69 bucks i've ever spent and i'm never gonna stop thinking about this ok bye!

[gooselycharm]

severance comic process write up (unasked for)

i finished season 1 of severance jan 24 and maybe by then NL had already begun his apple tv tirades. so maybe that's why i thought of the get it twisted speech? dont remember exactly but i was like wait......... this kinda fits...... and basically the images were forming in my head and i had to get them out. this is the best kind of inspiration to have. when it feels like you are afflicted with a life-threatening disease and the only cure is to draw pictures

i decided i wanted square panels and a black and white color scheme pretty early on. i wanted the pacing to feel kind of fast, so one line per page (basically i was trying to match the monologue). black and white also made sense because 1) i didn't want this to take 2 years like my last comic 2) fits theme of the show and the monologue rapidly whipping back and forth 3) i thought maybe i'd riso print this in the beginning and 1 color would be cheapest/easiest

the sketching phase was really smooth. it was like the images were in my mind already and just needed to be brought to life. my motivation was strong as well (i thought it was really funny and if no one liked it at least i really really liked it).

^ my sketches. most compositions made it to final without major edits. i did cut almost all of the last 8 because i didn't feel like I needed the moment to be dragged out so much AND i was getting pretty tired by that point lol.

one page i'm glad i changed was the ms casey one. the reason i changed it at first was because i thought it was too similar to the irving/burt one. and then i ended up really liking the new composition.

as i moved to final, i had a couple of inspirations in mind. i'm a huge fan of sophia foster-dimino's work, and in particular her sex fantasy comics

^ books/zines i looked at for inspiration. second image is a spread from sex fantasy #4.

i also was inspired by jennifer xiao's comics and how chootalks and nogoodwithcat handle linework and value

i was inspired by jennifer's pop up ads comic for this page. i like the humor in her work and wanted to bring an element of that into my comic.

i love these drawings by choo that showcase these eerie tableaus of desserts/cakes/hammers/etc! i was trying to evoke the same vibe with the two "get it twisted" pages with the stack of waffles.

also, just tons and tons of references taken from the show and stock images.

i pretty much just worked for two weeks straight until i finished. what unemployment does to a motherfucker. even though it's fanart and the words aren't mine, it's a pretty personal comic. i got suddenly laid off last fall which has made me feel all sorts of feelings, and then starting up my job search this year has been grueling. it kinda blows my mind that anyone expects you to love your job. i love my cat. i love the people important to me. i love moving my body and eating good food and listening to music and being out in nature. i love the color green. i dont love my fucking JOB lmfao!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! are you freaking CRAZY???????? literally do NOT get it twisted. but also please hire me. <- this dichotomy has been making me nuts

anyway. the reception to my comic has been mind blowing. people have said some insanely nice things. i also really appreciate anyone who's read and enjoyed the comic without knowledge of severance or northernlion LMAO honestly amazed and in disbelief.... ty so much..... it really means a lot!!!!!!!!!!

okay i ran out of things to say for now byeeeeeeeeeeee