#check last three ask posts for context

[justanechoflower]

Flowey!!

I dare you to let me hug you! Hehehehe.

(Also just wanted to let you know, the art in my profile pic is my persona :P)

*In this specific case, it seems a hug is welcomed! Poor flower’s life just flashed before his eyes.*

16/25 - Daredevil

@friskylafrisk

[abbotjack]

The House She Left You

Content Warnings : 18+ MDNI explicit sex, grief, family trauma, complicated sibling dynamics, references to addiction and overdose, emotionally repressed Pope Cody behavior, morally gray choices, sexual content in emotionally charged contexts, kitchen sex, emotionally manipulative undertones, references to Pope’s canon instability, emotionally explicit dialogue, light dubcon tension (consensual but fraught), emotionally unhealthy power imbalance, unresolved trauma, unprotected sex,

word count : 6,637

a/n : Here’s the Pope fic that’s been sitting in my drafts for weeks. Not my favorite, but I figured I’d share it anyway since I probably won’t be posting much until after finals.

Summary : She’s dead. You have her kid. Her house. Her ghosts. And now—Pope. The man you were never supposed to want, who never once looked at you when he was hers… but who saw everything. He shows up when the fridge hums and the silence grows thick, and what starts as confrontation splinters into confession, then into violence you asked for.

Time: One week after the funeral Location: Oceanside, California — your sister’s house

You don’t turn on the lights when you come in.

The house doesn’t deserve it.

It’s not yours. Not really. Not yet.

Not even after the state handed you a stack of papers, stamped and signed, with your name on the last page and hers on the death certificate. Not even after the little girl sleeping down the hall said “mommy” in her sleep two nights ago and you had to step outside so she wouldn’t hear you lose it.

You shut the door behind you and breathe in the dark. Not a big breath—your chest won’t take it. Something’s been living there the past week, curling in your ribs like an animal, biting at your lungs whenever you try to hold too much air. You let your back hit the wood, keys still in your hand, eyes adjusting to the same stale shadows.

The kitchen light is off. You left it that way.

But the fridge is open.

At first you think it’s just the door not sealed right, some crack letting the compressor hum like a breath. But then it moves. A shape. A shoulder shifting. A figure standing there like he never left.

Pope.

Just his face in the cold light, slack and unreadable. Forearms braced on the counter. Staring into the fridge like there’s something in it worth seeing. He doesn’t look up when you walk in. Doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t apologize.

And why would he?

You flick the switch by the door. Harsh, overhead light floods the kitchen. It hits him like a slap. He barely blinks.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you ask.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it slices. Dry. Defensive. You’re not ready to see him. You weren’t ever going to be.

He shuts the fridge slowly. Leans his hip against the counter.

“You left the back door unlocked.”

You stare. “That’s not an answer.”

He shrugs. “Thought I’d check on the kid.”

“You already did that. Three days ago. She doesn’t even remember.”

“She’s seven.” He finally looks at you. “Of course she does.”

Something in you tightens. You cross your arms to keep it from showing. “You can’t just let yourself in.”

“I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” you snap, voice sharp, teeth bared. “Because it’s her house? Because you used to live here? Fuck her on that couch? Eat breakfast with her daughter like you weren’t already halfway out the door before the coffee was done brewing?”

He doesn’t flinch. Not even a blink. And that’s what infuriates you most—that nothing you say ever seems to get under his skin.

You want him to react. You’ve always wanted him to see you.

“She’s gone,” he says flatly. “You’re here now.”

You let the silence settle. He always had that talent—the kind that made people fill the quiet just to get rid of it. You don’t give in.

He pushes off the counter, stepping around the table. Slowly. Like he’s giving you time to adjust to his shape in the room. Like he knows how he fills it.

“You get the paperwork?”

Your eyes narrow. “You don’t get to ask that.”

“She wanted—”

“She wanted a lot of things.” You throw your keys in the bowl by the door harder than necessary, like the sound might drown out the ache in your throat. “She wanted to be clean. She wanted to live. She wanted to be a mom.”

“I know.” His voice is still maddeningly calm, like nothing ever rattles him. “I was there, too. You think I didn’t care?”

“I think you cared like it was a job,” you say, eyes flicking to the spot on the floor where he used to drop his boots. “I think she used that. I think you liked being needed until it made you hate her.”

A long pause. Then—

“You blame me,” he says. Not a question.

“I blame her,” you bite out. “I blame me. I blame everyone. What does it matter?”

He nods once, slow. Walks toward the sink. Opens the cabinet, finds the glasses like it’s still muscle memory. Like this place remembers him even if you wish it didn’t. Even if you still catch yourself standing in doorways, waiting for him to look back.

“Water?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Don’t pretend this is normal.”

He drinks anyway—slow, deliberate.

“I’ve been watching,” he says—low, rough, worn down at the edges. “Not just her kid. You.”

You don’t know whether to be angry or scared. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe it’s just that old pulse again—buried too long under everything she took before you ever had the chance to want it.

“Why?”

He sets the glass down carefully. Like he doesn’t want to startle you. Like he’s still trying to be the man your sister needed.

“Because I know what this house does.”

Your throat catches. Tight. Dry.

“She let it rot,” you whisper, voice small and shaking and too full. “She let herself rot in it.”

He nods. Once. Quiet. He doesn’t say it out loud—he doesn’t have to. He saw it too. He stayed, and you ran. That’s always been the difference.

You shift your weight, heart pounding like a truth trying to claw its way out. “You don’t get to show up and act like this is yours. Like you’re the only one left who gets to carry her.”

“I’m not,” he says. Looks at you like he means it. “You are.”

And it shouldn’t feel like a punishment. But it does.

Because he’s right.

She left the mess—but she left it to you. The wreckage. The weight. The child. The smell of smoke in the walls. The goddamn silence. Pope? He gets to haunt the corners, slip in and out like a ghost with no leash. But you—you—have to stay and live in it. Scrub the stains out of the floorboards. Pretend the pain doesn’t sound like his footsteps in the hall.

You turn away, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. You won’t let him see your eyes. Not now. Not after all these years of swallowing the part of you that wanted him first.

And that’s when he says it. Quiet. Gentle. Like it matters now.

“She said you were the only one who never lied to her.”

You go still. Stiller than still.

“She said it like a confession,” he continues. “Last time I saw her. Said she couldn’t look you in the eye anymore. Not since the baby. Said you were the only one who meant what you said. Even when it hurt.”

Your hands grip the edge of the sink. White-knuckled. Nails biting down into laminate. Not to ground yourself—no, you know where you are. You’re trying not to shatter. Not to let him see that part of you that still wants to believe him.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because she never said it to you.”

Silence. Heavy. Sacred. Dangerous. It drips down the walls, clings to the space between your shoulder blades. It makes the house feel like it’s listening.

You stare at the wall above the sink—the same place your sister used to hang grocery lists she never followed. Where her handwriting used to live. You used to read them just to imagine what normal might’ve felt like. You used to watch him read them, too—pretending he didn’t already know how it would all fall apart.

“She wasn’t always cruel,” you say softly. Too softly.

“I know.” His voice is closer now. Closer than you’re ready for.

“But she knew how to gut you.”

“She had a gift.”

You turn. Slow. Like the weight of it might crack you.

And there he is.

Watching you like he’s seeing the ghost and not the girl. Like he knows what it costs to keep surviving her. But more than that—more than any of it—he’s looking at you the way he never used to. Not when she was here. Not when you were just the sister on the couch. Not when you burned for him and bit your tongue raw.

“Are you staying?” you ask, barely above a whisper. “Or just passing through again?”

He doesn’t blink. “Do you want me to?”

And that question—God, that question—lands in your chest like a knife you’d still let him twist. Because you don’t know. Because part of you wants to fold into him and forget the rest. Part of you wants to scream in his face. Part of you has wanted this for years, and none of it came the way it should’ve.

But the worst part?

Is that you don’t want to be alone in this house tonight. And he’s the only one who’s ever made it feel like it could be home.

Time: That night, 2:37 a.m. Location: Your sister’s house — hallway outside her old bedroom

You don’t sleep. You just lie there and sweat in the dark.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately—sweating through sheets, through your shirt, through your teeth clenched so tight you wake up with a headache. It’s not the heat. It’s not even the grief.

It’s the house.

It holds things. It holds her. You swear to God, it holds him too.

You roll over, check your phone. 2:37 a.m.

The silence feels off. Stretched too thin, like it’s holding its breath. You sit up slowly, pulse already pounding. You’ve lived in enough shitty apartments to know the difference—between a house settling and a house remembering.

You don’t turn on the light.

It’s easier not to see.

You press your feet to the floor and step into the hallway barefoot.

The wood is cold beneath your toes. The air feels heavier than it did an hour ago—like the house knows something you don’t.

You pause outside your niece’s door. Still shut. Still quiet. She sleeps the way she used to when she was small—after long days, after heartbreak. But now it feels different. Now it feels like retreat, not rest. Like she’s learned the same trick you did: vanish first, before anyone can ask why.

You move toward your sister’s door.

You should go back to bed.

It’s been almost a week since you stepped inside her room.

That had been your one boundary.

You cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout with shaking hands. Rearranged the kitchen so it wouldn’t feel like a mausoleum. But the bedroom? You left it untouched. Shut the door like sealing off a limb you couldn’t afford to feel.

Because walking into that room was like crawling back into a wound.

And you’ve bled enough.

But tonight the door is open.

And the light is on.

You don’t call out. Don’t make your presence known. Because part of you already knows who’s in there. You can feel it in your chest—the static. The heat. The wrongness. The himness.

Pope.

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed with his head bowed, elbows on his knees like he’s praying to something he’s already lost.

He doesn’t look up when you stop in the doorway.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” you say—quieter than you mean to.

His voice doesn’t move. “Neither should you.”

That makes your breath catch. Not because he’s wrong, but because he knows. He always fucking knows. Even when you never said a word.

You cross your arms, lean a shoulder against the doorframe.

“Thought we had a rule.”

“We didn’t.”

“I made one.”

He finally glances over. No surprise in his face. Just that same quiet���dead sea eyes, nothing on the surface but too much beneath it.

“She used to leave the door open when she wanted me to crawl back,” he says. “You remember that?”

You nod once. You were eighteen. Maybe nineteen. You remember everything. The way the door would crack just wide enough for his shadow to slip through. The way you’d sit awake across the hall, listening for the sound of his boots.

“She’d scream at me for two days. Throw my shit out in the yard. Block my number. And then the door would be open.” He gestures around the room like it’s a stage. “Light on. Bed made. Like nothing ever happened.”

“She knew how to make you beg,” you mutter.

He looks at you, sharp. Not angry. Just clear. Like he sees straight through you, down to the part that still aches when he walks into a room.

“I didn’t beg.”

“No,” you agree. “You didn’t. But you always came back.”

He leans back, palms flat on the comforter. Hands spread wide like he needs to feel the fabric beneath him to remember where he is. Who he is. Who he isn’t.

“So did you.”

And it’s true. God, it’s true.

Because you were always there—behind the door. On the stairs. In the silence between fights. You never left. Not really.

You just weren’t the one she asked for.

You push off the doorframe, walk two slow steps into the room.

“She was my sister,” you say. Like it explains everything and nothing at once.

He watches you. “You were kids together.”

You sit in the armchair near the dresser—her dresser, still covered in tarnished rings, tangled necklaces, the half-burnt stick of incense she lit the night before her last relapse. Everything left exactly how she abandoned it.

“She hated when people felt sorry for her,” you say. “That’s why she lied so much. Said she was clean when she wasn’t. Said she was sober on Christmas Eve and then passed out on the stairs an hour later.”

“She didn’t want to be seen like that.”

“No,” you murmur. “She wanted to be loved like that.”

Pope doesn’t respond. Just stares at the floor like it’s safer than looking at you. Like he’s afraid of what your face might give away.

You lean back in the chair, exhale slow. “We were so close, people couldn’t tell where I ended and she began. Thought we were twins. Then she started sleeping with my boyfriends, and suddenly the resemblance didn’t feel so flattering.”

That earns the faintest flicker of a smile. The kind that barely crests his mouth before it dies. But you see it. You always see him.

“She was always louder. Always got the attention. I’d do everything right—get good grades, make curfew—and she’d show up high at dinner and still get the last word.”

“She was fire,” Pope says. “And fire burns.”

You look at him for a long time. Too long. Like the ache in your chest has a shape now, and it’s him.

“She told me you were her last chance.”

He shifts. Slight. But you notice.

“She said that a lot.”

“But she meant it with you. You were the only one she ever… stayed clean for. Even if it never lasted.”

His voice drops. Quiet. Flat. “It was never real. The clean part. Not with me.”

You blink. Your breath catches. “What?”

“She’d lie. Say she was sober when she wasn’t. Tell me she wanted to go to meetings, but only if I went with her. She’d drag me to church on Sundays just to play house.” His hands curl on the edge of the bed. “I knew she was using again before you did.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because she’d already started using me, too.”

The room holds its breath.

Then you whisper, “She loved you.”

He shakes his head.

“She did. In her own way.”

“That’s not love,” he says. “That was ownership.”

You don’t argue. You don’t need to. You both know the kind of damage she did.

“I used to watch you,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Pope lifts his gaze slowly.

“I’d sit in that hallway when she was yelling. Just out of sight. I’d wait for the part where you’d yell back. Where you’d leave.”

He doesn’t speak.

“But you never did.”

“She needed someone who wouldn’t.”

Your throat goes tight. Your whole body stills.

“So did I.”

The words fall like glass. Sharp. Irretrievable.

And the silence after is deafening.

Not empty.

Just full of everything you never said.

Pope’s jaw tightens, like he’s grinding something down before it slips out. His fingers twitch against the bedspread—like they want something to hold, something to do. His gaze drops—traces the curve of your knees, your bare feet curled into the carpet like you’re bracing for impact. He doesn’t look away fast enough.

You feel it like a flare in your chest. Hot. Gnawing. Old.

He exhales, long and low. “She was scared you’d love me the way she couldn’t.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t.

You just sit there in the dim light, your sister’s walls pressing in like old ribs, her scent still soaked into the sheets, the air, the skin at your throat. Pope sits three feet away, looking like something half-ruined and still dangerous. Like grief only hollowed out the parts that could’ve stayed soft.

And for the first time since she died, you feel like you’re finally mourning her.

Not just because she’s gone.

But because this—this—this fragile moment between you, this silence filled with things she always took before they could be yours… this is everything she never let you have.

“I was always cleaning her up,” you say. “Not just the mess. Her. I’d hold her hair back. Cover her arms. Wipe blood off her teeth and pretend it was from brushing too hard. I lied to Dad. I lied to the kid.”

Pope leans forward. Not fast—like something’s pulling him. “You didn’t clean up,” he says, voice low. “You parented.”

The word hits somewhere deep. Somewhere sore.

You shake your head. “I loved her. That doesn’t mean I didn’t hate her too.”

He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He knows—fourteen months apart, same house, same hell.

“She got everything first,” you murmur. “Boobs. Boyfriends. Bad decisions. I got the leftovers. The fallout. Hand-me-downs and scars she never even noticed she left. And every time she lit a fire, I was the one putting it out.”

He leans back, eyes steady on yours. “That’s why you never liked me.”

You hold his gaze. “That’s not why.”

He doesn’t flinch. He just waits. He’s always been like this—danger wrapped in quiet. And you’ve spent years avoiding this exact moment.

You hesitate. One breath. Two.

“I didn’t like you,” you say, “because you made her worse. You let her get away with shit no one else did. And every time she got clean, it was just to keep you.”

You pause. Let it simmer.

“But I couldn’t stop… wanting you anyway.”

There it is.

Hung in the air like smoke. Like confession. Like sin.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

He just sits there, wrecked and unreadable, and you think maybe that is what undoes you—that he’s finally hearing it, and not turning away.

“Say that again,” he says.

You rise to your feet.

And the ache follows you up like it’s part of your spine.

The room holds its breath as you cross the carpet, slow and deliberate—each step measured like you’re approaching something wild and damaged, something that might bite if startled.

You stop in front of him. Close enough to feel the tension radiating off his skin. Close enough to touch, but you don’t. Not yet.

“I wanted you,” you say again. “Even when I shouldn’t. Even when you were fucking her. Even when she made sure I saw it.”

His breath stutters, caught somewhere in his throat.

You lower yourself between his thighs, fingers grazing the inside of his leg—slow, certain, like a fuse being lit. Careful. Knowing. The kind of beginning that doesn’t end clean. The kind that ruins.

“She used to tell me I was boring,” you whisper. “Too clean. Too smart. Not the kind of girl men ruin.”

Pope looks down at you like you’ve just become a threat—like you’re something holy and reckless, the kind of woman men do ruin, and never recover from.

“I wanted to be ruined,” you say. “By you.”

And that’s what breaks him.

His hand twists in your hair, rough and unrelenting, dragging you up with the kind of desperation that doesn’t ask—it takes. Like he’s been holding back a storm and finally lets it swallow him whole.

The kiss is unholy. Starved. His mouth crashes to yours like a blasphemy he’s longed to speak aloud, all spit and heat and something darker—like he’s tasting damnation and begging for more. Like your ruin is sacred and he’s ready to bleed for it.

It’s violent with need—ten years of silence burning on his breath. He pulls you into his lap with a force that borders on frantic, devouring your mouth like he’s been fasting on guilt and grief and this is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want since she died.

His hands are on your back, your hips, your ass. Gripping. Claiming. Consuming. Like he’s trying to memorize you by force. Like he doesn’t trust this moment to last.

“Tell me you hate me,” he pants against your mouth, lips brushing yours, voice torn and desperate.

You shake your head. “Can’t.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

“It is.”

You kiss him again—harder this time—so violent it nearly topples you both. It’s not tenderness. It’s a confession in blood.

He groans—full-throated, ragged. Like it’s been trapped inside him for years. His hips jolt up, grinding into you with a heat that burns through the cotton between you.

You grind down, shameless. Raw. He’s already hard—thick, aching, leaking beneath the fabric of his sweats—and you feel the exact shape of everything you’ve ever wanted.

His hands fly to your face, rough with urgency, and he pulls you back to him like he needs to look at you. Like he can’t breathe unless your eyes are open.

“You want it slow?” he asks, voice cracked and wrecked. “Or just the part that hurts?”

"Both."

He lifts you off him in one swift, breathless movement—your body dragged from his like it wounds him to let go.

“On your knees.”

You obey.

Not because you’re submitting. Not with him.

With Pope, it’s not power���it’s surrender. It's history. It's wanting so badly it’s become a kind of religion. You crawl to the center of the bed, fingers sinking into her old comforter, and arch for him with instinct and ache, every breath shaking loose something you’ve buried.

He kneels behind you. Doesn’t touch you at first. Just breathes.

Then his hands are on your hips, tugging at your waistband—not rough, not rushed. Like every inch he bares is something he’s never thought he deserved. He slides everything down your legs in one slow motion.

You exhale like it hurts.

He stays there for a moment, hands resting on your skin—like if he moves too fast, he'll ruin you. Or himself.

You hear his breath catch. Feel his heat press up against your back.

“Look at you,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. Wrecked. “So fucking pretty like this. Can’t believe she ever called you weak.”

“She said a lot of things,” you whisper, voice trembling. You’re already unraveling.

His hand traces your spine, palm flat. “She said you were off-limits.”

You look back over your shoulder. Voice like a dare. “And are you good at following rules?”

His eyes meet yours. Burning. “No.”

He drags his fingers through the wet heat of you. Slow. Possessive. Like he’s confirming something he already knew.

“Wet already,” he says, voice guttural. “You were waiting for this.”

You nod, breath shallow. “My whole life.”

He doesn’t pause.

He fists his cock—thick, veined, flushed dark—and brings it to your entrance, dragging the blunt head through your slick with deliberate weight. Like he’s about to take something he’s been denied for years.

And then—he freezes.

“You sure?”

You glance back again, hair falling into your eyes. “You don’t get to be gentle now.”

That’s all it takes.

He drives into you in one slow, brutal, soul-tearing thrust.

You gasp—lurch forward—and arch. Nails digging into the mattress. Breath punched out of you.

And he doesn’t move.

Just stays buried, impossibly deep. One hand locked on your hip, the other pressing down at the base of your neck—holding you there, grounding you, steadying himself like this is the only way he won’t fall apart.

Like you’re the first thing that’s ever made him believe he’s real.

“You feel that?” he rasps, voice raw and shaking. “That’s me. Inside what she said I could never have.”

He pulls back.

Then slams forward.

You cry out, high and sharp, and he fucks you like he’s punishing himself for every year he pretended he didn’t want this. Like he’s finally taking what he buried alive.

The rhythm is merciless—hips snapping into you again and again, the sound obscene, wet, relentless. His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your ribs, pressing you down like he wants to keep you there forever. He’s panting against your back, mouth open, breath ragged, murmuring broken things:

“Mine.”

“Should’ve been you.”

“Fuck—take me, just like that.”

You’re moaning, gasping, shaking, eyes blurred from how deep he is, how wrecked you feel. You brace your hands harder into the mattress as your body tightens around him—clenching, spiraling, gone.

When you clench, he growls, a low sound that vibrates into your bones.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Just like that. Let me wreck it.”

You nod, barely breathing, tears slipping hot down your cheeks—silent and unstoppable.

He leans over you, chest heavy on your back, and one hand slides under your stomach—ruthless, focused—fingers finding your clit with practiced cruelty. He rubs tight, filthy circles, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. It's too much. It’s perfect.

“You gonna come for me?” he mutters against your ear, voice thick, ruined. “Gonna let me feel it?”

You nod frantically, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he snarls. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“Please—” you gasp, high and cracked.

“Let me ruin it,” he whispers. "Let me be the one who breaks it."

And you do.

You come with a sob—full-body, wrenching, your orgasm ripping through you like a scream you’ve been holding back for years. You clench around him, trembling, crying, coming apart with his name in your mouth.

He follows seconds later—slamming in deep, one final thrust that splits you open—and groans, long and guttural, like it’s killing him to let go. He spills inside you with a curse and your name dragged raw from his throat.

Then he collapses over you.

You’re both shaking. Breathing like you’ve survived something. Still joined. Still trembling.

He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move.

Just stays there—chest flush to your back, mouth pressed to the curve of your shoulder, fingers tangled in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re the only thing that’ll keep him from going under.

“Was it worth it?” you ask, voice broken, raw.

His answer barely makes it past his lips.

“Ask me when I lose you too.”

Time: 8:19 a.m. Location: Kitchen. The morning after.

You wake up to sunlight, and the first thing you feel is him.

Not his body—he’s gone. Just the dent he left behind in the mattress. The scent of him on your skin. The ache between your legs that’s part soreness, part memory. You feel raw. Wrung out. Touched in ways you’d spent years trying not to imagine. You feel like her.

You close your eyes, but it doesn’t help. The images are branded behind your eyelids: Pope’s hand tangled in your hair. His voice in your ear. His body holding you still like he needed to memorize your shape before he could live with himself.

Let me be the one who breaks it.

You roll onto your back, and it hits you all over again—he fucked you in her bed. Not just sex. Not a mistake. A collision. A choice. A lifetime of looking and aching and staying silent that finally snapped loose. And now?

Now he’s gone.

You sit up slowly. Your thighs stick to the sheets. You wipe at the sweat on your chest. You look like a girl who got wrecked and abandoned.

You look like someone your sister would have mocked.

You dress in yesterday’s clothes and follow the scent of coffee.

You hear them before you reach the kitchen.

Her voice—small, familiar, sharp enough to gut you.

“You made them wrong,” your niece says.

Pope grunts. “There’s no wrong way to make pancakes.”

“Mom used to put bananas in.”

He doesn’t answer.

You stop at the edge of the doorway.

He’s there. At the stove. Same hoodie from last night. Hood up. Shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller, vanish into the steam. He doesn’t look at you, but his whole body goes taut the second you enter—shoulders pulled tight, jaw locked.

He knows you’re there.

He always knows.

You used to think it was a sixth sense for violence. Now you think it’s guilt. Or longing. Or both.

“Morning,” you say, voice low.

Your niece lifts her fork and waves. “He’s making breakfast. But it’s not the way she did it.”

You look at him.

He still won’t look back.

The silence is brutal. Ticking. Loaded.

You take a step in. Measured. “Can I talk to you?”

His hand flexes on the spatula. Tight enough to crack it.

“Not now.”

“You don’t get to do that,” you snap.

That gets him.

His gaze cuts over his shoulder—sharp. Brief. A warning behind his eyes like the ones he used to give her before everything went to hell.

“Do what?” he says.

“Pretend like last night didn’t happen.”

He turns now. Fully. Slowly. Like he’s squaring up, not facing you.

“It didn’t mean anything,” he says.

But it’s too fast.

And it doesn’t sound like him. Doesn’t sound like a lie he’s practiced. Sounds like it burned his mouth to say it.

You stare. Your voice softens, but it’s no less dangerous. “That how you’re gonna handle this? Just another Pope Cody vanishing act?”

His jaw ticks. That old, silent rage moving beneath the surface.

“There’s a kid in the room,” he says, dead flat.

“Don’t use her as a shield.”

His mouth tightens. No comeback. Just a low simmer. That silence that always came before the damage.

You step closer. Cross the kitchen tile like it’s a line he’s dared you to walk.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t feel it.”

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

Because he can’t.

Because for the first time in years, you touched something real—and so did he.

And now he's too much of a coward to hold it in daylight.

You wait while she eats—sloppy bites of pancake drowning in syrup, her small hands sticky and careless, bare feet kicking at the air beneath the table like she’s still too light to be touched by everything that’s broken.

Pope doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sit. Doesn’t blink. His jaw is clenched. Shoulders coiled. He watches over her like it’s all he knows how to do. Like standing still might hold the world in place a few seconds longer.

He doesn’t eat. Doesn’t drink. Doesn’t look at you.

When the bus honks outside, she shoves her plate away, grabs her backpack off the hook, and bolts out the door without looking back.

“Bye!” she calls.

The screen door slams.

And then—nothing.

No syrup chatter. No footsteps. No excuse left to not look at each other.

That’s when the silence gets dangerous.

He’s already halfway to the door when you stop him.

“Say something real,” you breathe.

He stops. Doesn’t turn. Just stills like an animal in a snare, waiting for the next shot.

“Last night… that wasn’t some mistake. That wasn’t about her.”

He shakes his head once. A sharp cut of movement. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

He turns. Slowly. Like it hurts. His face is unreadable—not empty. Buried. Like everything he’s ever felt for you got pushed somewhere too deep to dig out without bleeding.

“You think I wanted it?” he asks, voice low and cracked. “You think I planned that? I touched you in her bed.”

You fold your arms, fingers digging into your sides. “You wanted me before she died.”

He twitches like it’s a bruise you just pressed too hard.

“I saw it,” you say, breath tight. “The way you’d leave the room when I laughed too loud. The way your eyes caught on my hips when I wore her clothes. You were scared of it.”

“Of course I was scared,” he bites out. His voice splinters. “You were the only good thing left in this house.”

You blink.

The words hit harder than they should. Like a wound breaking open from the inside.

“I’m not good, Pope.”

“You are,” he says instantly, eyes locked on yours, voice ragged. “That’s why I came back.”

You blink. Again. Slower.

“I didn’t come back for her,” he says. “I came back for the kid. And for you.”

You step forward. Slow. Breath caught somewhere between your ribs and your spine.

“You kissed me like you hated yourself.”

“I did.”

Another step. “You fucked me like you were trying to forget her.”

His jaw clenches. “I was.”

And another. “But you held me like you didn’t want to let go.”

His breath catches.

And now—you’re in front of him.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his chest. Close enough to see the blood pulsing in his throat. Close enough to see what he won’t say in the tremble behind his eyes.

And that’s when he shatters.

Not loud.

Not explosive.

Just shatters—like a man who’s been grieving too long, loving too hard, and finally let himself want something he was never supposed to touch.

Like you’re the only thing he ever wanted that didn’t ask him to disappear.

He grabs your face. Not sweetly. Desperately. His palms are rough, trembling against your skin like he’s holding a live wire. Like this—you—is the thing that’s going to burn him alive, and he’s asking for it anyway. His forehead drops to yours, and he exhales like it hurts to be this close.

His hands are shaking.

“I don’t know how to want things without destroying them,” he breathes. Voice low. Fractured. Like it’s been stuck in his throat for years.

“I’m already broken,” you whisper.

“I know.”

And then he kisses you.

It’s not clean. It’s not even careful.

It’s devouring.

Too wet. Too fast. His mouth misses yours and lands on your jaw, your throat, your collarbone like he’s trying to bury himself in you. Like he wants to wear your skin, hide inside your ribs, press himself so deep he can forget what loving her did to him. What not touching you did to him.

His hands shove under your shirt—urgent, reckless—palming your ribs like they hold answers. He fists the back of your waistband, yanks you toward him, and lifts you up onto the counter with a grunt, breath ragged in your ear.

You gasp, sharp and startled.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t ask. He drags your pants down to your thighs like he’s furious they were ever on you in the first place.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he rasps, every word a confession he doesn’t want to survive. “I keep seeing you—bent over her bed. Your hands in the sheets. Your voice in my mouth.”

He pushes your legs open, staring down like it kills him. Like the sight of you is both prayer and punishment.

“I woke up hard this morning,” he chokes. “Had to jerk off in her shower. Couldn’t stop hearing you.”

You moan. Soft. Shaken. “Pope—”

He grabs your face again, rougher now, like your voice just undid something he was barely holding together.

“You wanna be mine?”

“Yes,” you breathe.

“I don’t do gentle.”

“I don’t want gentle.”

His thumb brushes your lower lip. A tremble beneath the violence.

“You say stop, I stop.”

You nod. Breathless. “I won’t.”

And that’s it.

He shoves his sweats down, rough and clumsy, teeth clenched. His hands lock around your thighs—hard, claiming—and he lines up, flushed and thick and aching.

No teasing. No question. Just one long, brutal thrust.

You cry out—your whole body arching, splintering, as he drives deep into you.

Your sound echoes off the cabinets. The floor. The silence she left behind.

He doesn’t apologize.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you like it’s survival. Like he means to stay. Like this is the only way he knows how to say I’m here—not with promises, but with ruin.

Like he thinks he can erase her memory by burying himself in yours.

Your hands claw at his hoodie. He doesn’t take it off. Doesn’t even kiss you again. He just fucks you harder, like he’s chasing something down inside himself—guilt, grief, hunger. Maybe all three.

You moan his name and his grip tightens until your skin burns.

“I can’t stop wanting you,” he growls, teeth bared.

“Then don’t.”

He thrusts harder. Rougher. You fall apart with a sob—full-body, breathless, undone—your orgasm ripping through you.

And he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going until he’s gone too—slamming into you deep, groaning like it’s killing him, his release pulsing inside you, your name dragged raw from his throat like it’s the only thing he still believes in.

The kitchen is silent again.

Except for your breathing—shallow, broken. Except for his—louder, rougher, like he’s still trying to catch it. Like he’s still somewhere inside you.

Pope doesn’t move.

His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath hot where it hits your skin. One hand grips the counter beside your thigh, the other still buried in your hair. He’s trembling. Not from the cold. Not from shame.

From the fact that he’s still here.

That you’re still here.

When he finally pulls out, it’s slow. Careful. Like it hurts him to leave.

You wince, but don’t pull away. You don’t move at all.

He tucks himself back into his sweats with one hand, the other never leaving your skin.

You expect him to speak. To backtrack. To run.

He doesn’t.

He stands between your legs, eyes closed, hands now resting on your hips—thumbs rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself. Like he’s trying to learn what staying feels like.

You whisper, “What now?”

He opens his eyes. Bloodshot. Devastated.

“I don’t know,” he says. “But I don’t want to leave.”

Your throat tightens. You nod.

“I won’t make you promise anything,” you say.

“Good,” he mutters. “I break those.”

A pause.

Then—his hand lifts. Brushes your hair behind your ear. Fingers trembling.

“I don’t know how to be what you need,” he says quietly.

“You already are,” you answer. “You’re still here.”

His jaw clenches.

And for the first time in years, you see it on his face—not guilt, not rage.

Hope.

Tiny. Fragile. Flickering.

But alive.

He kisses you again. Slow this time. Like thanks. Like maybe, if he’s careful enough, this won’t burn too.

And when he rests his forehead to yours again, he doesn’t shake.

He breathes.

And so do you.

[agarthanguide]

Okay so this is interesting-

Last night I posted three polls. This was in the name of Fun, but the goal was to figure out how artists perceive their own skills. I suspected that elements of art that require high manual dexterity, like line work, are most instinctual. But elements that don’t require any manual dexterity at all, like color choice, are more cerebral. Here are the polls as of now-

So actually- after just 14 hours, it’s kind of bearing out my lazy and non-scientific hypothesis.

I intentionally wrote the questions to be matching and with very little nuance, but also very open to interpretation. I wanted an instinctual response that wasn’t based on logic, but how artists felt about their skills.

For the first few hours everyone seemed to get it. But then something interesting happened. The color poll broke containment. Not much. But enough to alienate it from the context of the other polls. And people started reacting with bafflement and, in some case, frustration.

I’m not surprised that the color poll specifically was the one to get this response. The poetry and grammatical vagueness of the phrase “where does your color live,” outside of the context of the other two polls, implies that you own a color and it lives somewhere.

I’m a little surprised at the total lack of curiosity of the people responding. When I see something baffling, I immediately check out the OP and see if there is a context I’m missing. All of these polls are at the top of my blog right now, and my pinned post explains pretty well what kind of artist I am.

So yeah. No lesson, here. Just an observation from like 5 asks (all of which were very nice and kind of excited to see what the results will be) and kind of a lot of comments and tags demanding explanations while searching for none.

[maream-zaream]

Don’t know if this is still going on, but here’s a (kinda) quick drawing of Ink in that one haori in that post by @letsatomicbanana !

Additional notes under the cut (be warned though it’s a lot lol):

So when I saw the post I ended up reverse image searching the photo in order to see in what context this haori and hakama would’ve been worn in (though it didn't really matter in the end, as I just ended up drawing Ink painting on their sleeve). Just to like get an idea of what kinda thing I wanted to draw Ink doing in it and stuff, as well as just to get a better idea of how it’s supposed to look when worn. Now, for this specific one I’m not entirely sure, as since it seems to have been reposted on like a bajillion different websites, with many of the ones listed in the search not being in English. So needless to say, no clue where this thing came from!

However! My search wasn’t for naught! From the list of suggested links from the Google search, one was for a haori and hakama set from a rental clothing company called “Keio” (I think… keep in mind I’ve still been using google translate since the website was in Japanese lol). The specific outfit in question was this:

Now, this looks very similar to the one Banana posted, so I’m going with the assumption that the two outfits were probably made for similar purposes. Especially since not many adult haoris are made this these kinds of intricate designs (at least none that I could find). Anyways, this ensemble was listed under clothing one could rent for their child to wear for the Shichi-go-san (literally “seven-five-three” in English) Festival.

((Now quick disclaimer for the following: I am not Japanese nor any sort of expert on Japanese culture and history! As such, take the following with a grain of salt and I very much encourage you to look more into this festival on your own, as learning about this holiday was quite fun and informative and I would be 110% be happy being corrected for any misinfo, whether that be in the tags, reblogs, or any other method most preferred! Also, I've listed the websites I used here at the end of this post for y'all to check out after reading, apologies though for no footnotes.))

Continuing: During Shichi-go-san, parents bring their children of ages three, five, and seven to visit a Shinto shrine to celebrate the children’s growth and to wish or pray for good fortune. Why these ages? Glad you asked! It’s because three, five, and seven are considered auspicious ages in East Asian numerology, with this also making the date this festival is held— the 15th of November�� especially lucky! It’s also interesting to note how the festival was originally exclusively done by the aristocracy and samurai families, though the tradition spread to the common people by the Edo period (1603-1868), though how the festival is currently held evolved from the Meiji era (1868-1912).

Now for the actual visit itself, traditionally five year old boys wear hakama and haori like the one pictured above (as traditionally this was the age that first allowed them to wear hakama in public), with seven year old girls going wearing a kimino with an obi (similar reasoning to the aforementioned boys; seven was the age where girls would traditionally begin wearing obi). For the three year olds? Girls may wear a hifu (a type of padded vest) and both genders seem to be able to wear hakama kimonos (take the three year olds dress stuff with a grain of salt though, not 100% sure on it lol). Also interesting to note is how in the past the age of three was the last year that parents kept their kid’s head shaved before allowing it to begin growing out more, though this practice of hair shaving seems to have fallen out of fashion around the 1800s.

In more modern times, many of these aspects are still upheld (except obviously the aforementioned hair shaving) during the Shichi-go-san festival, of now of course though with the modern addition of parents taking this opportunity to get lots of photos of their kids in formal attire lol. Additionally, parents also often get their kids some chitose-ame (longevity candy)—a type of sweet hard candy—after the shrine visit!

Slightly unrelated, here’s a quick sketch I drew of Ink eating this candy cause I thought it’d be funny:

He is NOT getting his rental deposit back (…is that a thing? Idk I’ve never rented clothes before lol)

ANYWAYS, I just wanted to put this stuff down cause I found learning about this festival really interesting and thought it to be relevant with the whole Japanese-attire thing lol. And again, don’t be afraid to correct me on anything and/or add your own additions to the info written above!

List of sources:

Tsukihana

Kids Web Japan: Shichi-go-san

Japan America Society of Greater Philadelphia

Wikipedia page for Shichi-Go-San

Have a great rest of your day/night if you got this far!

[khaoala]

Lore request number 1847389291 (sorry I've been asking so much lmao new som som trying my best to catch up) what happened at firsts graduation I saw that hug and that kt almost didn't go but no details help? Pls?

anon, first of all, feel free to send fk lore questions whenever you like. i'll try to give as much context as i can, and people also add things in, and it's a blast, i love when these come in.

second of all, i'm so very glad you're making me talk about first's graduation. it's probably one of my favorite firstkhao moments.

first's graduation (he has a bachelor's degree in cyber business management and graduated with honors, he's that guy) happened on december 15, 2021, so two weeks after the announcement of the eclipse during gmmtv 2022. this event is what we (or at least i do) like to call "the event that inspired the plot of our skyy 2 x the eclipse" because it's basically what happened 😏😏

as you can imagine, graduating is a very important moment and in thailand they do this thing a lot of holding fan gatherings when an artist graduates and many of their friends come to congratulate them too (like when earth, firstkhao and arm went to mix's graduation last year).

first had a lot people over to see him. besides his family members, ofc, first's favorite bruda (tay tawan) attended, gawin, ciize, louis, love, nanon and many many others.

but khaotung, being the rascal that he is, told first that something came up and that he wouldn't be able to attend first's graduation which made first properly sulky. i'm not even kidding. they were all using masks ofc because 2021, covid, all that shit, but we know mr. kanaphan to have amazingly expressive eyes and baby boy looked so sad and pouty because his best friend said he wouldn't attend (tumblr doesn't let me post more than one video, but i'll link you to the videos and the graduation tag so you can check out his contained tantrum in the end of this post).

at some point when ciize (who is the founder of this fandom, may i add, since when they were just a ghostship, she was already in the trenches) approached first, and he was talking in the phone with khaotung and first offered her the phone and she asked "what did you do to make him so angry, khaotung?!"

ofc khaotung was just joking and ofc he wouldn't miss his best friend's graduation. he showed up and i kid you not, it was like first's sunny disposition came back to him in a blink. ofc, he was still annoyed bc khaotung fooled him and there were many instances where it looked like he was going to hit khaotung, but khaotung knows his baby bestie and stayed by his side all the time. there were a few moments when first would be talking to other people but his hand would stay around khaotung (there's one particular video of them talking to what i believe is one of the staff, and while first's eyes are on them, he keeps caressing khaotung's back absentmindedly because the next thing we assume happens is that first scolded khaotung - again - for pranking him).

khaotung was having a blast that day playing around with first. and first was also trying to look nonchalant at some point which was so adorable. you know how in the end of our skyy 2, after ayan's surprise to akk and how he says, "i told you i loved seeing you get pranked. when you make an angry face, you look so… (cute)". that is firstkhaotung during first's graduation.

you can search the tag #FirstkpGraduation on twitter where you'll find many more videos and pictures and here's the links to some of my favorite videos since i can't post them here:

[ link one ] [ link two ] [ link three ] [ link four ] [ link five ] [ link six ]

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

prev | next

Like last time, I have no pictures of cute animals to post, so let's start with a shirtless Mister and collect our daily flag. Love the look on Caden's face - "well, we won't be flagged because of me."

Tiago is just happy to be in the great outdoors and no longer around such a dastardly criminal presence as Mister - "...he's standing right behind me, isn't he?"

(Mister was actually complimenting Lilac's appearance, but let's pretend.)

For some reason, everyone is congregating around this one tile. Perhaps Tiago figures there's safety in numbers? Delphine shares Caden's skepticism about Mister's claims, and he's too busy locking eyes with Lilac to convince her otherwise.

And look, we are three for three in shirts! This is not a drill. For this momentous occasion (👕👕👕), Mister receives a hug of gratitude from Lilac.

Lilac is just vibing when she receives a text from Spencer. Naturally she declines, but that pixel is nothing if not persistent 😅

Next minute, we have a surprise and very unplanned guest. Spencer. What are you doing here? This isn't your rotation. And oh, the old "neighbourly gift" story - when you're currently loaded into a San Sequoia household and should not be able to visit anyway!

Barrel Bunny (or more accurately, Caden) soon send him on his way. I made sure that he and Lilac never interacted, so this little visit doesn't advantage him in any way.

But Lilac is not the only popular lady in this household. Our security woof-woof Lou Howell invites Delphine over to his pad! Men, Lilac, isn't she right?

Interruptions apparently done with, the rest of the afternoon settles into a more familiar routine of flirting with and serenading the bachelorette (and shirtless Misters). Even Tiago no longer seems concerned about the villainy in their midst.

At one point no-one is talking to Lilac, nor has any interactions queued with her. So as a kind of litmus test I send her back inside alone - and surprise! Caden is the pixel thoughtful enough to check on her. And flirt, naturally.

Caden then autonomously DISCUSSES HIS FEAR OF COMMITTMENT, and in spite of Lilac's hands on hips stance, the conversation goes well.

By now, I feel that his NON COMMITTAL trait no longer suits him. As there's no way to get rid of it short of proposing (which obviously isn't an option), I message @mdshh and ask if it's cool to remove it. So Caden is no longer a NON COMMITTAL pixel, but still has MATERIALISTIC as a negative trait in the context of this challenge.

Elsewhere Delphine is smart and strategizes, picking up a skill book to increase her chances of making it to the merge. Since skills will no longer count past that point, this is the last time anyone will be able to take advantage of them.

Later Tiago is showing off his moves in the kitchen - and Mister is once more insisting he's a CRIMINAL MASTERMIND. Mister, please! No one seems to like that joke anymore 😅

tbc

@mdshh @changingplumbob @igglemouse @simsfvr - and @akitasimblr's spencer for a hot minute

(current state of shirtlessness - 1/3 👕👕👕)

[chaos-chloe]

Three Players?

Summary: An edit gets taking way too far in the community, but are they right?

TW: Established relationship, Poly, mxfxm, Droid x reader x Pezzy

“Hi chat, as you can tell it is definitely not a normal stream.” Pezzy greeted the camera as he saw fans joining in. “It won’t be a long stream either, we are here to squash some rumors that are going around.” Droid and I joined in the background on the couch in our living room.

“So there’s an edit going around with a song that goes, ‘two girls in the cut..’ and it cuts to both me and Droid with ___ in the middle of us like how we were during the podcast and other clips but taking the clips WAY out of context.” Pezzy explained while looking at his little last minute post-it note. I was leaning my head on Pezzy's shoulder due to Droid manspreading and taking up the left side of the couch. 

“Guys we don’t mind if you make edits of us, but please do not take them out of context and sexualize us together.” Droid steps in wanting to get the message across to Chat. “If you keep sexualizing us, we are just going to ban, block, or whatever to make sure that we are getting our point across to y’all.” He said sternly with authority filling the room.

“Especially where the clip is Droid saying ‘if I get a piece, you’ll get a piece’ to Pezzy, which is completely whack to put that an edit of us.” I said playing with my Clooless sweatshirt that I bought way too big. I snuggled in on the couch as Droid and Pezzy threw their arms around my shoulders.

“Yes we do have our moments of ‘play’ flirting or just joking around, but please please please guys do not take it out of context.” Pezzy and Droid nodded their heads along with me as I continued on scolding them.

“Now, until this calls down I am not going to be streaming for about a week. I am not in the right headspace to stream this bullshit that’s going on.”  I muttered angrily to myself and chat wanting them to know how serious I am.

“On the other hand Droid and I will continue our ‘normal’ schedule of streaming but our mods will be on double time with the ban hammer if they see fit.” Pezzy warned them, “The mods are getting more lenient with the bans as of right now until chat or the edit creators calm down.”

“Do we all understand that and why we had this stream?” Droid asked the stream as if they were kids in kindergarten. As we all saw them as yes and nodders emote, we quickly ended the stream and triple checked to make sure everything was dead on our end and chats ended.

“Okay I think that will deter them for a while until Y’ALL slip up again?!” I yelled in a fake disappointment mom voice while getting up to go put my drink up on the TV stand. “Like why would you say that while I’m literally in the middle of you two dumbasses?” 

Droid lifted his hands in a mock defense, and Pezzy flashed a grin so broad it could wrap around the sun. “What can we say?” Droid chimed, leaning back on the couch, “We’re just that entertaining!”

As laughter faded into the comfortable silence of shared moments, Pezzy leaned over, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know love, you look really hot right now.” The heat in the room shifted, laughter fading into a more intimate moment.

"You think you're the only one who can dish it out?" I teased back, my playful annoyance melting away, replaced by an unexpected flutter in my chest. The chemistry between us had always danced on the border of friendship and something more, and in moments like these, it always seemed tantalizingly close to crossing that threshold.

Droid, ever the master of timing, raised an eyebrow theatrically. “Is it getting hot in here, or is it just my two favorite people?” His voice dripped with mock-seriousness, and a ripple of laughter ran through the room once again, easing the tension, if only slightly.

“Okay, Mr. Matchmaker,” I shot back, taking a sip from my drink to stall for a moment, trying to decipher if Pezzy’s complement was simply a lighthearted jest or the fuel to a much deeper flame. “Why don’t you go find someone else to entertain?”

“But where’s the fun in that?” Pezzy chimed, sliding closer with an air of confidence that both thrilled and terrified me. His grin widened as he added coyly, “Besides, I love a challenge.”

[theharrowing]

White Lies 3: There you are

Yoongi is everything you could ask for. He is attractive, confident, and smart. And his partner Taehyung is as possessive as he is beautiful. Too bad a relationship would be a major conflict of interest.

You need to have them, at all costs.

🤍 Yoongi x Female Reader x Taehyung

🤍 word count: 9k + screencaps of conversations

🤍 college au, cop au, partial social media au with a lot of written story, strangers to lovers & established relationship, yandere, hurt/comfort, smut, fluff, angst, slash, poly, minor character injury & death, graphic violence, nsfw, 21+.

🤍 warnings: the morning after being drugged (forensics test is done, see more info in note below). kissing, phone sex (sort of), masturbation (sort of), semi-explicit thoughts. mc is a bit of a mess but she's our mess. 😤

🤍 note: wow hi sorry for the 16 months in between updates 😅 to say life has been hectic is an understatement. reminder: mc's fake name is Sandra. she won't be called this throughout the entire fic but we are still establishing relationships. also Taehyung & Yoongi have all kinds of aliases for now - that will also change soon. hang in there!!! i had to redo all the screencaps for the earlier chapters and while doing so i reworded some messages & provided a little more context, so if you feel like you want a refresher, go check those chapters out! Josie's character calls mc "bella" which is pronounced like "beya".

🤍 also note: mc has a forensics examination done to test for sexual assault. in the biz/true crime media it's called a rape kit. this is done off screen and there are not a lot of details provided but if you still feel the need to skip those bits, please do so. 💜 your safety comes first. i can happily tell you any details you might miss in those bits if you want, you can even dm me on anon and ask. this goes for any possible triggers in anything i write.

🤍 this is a sequel to Boy Blue! i highly recommend that you start at the beginning!!!

🤍 beta read by @neoneunnajimin

🤍 posted april 2025 | read on ao3

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*

Waking up with a splitting headache is cause enough for concern, but sitting up in your bed and realizing you have no idea how you got here or what time it is, is worse. Instantly, your body goes into panic mode, tensing up and taking inventory of any aches and pains, trying to determine what it went through. 

As you sit up some pretty stark hints begin to reveal themselves. For one, you are fully clothed. Both of your phones are with you – one on your pillow and the other in your pocket – and your purse is on your bedside table along with a full glass of water. 

You remember sharing a drink with Cody and then the details become fuzzy. There is a split moment in your memory where you think you can picture yourself standing in front of a soda dispenser holding onto tiny paper cups filled with ketchup, but when did you go to a place with ketchup? And were you alone?

You reach for the phone that is on your pillow to see what it can offer in terms of hints. Two calls were received from an unknown number at 10:49 and at 11:24. The first of the two calls was not answered but the other one was, and you were on the call for just under three minutes. 

Could that have been Cody? But why was he calling you?

You sit up and fish your actual phone from your pocket. Seokjin has already sent a text this morning and you bypass it for now; it is still early enough that you can feign being asleep while you continue to sort this mess out. In fact, your 8:00 alarm still has ten minutes before it goes off, giving you plenty of time to go into detective mode before your 10:20 class this morning.

You open up the app that monitors both your doorbell camera and the camera that is tucked away in your living room bookshelf, and you select the last capture that was made from your hallway at 11:25. The video that pops up makes your heart sink. 

Closing your apartment door, with his head down enough that his black baseball hat obstructs his face, is Cody. The camera captures him saying, "I have left your humble abode," before he turns and walks to the stairs. 

What was Cody doing at your apartment? You only had two drinks and a shot; how could you have gotten so drunk that you forgot about this?

You select the second to last clip and sure enough, there you are stepping up to the door with your head tipped forward, muttering, "Thank you. Small gold key." Cody unlocks your apartment door and then you both enter. 

This feels wrong. Your hands tremble as you back out of this camera and select the one in the living room. It is a little more sensitive to motion and sound, and you are unsurprised when you click on the last video and it is eight minutes long. 

In the footage the two of you enter the apartment – you stumbling over your steps and him as calm and collected as can be. You kick out of your boots, flinging them to the side while propping yourself against the wall, and he has a hand on your arm to keep you steady, then he toes from his sneakers, saying, “Just want to get you a glass of water, okay?”

You are the first to hobble away, in the direction of your bedroom. Cody pulls his phone from his pocket, thumbs around like he is sending a message, and then his phone's flashlight comes on, shining directly into the camera but not bright enough to obstruct the image of him. He looks up as if surprised by the mistake, muttering, "Shit," as he pans his phone left to right rather quickly, and then he shuts it off and walks deeper into the apartment. Your heart pounds as he disappears from the frame and you listen intently for whatever comes next.

It is a relief when you hear the kitchen sink running, then you hear the sound of a cabinet door closing. The water shuts off and you hear the faint sounds of footsteps, followed by seconds of silence and then distant voices. Although you are unable to make out what the two of you say from the end of the hallway – presumably from your bedroom – you are able to pick up on the tone of your voice, which is even and calm. His voice is too soft and deep to hear clearly.

Minutes pass and then footsteps can be heard coming back down the hallway. You think that you can hear him say, "It was nice meeting you, Sandra," and then he comes into frame speaking into his phone. This must be the second phone call. 

"Sorry the night ended this way," he says as he continues to the front door. “If you ever want drinks and a burger again let me know. I’m just a short cab ride away.” 

He steps into his shoes as he speaks, wiggling his heel into place. Then he reaches for the front door, opens it, and hovers. You watch as he stands perfectly still for a couple of seconds and then turn back around. His gaze appears to be scanning the room, but for what, you are unable to say. And although you know that the camera is hidden well within your bookshelf, you could swear he looks into it and stares for just another second. Then he turns back around, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out your keys. He hangs them onto a hook and then walks out, quietly shutting the door behind him. 

"What the fuck?" you mutter under your breath. 

Something about this night is not right and you immediately thumb through your phone and dial Josie. She should be on her way to the lab right now and you hope that she is alone. 

Josie picks up on the third ring. "Good morning, sunshine!"

"Josie," you mutter, squeezing your eyes closed. "Can you…fuck. Do you think you can do a blood test for me?"

Through a chuckle, Josie asks, "A blood test?"

"And maybe a urine test? I think I was drugged last night."

"Whoa whoa, slow down," Josie says, voice laced with concern. "What happened? Did you meet what's-his-face on a date?"

"Vante, no. I didn't meet him. I mean, I went to meet him but I think he stood me up." You sound frantic, and as you speak, sweat pools on your forehead and palms. "I ended up chatting with some other guy instead and we shared a drink and a shot, but I blacked out."

"I mean, you are a lightweight," she chides, making you chuckle nervously. This is Josie's way: to tease you until you feel less frantic. And it works. Your shoulders drop and you shake your head, letting out a deep breath. 

"I know,” you laugh somewhat forcefully, allowing the faintest of smiles. "But this is different. I swear I didn't drink very much. I wasn't out for more than a few hours but I know I nursed my drinks. And we only had one shot."

"Have you told Seokjin?" 

You grimace, feeling awkward as you admit, "No."

Josie hums, then says, "I'm actually not at the lab right now. Special Victims needed me to process something for one of their cases, but they have me over in Queens for the day."

"Shit," you mutter, feeling hopeless.

"Oh, I know! I'll call the nurse at your school and speak with them. I'll tell them that you have already met with a case worker about getting a forensics kit done and let them know that you will be coming in. They should be able to get you situated. I will swing by on my way back to the office in a few hours and take care of it for you."

Although you are certain you were not assaulted, you agree with Josie's offer to have a full forensics kit done, which includes a rather thorough examination. You just hope that you will be able to keep it all under wraps and that nothing will be reported to any of the higher-ups. You are not one hundred percent clear about who on campus knows that you are an agent and who thinks you are a student. As far as you have been able to glean, only the dean has spoken in a way that suggests he is in on it. But part of keeping your persona in check is not actively seeking confirmation that someone is unaware; you operate as if everyone is.

Still, it is too good of an offer to pass up. "Thanks, lovely," you say with a smile. 

"Anything for you, bella," Josie sing-songs, making you smile even harder. 

You say your goodbyes and get ready for the day. In case something happened last night, you keep the same clothing and underwear on but swap your flannel for a warm oversized blue sweater. You also pack a pair of underwear to change into once the examination is complete. 

Then you think of something to tell your boss.

For a Wednesday morning campus is packed. There is some sort of event in the quad with live music and various tables that appear covered in informative brochures and colorful freebies, but you are disinterested in what is happening. Likely, it is something to get students excited for exams, with snacks and plastic trinkets to brighten their moods. You swerve through groups of students and head straight toward the nurse's office in the centermost building on campus. In the somewhat horseshoe-shaped area, it is the building that all paths lead to. Anxiety simmers as your heavy footfalls carry you up a short incline and through automatic sliding doors. 

Ahead and to the left is a lady sitting at a computer and you slow your steps as you make your way toward her, eyes adjusting to the dimmer indoor lights. The woman is older with curly greyish-blonde hair and she types for a while before lifting her gaze to notice you. 

"I should have an appointment with the nurse," you say, sliding your backpack from your shoulders with the intent to pull your student ID card from the smallest front pocket. 

The woman nods her head to the door behind you and says, "You can go on in."

Nervously, you nod, mutter a thanks under your breath, and bounce the fairly heavy backpack to adjust it in place on your back. As you turn to make your way into the nurse's office the edges of your vision blur and you feel your head get foggy. Now is certainly not the time for a panic attack but it is hard not to fear for the worst as you reach for a metal handle and turn, then pull the heavy wooden door open. There is a small waiting room with some black leather chairs and you glance around, wondering if you should have a seat. You are relieved to find nobody else is waiting. 

With a deep, fortifying breath, you shuffle over to a stiff armchair by a window and wait. You decide that if the tests come back with a positive result you will spill the beans to your boss and get the police involved. Either way, you are back at square one.

* * *

You were a wreck during your first two classes, barely able to focus during set design and missing so many keys in piano that you begin to worry that maybe you are not cut out for this whole undercover college student thing. And now that Josie has your samples in hand, you feel nauseated and lament going to your next class. Sure, you have experienced the stress of college before but you have never done all of this with test results looming over you. Not this kind of test, anyway.

The moment piano class is over you check your email, wondering whether Min's pupil has gotten back to you. At this point, you are less worried about the undercover job than you are about acing your piano exam. You may not actually be gunning for a degree but that does not mean you want a poor grade for all your efforts. 

There is a part of you that finds your anxiety funny. Why you are worried about grades for a fake degree is beyond you, and you chalk it up to needing something to keep your mind busy. 

Deciding you have no stomach for costume design, you shoot your professor a message letting her know that you are feeling under the weather and then quickly make your way through campus, shivering as a gust of afternoon breeze hits you. You keep your eyes on the sidewalk, clenching your phone in one hand and your black backpack strap in the other, just beside your armpit, as you walk quickly toward the bus stop. 

A short bus ride to the train station, and you pop underground for three stops before surfacing a block and a half from your apartment. Your phone buzzes to life once you come about halfway up the steps from the underground station and you check to find Josie has sent you a text. 

Josie's news has assuaged most of your concerns but you still cannot shake the fact that you blacked out, lost time, and allowed a strange man into your home. You are thankful that nothing went wrong but the fact that so many things could have gone terribly wrong weighs on you. One thing is for certain, you are not going to leave a drink unattended with a stranger ever again. And no more accepting drinks that you do not watch the bartender make and hand over, preferably directly into your own hands. These are survival tips you have always been aware of, especially in your line of work, but never have you considered that you could fall victim. 

As you dangle gold earrings in front of your pierced lobes your phone vibrates. Ordinarily, you do not hear from Josie until she is on her way to the club and you are confused by who could be contacting you this early. 

You hope beyond hope that it is not Cody. The possibility even causes your hand to stall beside your hip before you finally reach into the pocket of your tight blue jeans and pull the device out. 

The text is not from Cody, but you are just as surprised by what you find. Steeling yourself, you take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Although you know that accepting any invitation from Vante is best for the sake of your mission, you are not eager to bend to his will whenever he commands you to.

From the way he texts, it seems clear that this man is definitely Vante. Or, at least, the man with whom you were texting when the two of you first matched on tinder. It does not assuage your indignance, but it does make you wonder whether there could be something here for you to work with. 

You think it over, weighing whether a night with this man would be worth missing a ladies night with Josie. He is your target, after all. If he is who he says he is...

You should go for it.

Your heart is a caged animal behind your ribs and you almost feel ridiculous for allowing a man to get to you the way he seems to have a knack for doing. You almost lament the thought that the deep, rough voice who spoke to you on the phone two nights ago might not be attached to this eager texter. But if it is both Vante and Min who you are communicating with then your chances of being in the company of both men seems high. You cannot even begin to wrap your head around the thought that you get butterflies like this from two separate men.

With a deep exhale you fan yourself with your hands and continue to get ready. Feeling flustered over a man who you have been instructed not to become attached to is not going to get you anywhere. 

Your phone buzzes as you apply lip gloss, this time with a text from Josie to say that she is on her way. You take in your simple outfit of a tight black tank top tucked into a white high-waisted tennis skirt, and do a little twirl, admiring the flash of thighs and the way your curves are highlighted. You grab a black silk bomber jacket with floral watercolor print and slide your feet into some loosely laced black boots, then you tuck your lipgloss, phone, and wallet into the pockets of the jacket and slide your hands inside. The walk through your building, down the steps, and out the lobby is short, and you quickly make your way to the curb with your hand out, delighted when it only takes a moment for a cab to pull over. 

The ride to the club is quick and you stare out the window, watching brick and cement buildings pass by. The streets are still busy for a Tuesday but scarce compared to the weekends, with far fewer food stalls and people milling about. Even the club is much slower and as the cab pulls to the curb you do not see anyone, including Josie, waiting outside. You suppose she has probably gone inside, so you pay for the ride with your phone, thank the driver, and get out into the cool night air. 

The music coming from the club is much tamer than it is on the weekend and you wish you had dressed a little more casually. But, of course, Josie put thoughts of Daniel in your head, and if you are being honest, it really has been far too long since you have let loose and had a little fun. 

A security guard sits on a stool just inside the door, and you pull out the ID with your fake identity to show him. Once inside, you glance around the space and find Josie leaning against the bar, holding a tall mixed drink while an identical one sits waiting for you. Although you wave to Josie, your eyes scan the bartenders. There are two women on staff and you are instantly disappointed to see that Daniel is not working. You do your best not to show your disappointment, however, approaching Josie with a pep in your step and a wide smile.

Josie holds her arms out and wiggles into a hug, swaying in a way that matches the tempo of the music playing – some indie pop song with delicate female vocals that feels out of place in a nightclub, but that fits the more relaxed vibe. 

"Damn, bella, you look cute tonight!" Josie says as she lets you go and takes a step back, eyeing your outfit. 

You roll your eyes and shake your head, attempting to be modest, while taking in her gorgeous low-cut black velvet dress with long sleeves and a short a-line skirt. The dress has shimmery stars covering its surface and you rub your hands over the shoulders, feeling as the velvet goes soft and rough beneath your palms.

"You look cute tonight," you say, squeezing Josie's shoulders before leaning against the bar and reaching for your drink. "I love this dress."

"It low-key gives Miss Frizzle," Josie says as she grabs her drink and pulls the straw to her lips. 

You laugh, nodding in appreciation of such a timeless reference. "Fitting, since you are our little science wiz."

Why Josie finds it wise to drink Long Island iced tea on Tuesday night is beyond you, and you pick up the tall thin glass and take a sip through the straw, instantly recoiling from the strength and sweetness. 

"These girls don't fuck around!" Josie says, clearly laughing at your reaction. "They don't make it as strong as Daniel but they make it sweeter."

At the mention of Daniel you must pull a minuscule enough expression for Josie to notice because she mock-pouts and says, "Aweee, are you sad the hot bartender isn't here to flirt with you and give us free drinks?"

Affronted, you scoff, hold your hand to your heart, and ask, "Excuse me?"

Josie laughs. She says, "Don't worry, I saw him around here somewhere," and you instantly look over your shoulder and begin to scan the place, trying your hardest to get a peek. 

When Josie bursts out laughing even more you sigh and realize she is just picking on you. Although you have the urge to smack your lovely friend, you pout instead and say, "Not funny."

Josie's entire face is scrunched up in delight, but she widens her eyes as if pleading with you to say, "I'm serious, though." Nodding her chin, she says, "He's right there."

At this point you are unwilling to turn and look. You are determined that Josie is making fun of you some more, and you have already worn your eagerness on your sleeve. 

So when a deep voice says, "Well, hello, there," in your ear, you gasp and flinch, causing Josie to laugh even harder. 

Daniel walks around until he is standing beside the gap between you and Josie, and you catch his gaze dropping down to your boots before he blinks and looks you in the eye. 

"Ladies," he says, smiling wide at Josie and back at you. "What brings the two of you here on a Tuesday night?"

"Great question," you mutter as you lift your strong mixed drink and take a hearty sip from the straw, filling your mouth with sugar and booze, and feeling the cold of the drink all the way down your throat. 

"I had a breakthrough at work and decided to have a drink to celebrate," Josie supplies, nice and vague. "But we probably won't be out long. I, for one, am exhausted."

This part is news to you and you widen your eyes as if to ask Josie what she is talking about. She simply ignores you, flashing her winning smile at Daniel. 

"Well I have some things to finish up here," Daniel says, cocking his head to the side, to where you assume he was before this moment. "But if you're still here in, say, twenty minutes, I would love to share a drink with you two."

You open your mouth to say that you may still be here, but Josie is louder, saying, "She will definitely be here."

"Sounds good," Daniel says through a chuckle. He turns to walk away, then twists back and mutters, "See you soon," with a wink, causing your entire face to burn bright hot.

The moment he is out of earshot you give your friend a light smack on the arm, whisper-yelling, "What are you doing?" 

Josie is a giddy, giggly mess, and she drinks back the remainder of her Long Island in one sip then sets the empty glass on the bar. "I'm giving you space to have a little fun," she says, causing you to feel a range of emotions all at once. 

All of this has been her idea – from coming out to the club to abandoning you so you can have a drink with a handsome man who you hardly know – so you do not feel guilty about her choices. But you do feel a tinge of something akin to regret at the thought of her choosing to leave so soon. 

"I'll have another drink and we can dance while you wait for him," she insists, turning to the bar to flag down one of the tenders. You accept this proposal but choose to nurse your drink for the time being. After all, you need to attempt to be more present in class tomorrow. 

With the dancefloor less crowded and the DJ playing hits from the 90s and 00s the two of you spread out and goof around, pulling out all the stops with dance moves from your yesteryears, taking turns fishing for one another and rolling your legs in tootsie rolls. Winded from a very eager attempt at the running man, you bend with your hands on your knees and laugh, catching your breath. Josie is all but collapsed into a tall table laughing and wiping tears from her eyes. 

This is nice, being out with a friend and letting go of your inhibitions the way you used to. Typically the club is so crowded that all you can manage is a wiggle here and there on the dancefloor. Time has flown and you are surprised to glance toward the bar and find Daniel standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his attention on you.

"I think we have an audience," you say, too happy to feel embarrassed.

Josie pulls out her phone and checks the time, then yawns dramatically and says, "Damn, I sure am tired!"

With a roll of your eyes, you shake your head. Once Josie gets something in her mind there is no going back, so rather than try to convince her that you would like to spend more time together, you follow her off the dancefloor and prepare to say your goodbyes. Josie wraps you in a nice tight hug as Daniel kicks off the bar and approaches.

"Take good care of this one," she says to him, making you roll your eyes again.

Daniel says, "Of course," in Korean, then he clears his throat and says, "You have my word," in English while slightly bowing his head. 

As Josie walks away you approach the bar eager for water, watching from the corner of your eye as Daniel follows.

"Josie doesn't speak Korean," you tease, half turning your attention to him while waiting for one of the bartenders. 

"I wouldn't think so," he says with a chuckle. "After a long day it sometimes feels a little muddy on the tongue to be bilingual."

You hum and nod. "I know what you mean."

"I spent the evening meeting with a couple who are scouting the club for an event and they switched a lot between both, so now my wires are all crossed."

"Tongue twisted," you say with a smile, catching a glint in Daniel's eye before one of the bartenders approaches. You turn to her and say, "Just water for me," while Daniel holds up a pint of golden beer to silently let her know that he is already taken care of.

Suddenly the noise of the club feels overwhelming rather than welcoming. Perhaps it is the shift from dancing like a fool with Josie to standing still and struggling with what to say to this man who has only ever served you drinks. Yes, he is beautiful and he smells like a masculine athletic body spray, but his presence isn't quite as titillating as you always imagined it might be.

A glass of cold water is set before you and you mouth, thank you, as you take it and drink back half of its contents. The chill works a shiver up your spine and you close your eyes for a beat and take a deep breath. As you open your eyes and turn to Daniel his gaze is fixed on you and smoldering hot.

"Wanna go someplace a little more quiet?" he asks.

You nod, unsure where this someplace could possibly be, and he turns away from the bar and leads you to a door along the nearby wall marked Employees Only. Although it is a reprieve from the club as the door is shut and all the noise is drowned out, you feel extra awkward standing in this much smaller space. 

There is a desk, a leather chair, and several grey metal filing cabinets. Strewn about are stacks of paperwork and other stationery, and along the walls are cardboard boxes spilling over with branded shirts, cardboard coasters, and other bar paraphernalia. Daniel walks over to the desk and lean-sits with his legs outstretched. Rather than take the chair, you step close to him and lean against the wall.

"Tell me about yourself," Daniel says as he lifts his beer to his lips and has a sip, never taking his eyes off you. 

His attentive stare makes you squirm and you rack your brain for information. "Currently I am studying theater arts and music."

Daniel's eyes widen and he cracks a smile. "That's…interesting."

You roll your eyes and mutter, "Shut up," feeling an odd sense of defensiveness despite smiling. 

"I thought you were older," he says, straightening up. 

You hum and nod. "I am. Took some time off to help with my father's veterinarian office and did a little traveling before finally settling on a major. So, compared to my classmates I am definitely several years older."

"Man, everyone's talking about traveling today, it's giving me the itch," Daniel says as he lifts his beer to his lips. He takes a drink and says, "That couple I was telling you about were talking about living in Japan. One of them is a model and just spent time in Italy."

You straighten up, feeling your blood go cold. What are the odds? "This couple…did you say they were Korean?"

"Yeah!" Daniel beams. "They were very eccentric but clearly have a knack for throwing parties. It should be fun."

Daniel gulps back the rest of his beer, slowly draining the glass of its golden contents. Your mind races with questions to ask about this pair but they all seem too strange to ask unprompted and you cannot imagine Daniel would give their names or physical descriptions outright. 

Think, you berate yourself. Put your detective skills to the test and think. You suppose it is not outside the realm of possibility for you to pretend to know an eccentric globetrotting Korean pair. After all, if these are your targets then one of them works at the same university that you attend, giving you reason to be acquainted with him. 

You lick your lips, steady your breathing, and decide that the best course of action is to pretend to recognize the pair based on his description. But you are surprised when Daniel stands up straight and delicately takes the glass of water from your fingers, setting it on the desk and interrupting your plan.

"Enough of this talk," he says, stepping so close the heat radiates from his body. "I didn't bring you in here to chat about clients."

Fingertips graze over your chin and you instinctively tilt your head toward him, letting out a shaky breath as you ask, "Oh?"

"I see the way you look at me," Daniel utters softly, lips mere inches from yours. All thought screeches to a halt and you stare at his lips in shock. Is he really about to do this? "I like you, Sandra. From the moment you first sauntered up to my bar I have fantasized about bringing you back here and pressing you against this wall."

You say nothing, merely lick your lips once more. You have thought of it too – of course you have. Daniel touching you just as he is now. Daniel slotting his lips to yours and stealing away your breath. But now it feels so abrupt and strange. And honestly, you hate the thought of being romanced by someone who doesn’t know your name. 

"May I?" he asks, leaning closer and gently wafting warm breath over your mouth. 

Like a fool, you nod, eager for his touch despite not feeling wholly present and receptive. After the last few days your life has been a whirlwind and rather than feeling like an exciting reprieve, Daniel's presence only seems to add to your anxiety. Still, you close your eyes and tilt your chin forward. When Daniel's lips meet yours, you suck in a gasp and allow him to press and lick and tease. 

It feels good the way he very delicately urges your mouth to move for him. Tiny sparks ignite causing you to tense and then relax into the touch. But it is not Daniel's sharp features and deep voice you picture as his tongue dances over the length of yours and sends a shiver through you. It is Vante's sultry photos and alluring flirtation that cause your body to react. As Daniel's fingertips graze down the lengths of your arms you imagine Min's skilled musician hands playing you like one of his well-loved instruments. Daniel groans and deepens the kiss and you remember the way the mysterious deep voice on the phone hummed and chuckled in your ear before asking what you were wearing.

Your hands lift as Daniel's fingers dance from your fingertips to your waist. As you bring your arms up to drape over his shoulders Daniel's palms press into your hips, thumbs digging in circles over your hips and catching on the fabric of your skirt. You struggle to hold your balance, gasping and whimpering as Daniel's kiss becomes sloppy and somewhat frantic. You know he is picturing you bent over this desk or sitting at the edge with your skirt hiked up and inviting him to have a taste. The thought is enticing but it also feels wrong. All of this feels wrong. 

With a gasp, you tilt your head back and turn it to the side just enough to evade another eager press of lips against your mouth. Daniel's nose grazes over your jaw and his lips mark your throat and neck with spit, causing you to shiver and smile. You are at war with your senses and you wish that you could easily let go and allow him to have you any way he pleases. But you cannot, for the life of you, stop thinking about them.

"Sorry," you all but whisper, sliding your arms from Daniel's shoulders and attempting to gain your composure. "This feels great, really," his fingers graze over your hips and move closer to your heat, "but it's moving a little too fast."

This slows Daniel's movements to a stop but he remains pressed against you. He nods as his lips trail slow warm kisses just below your ear. You wish you could fully lose yourself to the feeling. 

"Alright," he mutters, finally standing up tall and giving you a measly amount of space. "I get it."

Daniel looks positively wrecked and you question your decision, absolutely swooning over how his lips are pinkened from use and his hair is slightly disheveled. There is a light sheen of sweat over his neck and you imagine marking the skin and tasting its salty tang. But alas, he is not the one you imagine with your eyes closed and if you are going to remain professional and not get attached to those phantoms who linger in the depths of your innermost desires, then allowing another man to distract you and fill you with wild fantasies is probably not the best course of action. 

"Thank you," he says, leaning forward to press one last kiss against your forehead. The move feels a bit odd and somewhat patronizing, and you smile, fighting back the urge to chuckle. 

"Thank you," you say, doing your best to sound sweet. 

You are sweaty and aroused and confused and you need to remove yourself from this situation and go home. When Daniel finally takes a step back and gives you space, you reach for the water and drink half of its remaining contents then pull your phone from your jacket pocket and begin to order a cab. 

"I can give you a ride," Daniel offers, and you consider it for a moment before deciding that you would like to keep the number of men who know where you live to a minimum for the time being. 

"It's alright," you insist, confirming your address and watching as a car icon appears on a map and begins making its way toward your location marker. "I have an early morning so I should run. Lost track of time. But this was really fun and I hope to see you soon."

Daniel seems taken slightly aback by how quickly your mood has shifted and he watches as you shove your phone into your pocket and rub your hands down your front to straighten yourself out. Feeling a bit guilty for how eager you are to jet, you stand on your toes and press a kiss against Daniel's jaw, then quickly turn for the door. 

In a rush, you are out into the loud club, and your heart riots in your chest. Everything feels off balance and you make your way quickly past the bar to the open door, sparing a glance at nothing and nobody as you keep your head down and speed toward the exit. 

As you step outside your phone buzzes and you are delighted to see that your cab is close. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and weigh the idea of making a really, really bad choice. What if you did reach out to Vante and tell him all about how pent-up you feel? What if you allowed the deep, rough voice you heard the night before to lull you into pleasure as your hands pinch and squeeze and caress your body.

The car pulls to the curb and you hop in quickly, wasting no time to strap into the seatbelt and rest your head back. You absolutely should not reach out to Vante. But god, you want to. As the city lights pass and you quickly arrive to your apartment, you weigh the pros and cons. Realistically you could be forward on the phone and more reserved in person. Is it really a big deal allowing a disembodied voice to get you off, even if that voice belongs to a target with whom you should absolutely not form any sort of relationship?

You pay for the cab ride on your phone as it pulls in front of your brownstone, thanking the driver as you hurriedly and haphazardly slide out onto the sidewalk and scurry to the front door. Your fingers fumble with your keys as one hand grips tightly to your phone. An evil little voice in your head echos text him, text him, text him, taunting you with a world of possibility.

What could one innocent message hurt?

As you make your way to the second story and ready your key, you make your decision. You are full of frenetic energy that just your hands and toys alone will not satiate. You need to hear that voice again, regardless of which of those men it may belong to. In a rush of fabric you drop your jacket in the middle of the living room, kicking your boots off in different directions as you shuffle to your bedroom. You must be a sight to behold and you laugh softly at the thought of replaying the footage of this entrance on the camera app.

In your room, you climb onto your bed, sitting against the wall with a pillow wedged behind your back. There is a tremble in your hands as you lift your phone and type and delete multiple messages before settling on a simple emoji. It takes your breath away to see how fast Vante responds and you close your eyes to take a deep breath before reading his reply.

It takes under a minute for your phone to ring and you take in a fortifying breath. You still have time to back out. You can decline or ignore this call and continue not crossing this threshold. He may understand if you are shy and apologize…but you do not want to back out.

You accept the call and slowly lift the phone to your ear, eager to hear the man on the other side. Silence hangs briefly and you will yourself to lick your lips and softly say, "Hello, V."

The deep, rough voice you remember says, "There you are," and your arms instantly break out in goosebumps.

"Sorry," you utter, squeezing your eyes closed, "I feel shy."

"So you said," he responds with a soft chuckle. "But you have me now, and you are hearing my voice. Are you satisfied?"

What a loaded question. You grin and bite down on your lip, doing your best not to loudly swoon as reality settles over you and you formulate just how far you can safely take this interaction without losing your wits entirely.

"I suppose…" you tease. Perhaps he will eagerly play along and supply you with what you need without you having to ask for it. You absentmindedly dance the fingertips of your free hand up your thigh, teasing just below the hem of your skirt. You feel electric but far from satisfied and you add, "It's a start, anyway."

The man hums, filling you with warmth. It is dangerous the way he sounds in your ear and your lips fall open on the sound. "A start? So, tell me, what can I do to fully satisfy you, pretty?"

Why must he force you to ask for it? You take another deep breath and feel the way it fills you. Your head absolutely spins as you formulate your request.

"I need…" You lick your lips.

"You need…" he taunts back, drawing out the words.

"I feel pent-up, V…" you admit, eyes still squeezed shut.

A pleased hum fills your ear and works a shiver along your spine. Is this how he sounds when he moans? Or is it even more pretty? "And my voice excites you?"

Your lips flounder slightly before you swallow your pride and whisper, "Yes."

His voice sharpens ever so slightly as he says, "Ask nicely for me."

Your eyes flutter open and you take in the dark room, grounding yourself in your familiar surroundings. You can still back out. You can change your mind. But you won't. Not now that you have already come so far.

"Please," you ask sweetly, a bit desperately.

"Are you home?"

Your voice is barely above a whisper. "Yes."

"So early."

You feel inexplicably sheepish. "Yeah...wasn't feeling it tonight."

"Fair enough. Are you alone?"

"Yes."

A brief pause, then, "Are you touching yourself?"

You shake your head and say, "No," as your eyelids flutter closed and you continue to dance your fingers over your thigh. 

"Do you want to be touching yourself?"

Your breath hitches. He is so forward and yet it is precisely what you need. "Yes."

"What are you wearing for me, baby?"

Baby. That's new. You like the way it sounds on his tongue. 

"A tank top and skirt," you say, dragging your fingertips higher up your thigh. 

"Bra and panties?"

"Yes. Thin. Cotton. Matching set." Suddenly you are incapable of stringing a full sentence together and you are relieved that he does not seem to mind.

"Color?"

You smile to yourself. "White."

"White," he says in a gruff voice, as if the image affects him the way his voice affects you. You hum in agreement and he says, "So if you happened to be wet for me I would be able to see it through the thin fabric."

"Yes," you say on reflex because you imagine that what he says is likely true.

"Are you?" he asks, and you hesitate, unsure precisely what he is asking before he clarifies and adds, "Wet for me."

"I am," you admit as warmth floods your neck and cheeks.

"Touch your panties," he softly commands, "for me."

You drag your fingers higher over the crest of your thighs until finally, they graze over your slit, causing you to sigh happily to the touch. 

"Such a good girl," he praises and you swell with pride, touching yourself more firmly. "I can hear the way you breathe with pleasure. Don't hold back, baby. Tell me how it feels to touch yourself to my voice."

"Feels good," you groan, swirling your fingers over your clothed clit. 

"Do you enjoy being told what to do?" he asks, taking you by surprise. 

Your fingers hesitate then continue as you mull over how risky of a question this could be. "Yes," you finally admit.

"There is nothing that turns me on more than a beautiful, eager, submissive toy in my bed. Is that what you desire, baby? To be praised and used like a fuck doll?"

You should not give this information to a man who is potentially dangerous. You should absolutely not admit to the way this question fills you with a hot, deep arousal that courses through you like lava. 

As you open your mouth but fumble around syllables, unsure whether to confess to just how much his words affect you, there is a sound from the other end of the line like a door closing and a voice calling out.

"Shit," the man says, ripping you from your thoughts. "My roommate is home already." 

"Oh," you say, trying not to sound too disappointed. This so-called roommate must be his husband.

"I, uh…I gotta go, baby. So sorry."

"No worries," you say, swallowing thickly and taking a deep breath. It is probably for the best that this conversation was interrupted where it was.

"Finish what you started and tell me all about it on our date?" he asks teasingly.

"Oh my god," you say, embarrassed. There is no way you would be able to talk about this to his face. Not on a first date, anyway.

"Sleep sweet, pretty," he says, giving you goosebumps. This phrase sounds familiar, but from where? "We'll chat soon. Text me if you're feeling lonely."

"Alright," you say and you hang up before any more words can be exchanged. Everything about this interaction – about this entire night – feels fucking weird. You have the distinct feeling that there is something you are forgetting but nothing comes to mind and it fills you with anxiety.

You opt to shower off this day and climb into bed with your favorite bullet vibrator. You remember only the intriguing things the deep voice belonging to Vante or Min has said to you and selectively forget everything else. There is plenty of time to unpack this mess tomorrow. For now, you must sleep.

* * *

Your classes are a blur. All you can focus on is getting through the day and arriving to the practice rooms at 5 p.m. The events of last night replay in your mind and you do your best to shut them out but it is hard not to think about Daniel's lips and V's (Min's?) voice and your fingers… You fidget with the hem of your sweater sleeves and dig your fingernails into your palms in an attempt to stay present. For the most part your efforts fail. 

By the time you make it to the practice rooms your nerves are so alite that you have to shake out your hands and silently pep talk yourself. You're okay, you're okay, you are going to be okay. It is not as if you are going to see Min today. Relax.

A tall man with dark skin and a wide, welcoming smile greets you. "You must be Sandra," he says while lifting a hand for you to shake.

"Yes," you say, taking his hand. His shake is firm and brief.

"Mateo. Follow me."

Mateo wears a mustard yellow beanie, a blue sweater, and blue jeans. He leads you into a wide-open practice space that contains a brown upright piano on one side of the room and a desk on the other. You approach the piano instinctively and sit on the bench while Mateo grabs a wooden chair and pulls it close. 

"Tell me what you want to focus on and then we will assess where you're at," he prompts, and you take a deep breath.

"Speed, mostly," you say, imagining what might be easy to fake being bad at. "And fluidity. I am getting the notes but it still feels clunky."

"Common issues," Mateo assures with a smile, making you smile in return. "Can you play the song that I have provided?"

You turn to the piano and observe the book sitting open on the rack, finding Mozart's Turkish March. You smile, holding back a grin because yes, you absolutely can play this song. 

Feigning sheepishness, you nod once and settle on the piano bench facing the keys. You start slow at first, taking care to make mistakes with your thumbs and middle fingers. Although your attempt sounds better than you would like considering you are in a tutoring session, you are proud of your performance as you huff out sigh after sigh of frustration. At the end of the second page, you squeeze your eyes shut, shake out your hands and take a deep breath.

"Sorry," you mutter. "Nervous."

"No sweat at all," Mateo says kindly. "You're not as bad as you might think you are."

Great, you think, perhaps I should be worse.

You open your eyes and begin again from the top. This time you allow yourself to be a little better, taking it slower and hitting more correct notes. 

Mateo says, "Very good," filling you with confidence as you continue on to the second page. 

You get close to the bottom of the page when you notice a figure entering the room, and when you lift your eyes for a brief moment the world screeches to a halt and your hands clumsily strike discordant keys before stopping entirely. Silence hangs as a familiar man gives a wry smile and nods his head to Mateo, muttering something you are unable to hear.

"Mister Theodore," Mateo says as he stands and approaches Min, who walks over to the desk on the far side of the room. Is that…his desk?

The two of them quietly exchange words before Min takes his leave, holding onto a folder and quickly exiting the room. You feel warm all over, hands prickling with sweat as you watch his retreating form and recall everything you know about this man from his file. 

He is beautiful and slender in a dark button-up shirt and slacks, commanding the room without having to audibly speak a word. You hold your breath in anticipation to hear his voice but he is in and out with hardly a sound, gone just as fast as he arrived. 

“Apologies,” Mateo says as he takes his seat, pointing with an open palm toward the piano. “Please continue.”

On the plus side, Min’s sudden appearance has caused a tremble in your hands that is strong enough that you genuinely make mistakes while playing. At least your need for a tutor sounds believable. What are the odds that his desk is right there?

*

lie down in the fire with me i burn everything frequently if it don't feel good when you first get in wait 'til it gets under your skin

🎵 visit the playlist

hello, hello!!! how are we feeling???

some housekeeping: you may notice that the mc had a realization at the end of the last chapter that she forgot about in this chapter. that was the drugs. you also have notice that the blood test came back negative. that was not an error on my part. more will be explained in the future.

i might do a short TaeGi POV chapter to show where their heads are at and why the call was cut short at the end of the chapter 😈😈😈

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[the-blind-assassin-12]

The Yule Lodge - Part One

A PEDROSTORIES SECRET SANTA GIFT FIC

A/N: As always, a big thank you to the moderators of @pedrostories for organizing this event! It's always a lot of fun and definitely helps put me in the holiday spirit every year. I can't wait to see what others have created for this event! This story kind of completely ran away from me, so as you can see, this is only the beginning. I hope my fic recipient doesn't mind, but it's looking like a three part story, which I'm aiming to get the rest of posted within the next few days. Now, if you'll all suspend disbelief with me, there's a very exclusive, high-end Bed & Breakfast I'd like you all to visit...

Gift Tag: SURPRISE @covetyou ! I was your Secret Santa for the Pedrostories gift swap! You gave me so many great prompts and ideas to run with, but the ones that stuck out most to me were "Magic is real" and "chaotic meet cute". Out of the characters that you listed, Ezra and Dieter seemed like likely candidates, and that's where my top secret anonymous ask where I made you choose emojis with no context came into play. You (blindly) choose Dieter, and I am so glad that you did because I have been having a blast writing this for you and I truly hope that you enjoy it! Wishing you a very Merry Christmas, the happiest of holiday seasons and only the best in the New Year, lovely!!

Warnings: brief mention of infidelity (not Dieter or Reader!) cannabis consumption, I think that's it for now ;)

Word Count: 5,416

Summary: Last minute holiday travel plans sure can be chaotic sometimes. In some cases, it can even seem as though there is some kind of supernatural intervention going on. But that's crazy... Right?

He wasn’t supposed to be here. 

Wherever the fuck here is. 

As the cab pulled up to its destination, Dieter rolled his forehead against the rear passenger side window to get a better view of the place, ignoring the way that the chill from the glass sunk into his skin. His eyes narrowed, then blinked wide as he took in the Dickensian looking Bed and Breakfast. 

Well it’s sure as shit not the Savoy. 

That was where he was supposed to be staying. That was where he had asked Cori, his assistant, to book him a suite from the 23rd to the 26th. That was where he had been planning to spend his Christmas, sprawled in a king sized bed wearing baggy pajama pants, devouring snowflake shaped THC infused sugar cookies, watching old movies and ordering room service until the holiday was good and over. Just like he’d done almost every year for the previous two decades. 

And to her credit, Cori had booked him that suite. She’d done it months ago, when she made the travel arrangements for the press tour that had brought him to London in the first place. He was there to promote Getaway Man - the must see action-thriller that was set to open worldwide on Christmas Day, and that was already receiving Oscar buzz - with two of his co-stars. They had both gone straight to the airport following the final round of interviews, though, anxious and eager to get back home in time for holiday celebrations with their families. But Dieter had planned to do just the opposite from the get go, so all he had to do was check out of one hotel, travel a few blocks, and check into another one. Cori had sent him receipts along with his itinerary, and his stay at the Savoy had been on both of them. 

It wasn’t a booking issue that caused the last minute switcharoo. Or, rather, it wasn’t an issue with the room that Dieter had booked. It actually had to do with another guest’s reservation - his ex-wife’s. Or, rather (again), it had to do with a reservation made by Anika’s new husband, fellow actor Mark Atlas. 

And people say my last name is bullshit. 

Anyway, apparently Mark found out that Dieter was going to be staying at the Savoy while he and Anika were also going to be there, and promptly threw a Hollywood sized hissy fit about the “optics” of the three of them spending Christmas under the same roof. Something about “not wanting to put Anika through the ordeal of being around Dieter.” As though he was the one who had shocked her by asking for the divorce. 

As though I was the one who cheated. 

It was far more likely that Map Man was worried about his sweet, innocent wife “accidentally” bumping into Dieter under the mistletoe in the middle of the night, than he was about putting her through anything. 

And for the record, even if she had tumbled into Dieter’s lap wearing nothing but a couple of strategically placed Christmas ribbons, he wouldn’t have done a damn thing about it. He wasn’t like Mark. He didn’t need - or want - to fuck someone else’s wife. 

No. This had nothing to do with Atlas looking out for Anika, and Dieter knew it. This was about Hollywood’s new favorite golden boy snapping his fingers and getting what he wanted at Dieter’s expense. Dieter’s body of work since the Cliff Beasts fiasco may have been award worthy, his performances lauded by critics and fans alike. But Mark Atlas had just signed on to a six movie deal in a superhero franchise that already had comic cons selling out despite the fact that he hadn’t been announced to the panel yet. The first film in the series hadn’t even been released but McDonald’s already had the fucking action figures in their goddamn happy meals. 

In short, Atlas was the bigger, shinier, more family friendly name at the moment. And in show business, the moment was all that mattered. 

So even though Dieter had checked into his room at the Savoy earlier that day without issue, and despite the fact that he’d already changed into his baggiest pair of pajama pants and shaggy green robe, the call from the front desk still came. It wasn’t a demand that he leave. It wasn’t even really a suggestion. The manager had simply stated that another guest expressed concern over the “possibility of a negative encounter with Dieter”, and asked if he would like to cancel his stay for a full refund, plus a complimentary three night stay at a time of his choosing. 

Good to know I’m still shiny enough that they didn’t want to piss me off entirely. 

He didn’t need to bother asking the manager which guest had expressed that particular concern. There was only one person Dieter could think of who both held that kind of sway, and disliked him enough to purposely derail his holiday. He knew it was Mark. 

Even though I have no idea why that fucker hates me so damn much. He fucking won. 

Though the thought of spitefully refusing to leave just to screw with Atlas was tempting, Dieter just wasn’t in the mood for a big dramatic debacle. And even though it hurt to know that Anika was seemingly fine with Mark’s treatment of him, he didn’t want to give in and invite the negative encounter that Mark was setting him up for. 

Instead, he told the manager that he’d check out as soon as he found a new hotel, and took the man up on the offer for a future stay. He then promptly texted Cori to fill her in on everything and crossed his fingers in hopes that she had some secret backup options up her sleeve. The fact that it was mere hours away from Christmas Eve in one of the world’s busiest cities made it a tall order, and he was aware of that. But Cori had proven time and time again that tall orders were her specialty, so Dieter was cautiously hopeful. 

When his phone rang in his hand a few minutes later, he ceased his pacing to answer it. 

“Cori?” He plopped down on the edge of the bed as he spoke, hardly holding back a groan at how goddamn comfortable the mattress was. Can’t believe I don’t even get to sleep on it. “Please tell me you found something else.” He flopped all the way back, sinking into the down-filled duvet. Oh, fuck you, Mark. “I really don’t want to have to come back to-“ 

“Actually,” an unfamiliar female voice cut him off. “My name is Ivy, Mr. Bravo. I work for Cori. She asked me to handle finding you a new place to stay since she flew home yesterday to be at her son’s-“ 

“School holiday show.” Dieter mumbled, covering his eyes and scrubbing his hand back over his forehead and into his hair. Fuck, I knew that. “Yeah, that’s right, she told me.” 

It had come up a few times as the press tour was winding down, the woman clearly looking forward to being able to be there for her kid’s performance. Though that kind of life was about as far from his own as he could imagine, Dieter admired the way that Cori prioritized being present for her kids as much as possible. He knew that being with her family made her happy, so he was glad that that’s where she was. But wait…

“Hang on.” Dieter propped himself up on one elbow. “I didn’t know Cori had anyone working for her.” She’d been his assistant for over ten years, and he never once heard her mention the name Ivy. Not that she wouldn’t need help. I’m not always the easiest. 

She let out a silver-bell laugh, the sound high and tingling. “Well that’s because I’m good at what I do, and so is Cori. Usually I get to stay behind the scenes, but this was a-” 

“A clusterfuck?” Dieter supplied, slumping back down again. 

“I was going to say a special case.” She laughed again. “Trust me, I’ve seen fuckier clusters.” 

He wasn’t sure if that was supposed to make him feel better or not, nor was he sure if it actually did. Switching the phone to speaker and laying it on his chest, he crossed both arms over his eyes. “Does that mean you have a backup place for me?” He crossed his fingers as he waited for her response. 

“It does, Mr. Bravo, I-” 

“You can just call me Dieter, Ivy. Actually, please just call me Dieter. And-” Her words clicked then, and he bolted up to both elbows, sending his phone sliding down to his stomach. “Wait, did you say yes?”

“I did,” Ivy confirmed. Fuck yeah! “But it’s a little unconventional.” 

Dieter sat all the way up, reaching for his phone before it could fall between his legs and down to the floor. Lifting it level with his mouth, he cocked his head to the side. “What does that mean?”

Ivy cleared her throat. “It’s not a hotel, per say.” Okay… “More like a high end, exclusive bed and breakfast. And technically it’s just outside the city.” 

Dieter grimaced, clunking the edge of his phone to his forehead. A bed and breakfast? Like… With other people? And shared common rooms and… He considered his other option - flying back to L.A. and going home to his empty house - and the grimace deepened. “How exclusive is exclusive?” 

“Pretty private. The place is an old Victorian mansion. It accommodates guests in four suites, but I was told that only one other room is booked at the moment.” 

He sighed, bringing his phone back down to his lips. I guess this is the best I can hope for. “Okay.” 

“Okay?” Ivy questioned. “Does that mean I should go ahead and call them?” 

Dieter dropped his phone into the fluffy bedding beside him. “Yes. Please.” He stood, rubbing at one eye. “And can you also call me a car? I don’t-” 

“Of course,” she answered. “Consider it done.” 

“Great.” It was far from great, but it would have to do. “I really appreciate it, Ivy.” That part was 100% true. 

“My pleasure! I’ll go ahead and communicate with the Savoy staff, too, that way everyone is on the same page. Oh, and I’ll update Cori, of course.” 

“Perfect.” Again, it wasn’t. Perfect was the thread count of the sheets he was leaving behind. Perfect was the five-star service he wouldn’t be receiving. Perfect was the way the champagne chiller always had ice in it and the towels were always warm and fluffy. But it beats the shit out of going home. “Thank you.” 

“Of course. Hopefully you won’t need me again, so I’ll wish you a Merry Christmas now.” 

“Um, yeah.” Dieter sniffed. “Yeah, Merry Christmas. I’ll uh…” He raised his arms and then dropped them to his sides. “I’ll try not to offend the other guest with my presence so I won’t have to bother you again.” 

“Never a bother, Dieter. I’m always happy to help when you need it.” 

With that, she ended the call, and Dieter was left to gather his things and wait for the car to come pick him up and bring him to the secret, backup, break-in-case-of-clusterfuck location that Ivy had procured for him. 

Looking up at the place once he arrived and got out of the car, Dieter really wished he’d asked her a few more questions before telling her to make the call. 

Snowflakes fell slowly through the air as he stood there in his pajama pants with his thick, plush brown fleece pulled over his robe and his bag slung over his shoulder, staring at the sign affixed to the side of the building. “The Yule Lodge”, he read aloud, rolling his eyes at the stylized flame surrounding the name of the B&B, an obvious play on words. “Shit, that’s cheesy.” 

The building itself looked as though it only existed at Christmastime - the cornices catching the fresh snow in picture perfect banks, the candles illuminating the windows like something off a holiday card, garlands of greenery wrapped around the porch railing and draped over the doorway. So if any place was going to have a name that stunk of cheddar, he figured this was the one. I mean… He tilted his head to take the sight in. It’s festive as fuck, that’s for sure. 

Not that that part mattered. He still planned to spend the next few days sprawled out like a starfish in bed, waiting out the holiday. Even if it means doing it here. 

He turned to wave a thanks to the driver who had dropped him off, only to find that the car was gone. Huh? That’s weird, I didn’t hear the tires… He shrugged. Whatever. He’d already had one of the snowflake cookies before the whole Mark Atlas shitstorm started, so he chalked missing the car driving away up to that kicking in and giving him tunnel vision for the building’s campy signage. 

With a sigh that turned into a visible white puff in the chilly air, Dieter climbed the two small steps and reached for the door handle. Alright. Here we go. Combing one hand through his hair, he shook the snow from his curls, stepped inside, and looked around. Oh, holy shit. 

The B&B’s cheery exterior had nothing on the inside. 

Wreaths, garlands, and sprigs of greenery adorned walls, windows, railings and the carved, wooden mantel of a roaring fireplace that spread a warm, golden glow throughout the whole space. Deep red velvet ribbons added lush pops of color, as did the gilded candlesticks atop the mantel. A bowl of clove-studded oranges sat as the centerpiece of the coffee table in front of the fire, and the smell of spice and citrus wafted through the air to fully warm his senses. 

To top it all off, a towering spruce tree stood in the corner of the room, lit by dozens of lights that were made to look like candles. Bows and baubles dressed the evergreen’s branches to elegant but cozy perfection. In a way, it was difficult to imagine what the room would look like - or feel like - without all the holiday decorations. 

He may have been trying to avoid acknowledging Christmas as much as possible, but Dieter couldn’t help but admit that the staff there had outdone themselves. It was fucking beautiful. If you’re into that kinda thing.

“Welcome to the Yule Lodge, Mr. Bravo.” 

Suddenly, a voice greeted him from somewhere to his left, making him jump and turn towards the sound. What? Who said tha- Oh. He’d been too distracted by the elaborate decorations to realize that he’d walked straight past the front desk and the smiling woman standing behind it. Right. I need to check in. 

Clearing his throat, he crossed the room to stand in front of the desk. “Um, thanks-” He glanced down at the golden nameplate that was pinned to the woman’s green cardigan. “-Laurel.” He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and leaned on the counter. “I guess you spoke with Ivy?” 

Laurel nodded, her curls bouncing. “I did. We’ve got you all set in room two until the 26th.” 

“Great.” He flashed her a smile. “Do you need a credit card now, or do I just pay when I check out, or-” 

Laurel’s curls swung as she shook her head. “No need for that right now, Mr. Bravo.”

At check out, then. “Okay.” He tapped the countertop with his fingertips. “In that case, can I get the room key? I’m about ready to-”

“Of course!” Laurel spun around to grab a key from one of four hooks, one of which was empty. Guess that means the other guest is already checked in. She spun back, key in hand, but stopped short of passing it to Dieter. “I just need to go over a few things with you about the Lodge first.” 

Dieter felt his shoulders slump. I’m being punished. I just want to get stoned and sleep and I’m being fucking punished. “Uh…Okay.” He sighed. “What, um… What do I need to know?”

Laurel launched into a run down of the Yule Lodge’s rules and amenities. Fully stocked kitchen and bar, chef-prepared meals for breakfast and dinner, fireplaces in the parlor, library and… something to do with the candles in the windows? She was saying something about a small holly wreath while holding it up with his key when Dieter’s attention was stolen completely by the creak of the stairs just visible beyond the parlor, and the stunning woman who was descending them - you. 

Huh. He blinked, watching the way your hand slid down the railing as you took the last few steps. Maybe it won’t be all bad, staying here. You looked up then, making quick, unintentional eye contact, and Dieter felt himself grin at the way your eyes widened when they met his, your mouth falling open in slight shock. Your tongue darted out to lick at your lips, and then you quickly slipped into another room. The library, maybe? 

But just when he had convinced himself to go throw his stuff upstairs and then come back down to see if you were still there - and maybe ask if you wanted to have a drink with him - he saw you slip back up the stairs with a book in hand, and his grin fell into a frown. Oh, well. Guess I’ll stick to the plan. 

By then, thankfully, Laurel was finished with her spiel, and she finally handed over the key, along with the small holly wreath. “Enjoy your stay, Mr. Bravo. I hope it’s exactly what you need it to be.” 

I have no idea what that means but… “Thanks.” He smiled, nodding as he took the key from her. “Have a good night, Laurel.” 

With that, he headed upstairs to his room, where he promptly tossed the key and the little wreath onto the dresser, shucked his coat off, and collapsed into the bed with a groan. It wasn’t the plush, pillowy cloud bed he was supposed to be sleeping in, but for the next few days it would do just fine. And who knows? Your face popped into his head. Maybe I won’t spend the whole time holed up in here after all.

– – – 

You weren’t supposed to be here. 

And I’m not even sure I understand why or how I am but… 

You rolled over in the big, soft bed and gazed out the window as flurries fell outside. The picturesque grounds were covered in a thin white blanket of fresh snow, and the glow from the lamppost along with the flicker of the candle on the windowsill threw golden halos of light against the darkness in a way that warmed you through. 

I’m really glad that I am. 

Traveling solo was somewhat out of character for you. Doing it at Christmas - and missing your family’s annual holiday party - made that even more true. Add in the last minute nature of the trip, and it was no wonder that your parents and siblings (and probably your nosey aunt and cousins, too) were having a hard time accepting your decision to spend Christmas abroad by yourself. It simply wasn’t like you. 

Which was, of course, the whole point. You wanted a change, had been looking for a way to shake things up. It wasn’t that you were unhappy with anything in your life. You had a job that you enjoyed and that paid you well, owned a house that you had turned into a home, and had a close group of friends who you knew would be there for you no matter what. But what you wanted, or maybe what you needed, was a little adventure. A measured dose of the unknown. A play from out of left field. 

Because even though you were happy with the things that you had, there was a part of you that felt like you only had most of those things because you followed some predetermined script for your life. Graduate from a good school, get a respectable job, buy and maintain a home… It was all good stuff, and you took none of it for granted. But sometimes it felt a little too similar to the board game version of Life, spinning the wheel and plopping your little plastic car along the path, collecting socially acceptable experiences along the way. 

Even the last few vacations you took weren’t really vacations. You’d had to travel for three separate destination weddings in the last year and a half. And then there was the trip your grandma surprised the whole family with, which was extremely nice, but was also extremely mandatory. So not only did you not get to choose the when or where of your last four trips, you didn’t have much say in the what to do part, either. 

You deserved to do something unexpected and just for you. So when you got the unexpected news that you’d won an all expense paid trip to London to spend Christmas in a quaint, Victorian-style B&B, you chose to act on it. 

I don’t even remember entering the contest, but… You glanced around the room and ran your hands over the quilted comforter. But I’m here. It’s real. So I must have. 

You thought back to the voicemail you’d received a few weeks prior, and how you almost deleted it without calling back to follow up. It seemed like a scam. And even if it wasn’t, you were sure that there was no way it could actually be free. You figured it had to do with a timeshare or some marketing promo where you could win a free trip after spending a crazy amount of money on rental cars or luggage. But a curious little voice from the back of your brain piped up and told you to at least Google the phone number first. 

And when you did that, and it didn’t link you to numerous Reddit posts about scam callers or direct you to a clearly phony website, but instead brought you to a completely legitimate page hosted by the site where you had booked your most recent flight for your friend’s wedding in Puerto Vallarta, displaying your name and stating that all you had to do was call to claim your prize, you allowed yourself to possibly entertain the notion that maybe it wasn’t too good to be true. 

You were still cautiously skeptical when you pressed call and waited while the phone rang, still expecting there to be a catch somewhere. You also expected the number you dialed would be an automated one, and that you would just be pressing buttons when prompted to complete the process. So it was a surprise to you when a very human voice greeted you after the second ring. 

“Thank you for calling Spirit Travel!” The woman on the other end spoke in a bright, cheerful tone as she introduced herself and then said your name, making sure she was speaking with the correct person. You were so taken aback by the fact that you were wrong about it being a recording that you completely missed her name, but you caught back up in time to confirm that you were in fact you. 

“I, um… I’m a little confused, to be honest,” you immediately confessed, shrugging as though she could see the lift of your shoulders through the phone. Shaking your head, you went on. “I don’t think I entered any contests, and I definitely don’t think I’ve ever heard of the-” You double checked the name of the place that the website had listed as your prize. “The Yule Lodge? Is it like a Christmas themed hotel or something?” 

The woman let out a small, jingling laugh. “You could say that. Christmastime is when the Lodge is at its best, that’s for sure.” That didn’t quite answer your question, but she continued. “And it’s a very small, boutique-y little place. Doesn’t draw a ton of tourist attention, so I’m not surprised that you haven’t heard of it. But I assure you it is absolutely lovely.” 

“Oh…kay.” You stared at your laptop screen, narrowing your eyes suspiciously at the scrolling congratulations banner. “I still don’t remember entering a contest, though.” 

“Oh, that part!” You heard what sounded like keystrokes from her end of the call, and figured that she was pulling up some information on a computer. “Yup, mmhmm. It’s right here.” Before you could ask her what was right where, she filled you in. “I’m emailing a screenshot of it to you right now so you can see it, too, but when you booked your trip to Mexico in September, you checked a box entering you in Spirit Travel sponsored giveaways. It’s all perfectly legitimate, I promise!” 

A few seconds later you received her email, opening it and seeing for yourself that you had in fact checked that box. Hm. Must’ve been a mistake. I usually opt out of that crap. You shrugged. But maybe I’ll stop doing that now. Finally sufficiently happy with the proof that the trip was real and that it wasn’t a hoax, you cleared your throat. “Okay, so it’s… It’s really free? Airfare, the hotel, all of it?” 

“Well, just to be clear, the Yule Lodge isn’t a hotel, per say. More like a very exclusive, high end bed and breakfast.” 

Sure. Semantics, whatever. “Okay, fine. Airfare, the B&B? That’s all free?” 

“Yup! We’ll even arrange a car to pick you up from the airport and drive you to the Lodge. All you have to do is say yes and then show up for your flight.” She paused. “So is that a yes?” 

You chewed your bottom lip, going back and forth in a span of a few seconds. What will everyone think when I’m not there on Christmas? What will my friends say when I tell them? They’ll probably think I’m nuts or something. But then that same voice that told you to call about the trip spoke up again. Who cares? It asked. Do it for yourself. And that was all it took to answer. 

“It’s a yes,” you said, excitement making you sound a little giddy. I can’t believe it, but… “Yeah, I’m in.” 

She went over a few more details with you regarding dates - December 23rd to the 26th - and flight times, and then let you know that if you had any more questions you could always call her back and she’d happily answer them. 

“Thank you, really, this is… I really needed this, so thanks-” You realized you never got her name after missing it initially. “I’m so sorry, what was your name again?” 

“Oh, no need to apologize,” she assured you. “I get it, you were excited. Happens all the time.” She chuckled. “But my name is Ivy.” 

“Well, thank you, Ivy. You’re pretty much my favorite person right now.” 

She laughed again. “I’ll take it! Listen, like I said, you can call me if you have any other questions about the trip. But otherwise, in case we don’t talk again, I hope you have a very Merry Christmas.” 

“You, too! I hope you get a surprise this good in your stocking this year.” 

“Oh,” she said in a wistful way that actually didn’t sound like a customer service put-on, “For me, making other people’s holidays special is the real gift.” 

With that, she signed off, and you were left with the task of telling everyone you knew that you were pitching them all a holiday curveball. 

They’d responded similarly to how you thought they would. But by the time you had checked in to the Yule Lodge, met Laurel, the exceptionally festive and cheerful hostess who had given you the quirkiest run-down on a hotel you’d ever gotten (including a somewhat campy but cute enough folklore-inspired instruction to place the small holly wreath she’d given you at check in around your door knob to “keep out unwanted spirits” on Christmas Eve) and settled into your room, it was far too late to worry about all of that. 

All you were concerned with for the next few days was which fireplace you’d be spending the most amount of time reading near, whether or not you felt like strolling the snow covered grounds in the morning, and possibly chatting with the other guest that Laurel had mentioned would be checking in shortly after you’d arrived. Or maybe not. Who knows, maybe they’ll want to be left alone. Either way, you were looking forward to a few days of answering to no one but yourself. And if it came with a heaping helping of authentic Christmas cheer? Even better. 

Deciding not to wait until morning to venture downstairs and into the library to choose your first of hopefully many books for the duration, you popped up from your bed and headed for the door, smiling to yourself as you made sure that the holly wreath was securely around the knob. Don’t want any bad spirits messing around in my room. About halfway down the stairs, you heard voices and realized that Laurel was giving her welcome speech to the other guest. Oh, guess they’re here. You peeked through the hall and into the parlor, hoping to catch a glimpse of the person you’d be sharing the common areas of the Lodge with. But as was becoming a theme for this trip and everything connected to it, you were floored to find Academy Award winning actor Dieter Bravo looking right at you. 

Holy shit. You felt your eyes go about as round as the baubles hanging from the giant spruce tree, your mouth dropping open as your heart thundered in your chest. Holy shit, holy shit that’s Dieter Bravo. Oh my god. No, it’s not. It can’t be, right? You blinked and he was still there and still definitely Dieter Bravo and - wait is he..? Yup. He was grinning at you. Oh, fuck. 

You scurried down the last few stairs and disappeared into the library, repeating those two words over in your head in a series of tones ranging from disbelief and shock to disbelief and excitement, with a twinge of nerves because Oh, fuck, what am I supposed to say to Dieter Bravo? Your face flushed making you warmer than the fireplace on the other side of the room. There was plenty that you’d thought about saying to him, your imagination running a little wild at times when you saw interviews or red carpet photos of him, or when you saw his performances on screen and he made you fall in love with his characters time and time again. But all of those thoughts had occurred while you were under the realistic assumption that you would never actually get to say any of it to him. 

But now he was sleeping just down the hall from you. 

Blindly grabbing the first book your fingers found, you scurried back up the stairs and into the sanctuary of your room before you ran the risk of running into him on the way. Choosing a book was a fine enough thing not to put off until morning. Figuring out what to say to a celebrity that you had an innocent but huge crush on was something that definitely required you to sleep on it. Flopping back into your bed a little breathlessly, you had to laugh at the absurdity of it all. 

I did say I needed an adventure. 

Glancing down to see what book you’d grabbed, you read the title and laughed again. A Christmas Carol. Of course. What else would it be in this place? 

It took a while, but eventually you were able to calm your brain - and heartbeat - enough to sink into the story and let thoughts about how on earth you were going to interact with Dieter slide to the backburner, and eventually, you drifted off to sleep.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Laurel was making one last phone call before closing up and heading home for the evening. 

“Ivy?” She tapped her fingernails on the desk and grinned. “They’re both here. Just where they need to be this Christmas.” 

“Good,” the other woman said. “Now the rest is up to them.” 

– – – 

Dieter tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @tentacruels @alraedesigns @practicalghost

@trickstersp8 @imtryingmybeskar @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns

@pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @noisynightmarepoetry

@haylzcyon @jessthebaker @pedrostories @covetyou

[sister-daniels-confession-booth]

sister i need advice because i am in such a fucking predicament that i can only tell three people about (one being my fourteen year old sister)

basically, some friends and i decided to download tinder/hinge and set up genuine profiles to see who could get the most matches. initially it was just one friend and i, and she kinda deleted the app so i was playing against nobody, but then two others got out of relationships, so they joined in.

before my other friends joined, i saw this one girls profile. and she was. just gorgeous. so gorgeous. like actually criminally not even joking the most gorgeous in the world. and im not that insecure, but i saw her and went ‘no way she will ever match me what is the point’. but i liked her anyway, thinking what can i lose. turns out, she hqd already liked me. we matched. she initiated conversation. my heart leaves my body and i have the biggest freak out because ‘the second most attractive woman ive ever seen is flirting n calling me hot’. (note: second most because i am friends with an actual model, so, objectively, she is the most attractive woman) im like ‘she must be a catfish’, so i reverse image searched all of her pics to check. turns out? shes real.

she asks for my instagram, i redownload the app and scour through my posts to make sure theyre all nice, we add each other, she went through my profile and brings up my posts, we talk on tinder for two weeks, then kinda stopped last monday. im really sad for like ten minutes but ive got an a level on tuesday and one on friday, so i cant dwell on anything.

my friend (whos in the bet, and didn’t particularly like this girl because she has a weird way of not responding for hours until she sees that im active and apparently thats not very nice and my friend told me that if a man did that i would tell her hes an asshole) asked about her yesterday, n i was like ‘not really talking anymore’, and we moved on.

today, i was lying in bed, reading some fanfic before getting up to draw. thinking in my head ‘fuck maybe im so single because i actually read fanfic, [the girl] would judge me hard’. finished the chapter, went on pintrest for a little scroll. just going through some very random posts. when. i. swear. to. fucking. god.

there she is.

on my pintrest feed.

and my heart just explodes, beating out my chest like crazy because the most gorgeous woman ive ever laid eyes on and who has flirted with me in such a way that i now know tinder offers to report people if theyre too forward is there.

im shaking. because oh my god, what do i do?

for context, i am incredibly superstitious. not only had i spoken briefly to my friend about her, i had just been thinking about her. i believe that the power of manifestation is kinda real because i have thought of girls ive been with and they have texted me so maybe i manifested her on my pintrest but it sounds delusional. HOWEVER. i am also the kind of person who really reads into my dreams.

last night i dreamt about my ex from like three fucking years ago. had our first conversation in literally a year this friday, literally talking about how i was being superstitious and predicting my exams based on what songs spotify shuffled, and when she tried to predict it it went wrong. in my dream, we were chatting and having fun. woke up and moved on. but now. idk? had a dream about my ex, who isnt psychic like me, and in my dream my brain was like ‘sometimes you need to get past rough patches and make contact and its nice’. so maybe my dream predicted tinder girl manifesting on my pintrest and now i need to fucking idk text her?

idk this is such a random rant i cant tell anyone really and its nice being anonymous. i dont have any exams, so i think i may make contact with the girl from tinder. tell me what to do because idk. i think im gonna do it please pray for me sister amen

I bless you with fairy dust and good vibes.

[cussima]

𐙚₊˚ I ACCIDENTALLY MANIFESTED WHITE TEETH TODAY ⊹♡

post contents:

✴︎ how manifestations can show up ✴︎ doubts i had + how i didn't deal with them to show you that manifestations show up regardless ✴︎ context for my teeth before and now story time:

I had my braces removed in december of 2019, straight away you could tell how stained my teeth were afterward, but the pandemic happened. There wasn't a need to get them whitened out (since nobody was going to see my teeth), or a possibility (cuz who tf would go to the dentist when a virus transmitted through breathing was happening). Fast-forward to 2023, the stains were still there but I had no toothaches or anything, my teeth seemed perfectly healthy, but stained. Since I hadn't been to the dentist in three years, I got an appointment. But when I mentioned the stains and that I wanted to get rid of them the dentist dodged it, like completely ignored me !! I assumed she dodged me because I'm a student and the price for a whitening would be too expensive (😭) So I thought that was it ! I would have to live with the stains for the rest of my life. I did some research on stains, apparently, some are harder to remove than others, and since the last dentist had ignored me when I asked her about them, I assumed they were unremovable. Accepting that they were magic-unremovable-stains didn't have that much of an impact on me until a few weeks ago; when my teeth became whiter and the stains more noticeable due to the contrast between them. What did you do to manifest this away? + Limiting beliefs I had with this Well it was such a straight in my face thing that I said "no they're whiter now." and forgot about it, then went back to reacting to them when I would see them (and it still manifested as you see, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this) ✴︎ I was so determined to listen to the 3D that I changed my smile to make the stains wouldn't show as much, or I would cover my mouth when I smiled or laughed, etc. ✴︎ Went as far as thinking "this is the only thing about me that is unattractive" or I would compare myself to others thinking "They have crooked teeth and I don't, but at least they're white" ✴︎ Only yesterday I was watching a girl talking about auras, and she said smiling was extremely attractive and I said "must be easier when your teeth aren't stained, so I'll just not smile as much" Until today !! I had a dentist appointment for a yearly check-up (a different dentist) and I was absolutely dreading it. I hate hate hate !! The dentist, I only go because it's a responsibility I maintain for my health. I didn't have much money on me, only enough for the tooth decay I believed I had and the price of the appointment. Which wasn't a lot. When I got in the dentist checked my teeth, he said I definitely have a decay but it's between two teeth so it would cost double what I had. And he told me !! My teeth were really stained and I had to get them whitened, and the price of the whitening was the exact money I had with me for that appointment !! So obviously I took the chance and whitened them.

I am so happy with my new white teeth, I'm smiling so much now because I'm so confident on my smile. They literally look GORGEOUS. I am so excited y'all I'm soso happy. Moral of the story: Manifestations show up in different and unexpected ways, but they always always still come !! Even if you don't have a military persistence with them!

[elainsgirl]

idk what i did for tumblr to do this to me but yikes. i usually only look at specific blogs i like for my acotar content. but today i felt like checking my fyp. and the stuff i saw shocked me.

i saw someone who finished acowar said they hate elain more than feyre and found her insufferable. first of all, you’re implying you don’t like feyre. okay so why read acotar? and three of the books at that? like leave, don’t do this to yourself lmao. second, elain killed the big bad in acowar. nesta and cassian would be history without her. where do you come off? show me where she was insufferable. because i can’t think of one single time she irritated me so i’m really curious to see what she did that bothered them.

another one said they reread acosf without first reading the og trilogy again and they said it’s crazy how you realize how horrible and abusive the IC is without the lingering empathy you have for them when you had just read the first three books… lingering empathy?… bro what??? anyone would seem like they’re being abusive if you take their actions out of context and don’t consider the backstory. but we have context. we have the luxury to know they weren’t being abusive but just trying to help the best way they knew how. and it was legit their last resort. surely their decision wasn’t an easy one to force nesta to the HOW (where she won’t be isolated and alone, the worst thing an addict can be), work in the library (which i thought was nice considering nesta finds comfort in books) and train (helped with her feelings of helplessness by learning how to defend herself). was it executed perfectly? no. but they were desperate and it’s hard to know how to properly deal with someone who is being extremely self-destructive if you haven’t dealt with it before. but it still got nesta to focus on things other than her bitterness and self hatred. it taught her self discipline. it led her to make genuine friends. if they hadn’t stepped in, these people’s favorite character would’ve eventually drank herself to death or gotten herself killed in some other dangerous situation. sorry but it’s the harsh truth. and the person said the IC abused nesta for acting mean and drinking when they also have acted just like her and worse. what? i know they party but i don’t recall them needlessly being cruel to their loved ones. then they said nesta should’ve burned the night court down at the end of acosf. tagged anti ic and anti everyone except azriel. i just know they’re a gwynriel or will become one just by looking at those tags.

i saw these two posts in only 15 seconds of scrolling. howwww are we still dealing with these people incapable of reading critically? why are you reading books where you hate 95% of the main characters? it’s one thing to like nesta and understand her, but these people are acting like she is the only victim and didn’t deserve what the IC “did to” her. if you ask me, i’d say they were too nice to her in the beginning. and it’s not like they didn’t try to include her. she pushed them away. i just know that’s how they are as people. bitter and angry at the world. but unlike nesta who learned to grow, her fanatic fans are stagnant, are usually gwynriels and quite frankly, poison the acotar fandom with their toxic takes

sorry for the long message. i needed to vent lol

This but w me on TikTok- every other video on there is about how horrible and disgusting people the IC are, Feyre’s the worst, Elains a manipulator - Nesta is a victim, Cass doesn’t deserve her etc etc. This is the sole reason I stay away from tiktok. I used to post on there everyday but it became so draining constantly having to see takes that just gave you headaches bcs of how ridiculous they are.

They find Elain insufferable bcs of her constant “crying” & “whining” in acowar where she was useless pining for a man who hated her. Because how dare she right? I mean, its not like the book prior to acowar - she was kidnapped, thrusted into a giant pot first not knowing what was going to happen to her - assualted and changed against her will into a foreign body and then given powers which put her into a camotose state and then she had to deal with the fact she lost everything she wanted, everything that was going to be hers including a marriage to the man she loves, a man who saw her. Nesta isolating herself, going off drinking at inns is a coping mechanism they can defend yet Elain being depressed & suicidal, being quiet and keeping to herself is apparently something they cant find the sympathy or even empathy to understand. Exactly. Do these people not realise how terrible they sound? And the thing is - Elain did SO MUCH in acowar. Stabbed Hybern, located the suriel, kicked HOUNDS of Az with her bare FEET. If any other fmc did such a thing they would be labelled a badass but Elain does not get that recognition. Also you’re literally right. If you hate the MAIN character of the series, why continue reading her books?

The IC are complex, flawed individuals. They make bad decisions but ultimately whatever they do is for the better good. Could they have handled the “rehab” situation better? Absolutely. But its done - it led to Nesta bettering herself and finding genuine friends. It literally ends off on Nesta and the IC being on good terms so exactly why should she burn the entire court to the grounds? Nesta isn’t perfect herself. She isn’t the victim in every single situation. Its done - their relationship will heal and become better. If you’re anti everything aside from one character maybe this series isn’t for you and thats ok. This is what I dont get about most Nesta stans, is they take defending Nesta so far to the point they distort every other character and scenario. Yep…like I say, its not a coincidence most elucien/gwynriel stans hate or the IC or the night court.

THIS. If I hated 90% of the characters in a series, you know what I’d do? Quit the series and leave the fandom. If I hated a direction a series is going in? Again. I’d quit the series instead of making such fanon, elaborate theories and HCs that I know will never happen. I feel like all these “critical” takes and hatred for most of the characters has led to the fandom being so insufferable and not an enjoyable experience to be in. When you look at that *side* which includes gwynriels and eluciens, its like they’ve read an entirely different series and they want such different outcomes compared to what the books have foreshadowed.

[turbo-tsundere]

i may have sent an ask like this before? i dont remember if i did and i apologize if i did, but i absolutely adore your concept drawings for that gonta survival horror game. i would absolutely love to hear more about it ^^ i hope you’re doing well also!

Ah, no, I haven't gotten anything like that before, unless yours was that invisible ask, that lingers in my inbox as an unremovable number. But either way, please don't apologize - it's really sweet that someone could be interested in reading about stuff like that.

Regarding the game concept: it started as a daydream to process my post-V3 blues. Bunch of ideas that weren't exactly polished with a serious gamedev effort in mind, though maybe I'll introduce it proper via concept sketches, in the undetermined future.

I can summarize it via text, even though I worry if it will be interesting in that form - visuals matter, after all - but I'll try.

Bullet point form, for, um, easier reading. Be warned, it's... it's about 7,2k words.

[GENERAL INTRO] (for context: the ask is about one of those sketches)

The rough title is "Danganronpa Another Universe: Giga Despair Triad", or GDT for short.

First, I'd like to clarify that while I said it's a "survival horror" game, in reality it's the prologue and later random scenes that fall cleanly into the "survival" sub-category.

As a whole I imagine it to be more of an *action* horror game, mixing fight and investigation mechanics, with some light environmental puzzles here and there. We're helpless at the start, and later on the horror is mostly existential and psychological. Though, of course, there are (mono)monsters and general horror aesthetics involved, as the world is going through an apocalyptic event.

It's not all angst and suffering, either. There are silly moments, as a nod to typical DR wackiness + my own morbid sense of humour.

It's meant to be both V3 as well as UDG sequel (very original, I know xD). And it's an indulgent thing, with references to other games or manga that I love (similarly how V3 did it with it's own homages), and my top faves freely put together, specifically Gonta and Tokomaru, so I can go wild with all of the psychological and interpersonal dynamics that could be explored between those three. Really dig into Gonta's brain especially, and dissect the behavioral and emotional bulIshit that plagues him, in a way that may deconstruct and challenge his character. At least... That's my main intention.

It's a result of wondering how to - in a way that's plausible within the lore of the DR universe - bring back Gonta and certain other characters... but at a hefty price.

[HOW IT STARTS]

At the very beginning Gonta startles awake to a flash of light. With his last memory being the stabbing, flames, sounds of buzzing, and a searing agony, he's shocked and disoriented, but soon realizes he's alone in a dimly lit room, lying in a pod of sorts, and he... seems alive and completely uninjured?

Despite the confusion, he stumbles out of this "infirmary" onto a ruined corridor. Water dripping from nearby broken pipes helps to quench his thirst, and to his relief, he finds fireflies there! The place where they concentrate would be your first save point - and with the help of their bioluminescence, Gonta is now able to explore and investigate the dilapidated facility he's stuck in. Judging from a glance into a narrow crack in the ceiling, and seeing the sunlight pouring down from many floors above, it looks to be rather deep underground. And while the place seems long abandoned, Gonta certainly doesn't feel alone, and it's not just because of bugs. He finds some blood-written messages on the walls that seem to guide him and then disappear; his own(?) missing glasses are unexpectedly tossed at him from a dark corner, yet he finds nothing, when he anxiously checks in that direction; and he senses and hears something terrifying and hostile lurking in the half-crumbled dark rooms just beyond the reach of firefly lights. In fact, to his terror, when one of them flew across a large hole in the floor in order to inspect the other end of a hallway, the light disappeared abruptly as if someone - or something - had grabbed... or eaten it. But, in spite of his searching, it looks like his friends aren't here, and this confuses him even more. There's lots of documents or recordings, that partially clue him in as to what has transpired after his death, almost up till 53rd killing game's end, there's even a morgue with what seems to be his own corpse (a discovery that pretty much messes up with his sense of reality and makes him question if he's not in afterlife. It's hard to sum up everything going through his head, but Gonta's sanity certainly takes a hit from seeing this), but no living people whatsoever.

Once his first objective to search for others is fulfilled, his next one is to escape the facility, by climbing the broken elevator shaft... He ends up using his own execution chain as a makeshift rope.

Oh and... While down there, he stumbles upon a futuristic server/computer room, where he finds his own Alter Ego. After a conversation, we'd get the first narrative choice as to whether you want the Alter Ego's memory to fuse with Gonta's consciousness via Flashback Light... or not. Tbh I'd imagine the game to be mostly linear, but choices like that would mostly impact some of his dialogues, his mental state (there would be a mechanic for that, actually!), as well as count to making some alternative/bad/early endings either available or not. He'd have the same information from 3rd party sources either way, the question is whether he wants to remember the events from Ch4 VR from "his own" POV or not.

"The world is okay" image is actually the end of this whole section aka the Prologue. Gonta climbs out of the dilapidated facility, and stews in all of the information he managed to gather while being trapped down there, including one that implies the world is supposedly perfectly okay. He catches some darker, defeated part of himself faintly hoping that the world is actually destroyed, because if it isn't, then what did he end Miu's life for? At least it would make his action not as senseless... He promptly pushes that thought away, internally bashing himself for ever thinking that, finally crawls out to the surface, and then sees a clear sky, unobstructed by the dome of the End Wall, which makes him notice he's outside of the Academy - cue crushing shame and layers upon layers of disappointment and painful realizations. About the 4th trial, about himself... about that intrusive thought he just had. "The world is okay, and you're still stupid", is how the whole line actually goes. But beyond that, there's relief and hope as well. Because if he's alive, despite his brutal death, then perhaps others are as well, no matter how... unreal it sounds? He now knows that Himiko, Shuichi and Maki survived, too, and he desperately wants to see them again. After Gonta gathers himself from his breakdown and rests, he tries to figure out just where he is - he uses his entomological and star knowledge to do so - and embarks on a journey, trying to find any nearest city, to then continue searching for his other friends.

Incidentally, as Gonta starts walking... he hears some cries of frustration (or perhaps cries for help?) and upon rushing to the spot he's heard them from, finds a particularly energetic and chatty bug, who reallyreallyreallyreallyreally wants to find her friend. Human friend, actually! Gonta decides to help her as well, seeing that they might head in the same direction anyway. And wow, that person the bug is talking about must be such a kind, sweet and good-hearted individual! They *both* even used to be friendless losers who befriended bugs as kids! Gonta sure would love to meet this kindred spirit, if possible!

[SETTING, PLOT BITS & CONCEPTS, yadda yadda]

The memories of V3 cast are false, but Hope's Peak is very much real. The killing game(s) organized by Tsumugi/Team Danganronpa were the copycat crimes Tsumugi alluded to at the end of V3. Personally, I feel that this combo offers most concepts and ideas to explore, so that's what I'm going for. Once V3 survivors escape the Academy for Gifted Juveniles, they manage to find Future Foundation, and while under its protection/employment, begin investigating their real pasts and Team Danganronpa as a whole, while dealing with other missions, if ordered to do so. When GDT begins, it's about 2-3 years since the 53th killing game has concluded.

After the Prologue, Gonta eventually finds Toko and Komaru, who are out on a field mission that day (he quite heroically saves them in sheer panic picks up a random manhole cover and yeets it at the monobeast that was facing them, interrupting and ending their fight). Thanks to Kameko's tearful reunion with Toko, and Gonta introducing himself and explaining his predicament in a gentlemanly fashion frantically BOMBARDING Tokomarus with info about him, Shuichi, Himiko and Maki, and whatever Kameko has told Gonta about Toko and her own ties to the killing games, all to convince her to pleasebelievehimandhelphimfindhisfriendsaaaahhhhhh, they hesitantly allow him to join them. They're not sure if this is a good idea, and this big-ass scary looking dude is still wearing some hospital-looking gown, so who knows where he's escaped from, but... it's worth checking out with FF. And Gonta translating Kameko's words to Toko, 100000% validating her feelings about Kameko indeed being a very special "friendsect" might've helped to buy into her good graces, just a liiiiiittle bit. She denies it though when Komaru calls her out on this :).

The three (four, if you will!) musketeers head back to one of the FF outposts, but since the road back is rather long and dangerous, at one point they get separated by horde of mono-monsters, and amids that chaos, Gonta has a surprise run-in with Miu who... isn't just very unfriendly, hostile even, but doesn't even feel fully herself either, and apparently for more reasons than mere anger over Gonta choking her. There's a goddamn Monokuma with her, too?! Suffice to say... Gonta doesn't exactly escape this situation unscathed and unshaken.

Some other things happen along the way, but luckily, as the night approaches, he's able to find Toko and Komaru again, and together with them reach the Future Foundation, finally reuniting with the V3 survivor Trio. And this closes Chapter 1 - while Prologue served as tutorial for stealth and investigation and puzzle mechanics, this one would teach fight mechanics and introduce core premise and plot elements, which is pretty much investigating the secret behind Gonta's revival, Miu situation, what it might mean about other deceased killing game participants... as well as Gonta trying to find his own place and purpose in FF.

The ones that are confirmed to be revived are Gonta, Miu, and eventually also Kokichi, in that exact order. Yes, the whole Holy Trinity gets their second chance, how nice!

It ain't no VR, actually. I'm saying this, bc I remember someone leaving tags "Oh, it makes me think of post V3 VR digital limbo", and I know this is a popular fanon, but that's not the case here. As a reader, even if I don't gravitate towards the trope, I like it when it's done well - Kodaka did do some cool stuff VR motives in his games, and so did the fandom - but as creator I can't think of anything inspired (plus at the time I had no clue it was such widespread interpretation). And I suppose my brain naturally prefers stories to happen within more material settings, even if they're warped and influenced by a mind, or reality-breaking phenomena? So, my point... everything in GDT is very much real. The killing game happened for real. People died for real… And some got to live for "real" again.

I'm making it all work by playing with and building upon certain elements and technology already established within canon. And this is mostly where I draw the horror element from.

I considered one of the first hints towards what's truly happening - aside from the body in the morgue - that every time you'd die as Gonta within the game, he'd find his previous body lying in that spot. Players would need to pick his things back up, such as glasses and items. Kinda like in Automata or the "bloodstain-retrieval" system in soulsborne? There of course would be a limit to how many would appear, as the oldest one would start to naturally disintegrate. There'd be some more of those hints in Prologue, but I'd make discovering them all except for the morgue optional and missable. Like, if Gonta didn't die in that segment, the player would never know they could stumble upon his old body, until that happened later in the game. Or if he didn't return to a specific place after something specific happens, then he wouldn't witness something curious. I just... like elements like that, that aren't vital but fuel the conspiracy and reward wall-licking XD. Of course there'd be an option for no-death runs, aside from those imposed by the plot.

Gonta fights with a manhole cover attached to the very chains he was tied with during his execution XD. I wanted to give him a wacky weapon that would fit what Toko and Komaru use.

[DRAMATIS PERSONAE, CHARACTER ARCS/DYNAMIC, ETC.?]

Things I'd like to explore the most are Gonta's compulsions, and whether he can grow to accept being seen in the wrong or negative way, without his self-worth falling apart. Whether he's capable of letting Miu heal on her own, without him in the picture, without insisting on desperately fixing things, or showing how regretful and sorry he is; how he can handle someone challenging his near-obsessive and self-destructive need for being seen by others as a good person, while ironically having zero self-preservation and harbouring so much self-hatred. Whether he can realise how insisting on helping everyone the way he does can paradoxically come off as self-centered, in spite of his inherent selflessness, earnestness, and genuine love for others. How there are some things that just can't be fixed... and you still gotta live and still deserve, no, have a duty to care for yourself. Just... ya know. A few examples out of an endless list of his personal issues that imo need addressing one way or another. Nothing is really easy for him, not even his integration into FF ranks, as no one here, not even Gonta, is exactly sure what is up with him coming back to life. He's given a chance to prove himself, though he's not automatically granted the freedom to do what he pleases. But he understands.

Truth is, the nature of his revival aside, Gonta in general trusts himself less. He seems to act like his old self alright, but there's an air of resignation and subtle hopelessness to the way he seems to perceive himself now. He's in a worse state, even if he keeps moving forward for other people's sake. The 4th trial, after all, felt like a thorough breakdown and "confirmation" of his worst fears and criticism he had about himself, or how others used to misjudge him. It's not something that wouldn't leave a trace on his already shitty self-perception. Thankfully, there are some compassionate souls looking out for him, like Himiko, for example. But it's not just her.

I didn't think I'd reveal it this way, I actually hoped to compile my old sketches of this in future… but it involves my very first Gonta ship ever.

Namely Gonta x Toko (or as I like to call it, gontoko). At the time, I didn't have it in me to delve into ougoku (wounds still too fresh to feel worth it yet, despite some morbid fascination) nor saigoku (somehow didn't click for me for over 3-4 months after finishing V3 despite the massive in-game fuel being present in there). In my eyes ship with Toko provided that perfect balance of cozy/healthy but still flawed dynamic, while still having some "tooth" to it (aka psychological f-ckupery and dysfunctionality between two people trying to make sense of each other and their inner demons, contrasts and parallels etc.) without me feeling like I'm tossing Gonta in a heartbreakingly and irreparably harmful to him situation.

With that in mind though, we're NOT interfering with Tokomaru in any way whatsoever. Tokomaru is *sacred*. Nothing will break it apart. It's a 100% "Toko has two hands" situation. That's her life now, and you bet she gets constant migraines over it. She now has to deal with two "but I'm too normal/dumb for this wahh wahh shitty self-esteem!" green-haired messes. Plus the thought that she's kiiiinda like her dad now, with tho partners, drives Toko up the walls. Thing is, this girl is doing this right, even if she doesn't currently see it this way. Meanwhile Gonta can fry her brain with kindness and deep respect she's so not wired to handle.

That being said, my goal with them isn't exactly touchy-feely stuff, but exploring their dynamic as two deeply self-loathing but sensitive and hard-working towards self-betterment people, who know how it's like to discover they're murderers, while having zero memory of the act - and how crushing it is towards any crumbs of positive self-perception and hope for being deserving of affection/validation they might've held onto until this point in their life. Different circumstances, motivations, and the ways it all transpired, but still, there are grounds for mutual understanding here. At the same time Toko seems like a perfect character to call Gonta out on his bs in a way no one else could: both in good faith with genuine, constructive support in mind, as well as due to her own flaws and current hangups causing her to lash out. Both options can create potentially compelling conflict. But frankly, it goes both ways. After all, Gonta does tend to make simple but startingly on-point observations, sometimes. They'd just be dishing reality-checks at each other, whether knowingly or not :D

Perhaps I could also touch upon Gonta's and Toko's (either conscious or not) tendency to gravitate towards individuals who are "evil-coded" (regardless of whether they're really evil or not, either personality or aesthetic-wise), or those who either talk down, insult, mistreat if not outright harm/use them. It's something that sadly many victims of abuse in the real world do - habitually ending up in toxic circles, since it's something familiar, while not reacting to, not "computing", feeling lost, confused or even stressed out in more healthy dynamics. And from what I see, both Toko and Gonta are different flavours of that in their own right...

I'd like to explore the parallels between Gonta and Komaru as well, from a friendship perspective. I do see certain similarities between them, how they were both set up to end up making drastic choices via someone else orchestrating everything with that exact outcome in mind, before Gonta/Komaru would ever know they'd be making such a choice... I truly think the only difference between Gonta and Komaru is that, at her lowest, after her spirits were broken upon seeing that video, there was someone by her side, who *actually* cared for her and prioritized her wellbeing; someone who would fight to stop her from making a decision driven by despair, as opposed to actively feeding into and enabling it. Then, there's of course the issue of low self-esteem, and downplaying one's achievements. Komaru in this story has of course mostly grown past this and in a much better place, but to an extent, she certainly could see some of her past self in Gonta.

Plus, on a lighter note, with Komaru wanting to be a manga artist, and Gonta thinking comic artists and book illustrators are "good people" (because it makes understanding complex concepts easy for him), I feel like they could become good buddies via that passion of hers. Also in DR:S both Gonta and Komaru asked Angie for art advice... they're both aspiring artists in a way!

Also I find it really damn funny that Komaru is very similar to "komar", which is the polish word for mosquito xD. That certainly would appeal to Mr Ultimate Entomologist!

Shuichi and Komaru are petrolhead friends, and they wish oh so badly to have a car vs motorbike race with each other. It'd be a waste of FF resources, but they can't help to get excited about the idea. And maybe they'd get a sequence dedicated to just that… with an extra bonus of escaping from a horde of monobeasts.

As you may have gathered already, Kameko is an actual character in there, she helps with espionage and exploration, and she indeed is the bug Gonta meets at the end of Prologue, that helps him find the (Towa?) city. She rightfully serves as the catalyst for the whole gontoko deal starting :).

The twist tho is… this actually ain't original Kameko, but one of her descendants, who took it upon itself to keep her name and live as "Kameko" and Toko's friend. Life of a stink bug isn't that long, after all, ranging between 6-8 months once it exits the nymph stage. Yes, it has thematic relevance to the overall story. :D

Maki finds herself busy with taking care of Monokuma Children (the helmet wearing kids from UDG), using her knowledge of living and working in orphanage... frankly, she's seeing a bit on herself in those kids, who had their hands stained, going as far as to orphan themselves due to brainwashing. Sure, her memories might not be real... but to her it feels real, and the empathy for their circumstances is still there in her heart. She's also a close friend with Nagisa.

Miu's out there, as we already know, dealing with her own problems, and seemingly in a way worse situation than Kokichi and Gonta are. Seems like Monokuma is keeping her captive, and wants to form her into the next Junko - and with Miu being completely alone here, she pretty much forces herself to comply out of fear. She's also developed trauma response to hearing apologies - as this was the very last thing she kept hearing while dying. Still, she's not exactly proud of what she did to Gonta in retaliation during their accidental "reunion". She feels like she's crossed a moral line she can't exactly come back from. And this, as well as the current state of the world she wished to make better with her inventions, would accumulate and make her want to fight against her cowardice.

Kokichi... is quite tricky to describe, not gonna lie, because a lot of his arc relies on mystery and working while in hiding. He's seemingly found everywhere, defying logical explanation, as to how he could even move between those locations. He's no doubt planning something though. Trying to defeat the evils... in his own way. Which is naturally making life harder for everyone around, both "allies" and enemies. He's seemingly alone, but extremely busy executing a certain plan of his.

There's one version of Kokichi though, that starts sort of hanging around the Gonta+Tokomaru team. I affectionately call him Fukushima Flower Kokichi due to the odd deformities of his body (there will be a concept sketch below). He seems more frail and quieter and even... sweeter? Than his normal self. Because of that, Gonta, in his compulsive empathy, finds it difficult to completely dismiss the little guy and not feel bad towards him, despite the anxiety he feels after the Ch4 events. He's cautious and tense, but can't help not to at least keep an eye on him. This particular Kokichi also assures that he's... Disconnected from the "main one", and therefore "safe". Whatever that means.

[MAJOR SPOILER/DEEP LORE TERRITORY + EXPERIMENTAL IDEAS?] (beware if you care for those, there's 0,0000000000001% change this might be made within next 30 years lmao)

Nanokumas, son. They mutate in response to despair! You can't get rid of them, Gonta.

After the end of the 53rd killing game, and the survivor trio escaping the Academy, with no Motherkuma to oversee and control their numbers, they eventually began to go rogue and self-replicate while executing their hidden self-preservation protocol and now bugged programming indiscriminately. And then they went on without anyone's supervision or knowledge for a very long while.

One of the by-products of their activity is Mono-beasts we know from UDG mutating into Eldritch Abominations, and certain individuals coming back wrong, but it's actually so much more than that, and the situation is pretty dire. The world is at the risk of grey goo apocalypse, and what's going around is pretty much the Mist meets End of Evangelion bs. And they might go "I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream" pretty soon, considering that for some death isn't an escape any more. Despair and the concept of killing games has taken a new form, pretty much, and the horrible discoveries don't end here.

Knowing this, Gonta, Kokichi and Miu... it's not surprising to find that they're all literally infested with nanomachines holding their cells like glue, and of course their newfound existence comes with a catch.

The stability of their form is influenced by their mental state, self-perception, and to a limited extent, their own will, the last one allowing for introducing unique fighting or puzzle-solving mechanics later on. But, as a scary side-effect, they're at risk of physically manifesting their emotional distress... including exhibiting the symptoms of their deaths. Their bodies may lose integrity and simply fall apart on a cellular level if things go unchecked for too long.

For now the assumption is that Kokichi was the first one to revive (with Miu second, and Gonta last). Because of this, his form is the most flawed and unstable one out of all of them. There might be more than one of him, too.

Kokichi's revival was an accident, Miu's seems to have happened by Monokuma's design, but how did Gonta even came back to life? By whose will and design? Was it an accident, just like in Kokichi's case, or...? It's true, that when he woke up, it seemed like some things were specifically prepared just for him to find. Either way Gonta's in the middle when it comes to stability, but it can go either way, depending on how much he relies on special fighting mechanics, and on his arc/choices made.

Miu's arguably in best condition, since her body wasn't destroyed like the guys' were. She wasn't as much revived via complete rebuilding, but her original body was "simply repaired". However, at first, she's unaware that she truly died - being instead convinced by Monokuma, that she miraculously survived and ended up in a coma instead.

Even if they're technically immortal, it doesn't mean the process of dying or reviving wouldn't be traumatic, as they'd then wake up and remember all of the pain they've gone through, or remain conscious in states any other human being would perish from. There are also things suggesting their super-healing abilities might come with certain dangers attached to them, so... perhaps the "survival" aspect of the game doesn't ever disappear entirely, it's just that the repercussions for dying are recontextualised.

Either way, speaking of existential issues...

So, if you're a "clone" of yourself with your memories "reinstalled" via Flashback Light, are you still that person? Are you really different, if molecularly, functionally and psychologically you're the perfect recreation of the "original"? Or perhaps the body at the morgue was the fake one? Who knows? And does it even matter, considering that previously, your memories and backstory were a fabrication anyway? You're pretty much just an Alter Ego installed onto "flesh hardware", just like you were before. The only difference is that your previous body might've used a real human being - with their own life and history - as a base, and currently you're using a "blank slate" aka a clone. Or perhaps that old body was a clone, too, and the original is out there, somewhere? And if so... did he have a say in your/his participation in the 53rd killing game?

Was this how the Ch3 resurrection ritual was supposed to actually work? (In my mind, yes. With nanotech, imo cloning is also within the realm of possibility for this universe, but even without it Team DR could've just kidnapped an unwilling body double and slap fake memories onto him and call it a day)

Maki, out of all three V3 survivors, is the most sceptical of the idea of bringing others back the same way Gonta was. She worries about Shuichi and Himiko getting false hopes of saving Kaede, Kaito, Tenko and Angie, and getting themselves into danger by obsessing over this. She also doesn't exactly trust Gonta… Well, she pretty much doesn't view Gonta as Gonta, but an imposter, and perhaps a spy or something akin to a living Troyan Horse, even if unwilling/unwitting. Basically, she thinks there has to be a reason for him to come back to life to conveniently end up with Future Foundation, and all of this might be one big trap. It's only thanks to Himiko's and surprisingly Toko's insistence that she doesn't do as much about it as she normally would have. Plus, when it goes to Kaito... the idea of a """living""" "puppet" that emulates his behaviour feels like an affront to both his memory and her feelings for him. Gonta will certainly remember all that.

There's also a problem of how Gonta, Miu and Kokichi deal with the news that their past life wasn't real to begin with...

For Gonta... most of the things he was doing in his life were for others, out of genuine need to see them happy, but also because Gonta wanted to both be and be seen as a good and helpful person. So, if it's all fake, if all those people - who've shaped or inspired his goals and motivations, who were the source of abuse, neglect, of his insecurities - have never existed to begin with, then what did he work for so hard, what did he felt so stupid and worthless for? In his FTEs, Shuichi helped Gonta focus on himself a bit more, but it seems like a wasted effort now. Just what set of values should he even pursue now? He can't help but mourn the forest family, specific bug friends, and many other people in his life, that turns out he never truly had. What Maki said about him being just a copy that's convinced they're the original doesn't help either. He feels horrible about "stealing" the life of that original person. Like a parasite that got his host's life snuffed out, only to continue living in their body undeservingly. Something akin to Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, the zombie-ant fungus. Suffice to say... this whole thing is a source of a lot of anguish for him, and to no one's surprise, he feels personally responsible. He's even begging FF to help him find the real family of that individual, so that he can "atone" by living with them while pretending to be the"original" person before they had "Gonta mod" installed. That idea is very firmly and promptly shot down by Toko.

Kokichi, I imagine, could be pushed further down the unhinged territory... For all the lies he's ever told and the masks he's put on, he, at the very least, assumed he could depend on knowing the truth about himself, no matter how deeply it was hidden. But now it turns out to be a lie he's never signed up for, and he gets that extra layer of detachment from everything. Or perhaps it's the total opposite - he's glad to be "rid off" his "true" self, if it was something he wanted to bury or avoid - and the sense of losing touch with it is "no biggie", or so he insists. Still, it annoys him to no end, that it's a result of someone else's will, instead of his own. "Invasive" doesn't even begin to describe it. Underneath it all though, there's that persistent nihilistic thought of "I can do anything, create anything, I have no attachments to anyone and anything. I can shape myself into who I want over and over and over and over, and no one will stop me now." - and this revelation is both freeing and depressing for him. All he knows for sure is that Monokuma is still pissing him off, and he wants that bitch down. And he's going to make that everyone's problem.

Miu actually takes the news quite well. See, if I had to sum up her own arc... it's definitely the most shoneny one out of them all XD. The whole thing with Miu becoming Junko is basically her going from complying with Monokuma's plans out of fear, to deliberately pretending to do so, so that she can have an in depth access to his tech, come up with proper plans against him etc. etc.. She causes a ton of problems to the other characters, yes, because she has to put on a believable act, but I wanted Miu's endgame to be this wholesome twist with her dramatically undoing her pig-tails, as she announces she's *not* and *never* would be some Junk! She's the one and only golden girl genius Miu Iruma, and she's here to save the world with her inventions, not fuck it over. Monokuma retorts to this by reminding her that she's a fake, but her response is basically: "Oh, that "us being fiction" thing? So? I LOVE being me. It's fuckin' awesome to be Miu Iruma!". It probably helps that, in her made up backstory, she became an inventor after waking up from a coma episode, so the unreality and randomness of her identity was pretty much always part of the package. Plus, falsely acquired or not, her knowledge is still applicable and Miu *can* come up with and build things that work, and make tangible difference through them. If that doesn't make it real, then what does? So, what's the point of the angst, again? She concludes her old self would LOVE to be her. Tldr, I just want this girl to keep winning, okay?

At one point Gonta faces another temptation - if his personality, backstory, traumas, self-hatred, if they're all fake, and coming from nothing "real", no tangible experience, then what's even the point of sticking to his hangups, of... dealing with this mess? Of tormenting himself and failing because of who he is? Why not ditch it all and take a shortcut by rewriting himself completely, into someone better, smarter, more useful, someone... just perfect. What's the point of being the person he intuitively hates, if all of that can seemingly be changed at a whim and snap of a finger? The moment he's able to notice and verbalize those feelings, the mere possibility eats at him from the inside, especially since the technology IS there. He could spare everyone so much trouble, so much time spent on coaching him, on teaching him, on explaining the obvious, spare them from getting frustrated with his naivete or lack of knowledge... Sure, it might mean he will ultimately become a different person, effectively ending his current self, but isn't that a fair price for providing benefit to the world and his friends? It doesn't even dawn on him that some people might've already gotten attached to who he currently is, and the outcome of his actions might depend on several gameplay factors.

I'm thinking about the structure where there would be hidden counters for Affection (with Toko), Doom (based on narrative personal choices, character development and monitoring emotional state, the amount of deaths etc.) and Performance (based again on amount of deaths, reliance on special abilities in fights, objective completion rate, and damage healing), that could determine different endings for different combinations of those (like Low/High/Poor status respectively could result in a Bad End at one point), even if generally those would be interconnected anyways. The game would be, again, linear, but because of those counters there, a small branching in narrative leading to an earlier ending could occur along that path.

I did say I'm not really inspired by VR AU, but after stewing on it while writing this post, maybe there could be some slight elements of it. It could help introduce some trippier and more surreal segments into the mix, that I wouldn't know how to incorporate otherwise, aside from literally breaking their fabric of reality as we know it XD (not that it isn't broken already, but...). It would serve as no more than plot/scene enhancer, rather than a major component of it.

Nyeh. I wish we could play a segment as Himiko. Do some MAGIC. Or to put it simply, use stuff like sleight of hand and tricks to distract people in order to solve stealth puzzles or something like that.

Jfc I just found a scribble that Gonta gets shitface drunk on purpose at one point, I dunno anymore what his plan was, he wanted to poison nanokumas or something? XDDD Or maybe he was just so done with everything up to this point? dasjgdsaj I forgot about that bit but it's hilarious and it so stays if I ever make this game dajhgsajhgjsadgj I don't care what I will have to do to make it in-character, it's gonna happen xDDDD

Komaeda's here too????? Just... Happy to be there? Talking esoteric stuff? Enjoying the show not even from a front row, but putting his chair right on the damn stage? Taking in the view of the "great tide of human enterprise, coming to naught"? XD Rooting for Hope??? XD

[RANDOM TRIVIA etc.]

I'd like to expand on the references to the other media thing. Before V3 I used to be one of those assholes who would see fanarts as a waste of time and effort as opposed to just focusing on one's own original content. You know, the "why would you spend time on something someone else made, instead of making your own thing?". Turns out I haven't loved a fictional story strong enough to understand the drive until it finally hit. There IS merit and certain selfless dedication to pursuing fanarts and expressing love for something that isn't about you or your concepts. It is an unique and wonderful feeling with a different flavor of satisfaction, just like doing personal artwork vs commission work are activities that feel rewarding in a completely distinct way (happiness of self-actualization to see your inner world come to life vs pride of a professional who likes making happy clients. With fanarts I'd say it's... Sense of celebration and paying homage. And rotating the blorbo).

Either way, this was a considerable shift in mentality for me, and ngl, it felt huge. So now that I had my anime redemption arc, my change of heart, my heel turn, I wanted to go out of my way to actively make GDT a love letter to other games or manga that I liked. Just like V3 sort of did, with its characters and story being their own thing, while simultaneously being PACKED with references to other media.

For example, I listened a ton to this "Time and Tide" by Alan Price song from Plague Dogs while thinking of this story. A song about the ocean/waves and going home, just like "At the Bottom of the Sea", but whose message is a completely opposite one. I wanted it to be the theme for the Good/True Ending, and kind of symbolic for the character arc Gonta would go through.

One of the manga I want to reference a lot is Gunnm (or Battle Angel Alita). It's one of my all time faves and fundamentals of my art style, and I think it has a ton of motives than could mesh well, because of the motives it itself tackles: cyborgs, and their total opposite, humans with flesh body but chip instead of a brain; humans who sold off their biological tissue and rights to DNA and someone else ended up constructing literal monsters and mutants out of those; scientists who achieved near-immortality thanks to cloud of nanomachines; 3D bioprinters; people whose DNA was designed from scratch, and people who wanted to mass produce them for "bloody, killing sports"; quantum supercomputers forecasting future and dictating humanity's fate; an "Incubator", where biological brains dream of a fake world, while their energy is used as a power and processing units for said quantum computers; the concept of freedom, instinct and definitions of *True* free will and individuality in a world like that. I wouldn't go as extra on those motives in GDT, but I'd love to incorporate some of that into the overarching themes and plot elements as far as constraints of original universe could plausibly allow (and with nanomachines, full-immersion VR, big mechas, robots, and personality/memory rewriting machines I think there's quite a lot of that wiggle room for those elements to fit like glove). An artificial personality installed onto biological "hardware", and the whole Theseus ship dilemma as to whether they're still an individual is something that would fit perfectly alongside such homages.

I wanted to pay homage to Gentleman Dress Up, too, by making some collectible clothes for Gonta, but... I dunno, at this point this thing already turns into such an overambitious project XD... still I thought it'd be neat.

[SOME EXTRA DOODLES TO MAKE UP FOR THAT WALL TEXT] (at least those more legible ones)

(The three main sillies. And Kameko!)

(Poster sketches, Nuclear Flower Kokichi, Gonta hairstyle concepts - I was thinking maybe some choices could result in him having either long or short hair- etc.,etc... Oh, and about that Gonta & Kokichi sketch in the upper right corner... Remember that one wip compilation I posted a long, long time ago? This one? Well, I kinda sorta deliberately showed an edited out version back then. Now you can see how it's really suppossed to look like. Hopefully certain details are noticeable :) It's from a True Ending. Make of it what you will :D)

I wish I could post more drawings in the same style as the previous concepts for this game, especially moody environments/scenes (I specifically practiced a style that'd be quick, but give a vibe of a finished piece), but in reality the majority of those are either too messy to be legible, some I'd like to work more on (like Miu's new attire, more mono-nano-monster designs, etc.) and some are still in my head... I do hope to do so one day though.

[TO SUM THIS UP]

There are a lot of things I haven't ultimately talked about, and frankly, if I were to do this project for real, I'm not sure how many of those ideas would be left unchanged, or even make it to the final product... Reading my old notes, there are definitely concepts I'd do differently now, or ones that felt a bit embarrassing to talk about here... But that's pretty much the gist of it at its current form!

It's been a while, too... I haven't thought about GDT as much ever since I've got similar emotional catharsis by making Gonta in Code Vein and playing it while projecting his post-V3 arc onto it. But I had fun with it, and getting your ask... kinda rekindled those brain worms, haha. I dunno if actually making it into a game would be ever feasible for me, who has zero gamedev/coding knowledge aside from designing 2d assets for my friends/other people's indie games. Even if I had to make it much simpler and sacrifice most of the play mechanics... But concept artbook though... that would be lovely. And within the realm of possibility. But not this year. And very unlikely a year after that. There are other priorities, and more pressing artistic matters now xD.

Thank you for sending that ask and giving me an opportunity to talk about it. I hope at least some of it was interesting!

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Twist of Fate; Twenty-Four

Pairings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 2,428

Themes; isekai, slow burn (eventual smut), canon divergence

Warnings; swearing and some mature themes

Notes; Hey guys! A bit later than my usual uploads, but I wanted to rest for a bit after work. I'm currently working on chapter 25, 777 words into Divisa Three, and also working on a two part add-on to ToF that I'll post once the story makes mention of it. This will be something you can read for more context, but it's not necessary for the story (or maybe it is— it's important, but can also be ignored if you don't want to read something too non-canon-y)

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☆ masterlist ☆

“Jeremiah! Where’s Xavier?” You ask, almost out of breath from sprinting down all those stairs. Your hands resting on your knees as you fan your face.

“Hmm? Ohh, looking for our princely prefect, are you?” He chuckles before checking his surroundings and scratching his head. “Strange…He was here earlier.”

You turn to look at the looming clock tower. “I know where he is.”

He must be at this secret hiding spot again! You run to the clock tower, ignoring the shouts behind you.

“Don’t bother him! He’s injured. Near death’s door I’d say!” You hear Jeremiah shout and you scoff, “As if that’s going to stop me!”

At the very pinnacle of the clock tower, an eerie parallel to your last dream, Xavier sits on an edge.

“Why didn’t you tell me of your return? Planning to sulk in the shadows of a clock tower?” You question, placing a hand on your hip with a raised brow as you step closer to him.

“You still sought after me even when I hadn’t said a single word.” He didn’t turn to face you, and his voice was surprisingly calm. You sigh and sit down next to him, watching as he reattaches a tassel with a star-shaped charm to the tilt of his sword.

Oh…Xavier…He was still holding onto that charm from your first dream.

“What’s wrong? Did someone tease you?” Xavier nudges you with his shoulder and you turn your head to look away from him.

“Yea…You.” You huff, a pout forming on your lips as you puff your cheeks out. “Jeremiah said you were on death’s door. I was somewhat concerned…but here you are, hale and whole.”

“I can be on death’s door and you would only be somewhat worried, huh…I see.” Xavier teases you and you cross your arms over your chest, “I won’t even bother fretting over you next time!”

The ash blonde haired man chuckles, “Well, I was worried you desired revenge. Only an arm and a leg would suffice.”

“If you are genuinely worried, then don’t keep us in the dark…and you owe me. The academy and your family were relentless when they lost contact with you.” You drum your fingers against the stone underneath you.

A month ago when Wanderer attacks on Philos were becoming more frequent and the students had to constantly report their whereabouts to the Academy, Xavier thought it would be a great idea to sneak away and board a spaceship for the Starhunter expedition. “Shh” was all he said to you when you happened to meet him by chance prior to his departure.

“I covered for you and worried about your safety…! Sleep has evaded me ever since!” And…sleep is currently evading you as well. What a coincidence.

The more and more you remembered, the greater your anger, but Xavier continued to laugh. “You were quick to deflect any suspicions heading my way. Your next drink is my treat.”

“Is that it?” You raise an eyebrow, almost offended.

“Would a piece of brown sugar cake satisfy you?” The gentle breeze passes by you both and his laugh only makes you more upset…

You decided to not forgive him just yet. “Mmh…Two pieces.” You hold up two fingers with a stern expression on your face.

“Alright.” He has a gentle smile on his face and you quickly add, “And you have to eat them with me.”

“I’ll spend a whole week having my meals with you.” Closing his eyes, Xavier lies down on the platform and you lean over to you’re slightly above him. Your voice becomes caught in your throat as the setting sun shines down upon him.

“It’s quite unlike you to stare at me without saying a word,” Xavier comments as he opens his eyes, one arm was curled around his sword as he brings his other up to shield his eyes from the sun.

“The breeze is delightful. Won’t you join me?” Then, he holds his hand out toward you with a smile.

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back a smile as you take his hand and lay down on your side so you can still look at his face.

“You know…Your family visited the Academy several times now. Something urgent might have occurred.”

“The Lightseekers will start their recruitment next month. Shouldn’t you be training?” Xavier questions, evading your words entirely…so something important must’ve happened. You wonder what it was exactly.

“They seek only one new face.” Xavier continues and the tassel at the end of his sword sways in the winds.

“You always avoid talking about your family. Is there a reason…” You trail off as Xavier looks away from you and you let out a sigh. Instead, you reach out to brush your fingers against the star-shaped tassel at the hilt of his sword. “They say you have someone on your mind if you stare at an object for a long time.”

Xavier glances at you before he grabs the charm in-between his index finger and thumb, rolling it between his digits as he speaks, “As I’ve told you before, it’s not what you think.”

Though, as he gazes upon the charm, you can visibly see the sadness within the depths of his eyes.

In this life, he has yet to tell you the story behind the sword tassel he always carried. So you assume that this version of you is jealous of whoever gave it to him…It would be an amusing situation, if that person wasn’t you currently.

“This tassel is a living fossil. Your beloved…must like vintage things.” You can hear yourself say and you internally cringe, because while it would be cute from afar…knowing the actual reason behind it just gives you a bit of second hand embarrassment– being jealous over yourself.

“Is that so? And may I ask what kind of tassel is popular nowadays with the townsfolk?” Xavier raises a brow and you can hear the teasing tone in his voice as he turns his body to the side, and rests his head on his hand.

“Mmh…simple and neat. Like the ones on our uniforms,” You say as you tap your hand against his chest.

His hand catches yours, wrapping his fingers around it as he muses, “I never noticed. To be honest, your description matches this tassel.”

“They are different! Are your eyes not working? I’d rather…” It was clear you were jealous, and it was obvious you were going to offer to make him one, but before you could say anything, the bell above you chimes and doves fly overhead.

As you turn your head to look at them, you feel Xavier’s gloved palm against your cheek. He turns your head back to face him without a word, his fingers brushing against your ear- as if trying to shield them from the noise of the bell.

You stare at each other for a moment, before Xavier finally breaks the silence. “And…what were you about to say?”

“Uh— I’m heading to my class now!” You panic as a blush spreads across your cheeks and you lightly shove him back, suddenly nervous at how close the man was to you. With a smile on his lips, Xavier settles back down on his side and looks at you.

“Now that you’ve returned, you’re on your own when your family comes knocking.” You push yourself off the platform to fully stand up, but Xavier quickly sits up and wraps your wrist. You turn toward him with a confused look as he slides hand into yours.

“Since your next few drinks are my treat, can I ask you for a favour?” His thumb rubs across your knuckles and you sigh before nodding your head, “Go ahead.”

“I’ll…” He clears his throat, then smiles, “tell you later.” He drops your hand and props his arm up on his knee. “Go to class. We’ll meet at noon tomorrow by the Holy Sword of the Goddess.”

“Are you asking to spar once more?” You shake your head while Xavier nods his, and a groan slips from your lips, “Everyone already thinks I’m bullying you! This…Ugh, fine.”  

It is quite amusing that the students at the Astria Knyght Academy thought you, the Moonchaser prefect, and Xavier, the Starhunter prefect, had a rivalry– especially when it was just the opposite.

The two of you constantly sparred, so it’s obvious as to why your fellow students thought the way they did. Xavier always wanted an excuse to not go home and you were always willing to oblige his whims, even if it made you look like the bad guy.

It was the next day and you stood under the Holy Sword of the Goddess, tapping your foot with your arms crossed over your chest as you waited for Xavier. The moment you spotted him, the students went wild.

“Hurry everyone! The Moonchaser and Starhunter prefects are fighting again!”

“Why does a Moonchaser always pester his highness, Prince Xavier?”

“It’s been quiet. Why are they fighting now?”

You let out a sigh, fingers rubbing at your throbbing temples. Maybe you should’ve told Xavier that you needed to meet somewhere else.

Any time you were seen with Xavier, even if you were just talking, apparently you both were fighting instead. It was so…annoying.

“The preliminary rounds to join the Lightseekers are about to start. Maybe they’re settling who takes the spot?”

“...Don’t they have the same teacher? They should make better use of their time.”

“They probably despise each other.”

Geez, your fellow students really know how to yap, don’t they?

Regardless of what they thought, Xavier wanted to spar and you couldn’t deny him. Whether the reason be because as a fellow knight, you’d never back down from a fight or that you just couldn’t tell Xavier no— you’ll never know.

You stood amidst the ocean of people, holding your sword at your waist. Standing across from you was Xavier, who was unperturbed by the gossip.

“My weak point will be revealed by your thirtieth move. Strike me down before my comet trail determines the outcome of our battle.”

How can he say stuff like that without cringing?

You can’t help but sigh after glancing at those around you. You hated crowds, loud noises…and especially mindless gossip. Especially if it wasn’t even true, but you wouldn’t correct them.

Xavier didn’t seem to mind it and neither should you.

“Why do you always request a public beating when there’s no excuse to not go home, Xavier? Everyone and their mother believes we hate each other.”

You just wanted to know why Xavier didn’t want to go home so badly. Sure, he’s a prince and all, but it couldn’t be that bad.

“Do you refuse to meet his Majesty? That’s why you snuck out with the expedition team, right.”

“I wish he never was my father.” Something about Xavier’s voice felt off…There was a lingering sadness on his face as he lowered his head and caressed his sword hilt, his fingers touching the tassel.

The star-shaped charm shone bright under the sunlight…almost blinding you.

You sigh, choosing to change the subject to save him some face. “This will be our last duel. However, I have a request.”

“Go on.”

Your gaze lingers on the star-shaped tassel for a moment before you unsheathe your sword, “I’ll tell you when you lose. Now let’s get started.”

Later, when the royal messenger arrived at the Academy with the guards…Pushing away the crowd, they saw his highness, Prince Xavier, had challenged his classmate to another duel. They moved quick as lightning, sparks flying off their swords.

While the messenger watched the duel for a moment, he couldn’t be patient for too long. The royal decree he brought today was related to the future of Philos.

“Separate them!”

The royal messenger gestures to the guards behind him and they immediately interrupt the duel. Though, they caught you at a bad time. As you were just about to unleash a technique, you had to force yourself to stumble as to not hit the guards.

This wouldn’t be too painful of a fall. Maybe you’d sprain your ankle, but it wouldn’t be anything life threatening.

As you brace yourself for the fall, you notice a brief panicked expression wash over Xavier’s face as he rushes forward– putting himself in the path of your sword.

“Protect his highness!” And as the guards did as they were told, the Academy’s central plaza was plunged into chaos with onlookers screaming.

You suck in a deep breath and drop your sword into the grass below you, it clatters to the ground as you tumble into Xavier’s arms. Though his warmth doesn’t last long as you’re shoved to the side by a guard in the name of “protecting his highness”. As you fall back, your foot twists and you land on it, narrowing avoiding the blade of your sword.

Seriously, those guards could’ve killed you. Granted, your death would’ve been by your own sword, but still…

Later, you lean against the Holy Sword of the Goddess and rub your sprained ankle. Xavier had been taken away by the messenger, so you duel ended with no clear victor and the crowd quickly dissipated. 

You click your tongue in annoyance and tilt your head over to rest on your friend's shoulder.

“He went too far this time. It’s unbelievable that Prince Xavier would have the gall…Even if the position of Lightseeker is at stake, his highness can’t just ask servants to interrupt.” Jeremiah rants as stands next to you, arms crossed over his chest.

“I appreciate your anger, but it’s not like that at all.” You shake your head with a small smile, wincing as you try to roll your ankle. 

It seems you were closer with Jeremiah than Xavier was…which is odd, since they seemed like close friends at the flower shop.

“Still defending him?” Jeremiah scoffs as he raises a brow, his head turned to look in your direction. “Don’t forget…” He pauses, then suddenly slings his arm around your shoulder. 

“Look. I’m only saying this because we’re friends. Rumors speak of ambassadors talking of an arranged marriage. Attending the Academy doesn’t change how Xavier is of royal blood. The guards must be having a word or two with him about it. So…If you’re desperate to ask him, you’ll require more than luck. Do you need my help?”

“I..” You purse your lips before you pat his hand with a smile. “I’m really thankful for you, Jeremiah, but I think I’ll have to do this alone.”

“What’re you two talking about?”

Honestly, this is probably a bad spot to cut the chapter short buuuutttt it's my story so I do what I want 🤷🏻‍♀️

I changed a littttllle bit of the Lightseeker story already, like how the protag almost got hit with her own sword, because I imagine that if Xavier did try to stop her from falling, the guards would be in protect mode and hurt her on accident. But also I wanted her and Jeremiah to feel closer as friends.

I love a good platonic friendship between people of the opposite gender, and I think they're done right. (I'm desperately hoping it isn't revealed later that Jeremiah has a crush on her—)

Also! If you've made it this far, comment what kind of icecream you think each love interest would like!

Me personally, I think it's something like this;

Zayne— He would go for the fruity icecreams. Like an orange sherbet or a lemon sorbet (is that icecream??)

Sylus— He would probably like red wine infused icecream, but i also think he wouldn't eat a lot of icecream since it's too cold

Xavier— Any kind of assorted nut icecream. Like pecan, pistachio, etc. But also cookie dough and rocky road fit his vibes

Rafayel— Now, i don't have a clear answer for this one, but I do have a joking one! I think Rafayel would like mint chocolate icecream. He would claim he hates it and say it's basically just toothpaste and icecream, but secretly he loves it. He's like– the unique food combo connoisseur. Because I also think he'd like pineapple on pizza and chicken with maple syrup...

Taglist; @orphicmeliora , @yoongi-tunes , @mitzkooni , @hiqhkey, @tanspostsblog , @shypotatoes013-blog

[itsnobodysproblem]

Ok, I thought I'd make one of these too. Mostly to show off my fics. Not masterpieces but I like them. Should I put a little * next to my personal faves..? Yeah why not.

Sherlock & Co:

Ghost of a Christmas Present *

Cutesy Christmas fic in which John is a dummy and loses Sherlock's gift and has to find a worthy replacement asap. 4k, G.

Untethered *

Big angst. John's out with friends when he recieves some very worrying texts from Sherlock. (don't make me say it.) 8k, M.

I won't lose you, will I?

The boys split up while chasing a suspect. Sherlock hears a gunshot. Angst ensues. 3k, T.

One evening, two blankets

A quiet moment, in 221b. Sherlock is sad, for no reason. John checks on him. 1k, G.

If I didn't know before *

Obligatory post-dancing men fic! After the confrontation with Slaney, Sherlock thinks John is scared of him. John thinks Sherlock just needs his space. 14k, T.

Be my- (Valentine?)

Mariana thinks Sherlock is in love with John. Sherlock does want John for himself, so she must be right. Right? 4k, G

Acd Holmes:

"Last Words"

Whump. After a disagreement with Watson, Holmes goes out to test a theory on his own. Hours pass. He should've been back by now. Watson starts to worry. 10k, T.

Ehem anyway if you like one of my fics and feel like uh sharing your thoughts you should totally do that I love reading them and I'll probably end up yapping about said fic probably ehem yeah what who said that

Sh&co fic recs here. My GO fics + Sh&Co Mailbag questions list + some of my Sh&Co theories and reactions under the cut

Good Omens

It's Aziraphale's turn to think Crowley is dead. Set in an imagined S3. 2k, T.

Tiny fic inspired by a theory I had for how they'll save the world in S3. 800w, G.

Little curse threatens to kill Aziraphale in minutes. Aka I saw the Every spoiler and tried to put it in context. Obviously written before S2. 1k, G.

Sherlock & Co Mailbag Questions

Part 1 (1-10)

Sherlock & Co live reactions

The Red Circle: 1 2 3 4

The Resident Patient: 1 2 3

The Sign of Four: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

The Three Gables: 1 2 3

The Veiled Lodger: 1 2

Black Peter: 1 2 3

Wisteria Lodge: 1 2 3

The Norwood Builder: 1 2 3 4

Lady Frances Carfax: 1 2 3

Charles Augustus Milverton: 1 2 3

A Scandal in Bohemia: 1 2 3 4 5

The Blanched Soldier: 1 2

[If you're asking yourself why there's more stuff after this - mostly so I can come back in 5 years when all these are vague memories and look nostalgically over them.]

Other episode-specific reactions

Mailbag 9 thoughts (the trolley problem)

Sign 6 - Sherlock's jealous and I get it

Sign 6 - meme

Sign 8 - meme

Sign 9 - trust scene

Sign 10 - further thoughts

Blac 1 - ily John + he's pinned to the wall!

Wist 3 - spider web

Norw 2 - meme

Lady 3 - love sorry proud

Chas 1 - wrong name punch meme (not op)

Chas 2 - shaking

Chas 3 - that ending!

Mailbag 29 - john being mean toy story (cute)

Scan 2 - faint echo Dan's outburst

4th wall break, redh - 12 minute blooper

My theories & predictions

John will get blamed for Sherlock's death

How I'd handle the hiatus (not op here)

John told Sherlock he loves him (before Shos)

Comas exist (not feeling this one anymore)

Freaking out over ominous announcement

Fina on April 1st lol (bonus, in tags: when i *actually* think they'll do fina)

Dunno how to feel about Mary + predictions

Oh Mary's dying next episode isn't she

Next adventure after Sign 👀 + update

Mycroft or Moriarty crumbs when :( + update

One fear (not a theory)

Complaint turned theory about Norw p4

John will find Sherlock's ear defenders (fina)

Get in the water (sort of a prediction..?)

John kidnapping pretty please??

I'm gonna be honest idk how updated I'll keep this under-the-cut part. We'll see.

[pynkhues]

Apologies for bringing twitter stupidity to your tumblr, but I feel like I need a reality check lol. While the large majority of ppl who commented on that photo the fan in Sydney took with Sam were just saying how pretty or cute or rejuvenated he looked, the wet slicked-back hair and the angle, with his head tilted back so the hair is less visible, made some people start saying that he was losing his hair, and then a few people even started saying that Jacob and Assad were losing their hair too. And I just need to check that I'm not crazy because, with Sam, it's like, we just saw him 20 days ago? And he looked like this??

https://ton.x.com/i/ton/data/dm/1910615867832086697/1910615720955904000/xUuXOCoz.jpg:medium

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GqMfH9lW0AA0hAZ?format=jpg&name=medium

And two years ago when they were filming s2 he looked like this, which seems exactly the way he looks in the fan pic with his hair pulled back tightly?:

https://pbs.twimg.com/media/GqN2g_QbkAAsSMC?format=jpg&name=large

So unless they think he lost significant hair in the last few weeks, I don't get it. And with Jacob and Assad, I don't get it. Someone posted post s2 photos of them and they didn't look different to me from the s1 photos? Am I wrong? And where does this come from? I mean honestly it's not that many people, it was a lot fewer people making these comments than it was people talking about the people making the comments (which honestly is so often the way. I usually hear about something negative on twitter not because I come across it myself but because I read someone else commenting on it angrily). But is it anxiety that these men are playing vampires who aren't meant to age and yet they may show some human signs of aging if the show goes long enough? And maybe that's especially centered around Sam as a blonde man living in a sunny country (even though his skin has truly never looked smoother and glowier lol).

I mean, I can't say I'm particularly surprised, anon.

You're kind of asking me a whole bunch of questions here, haha, so I'll answer as succinctly as I can, but like - - yeah, the context of how and when pictures are taken matters. Of course all of them are going to look better in professionally taken photos at events they're professionally styled for than in candids where they're literally just hanging out in their hometowns, of course angles and lighting has an impact, but also of course they all look a little older today than they did three years ago, because they are? There's nothing wrong with that - all three of them look great (and I personally would say have aged pretty minimally), and the handwringing over it feels - -

I don't know.

Well, that's not true, I have my suspicions, haha. I think it's partially a manifestation of a global culture drenched in youth fetishisation, of which, to be fair, the vampire subgenre has been a part of at least since the 70s, from Valerie and Her Week of Wonders to The Lost Boys to Twilight to The Vampire Diaries - - hell, Anne herself writes it, given the Lestat of the book is an eternal 21. I think it's partially a fear that if the actors age, they might no longer look like they did in 1.01, or worse, that they might no longer find them 'hot', and I also think a big part of it is people trying to be funny or signal to a certain crowd that they can hang.

I also - - mm. I've mentioned this once before, but I do also think there's a little bit of a degree of inexperience in parts of the fandom, and while there's nothing wrong with that at ALL, I do think that there's a small subset within that cohort who read as female-incels to me. These are the ones who really go after the cast, particularly Sam, but not just him, in a way that feels deliberately punishing and obsessive, and I think for them these sorts of comments are lowkey a sort of negging akin to guys who feel the need to comment when they think an actress is starting to look haggard.

In that sense, I think it's both specific and really broad to internet culture, and really, unfortunately, I just think it is what it is.