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darkmatilda · 2 days ago

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𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: the weight of distance presses heavier with each passing day, the ache of absence stitched together only by hour-long phone calls like a fragile sutures on a wound that refuses to close. so you choose his birthday — the perfect day to cross the miles in silence and secrecy, and surprise spencer on his special day.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: glasses!reid x baufemale!reader, long distance relationship, early seasons team, so our queen elle is here, lots of team interactions overall, both reader and spencer's pov, height difference, kissing until his glasses fog up xx

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5k

𝐚/𝐧: literally started writing this over two months ago so i hope the first half doesnt differ too much in quality from the second one :/ the soul who’s the first to catch the tiny subtle mr darcy reference gets a cookie!

You admitted it without a trace of embarrassment – every time you called your long-distance boyfriend, you waited for him to pick up with your forehead almost glued to the screen and your lips frozen in a half-smile, ready to bloom across half your face the moment you saw his face.

Automatically.

The word nonchalance wasn’t foreign to you, but you deeply despised it. You had no intention of pretending it didn’t matter whether he picked up or not, or that you hadn’t rearranged half of your quite busy day for that shared moment. You weren’t going to pretend that hearing his voice meant any less to you than it actually did, just to maintain some kind of image or out of fear of being too much.

No, that definitely wasn’t your case.

If anything, you leaned toward paranoia — that you weren’t doing enough to take care of your relationship stretched across nearly 4000 miles and separated by the Pacific. That you weren’t trying hard enough. You had a set time for one call a day; usually, by then, you were already comfortably tucked under the covers and reporting in for duty (though duty was a very poor comparison—unless we’re talking about the duty of petting small fluffy puppies. yes. kissing the heads of twenty fluffy puppies was almost exactly like your daily call with Spencer).

But that one daily call usually wasn’t the only one. You reached out to each other spontaneously throughout the day, depending on your schedules and the plans of that particular day. On weekends, you watched movies together, he read a book aloud and you exchanged thoughts only when his calm voice reached the end of a chapter, or you played chess online. The bare minimum to fill the void left behind by the distance.

A void that was, however, ravenous—and seemed to deepen with every passing day. It wasn’t a graph line with rises and dips. It kept steadily taking up more and more space inside you.

And that’s how you came to the conclusion that even hundreds of books read aloud by Spencer wouldn’t be enough to dissolve it.

Not when his voice came through a phone speaker.

Not when it wasn’t followed by his breath, tickling your ear.

And that realization pushed you toward a certain…spontaneous decision.

But more on that later.

Your call was finally answered, and a premature, involuntary soft smile curled your lips before his face even appeared on your screen.

“Hey, handsome…” you began with your usual line, fully prepared to relish the blush that would bloom on his cheeks like cupcakes with sweet cherries on top—

but instead of your favorite treat, you were met with something entirely different.

Seeing Derek’s face, clumsily close to the front-facing camera and moving in a way that strongly suggested he was fiercely struggling to keep hold of the phone, snapped you back to attention like an athlete catching their footing.

“Hello, conventionally handsome man, long time no see. Anyway, where’s my handsome man?”

“Morgan, I’m serious, give me—”

“Hey, kid, how many times have I told you women don’t like possessive men? Let me talk to her for a sec…”

“I’m not possessive, I just…”

“You’re right, long time no see,” Derek cut in, completely ignoring his friend—his words, his attempts to wrestle the phone back from his hand. You kept your gaze fixed on the corner of the screen where a part of Spencer’s face occasionally slipped into the frame. Your lips were still curved in a smile, but shifting your focus to Morgan took effort. “What’s up, former-new girl? Don’t look too happy to see me.”

“Oh, I’m very happy to see you. In fact, the sight of you has turned this rainy Amsterdam day well, not exactly sunny, but let’s say we’ve moved from a downpour to a drizzle.”

“You’re welcome—that’s what friends are for. So? You in the mood for a quick chat with me?”

“Morgan.”

“Hmm, gladly,” you replied, tapping your free lip in mock thoughtfulness. “Let me just check my schedule to see when I might be available. How about next Friday?”

“Next Friday?”

“Morgan, I swear—”

“Oh my God, stop torturing them already,” cut in a woman’s voice you recognized instantly, and almost in the same moment, the phone moved from Morgan’s hand to your friend Elle’s.

She gave you a smile—a fleeting one, just a flash of sincerity—before replacing it with her trademark bossy expression. “Another second and they’ll both shrivel up from longing. Here you go.” She handed the phone back to its rightful owner. The first thing you saw were his eyes behind the glasses, aimed at her, full of grateful warmth. “You both owe me one. But since one of you is currently unavailable and clearly unable to repay it, you owe me two favors, Reid.”

A nod.

“Goes without saying.”

You just managed to catch Morgan’s disappointed sigh at having his thoroughly entertaining game cut short, before you found yourself finally, completely one-on-one with your boyfriend.

He was watching the two of them—presumably leaving—until, at last, his gaze shifted to you. That tiny smile of yours finally bloomed into something fuller.

“Okay, I feel like I was interrupted earlier and I need to say this again, properly,” you said before he could get a word out. You took a breath, like you were about to cast a spell. “Good morning, handsome.”

You loved that kind of smile on his lips—the one that came with an involuntary tilt of the head, like its weight shifted evenly and pulled just enough to cause that barely noticeable movement.

“Finally. Good morning, angel.”

It warmed you every single time he used that phrase with you, and you couldn’t help but blink a little faster at the thought of hearing it in person after such a long time apart. But that was still the future, a vision. For now, there was the present, reality.

“Please, tell Morgan I didn’t brush him off because I didn’t want to talk to him,” you said. “But I literally have fifteen minutes before I have to leave and just wanted to call you real quick, because I won’t be very available later. I have a seminar.”

Spencer nodded because, of course, he remembered. But still, his brown eyes clouded slightly.

“You mentioned it. And well, of course I’ll tell Morgan you brushed him off because you didn’t want to talk to him.”

You almost snorted, but held it back.

“Hey, being my boyfriend doesn’t give you permission to use me for your personal revenge.”

“It doesn’t?” he asked with a face of innocence, fake curiosity, like he’d just come across a tiny footnote at the bottom of a page, an unknown piece of information.

“Well, usually no, but there are exceptions to that rule. For example, when the personal revenge might bring satisfaction to both of us. The second is when you ask nicely. Just please, don’t abuse that option.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.”

“I’d make you pinky-promise, but that wouldn’t really work in our current situation,” you said, glancing at your own raised pinkie, the corners of your mouth tugging downward.

Then suddenly, they parted, struck by a thought. “Oh, right. I just remembered. What are you planning to do tomorrow?”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly.

“The usual, I guess? Go to work…”

“For your birthday, silly.”

This time, it was his lips that parted with a soft, dawning hiss of realization. You looked at him with raised eyebrows.

“Don’t even tell me you forgot your own birthday.”

Spencer shook his head distractedly.

“No, it’s not that I completely forgot. But if you think about it, it wouldn’t be that weird if I had. I don’t have any plans anyway, and it’s just going to be…you know, a totally normal day.”

You watched him for a moment in silence. You rarely faked emotions around him. But this time, you had to summon a thick mask of exaggerated disappointment—couldn’t let even the tiniest flicker of stinging excitement slip through.

“I wish I could be there for you so badly.”

That part didn’t need faking. The sincerity in those words rang clear. You saw your boyfriend’s jaw tighten slightly, and you wished you could reach out and rest your hand against it, letting your thumb brush toward his lips.

The silence that followed suddenly felt especially heavy. You knew Spencer was masking his sadness so you wouldn’t feel bad about not being there. He didn’t expect you to feel guilty—but he anticipated it. And, well, he’d be right. You would feel bad.

You forced a smile onto your lips—only because you wanted to see how, eyes fixed on your face, he’d unconsciously mirror the gesture. You’d learned that trick a long, long time ago.

“I have to run,” you announced with a sigh. “Seriously, I have to run. technically, I should already be out the door.”

“Don’t forget your umbrella.”

“It’s not raining anymore.”

“Yeah, but it’s supposed to start again right around the time you’ll be heading home. And there’s a cold front coming in from the North Sea, so maybe wear something warmer under your coat. I don’t want you getting sick.”

Spencer knew the weather in your city—on another continent—better than you did.

A moment of silence to let that fact settle. Thank you.

“If you’re right, I love you,” you said. “If you’re wrong, I still love you, but I’m also mad I had to lug around an umbrella all day.”

For a fleeting moment, he dipped his head, eyes squinting just slightly, a small smile on his lips.

“I love you too.”

Spencer had never been particularly fond of celebrating his birthday.

To him, birthdays were simply another way of measuring time like years, months, weeks, and days—only a little more brutal. They were like a mirror you woke up in front of one day, a moment of realization and reckoning—not so much with time moving forward, but with everything that had been left behind. The new year reflected what you had achieved and who you had become. Birthdays, on the other hand, felt like a celebration of missed chances, honored with the addition of yet another digit to your age.

Twenty-six. He could’ve done something far more impressive by now—and he didn’t mean that just as self-criticism. He was being objective. At twenty-six, Einstein had his Annus Mirabilis, his miraculous year, the year he developed the theory of mass–energy equivalence. With that knowledge in mind, Spencer had every right to feel a certain pressure.

But beyond all that, that day…he just wasn’t in the mood.

He had just been wondering what to eat for dinner when his phone started ringing.

A long-distance relationship had trained him to reach for it the exact second the ringtone sounded—and to experience that brief flicker of disappointment when the name on the screen wasn’t the one he was hoping for. Just like this time.

“Oh, Reid, how wonderful that you picked up so fast,” came Penelope’s voice on the other end.

“Garcia, hey. Something’s wrong?”

“Yes. I mean—no. I need you to drop by for a moment, is that okay? I mean, even if it’s not okay, it’s still probably better if you come. Not that I’m forcing you, but—ugh, just come over.”

Spencer was standing in his kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, and as her explanation spilled out, a suspicion started blooming in him. He considered himself a fairly perceptive person—and Penelope a very open book. So it was no surprise that, almost immediately, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. He leaned his lower back against one of the cabinets, folding his free arm across his chest.

“I’m not sure I can make it,” he said despite knowing full well that he could, and that he had the time. But he also knew that, on the other end, Garcia was probably exchanging panicked looks with the rest of the team, arguing about where exactly to hang the balloons in her apartment. And the image was amusing enough to drag out the moment. “For what?”

“I need your help. With something.”

“With what exactly?”

His friend let out something between a hum and a sigh—both thoughtful and panicked.

Meanwhile, Spencer waited patiently, smiling to himself and saying nothing.

“What am I supposed to tell him?!”Penelope’s voice came faintly from the speaker, as if she’d lowered the phone away from her mouth probably thinking that would keep him from hearing. It didn’t.

“I don’t know, make something up!” came a reply Spencer recognized instantly—Derek. A finger snap. “Lightbulb in the bathroom went out.”

“Oh, great! I love when your brain is the same size as your biceps.” She turned her attention back to the phone, voice suddenly loud and confident with her freshly invented excuse “The lightbulb in my bathroom blew.”

Spencer wasn’t about to let it slide that easily.

“What wattage?”

“What?”

“What wattage is the bulb? LED or halogen?”

“Normal. It’s a normal lightbulb, Reid.”

“Are you sure it’s burnt out? Could be a wiring issue. Might be better to call a specialist to take a look. I’d rather not end up electrocuted. Especially on my birthday.”

“Jeez, tell him to stop being such a child.”

Penelope pulled the phone away again.

“I can’t, then he won’t come at all!”

“I have an idea,” Spencer said suddenly, forcing her to scramble back to the call.

“Why don’t you ask Morgan to change it for you, since he’s already there?”

Garcia squeaked in panic. Then immediately broke into a cough, trying to mask the sound.

“There is no Derek Morgan here! Where would you even get that idea?” she squealed in a high voice. At the same time, a distinct snort of laughter echoed in the background. “That? That’s just the TV. Just…some dumb show with an annoying host. Ugh, I should really turn it off…”

The snort that echoed in the background this time didn’t belong to Morgan. It belonged to Elle. A quiet, distant argument broke out between all three of them, and Spencer didn’t understand a single word of it. He cut in at the moment he considered most appropriate.

“I’ll be at your place in 30 minutes.”

Complete silence.

“You’re coming? Seriously? Guys, he says that— I mean, ymm, great! See you!”

Before she hung up, he still managed to hear her deep sigh of relief that the conversation, in which she had to show off her conspiracy skills, was finally over.

Spencer slowly pulled the phone away from his ear, remaining for a moment in the silence that followed. Of course he had intended to show up from the very beginning. He might not have felt excited at the thought of his birthday, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate the surprise his friends had put effort into preparing. It wasn’t his dream way of spending the day, but there was a reason that dream scenario remained in the realm of dreams—its realization was simply physically impossible. But a not-so-surprising surprise party ranked high on that list.

He hesitated over what to wear. In the end, his gaze settled on the shirt he'd gotten from no one other than you. You liked how that soft, muted pink color both slightly contrasted with his wardrobe and still somehow fit perfectly into it. You also used to say it brightened his face.

Spencer pulled it on, tied his tie, and sent you a photo. He wanted you to know that even though you were far away, he was still wearing your favorite clothes.mHe didn’t expect you to reply right away.You’d already had the birthday call, during which you gave him wishes you’d been crafting for two weeks. You delivered them at machine-gun speed with all your enthusiasm, then repeated them more slowly so he’d have a chance to actually understand anything.

Your reply came just as he was leaving his apartment.

my boyfriend sending me an outfit check??? never thought I’d live to see that day

He was just turning the key in the lock, the light from his phone casting a glow onto his face, letting the gentle smile on his lips break through the darkness slowly wrapping around the stairwell. He pressed the handle again to check whether being distracted had made him forget to lock it. Then he dropped the key into his pocket and slowly started down the stairs.

Not quite an outfit check. Just tangible or well, virtual, proof that I really like this shirt and I’m not wearing it just because you told me to. The team’s throwing me a surprise party and I figured it’d be perfect…

here his fingers slowed

…it’s your favorite, and in its own not-quite-explainable way, it makes me feel like you’re here.

The reply probably came in before you even finished reading the whole message.

so an outfit check?

wait what kind of surprise party is it if you know about it??

u’re so sweet. also you look so good in that color.

He wanted to text back, to explain how he even knew about this surprise party, but another message came in.

sorry cant really text rn just getting off the tram :( hope u have fun at the party kisses call u later

He was a little surprised, since you usually took the later tram home, but maybe you just had your own reason for coming back earlier. Maybe he’d ask about it later, when the two of you called. Spencer hoped he wouldn’t be too tired after the party to talk to you.

So he replied simply

Got it. Please, be safe.

The way to Penelope’s apartment passed very quickly for him. It occurred to him that he didn’t really know who would even be there. Definitely Morgan, Elle, possibly JJ, but he doubted that everyone had shown up—like, everyone everyone.

And if it turned out he was right, he didn’t intend to be even slightly offended—after all, it was understandable they might’ve wanted to spend the evening in a different way. He knocked on the door and didn’t even call out to come in, even though as he was approaching them, he had clearly heard voices coming from inside, which suddenly, as if by magic, fell silent.

He felt like rolling his eyes—in a positive sense. It was predictable. Of course it was. But it also filled him with a certain warm feeling.

He opened the door and stepped into Garcia’s apartment, heading for the living room. And that’s exactly what he did when he saw the entire team gathered there. He rolled his eyes, though that warm feeling grew stronger and made the decision on its own to stretch his lips into a broad, broader smile when he realized they really were all there.

They were silent, eyes fixed on him, Elle and JJ both holding a tray with a birthday cake with lit candles, but for some reason not bringing it any closer to him.

“Sorry, but I have to say this,” he began. “You’re so predictable.”

“Are we?” came a voice directly behind his back.

He didn’t exactly freeze in place, like he’d been hit with liquid nitrogen. His body transitioned into that state gradually — starting with his shoulder blades instinctively drawing together, long before his mind fully processed the situation or registered that voice.

That voice.

The voice he heard every single day through his phone or laptop speaker, desecrated by the quality of the device — which, even if it were the most cutting-edge machine built by NASA, wouldn’t be able to truly convey the tone of her voice, let alone force him to feel the kind of emotions that now crashed into him like a wave, drowning him.

Water filling his ears.

No, that couldn’t be — they had literally exchanged texts just moments ago!

His eyes locked ahead, all the team’s gazes fixed on him, waiting, expectant. Penelope, her hands tightly clasped together, resting just beneath her chin.

Spencer, not breathing, turned around — and only then drew in a deep, vital breath.

Vital, because he knew he was about to pull her into an embrace so tight neither of them would get a taste of air for a very long time.

Your eyes locked onto each other like two powerful magnets, desperately seeking one another — an instant click. Another instant click when both your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, lifting her feet off the ground. Click when his hands gripped your waist firmly, steadying you. Click when his face found its place in the curve of your neck, burying itself there completely, disappearing, hiding, drawing the curtains so no one else could interrupt this moment.

Click, because you were together.

Spencer drew in a shaky breath, entirely filled with your scent — a scent he seemed to rediscover after months apart — occupying his mind so completely that the words he had intended to say slipped away from him entirely. You took over the role of speaker instead.

“Happy birthday,” you announced tearfully, sniffling and pulling your head away from his shoulder so the tear rolling down your cheek wouldn’t stain his shirt.

The pale pink shirt. Your favorite shirt.

You pouted your bottom lip, trying to hold it together, but you couldn’t. Now that you were finally with him, the full weight of maintaining a long-distance relationship — the weight you had been pushing away to avoid sinking into sadness — crashed down on you all at once. But it was wild, unrestrained, and yet instantly found comfort in his arms, his scent, his presence.

You felt his chest cave slightly as he took in a breath and lifted his head to look at you. In the process, his glasses had been pressed all the way up his nose from where they'd been crushed between your neck and his face — the frames practically touching his eyelids — but neither of you thought about how ridiculous that must've looked.

His eyes immediately locked onto the tear that had slipped from yours. He wanted to wipe it away, but he didn’t want to let go of you either, so he settled for pressing a fleeting kiss to your cheek, brushing it away with his lips instead.

It earned a muffled, quiet laugh from you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a hushed voice.

You blinked and dipped your head slightly, letting the tears pool without falling, then tilted it back up so you could focus on his face. Immediately, you had the impulse to adjust his glasses, which you did.

“Attending my boyfriend’s surprise birthday party,” you replied, sliding your hand down his chest and rising onto your toes to kiss him — briefly, because you could feel the eyes of all your friends on you, patiently silent and giving you time.

It wasn’t a good idea. The moment your lips brushed his, Spencer froze for a second, only to lean in for more right after. You barely managed to pull away, ignoring his disgruntled hum of protest.

“But I guess I’m the only element of this whole thing that was actually a surprise…”

You shot a meaningful look at Penelope, fully aware Spencer had known about some kind of party happening. The blonde defensively waved her hands in front of her, brushing off the implied accusation.

“Oh, you don’t get it. I let it slip on purpose so your entrance would be more spectacular! Our genius boy thought he had outsmarted our whole plan and then…” she gestured between the two of you, still tangled together.

This time, it was Spencer who shot her a look, full of disbelief at her words and amused pity. And, as it turned out, he wasn’t the only one — well over half of the people present mirrored his reaction.

To shake off all the attention suddenly weighing on her, Penelope snapped her fingers in the direction of Elle and JJ, who were holding the birthday cake.

"Those candles are practically melting! Don’t forget your wish, loverboy."

Your lips twitched the moment you heard that nickname, and you gave Spencer a light, urging pat on the arm still wrapped around you. You could still feel his hand gently tightening around your waist for a fleeting moment before he let go — his fingers performing a subtle flex before falling back to rest — and leaned down over the cake to blow out the candles shaped like the numbers 2 and 6.

He immediately tried to pull you back into his embrace, but you forced yourself to slip away, letting him get swept into the whirlwind of bear hugs from everyone else.

You stayed back, just slightly to the side, knowing you'd have time for just the two of you later. Your gaze lingered on his softly glowing brown eyes behind his glasses and the faint squint from the smile that simply refused to leave his face. The sounds of the room gradually faded away around you.

Surprisingly, you didn’t feel the slightest exhaustion after the long, connecting flights. And even if any fatigue dared creep its way into your body, it was instantly drowned out by what now burned in your chest — that warm, joyful feeling.

“Why did I even stress so much over picking a gift for him?” you heard from your left , Gideon muttering under his breath, but still loud enough for you to catch. He was staring in the same direction. “No matter what I gave him, the only thing he’ll remember from today is you.”

You exchanged a glance with him — the smile lingering only on your lips, but you could tell he shared it.

For the rest of the party, you and Spencer stayed within arm’s reach, always side by side, finally able to allow yourselves that closeness after so many months apart. Even later, as you made your way back to his apartment at night, hauling gift bags and a single box between you, he carried them all on one arm just so he could keep the other wrapped around you.

You clung to his pink shirt, occasionally rising onto your toes to press a kiss to his jaw or a smile, only to pull away again quickly — careful not to crash into a trash can or a lamp post along your path.

Clinging tightly to his side wasn’t exactly making it easier for either of you to walk. But Spencer didn’t complain. Even despite the fact that you were moving at the pace of a drunken turtle.

When his apartment building finally appeared within sight, you tilted your head back for a moment, breathing slower, more consciously.

“Tonight’s stars are so beautiful,” you remarked, staring at the faint, barely visible dots in the sky.

Spencer slowed his steps, lifting his gaze toward the sky, only to fully shift his attention to your face.

“Setting aside the fact that those are the same stars on the same day,” he started, in that scientific yet soft way of speaking of his, “which I’m quite sure you know…no, they’re not beautiful. Look again. You can barely see them.”

“They’re still beautiful,” you insisted.

You were two adults, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, loaded with birthday gift bags, arguing whether or not the stars were beautiful. Spencer stood firmly on the no side of that debate.

“Absolutely not. Artificial light sources in the city generate light pollution, which makes astronomical observation of the night sky difficult. If we were somewhere less urbanized—”

“But we’re here,” you cut in softly, your face still tilted toward the sky. “We’re here together, which makes them beautiful to me. Besides, beauty is a relative concept. Which I’m quite sure you know.”

His quiet sigh, the gesture of surrender. Instead of trying to convince you of something he simply couldn’t convince you of, he just pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Fine, you win, my little relative concept.”

Already on the staircase, your melancholic mood vanished entirely as you pulled him into a kiss he couldn’t escape from. Not that he wanted to, but he had to — if he actually wanted to dig the key out of his pocket and let you both inside. So while your hands clung to the back of his neck, his fumbled through his pockets — the same ones, because he was far too distracted to remember which ones he’d already checked and which he hadn’t.

“Wait—”

“Can’t—”

“Find—”

“The key—”

Slipped from his lips in the few short moments they weren’t covered by yours. You couldn’t care less about his key struggles — you’d been away from him for months, and you fully intended to kiss him for every single time you’d wanted nothing more than exactly that, but had an ocean between you instead.

Eventually, Spencer gave up and fell silent, returning your kiss with his entire being, both of his hands cradling your cheeks perfectly. You wished your skin was made of plaster, able to preserve the shape of them on you forever. You heard his short, muffled whimper and cracked your eyes open, just enough to notice that his glasses were completely fogged up.

His glasses fogged white, his cheeks flushed pink.

You giggled at the sight, making his face match the color palette of his shirt even more. One of his hands slid down from your cheek and drifted toward the small pocket on his chest. “Found the key,” he announced.

It immediately slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a clatter.

His sigh, your next giggle, and both of you bending down at the same time.

A head collision and two groans.

You burst into open laughter and took full advantage of the fact that he was bent down, reaching for the key, to press a soft kiss to his hair—the very spot where you’d bumped heads. You left a trail of kisses along his head, wandering across his forehead, brushing the tip of his nose, slowly claiming his lips.

Meanwhile, he blindly fumbled with the key, trying to aim it at the lock without breaking the kiss for even a second.

You weren’t sure there’d be enough hours in the night to fully make up for all the time you’d been apart. Especially since you yourself still couldn’t quite believe this was happening. That you were seeing him again. Kissing him again.

Finally, after what felt like real, dragging hours and simultaneously exactly 4.24 light-years traveled in mere minutes—the sound of the lock turning.

#criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x reader #glasses reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fluff #dr spencer reid #spence reid #doctor spencer reid

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perverted-transman · 2 days ago

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Totally agree with this one. I was born with a septate hymen which basically means where most people’s hymens are a circle, mine was divided by a string down the middle, creating two small openings instead of one larger one. I’m pretty sure OP was talking about mostly intersex stuff and I don’t think this is intersex but it still hits a lot of the same points. I got it removed when I was seventeen because it was hard to get tampons out and it was also difficult to put anything much bigger than a tampon in. And the doctors, even knowing that I am and referring to me as a guy, immediately went to removing the abnormal piece of hymen. They didn’t even consider that I would just want to stop menstruating completely and not use my vagina. And yeah I was a minor at the time and my parents definitely wouldn’t have let me go through with any permanent solutions, but those options just weren’t brought up even as a "hey, here’s this thing you can do in the future" situation. Pretty fucked that they just assumed I wanted to make it so I could be penetrated.

uhhh okay it's time for angry takes but i hate how society treats vaginal variations that make intercourse difficult or impossible. like the whole talks are always about how to stretch vagina to make intercourse possible/easier and uhh

i know for some people it may be important, even crucial

but like

there is no single word how it's okay to just not have intercourse. how it's possible to do nothing with vagina. (implying that there is some kind of opening that allows menstrual discharge leave the uterus. because if menstrual discharge can't leave the body, it can cause inflammation, endometriosis, pain, and other problems. but there also is the problem that the only suggested solution is "create/stretch the opening" and never "would you like to have menstruations?").

i'm angry. every resourse mentions dilation and pelvic exercises, and most of them never mention that it's ok to just leave it be if you're not interested in intercourse.

maybe i understate the value of intercourse for average person because i'm asexual and was never interested in it and generally don't like when someone interacts with my genitals but like. really? not even mention? not even slightly?

and even in progressive spaces, in feminist resources that are all for non-conformant sexual practices and queerness, the most we can get is one paragraph from a long material that basically says "but you can don't do it if you don't like intercourse!" and i'm glad that they put it there and acknowledge this possibility, but i want more? i want more visibility. i want more talks about how it's ok to have vagina and not use it. how people don't owe their genitals to each other. how there are sexual practices that don't include intercourse. how it's okay to not have sex at all. how it's okay to have sex and not use genitals in it. how lack of intercourse ≠ failed sexual life.

idk maybe it sounds too picky but it feels like the world is extremely entitled to vaginas and can't comprehend that vaginas can exist not for fucking purposes.

#not nsft

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sophrosyncc · 2 days ago

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— what's up bro ?

you call the chrysos heirs bro. how do they react to it?

warnings/tags : slight story spoilers (you'll only notice them if you squint your eyes), gender-neutral reader, crack, slight ooc behavior (for the comedic effect) author's note : apologies for suddenly disappearing out of nowhere. I have severely underestimated how busy I'd be 🥀🥀 a bit of silly stuff before the dreaded 3.4 arrives. might edit this later characters : aglaea, anaxa, castorice, phainon.

aglaea

in her many years of leading the flame-chase journey, the last thing she expected was to be called bro.

no. you aren't the first one to call her that. both children and teenagers in the recent age of amphoreus have approached her with that nickname. cipher and phainon are definitely at the scene of the crime as well.

if she dislikes you, she'll ignore you or politely tell you off. unless you're elder caenis which is an entirely different situation on it's own.

compared to the next person on this list, she doesn't mind it if you call her that around others. it'll be a bit awkward at first but she gets used to it. there are far worse names or titles that others have given her, and she's glad that yours comes from a place of no ill intent.

if you are associated with phainon and cipher to a good extent, expect her to ask you if you were dared to do that.

maybe she'll give you an amused smile or laugh a bit after you call her bro. aglaea enjoys the unpredictability you bring in her life filled with daily routines and responsibilities. it's a nice break from what she's usually used to.

the only time you shouldn't is if she's doing something important.

on the other hand, if you're her lover, she'll be a be more playful with you. she may or may not call you bro when you least expect it. what's even worse is that no one will ever believe you if you tell them. the demigod of romance calling you bro out of nowhere sounds more impossible than completing the flame-chase journey.

can you really blame her? it's funny to see you surprised. aglaea can and will be a tease.

if you try to catch her off guard, it won't work.

call her garmentmakers bro as well and she'll enjoy it.

"hm? I don't remember calling you by that nickname. perhaps you have mistaken the voice from one of my garmentmakers for me — some of them can be playful."

anaxa

first of all, why would you call him bro?

are you asking for a death sentence? an early entrance to the nether realm?

or to catch his attention?

we're talking about the man who doesn't want to be called anything but anaxagoras. the same one who corrects everyone to the point he's made it a personal rule — he has a voiceline ranting about his own name.

if the two of you are strangers, he won't hesitate to tell you off. if he dislikes you, he'll give you a glare too or straight up ignore you. he isn't going to waste his time on you when he has better things to attend to.

however, if you're friends or lovers with him, anaxa will stare at you for a few good seconds. the scholar's silently judging you. he doesn't know whether being called bro is better than being called anaxa. to put it simply, it's awkward. he still corrects you in the end.

continue calling him bro after the first time and he'll eventually get used to it.

no. he's not calling you bro. it'll only happen in your dreams.

the era nova will happen before anaxa calls you bro.

call him bro in the classroom or anywhere near his students and he'll give you the nastiest side eye you've ever received. anaxa does not need the troublemakers getting ideas from you. that includes the other chrysos heirs as well.

a huge emphasis on the other chrysos heirs. entertaining the thought of phainon, cipher or aglaea hearing about that gives him dread. give this man some peace please.

"first of all, that's anaxagoras to you and remember that well. secondly, i'm not your bro. refrain from referring to me with such nicknames next time."

castorice

she... doesn't know how to react.

speechless. quiet.

a bit flabbergasted, even.

no worries, you didn't offend her at all. castorice simply doesn't know how to reply.

you are most likely the first one who's ever called her that. congratulations!

not a lot of people approach the hand of death and call them bro casually. people have called her by many names or titles as well, similar to aglaea, and the last thing that comes to mind is a casual nickname. castorice is also aware that she isn't the liveliest person around.

whether you're a stranger or someone she dislikes, she'll give you an awkward nod or ignore you. if there's others around her when you call her bro, she'll think you're talking about someone else. anyone but her.

however, if you're a friend: despite the silly nickname, she likes it.

being called bro isn't something she's definitely used to, but it's a nice and pleasant surprise. it gives her a sense of normalcy and comfort. it'll take more time for her to get used to it compared to the others. call her that with other people in the area and she'll be a bit confused if you're talking about her or someone else.

castorice won't call you bro often, but sometimes she will.

not a lot will change if you're her lover. she'll still react the same for the most part, but I can imagine her surprising you with another silly nickname of her own. it has to be mutual.

please just don't call her that in front of aglaea or tribbie.

she will be a bit embarrassed.

"it's... alright. there's no need to apologize. I enjoy the nickname quite a bit actually. please— don't be scared to call me that again, or other similar words."

phainon

phainon takes it extremely well. too well.

in fact, he'll even reciprocate it.

no one is surprised at all.

it isn't the first time he's heard others call him like that or the first time he's called others bro. call him bro and he's calling you bro as well. equivalent exchange.

he has also called some of the other chrysos heirs bro as well. both of you are guilty of that.

the only time he won't do it is if he dislikes you a lot. if you've played the 3.3 story quest. depending on the situation and how much he dislikes you, he'll either firmly tell you to not do that next time, pretend you didn't call him that, or glare at you.

worry not, it takes a lot to have the deliverer hate you.

if you tell him to stop calling you bro, phainon will respect that. however, he'll find other silly nicknames to call you, ones that you don't mind.

if you're his friend or his lover... good luck. one way or another he'll turn it into a competition on accident or purposefully, and it'll only get more heated if you're just as competitive as he is. get ready to have bets over who can come up with the most absurd nicknames in one minute or something else.

just be careful to not drag anyone into it, lest the two of you want to replicate chaos that could rival penacony's disaster.

"bro? haha! I didn't expect that but I'm not against it either. I guess that means you're my bro now as well. what? don't look at me like that."

masterlist

#sophrosyncc's writing !#anaxa x reader #anaxagoras x reader #aglaea x reader #castorice x reader #phainon x reader #honkai star rail x reader #hsr x reader #hsr x you #honkai star rail x you #gender-neutral reader

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musingsofheaven · 2 days ago

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EAT YOUR YOUNG.

summary: You weren’t supposed to matter. But Patrick noticed you anyway. Now he knows your name, your face, your routine. And when you show signs about the ex who wouldn’t leave you alone… He thinks you’re worth killing for. It’s not your fault you trust him. It’s not your fault he makes dinner. You’re lucky, really. He’d do anything for you. Anything.

pairings: killer!patrick zweig x afab!reader

warnings: 13.8k words. mature themes. graphic violence. premeditated murder. stalking. surveillance. dubcon-adjacent tone. food tampering. implied cannibalism. body mutilation. blood and flesh horror. references to emotional and physical abuse (from a past relationship). power imbalance. emotional dependency. unprotected p in v. praise kink. nipple play. mild overstimulation. breeding kink. mild somno-adjacent. read & consume responsibly.

note: I actually finished this a while ago but got stuck on proofreading this. Kept staring at it and overthinking. Originally it was a lot more graphic (especially the killing scenes, I had those written out already), but I ended up toning it down a bit. Thank you for reading. Please check the warnings before reading… 😅

He doesn‘t know your name. Doesn't know you. Never seen you before. Not even familiar with him. He knows he’s never seen you courtside before- not in that seat, not in his line of vision, and definitely not in that hoodie and legs crossed like you’re cold. Like you didn’t even plan to be here. Like you are bored and not enjoying the game. That’s what gets him first- how you don’t look like you belong. Not because you’re out of place. Just untouched by it. Like the noise, the tight skirts, the heat of the match- all of it is background. You have your own world, it seems. You’re scrolling with one headphone in, thumb flicking slowly. You shift when the sun moves, tug your sleeve down, and pick at your phone case like you love them.

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until the ball flies past him, untouched. Patrick blinks, totally distracted. Clears his throat. Focus, fuck, focus. But then someone slides into the seat next to you- loud, late, elbows you like he knows you. Too comfortable. You don’t flinch, but your leg stops bouncing. You're anxious but you don't show it to him. Your phone disappears. The side of your face goes still. Not angry- just resigned... look tired. This smug asshole is wearing a backwards cap. His arm was draped behind your chair like he’d done it before. And Patrick knows the type. The breakup didn’t stick. He's a leech. He still shows up. Still acts like nothing’s changed because there's always an opening. The door that never closed. And you’re letting him. That’s what is infuriating, even though he doesn't know you, he reads the situation, knows what kind of setup you are stuck with.

Of course, he knows this. He’s seen this before. The kind of guy who poisons the air just enough that you stop calling it out. The guy who will drain you out. He's the guy where you will learn to shrink yourself to survive it. Maybe it’s none of his business. Maybe. He's aware of that. He shouldn't have cared. But he saw you before the serve- and that was the mistake. One of his many mistakes in his life. You were never supposed to be in focus. You're supposed to be a glance. Because you're just some... you’re in the box like someone dragged you there- too many tickets, too many “it’ll be fun” texts. Maybe it would’ve been. If he hadn’t noticed. If you weren’t sitting there in that hoodie, sleeves over your hands, headphones around your neck, typing something, deleting it. Not even looking up when they announce his name. Which hurts his ego a little, but that's not the point.

Everyone else claps like he might hear it. But not you. Okay, maybe he's bothered by it. You just sit there. And he should’ve looked away. Bounced in place. Blocked you out. But he doesn’t. He watches your mouth twist when your friend nudges you. Watches your eyes flick up, slow and unimpressed, like you were doing something more important and now he’s in your way. Like his game doesn't matter. You barely move and it drives him crazy. Like you don’t feel it too. Jesus, why would he even look at you every time they announced the scoring?

And then that guy. Loud. Smirking. Maybe too much ego. He also has a lot of ego, but he's not like that. Not sliding into your airspace like he owns it. Patrick sees the way you fold in, pull your shoulders up. You don’t smile. Don’t lean in. But you don’t push him away either. You just let it be. Maybe he was someone once- someone who saw you cry. Someone who still texts even when you never answer. He talks close to your mouth. You laugh, but it’s hollow. Patrick can smell it. You’re not scared. You’re tired. And that kind of tired makes men bold. Makes them confident. Makes them feel powerful.

Patrick forgets the court. Forgets the match. He’s supposed to win today- clean. But there’s something hot in his jaw. Something sour in his gut. He cracks his neck like it’ll shake the feeling loose. It doesn’t. He doesn’t even know you. But you’re soft. And someone’s already wrecked that. And he hates it. And he’ll fix it. Sooner or later.

You leave before the match ends. Of course you do. You’re not screaming or filming or wearing merch. You’re just there. Crossed legs. Half-scrolling. Like someone dragged you to a sports bar and didn’t tell you why. Your friend’s the fan- squealing at the good plays. You’re just in the photo. Then the guy grabs your wrist. Doesn’t even glance at the court. Just pulls. You don’t argue. Don’t look back. You just go. Like none of it mattered to you in the first place.

That should’ve been the end of it, right? Match over, crowd on their feet, sweat still clinging to his neck. That's what he thinks, but Patrick’s still buzzing. Still hot. And you’re gone. Not just out of sight- out of reach too. Slipped through like steam. He doesn’t know why that bothers him, it's not like you're his girlfriend. He doesn’t know why he even looked, but your friends are still there. Still laughing and just let you leave like it's a normal thing. Like it's a tendency you always do. Still near the exit like nothing just tore through him mid-serve. So he walks. Not to fans. Not to cameras. Straight to them.

They see him fast. The loud one freezes mid-sip. Her friend elbows her. Patrick smiles like this is normal. “You guys were courtside, right?” His question sounds so casual. Like he’s not already fishing for information. The loud one lights up. “Yes! I told you- oh my god, I told you!” Already talking too much. Being all jumpy and excited. Says she dragged the group here. Says she made them come. Someone groans, says she’s said that six times. He hums before asking, “Dragged them?” She nods fast like an eager puppy. “My best friend doesn’t even like tennis. She literally left in the middle.”

He feigns surprise. “She left?” Another girl cuts in, voice flat: “With her ex.” He doesn’t flinch because he's right at guessing that it was your ex. “She ditched you mid-match?” The loud one holds up her phone like proof. “Yeah- here. White sweater. That’s her.” He barely glances. He already knows. “She’s the one in the corner?” Asking like he didn't even see her earlier. “The one who left,” she confirms. Then he asks, trying to be smooth and not harmful, “What’s her name?”

They give it. Full name. No pause. The one you wiped from socials. The one that only lives on mail and ID forms. You need to change your friends because they really gave you away. He nods, like he’s filing it away. Smiles for the camera. Like a good player, he is. Tag them. Let's them scream. But not long after he got what he wanted, he was already gone.

By the time his Uber’s halfway to the hotel, he’s on your social. One click from the tag and there you are. Easy. Unguarded. Sloppy. Real. Like you didn’t think anyone important would ever look. But he’s looking. And now he can’t stop. Just taking a look at anything he can find. It doesn’t take long actually. A few scrolls. Your college. Major. A blurry concert selfie. A liked tweet about throwing your prof into traffic. Then it tilts. A second account. TikToks with too-honest captions. A playlist. A mirror selfie- legs tucked, mouth soft, someone’s elbow just barely in frame. Cropped, but not enough.

It’s him. Same watch. Same slouch like your space belongs to him. Patrick knows the type. The ex who lingers. Exes who don't want you to move on. Who walks like time didn’t pass. Like your name’s still his. He scrolls faster. Screenshots everything he can find. Finds him. Tagged photos. Everywhere. Hotel mirror. Your legs are in a robe. Two toothbrushes are on the sink. They’re still up. He stares, but he's not jealous. It's something else. A darker thing. A creep creeps under his ribs. Heat in his jaw, his fists, his throat. You’re not with the guy anymore. Doesn’t matter. Not when someone else got there first. Not when someone else saw you soft and didn’t care. Patrick didn’t mean to want this. Didn’t plan it. But now you’re everywhere. In his hands. In his teeth. You gave him everything- your name, your face, your friends, your weekend. You walked away. But you didn’t vanish. And he's getting delusional.

Well, here he is... close to you. But he doesn’t mean to run into you. Not really. Not after spending the night watching your Instagram like it's breathing. Not after scrolling through your tagged photos and memorizing people from there. Not even when he heads down to the lobby past midnight for a cigarette. Coincidence, yeah, that’s what he tells himself. Until you walk in. The hoodie is too big. Mascara smeared. Hair messt that says don’t fucking talk to me. You look wrecked. Crying or fucking. Or both. Don't want to know.

You don’t see him until he steps out of the shadow, cigarette nearly out. He doesn’t say your name. Just, “Hey. You were at the match earlier, right?” Casual. Just curious. Just observant. God, he hopes he doesn't sound like a creep. You blink. “Huh?” He shrugs. “With your friends. One of them had a tennis shirt something.” You sigh and nod before chuckling, “Jesus. Yeah. Sorry- I, yeah. My friend’s obsessed.”

He hums like it’s news. “You’re not a fan?” You shake your head. “Not really.” He smiles. “Didn’t think so.” You squint. “Wait- were you playing?” He nods. “Patrick.” You huff a tired laugh. “Shit. Sorry. Didn’t recognize you.” He could probably guess that you don't, but it doesn't really hurt or bother him. “It’s late,” he says. “It is,” you echo. You shift on your feet, scraped thin. He wonders if the ex is upstairs. If you came back to cry. “Everything okay?” he asks. Softly. Not really pushing. Just enough for you to shrug off or answer. You pause. “Not really.” He doesn’t press. Just flicks the cigarette, nods at the bench. “You want to sit?” You glance. Then sit.

That’s the shift. The turn. You talk- slow, hesitant, too tired to keep the mask on. He listens. Doesn’t ask your name. Just waits. And when you finally stand, brushing your hands down your thighs like you’re putting the weight back on, he watches like he’s memorizing something. Then, just before you go, he lifts a brow. “You on IG?” You blink. “What?” He shrugs. “Didn’t catch your name earlier. Thought I’d follow you.” No pressure. But it still feels like pressure.

You pause. Then you give it. Because he doesn’t feel dangerous. But he is- just patient. The next morning, he DMs you: Was that your walk-of-shame fit or your signature style? You wait, then answer: Bold coming from a man in tube socks. That’s all it takes. That's where it all starts. The gate. The hook, line, and sinker. You feel like water. He plays it perfectly- just enough to stay near, never enough to draw attention. A heart in your story. A sarcastic reply. A meme at 1 AM. A blurry mirror selfie with a kill me caption. He's the guy you can easily get close to because he's easy to talk to. Like he knows all the strings. You laugh. You answer. You send photos back- nothing posed. A messy corner. Your foot is under a blanket. Iced coffee is sweating in your lap.

He saves them. He loves them. God, he's obsessed with them. Jerks off to your selfies like they’re sacred- licks his palm, strokes slow, your story lighting up his screen. He can be one of those freaks you may see on television. Your voice is worse in his case. A FaceTime while you’re tipsy, brushing your teeth with a towel. He waits until you hang up, already touching himself, replaying the part where you yawn and say, I wish you were here, until he’s coming, mouthing your name. You don’t know any of this. To you, he’s just that weird, funny tennis guy who always texts back.

You mentioned him to someone, but he doesn't know that. Maybe you said something like... yeah, I’ve been talking to this pro tennis player. I know. It’s dumb. Your friends laugh though. They don’t believe you. You don’t correct them. You don't really give a fuck about it. It’s not about proving anything. You like that he’s yours- quietly. Maybe. Maybe you're getting used to talking to him every day in chats, calls, or FaceTime. That he remembers the breakup, the ferret, the TA who smells old and expired cologne. That he listens like it matters.

You start looking forward to his messages. Noticing when they don’t come. Dressing better in your stories. Maybe a thirst trap if you are bold. Watching his reactions. Smiling at your phone. It’s nothing. Casual. You’re not together. But he’s there- in your day, your pocket, your bed when you whisper, “Are you awake?” And he is. Always. For you. Some nights, you stare at your phone and think: If he asked me to fly out tomorrow, I wouldn’t pack. I’d just go.

And yeah. It happened. But it's the other way around. It starts like this: “I’m in your city. 2:14AM.” You’re half-drunk on a couch that isn’t yours. “Wanna get a drink?” Casual. Like he didn’t see your tagged location an hour ago before sending that message. Still- you say yes and end up being a date. The first date is quiet. Hoodie and cap. You’re too busy trying not to stare at his mouth. You take a booth and talk until close. He asks the right questions. You laugh. He buys two drinks. Doesn’t touch you once. Just listening to you and talking to you like real adults do. Probably looks like he's so invested and getting to know you. Until he walks you home. You stop outside your building. Kiss his cheek- thank you, goodnight. He smiles. Doesn’t push. But you feel it. That shift. That which stays under your skin.

You fuck him after the third date. Invite him over. Not really expensive and all kinds of dates. Intimate. Cook something half-hearted. He does the dishes. You sit barefoot on the counter, no bra. He turns to say something- but you’re already sliding down. You kiss him. Hard. He gives in like he’s starving. Carries you to bed. The sex is slow. Measured. But raw. His hands shake when he spreads your legs. He moans into your cunt. You come with your hand in his hair, his teeth at your thigh. Your pleasure first, he said. He fucks you after. When he comes, he bites your shoulder. Barely. Like instinct. You wake up in his shirt. He makes coffee. After that, it just happens. When he’s in town, he’s at your place. Just a text: Landing soon. Still like Pinot? Takeout or are you feeding me? Then he’s back- shoes half-off, hands on you.

He tells you stories. A moment with his mom. A dog that ran away. You believe him. It’s easier than being suspicious. You soft-launch him: a wine glass, a blurry elbow. He never posts back to you. Always “busy.” But he answers. Shows up unannounced. Keeps you hidden- not like a secret, like something fragile. Says you’re his calm. That you don’t ask for anything. You tell yourself it’s enough. Even when it isn’t.

When the summer ends. Your dorm is empty. Then he texts- “Come with me.” You call. He picks up too fast. “Need me to book it?” You laugh. Say yes. You don’t know he already picked the dates. The trip blurs. Cities stop mattering. He pays for everything- hotels, wine, whatever you need. You offer once. “Don’t insult me”, he says, but he's just teasing you. You laugh, but something twists. He fucks you everywhere. Sometimes he just watches. When he finishes, he mouths something into your skin. Always the same. Always too quiet. You try to hear it. Can’t. You let him braid your hair. Let him fuck you rough. You think it’s love. But it’s too late.

You don’t see the cracks. He never leaves his phone out. But he knows your passwords. Knows your cousin’s boyfriend. Knows your ex is back before you do. While you sleep, he scrolls- old photos, old chats. He knows what your bedroom looked like at sixteen. That your favorite teacher died. He’s building you from the inside out. And you’re still smiling. Still whispering, I’ve never felt this safe, like it’s a blessing. Not a trap. Because he’s sweet. He makes you coffee. Let you sleep in. Touches you just to watch you flinch. You laugh. Call him insatiable. You think it’s love. But it’s colder. Sharper. You don’t see the fake IDs. Don’t ask why his phone never rings. When he says, No one’s ever gotten this close, you smile. Let him in. And that’s exactly what he wanted.

The relationship is okay. Got even closer. Got more comfortable with him. And now? It starts after a FaceTime call. You’re in bed, voice slow and sleepy, tucked in the kind of way that makes him feel like your city’s the only place he can breathe. He’s still in his hotel- post-match sweat drying, skyline behind him, TV on mute. The first thing he touched when he came back was his phone. Told you he wants to see your face, that he misses you. Of course, you miss him too and you don't really have anything to do so you accept the FaceTime call. You ask if he’s coming back for the off-season. He pretends to think, but you both know. “Yeah,” he says, eyes low. “I think I’ll stay for a while. Your city’s nice.” You smiled into the pillow when he said that. Happy that you'll be with him longer. He always tries to memorize that smile. You say you’d like that. Ask how long. He shrugs. “Long enough to fix some things.” You don’t ask what he means. But something in the way he says it lingers. And when he got there? He starts small- intentions folded like linen, nothing rushed. Just the start of a quiet storm.

Because there’s a man. One you never talk about. Patrick saw him gripping your wrist too tightly the first time he saw you. The one you brushed off with a shrug and a smile. The one who still views your stories the second they go up. Your ex- the violent, obsessive one. The one who made you small. Patrick doesn’t ask about him. He doesn’t need to. He already knows the story. He just watches. Then he begins. Quiet. Always searching for something. Deletes searches. Uses burner tabs. Wipes metadata like instinct. The obsession grows slowly, like he's too eager to want it to be perfect, to be precise. He starts with fiction: Hannibal, You, Dexter. Not for flair- for process. Ritual. Control. Maybe get some ideas from it. At night, he watches documentaries- unsolved murders, killers who prepped, studied, and perfected. There’s calm in their madness he understands. He dives deep: forums, tutorials, subreddits on disposal and blood spray, books on decomposition and forensics. He highlights passages. Rereads them like he's studying for board exams.

He learns the man’s schedule. The layout of his building. The doorman’s smoke breaks. He maps blind spots, times deliveries, studies routines like game tape- clinical, obsessive. He tests gloves. The good ones. Practice knots. How to tie someone. How to tie when you have a wound. Times the knife. He rents a basement flat two neighborhoods over. Concrete floors. No cameras. Cash only. Shady one. The kind of place that hums with pipes and disappears from people. Inside: bleach, rope, gloves, tape, wipes. A mini fridge. A comforter that's already there. A duffle packed with precision. Nothing extra. Just a boring shirt, deodorant, and drugstore soap. (He’ll toss it anyway.)

He buys everything slowly- different stores, cities, and aliases. Pays cash. Burns receipts. Bags double-wiped and folded flat. No prints. Even the gear breaks into parts. It lives in a crate marked TENNIS STRING + TENSION TOOLS, tucked between rackets and sweatbands. Make it look like a tennis thing. Looks normal. Because it’s not rage. Not jealousy. It’s control. Preparation. Something that’s his. He watches the man’s socials like clockwork. Never from his own account- he’s careful. Uses a fake: mutuals, old photos, just real enough. That’s where he sees it. Wednesday, 11:42 AM. Blurry cake. Two candles. Caption: “Nan’s bday. Family thing all day lol.” Perfect. He waits thirty minutes. Then moves.

Midday. Bright sky. Business casual. Wig under a plain cap. Short cut, light contacts, pale foundation over fake tan. Layered clothes shift his build, boots tweak his height. Hoodie’s neutral. The coffee cup’s a prop. His voice- low, bored, and forgettable. Make him look different. Not Patrick Zweig. At the gate, he buzzes. No name. Says he saw a listing. Just moved. Looking for quiet. The caretaker opens up. “Try 2C. Layout’s the same.” Patrick nods. That's a good one. He feels like every layout of it is the same for the furnitures inside.

Inside, he moves like he cares. Like he is really interested in moving in. But he’s tracking everything: creaks, locks, smells. Mailboxes. Shoes at the door. “Anyone stay up late?” he asks. “Mostly early risers,” the guy shrugs. Patrick nods. “That’s good. Just need quiet.” The tour lasts six minutes. No name. No number. Just, “I’ll think about it.” Doesn’t look back. He already knows the layout. No mess. No panic. Just a clean grab. The kind he’s practiced- like other people practice falling in love.

In his mind, the first kill wasn’t about chaos- it was about stillness. It's focus. Especially if it's planned. If it's not a sudden one. The one you will feel guilty doing. It is kind of cold that tightens the skin and thins the breath. It wasn’t about the scream or the way a body jerks when silence breaks. Patrick wanted it quiet. Methodical. Intimate. He needed to feel life leave with precision- not for power, but to know what it meant to step over a boundary like it was nothing. That’s why he went for the wrist first- anatomical, strategic. Just want to make it hurt. Control lives in the limbs; silence in the throat. He grabbed the arm mid-step and pulled until it cracked backward. Not just broken- dislocated, tenting the skin wrong. The grunt that followed was sharp, dazed, like pain had just arrived. He reacted like a fucking girl getting fucked.

“W-wait- fuck, man, what the fuck are you- ” That voice men use when they still think reason might save them. Well it won't save his ass this time. Not when he already turned the kill switch of being guilty about it. That he will pity this piece of shit. Patrick didn’t respond. Just stepped in, palm to chin, and twisted- quick, brutal. The jaw cracked out of alignment, tongue caught, mouth hanging open like a trap that forgot how to close.

Then the knife. Not a rage-stab, not messy- a tool, chosen after weeks of testing grips, weights, edges. Curved like a scalpel, thin enough to slip between ribs. Sharp enough to use in things like this. He drove it in with purpose- under the rib, angled up. Yeah, he learned where it would hurt the most when the knife pressed. But it's not a wild lunge. Just calm insertion. The way butchers work. Inside, it slid clean. Warm meat. Soft tissue. No spray- just a slow hiss, like air escaping a balloon. The blood pooled steadily, not dramatically. Not like a shaken champagne when it gets opened. A red thread trailed down like a ribbon. Almost pretty.

The man stumbled, knees gone and wobbly, breath broken, and hit the floor sideways. One hand twitched in a last protest, then stillness. Patrick knelt beside him, unhurried. His heart wasn’t racing- it was settling. He brushed damp hair from his forehead and looked down like he was studying an old photograph. A bruise was already blooming where he used to grab you too tightly- wrist, throat. Patrick smiled. Soft. Private. Like something inside him finally unknotted.

He unzipped the duffel. No panic. Just routine. The sterilized kit opened clean. He lifted the leg by the knee. The jeans were half-off, fabric was dark. He peeled them down further, exposing the thigh- pale, veined, still warm. Pressed a palm to it, testing the give, then cut. A clean crescent, two fingers wide. He slid the blade beneath the skin, separating it from the muscle- slow, steady. No spray. Just a bloom. He held the slice to the light, then folded it into a tin. Not a trophy. Not rage. Just process. Something to keep. Not the man- never the man. Just the flesh.

Made it look like a mugging- nothing more. He wore a sealed base layer, a thrifted hoodie, and jeans. Gloves: nitrile under leather. Boots: two sizes too big, stuffed with paper. Bought for this. No prints. No skin. He didn’t break the window until after. Corner scored. A gloved elbow, glass spilling in. Forced entry. Inside, a few drawers open, a lamp knocked over, a chair nudged. Just enough to suggest chaos.

He wiped the phone, removed the SIM, and crushed it. Sliced out the GPS chip, fed it to the disposal. The thigh wound- deliberate, clean- was hidden. Pants refastened. Just a stain. The missing flesh? No one would notice. Not until autopsy. And even then- it would look jagged. Accidental. Nothing sacred. Nothing stolen.

When he’s done, he opens the fridge, takes a beer, and leaves it half-finished- poured but untouched- on the counter, like someone panicked mid-theft. He wipes it clean. Even the bottle cap is gone. Then he slips out the back, loops through the alley, crosses two streets, and ducks into a delivery alcove between dumpsters. Just enough cover.

There, he changes fast. Shirt, pants, boots- everything that touched what he did- folded into a heavy-duty plastic bag. Gloves, mask, sleeves- sealed. The tin goes in last, not in the burn bag but the duffel, separate. Still double-wrapped, tucked beneath a towel like a relic. Preserved. The new clothes are plain: zip jacket, clean sneakers, surgical mask, same cap. Nothing traceable. Just a guy running errands. He slides the trash into the duffel, zipped opposite the tin. Three blocks later, he reaches the rental parked under a flickering streetlamp. No cameras. No traffic. Just dead space near condemned buildings. The car is basic, rented a week ago under a fake name, and paid in full. Always clean. Always untouched.

He drives under the speed limit, hands steady, making two legal turns just to avoid an empty intersection. No sirens, no phone. The real one stays off so no location traced. Eventually, he pulls into the industrial zone- rail yards, warped fencing, nothing alive. He parks deep. Engine running. Headlights off. He opens the duffel and drops everything- clothes, gloves, knife- into a rusted oil drum. The tin stays. He soaks the pile in gasoline and lights it. Flame curls plastic into smoke. When it’s ash, he seals the trash bag and stows it in the trunk. The burner phone snaps in half, SIMless, tossed in a storm drain. The rental stays for now. Still clean. Still boring.

By dawn, he’s home. Basement flat. Concrete floors. Mattress on the ground. Fridge that hums like it’s dying. He showers twice. Scrub nails. Flushes his nose. Ditches the contacts. Every hair accounted for. He files down the callus the boots left on his toe. And in the freezer, sealed in a separate tin: the piece he took. Still warm when he stole it. Wrapped in gauze. Preserved. Untouched. No one will know. No one will tie it to Patrick Zweig because how can they even tie it to him?

He doesn’t sleep after that. Can't. Just sends a text before leaving: good morning, baby ❤️ / thought I’d grab groceries / text me when you wake. You’re still out since 2:44 a.m., wine in hand, lashes low from a picture you sent earlier when he's breaking your ex's wrist. You fell asleep safe. Unaware. Still, he sends the message. Routine.

By sunrise, he’s dressed again. Hoodie zipped just enough to shadow his mouth. Same baseball cap. The city is soft and slow, still half-asleep. He moves like a ghost. No breath fogs the glass. He drives with silently. Same rental. Clean. The duffel was zipped in the trunk. He parks three lots away and walks the rest of- hood up, head down. Still too early to be seen. Just sleepy couples and men in visors. The store opens. Fluorescents bloom. He grabs a basket. No rush. Muscle memory.

It’s a nice store. Too quiet for the morning. People look minding their own business. Soft music. Lavender and basil in the air. He starts with produce- rosemary, thyme, garlic, shallots. He rolls one in his palm, reading it. Near the pastry: pappardelle. Flour-dusted. He tilts the tray, watching the noodles shift. Intentional. Next: tomato paste. Imported. Blood-thick. He drops it in.

The cheese counter girl smiles. “Parmigiano?” she asks. “Shaved,” he says. She wraps it. Hand it over. Her eyes linger. He doesn’t look up. Just nods. “Thanks.” Then wine. He lingers. Finger bottles. Watches the red cling to the neck. Picks one. At the butcher: “Two pounds boneless short rib,” he says. “Trimmed?” He shakes his head at the question. “No. And half-pound pork belly.” His voice stays low. Certain. The paper’s thick. Folded neatly.

Then dairy. Foil-wrapped French butter. He presses his thumb- cold, dense, soft enough to melt. Tools next. Disposable knife, two cutting boards, gloves, vacuum bags, and bleach spray. All of it clockwork. Steadying. Then- a black takeout container. Glossy. Fancy without trying. Enough to hold what matters. Small enough to ignore.

Before checkout, he doubles back for sea salt. Flaked. In a gold tin. Hand-harvested. Pretentious. Unnecessary. He takes it anyway. For you. Self-checkout is fast. Cash only. No receipt. The bag’s heavier than it looks- by design. He wipes the screen. No prints. No trail. The day unfolds like nothing happened. like no one’s missing. Like no one will ever look at him twice.

Outside, the sun is sharp now. Too bright enough to be annoying. He walks the last stretch to the car like nothing matters. Grocery bag swinging from one hand- glass bottle tapping plastic, pasta sliding gently inside its tray. His face is blank. Shoulders loose. No rush. No tension. The world doesn’t know it should be afraid of him yet. The rental’s still where he left it- three lots over, behind a closed appliance store. No cameras, no foot traffic. He's really careful with the things he's doing. He opens the trunk, sets the bag inside, and shuts it softly. Slides into the driver’s seat. Your reply buzzes in: What’s for dinner? 😚 He types, deletes, rewrites: just wait. You’re gonna love this. Then starts the engine, window cracked, driving like he’s lived here forever.

The streets are busier now. More alive. Kids with cones. Men walking dogs. People running or jogging. The delivery truck was idling crookedly. The city doesn’t stop for him- and he prefers it that way. The car is boring, clean, and quiet. No playlist. No voice memo. Just the hum of routine. Seven minutes later, he’s back to his shitty temporary place. He doesn't really sleep there, just when he's planning things. Two neighborhoods away. Quiet block. No cameras. He pulls in slowly, wheels crunching gravel, and parks behind the alley wall. Shuts the engine and looks around. Cracks the door open. The bag thumps once against his thigh. One motion for the gate. Another for the door. Pipes make sounds as he steps inside, like the building knows him now. Like knows how rotten he is inside. How dark.

He doesn’t take off his jacket. Doesn’t pour the wine. He moves straight to the fridge- small, matte black, chosen for its separate freezer. Cold enough to burn your skin if you touch the back wall. He opens it. Not really smelling yet. Still fresh. Blood. It's like just an animal after being butchered. The tin is still there. Gauze white, lid tight. Metal cold as bone. He sets it beside the bag and begins. He pulls items from the grocery bag one by one. Paring knife- still sealed. He tears it open with his teeth. Cutting boards- white and red. The black takeout container- snapped open, just let it sit and wait. The rest stays in the bag. For now, anyway. He washes his hands. Fingertips to wrist. No gloves. He likes it better this way. Then unwraps the meat. Short rib first. Pork belly second. Spread out on the white cutting board, marbled and dense. He squares the rib, feels the grain, and cuts- clean, slow, practiced. Not sawing. Just slicing. Just like what he saw from cooking tutorials how to cut the meat for this specific meal. The fibers split like cloth. Cubed, measured. Wiped clean.

The pork belly is firmer, slicker. He scores it shallow- crosshatched for marinade- then slices smaller than the rib. It should melt. It was felt more than tasted. He transfers both cuts to the container- first the belly, then the rib. Setting it aside for marinating later. The container swallows it whole, made for this. Glossy. Black. Innocent. Then he reaches for the tin. Still cold. He sets it on the red board, steadies it, and lifts the lid. The gauze is still tight- careful, reverent. He unwraps it slowly. The flesh inside is pale, blushed with frost. Not frozen. Pliable. Tender. He doesn’t hesitate. Slide the blade beneath the skin. Begins to peel. The skin lifts in strips. Some clean, some stubborn. A little hair- fine, like the back of a wrist. He scrapes it too. Then flays the rest. Pink at the edges. Firmer than veal, softer than pork. He inspects the grain. Begins to cut. Not chunks. Too noticeable. He slices thin- smaller than the belly, close but not identical. He wants it to vanish in sauce, to be mistaken for something familiar. The blade moves confidently. Like he’s done this before. Because he has.

And when he’s done, it doesn’t look like a person. It looks like meat. Just animal meat. He wipes the blade. Slides the flesh in one handful, then another. It folds gently over the others, pink and soft. Visually distinct, but just enough to disappear. He presses the last bits in with his fingers. No force. No waste. It all fits. The container looks full. Heavy. Meant to be eaten. Like a gift. He wipes his hands, then pulls out what he needs. Rosemary- one sprig. Stripped by hand. Then thyme. Finer. Softer. It dusts the top. A shallot- sliced thin, rings sweetening in the air. Garlic- two cloves. Crushed, peeled, minced. A pinch of sea salt. Big flakes. Bright. They stick where they land.

He opens the tomato paste. Scoops a small amount. Scrapes it over the top. Thick. Deep red. Doesn’t mix it. Just let it sit. No oil. That’ll come later. From your kitchen. He knows what’s there. The meat is streaked now. Red, glossed with shallot, dusted with herbs. It’s starting to look like dinner. Smells like something someone would want. He seals the lid. Tight. Let it sit. Let it sink. Let it become. He cleans like it’s all muscle memory. Like the end is just as sacred as the act. Red board first- slick with meat juices. Then white- flayed, marked, ghosting what used to be skin. He rinses both under hot water, sprays, and scrubs until nothing sticks. Then snaps them in half. One clean crack. Two. Plastic splitting like bone. The knife- disposable, blade dulled- gets rinsed, wiped, and wrapped in a paper towel. The tin too. Cold. Hollow. Emptied now. He holds it for a second, then drops it in the bag like it means nothing. Because it doesn’t anymore.

The skin follows. Wrapped tightly in the same butcher paper that the pork belly came in. Folded neatly. Gloved once. Bare-handed now. It goes in with the rest. The butter foil. Garlic ends. Shallot skins. The first chocolate wrapper he opened but never ate. Everything that touched the process. Everything spent. Then, more. The rest of the flat: mattress, clothes, hoodie, notebook, dying pen. The candle he burned while writing. Lighter. Charger. Toothbrush. Cracked razor. Saline bottle. Tissue pack. Sock. Contact lens wrapper. Swept in. No pause. It all goes into the same bag. The whole life of the place, reduced to garbage. One knot at the top. Tight. No labels. No sorting. Just disposal. Just the final step of something holy.

He slips the grocery bag over his shoulder like it’s nothing- just dinner, just errands, just another quiet evening. The weight rests easily. Familiar. Domestic, even. Like he didn’t just unmake someone hours ago. The other bag- heavier, dense with use- goes in his hand. Gloves, boards, wipes, the tin, the skin. He opens the front door without looking back. The key drops to the mat with a soft clink. That’s it. No second thoughts. The sun’s too high. Too clean. Like it doesn’t know what it swallowed last night. He moves through it steadily, invisible the way men like him are trained to be. The flat door swings shut behind him. Doesn’t echo. Doesn’t matter. At the car, he opens the passenger side first- a grocery bag lies gently on the seat. Pasta shifts, bottle rolls, but everything stays contained. Curated. Innocent. Then he pops the trunk. Lifts the trash with one practiced heave, lets it fall beside the duffel still waiting from last night- silent, zipped, untouched.

The two bags sit together. One was already burned in his mind. The other is about to be. He closes the trunk. Starts the engine. Doesn’t turn on the radio. Doesn’t check his phone. Just exhales once, slow and full, and pulls away like he’s done this before. He drives the route he knows by heart- past half-awake neighborhoods and sun-bleached alleys, broken fences, old warehouses, into the dead zone. Condemned industrial sprawl where no one looks long. The air smells like rust and disuse. The kind of place you can burn a life and no one asks what it was.

He parks deep, where the shadows pool thick. Opens the trunk. Trash first. Then the duffel- lighter now but stained with memory. Both go into the same rusted drum. Lid clanks. He unscrews the gas can- tacky around the lip. Pours until the smell sticks to his sleeves. One flick. One bloom. The flame climbs fast. It eats everything. Wipes. Paper. Gauze. Skin. Every trace. He watches until it curls black and the smoke turns thin. Then gets back in the car. Doesn’t rush. The drive to the rental return is clean. Normal. It’s a weekday lot- quiet, tucked behind a plaza where no one looks twice at a man with a grocery bag and a calm return.

He parks. Checks the seats. No stains. No smell. One glance in the rearview. Then walks inside. Returns the keys. Sign your name on the fake ID. The desk guy nods. “Need a ride anywhere?” Patrick smiles. Shakes his head. “Already called one.” He’s out before the sentence finishes. Outside, the grocery bag hangs from his arm. Wine, pasta, herbs, and meat. Nothing suspicious. Just indulgent. Just sweet. He orders the Uber before the door shuts behind him. The driver’s three minutes away. When it pulls up, he gets in like anyone else. Backseat. Calm. Bag in his lap.

By 1:00 p.m., they’re back in the city. Sun high. Heat rippling off storefronts and car hoods. Patrick doesn’t say a word. Just leans his head back, letting the hum of the car press softly into his temples. He's feeling tired but the adrenaline and the high from all the things he did are still there. The grocery bag is warm now. One hand around the handles. The smell of herbs. The faint, metallic heat of meat marinating slowly in its quiet. It’s sealed. Clean. Safe. But it’s there. All of it. Settling together. Becoming something else.

He texts just before the car turns onto your street: on my way up 🩶. You open the door before he knocks. Hair mussed. The tank top is soft. No shoes. You blink against the light when he steps in golden from outside, like something expensive. You smile, lazily. “Hi,” you say. He smiles back, soft and familiar. “Hi,” he echoes, quieter. He leans in and kisses your cheek, shoulder brushing yours as he slips past, like this has always been his home too. Like he's already too comfortable with the space. The grocery bag rustles as he sets it down on your counter, weighted placement like he’s already thinking ahead. He exhales through his nose, loosening his spine.

“You get everything?” you ask, padding in barefoot behind him after you locked the door. He nods, reaching into the bag. “More than enough,” he says, voice calm. He pulls out fresh pappardelle, herbs, and a black takeout container. You eye it. “What’s that?” you ask. “Pre-marinated,” he says. “Saves time later.” You raise a brow, curious. “Smells intense.” He smiles, eyes flicking to yours. “It will be. Slow-cooked. You’ll love it,” he promises. You lean on the counter, watching him place the sea salt near your stove, then the wine, butter, and head to the fridge. You smile while you are eyeing him, he looks so domestic.

“Is it one of those meals that takes hours?” you ask. Feels like it is because why does he need to marinate it already? He nods. “Yeah. I’ll start it around four.” You’re about to tease him when he pauses. “Did you eat lunch?” he asks, tone careful. He knows you don't. He feels like you woke up late. You blink. “Not yet,” you admit, pouting. He frowns faintly. “Want me to make you something quick? Eggs? Toast?” You tilt your head. “Did you eat?” His smile softens. “I’m fine,” he says. (He hasn’t eaten since before sunrise, but he says it like it doesn’t matter.)

“I can also order,” he offers. You hum before you shake your head. “Eggs sound good,” you tell him. He nods. “Go sit,” he says, voice low but firm. He likes cooking for you, it shows. You laugh and roll your eyes. “You’re so bossy,” you tease. He gives you a look over his shoulder, that quiet, amused curve of mouth. “You say that like you don’t love it,” he replies and huffs. You roll your eyes, but you sit, watching him move- calm, sure, sleeves pushed to the elbow.

There’s silence while the pan warms. Then he says it- casually. “I’m gonna stay here for a while.” You blink. “Here?” He nods. “Your place. I want to be closer to you. Dropped the place I rented. But it's just until the season picks up again.” It hits you warm. “Okay,” you say, smiling and nodding. The lunch is soft, lazy. He makes eggs and toast- simple, warm. He eats just enough to pass for hunger. He just likes sitting across from you.

After, the day stretches. You nap for maybe 30 minutes or an hour on the couch, sun on your legs. He washes the dishes, wipes the counter. At two, he starts cooking while you're sleeping. He doesn't even know how it can last. He hasn't slept since the moment he woke up yesterday. Garlic first, then shallots. Tomato paste blooms in the pan. The meat goes in short ribs, pork. It smells… expensive. You offer to help when you hear him moving around the kitchen. He smiles. “Let me take care of you.”

So you just shower instead while it simmers. Not a date, just something warm. You throw on a loose tee and cotton shorts. Damp hair, no makeup. Just comfortable with him seeing you like this. When you pad back out, the light’s gone gold. The wine bottle’s open. Two glasses poured- yours fuller. He’s leaning against the counter, mouth soft like he’s been smiling to himself. “Hey,” you say.

“You look soft,” he murmurs and smirks. You roll your eyes, but heat blooms anyway. Likes getting complimented by him. He brushes your damp hair behind your ear, kisses your cheekbone. “Hungry?” he asks. You nod and sigh. “Good,” he says. “Almost done.” You settle at the counter, sip your wine. The sauce is thick now, and the meat is tender. He stirs it like it’s sacred, adds butter off-heat. He plates it quietly. You just watch him while he moves around.

He uses the shaved Parmigiano over both bowls, then brings it to you to taste test it. The first bite melts. You hum without meaning to, you almost moan when you taste it honestly. “This is insane,” you say, incredulous. He nods, calm. “Wanted it to taste like something worth staying for,” he says. Before you can respond, he steps in close. His arms slide around your waist, slowly. He lifts you effortlessly. “Patrick- !” you exclaim, laughing and you wrap your legs around him. “You’re ridiculous,” you tease. “And you’re not sitting there,” he says. He sets you down gently in the chair, arms still around your hips. You lean in first. He meets you halfway. The kiss is soft, unhurried. Like a thank you. Just all sweetness. Just love.

When you pull away, your smile stays. You look like a love-sick woman. Can't really help it when you have a tennis player boyfriend that can't breathe when you're not around, yearns for you, take care of you, a great cook and fucks you so good. The light’s soft- gold through the windows. He’s plating with focus. Two dishes. No garnish- just pappardelle curled like silk. He sets yours down first, then his. He pours the wine, deep and syrupy. He doesn’t toast, just clinks, looking at you. You take your first bite. “Holy shit,” you say, breaking the silence. “This is stupid good.” You laugh softly, incredulous. He smiles, quiet and proud.

You eat like you trust him. You moan faintly, without thinking. He just watches, eyes soft. A man who’s cleaned up the mess someone else made of you. A man who made you dinner. You finish before he does. Wipe the corner of your mouth with the pad of your thumb and lean back, bare legs stretched under the table, your wine glass half-full and tilted idly in your hand like you’re debating another sip.

“I should clean up,” you say, not moving. Patrick lifts a brow. “Sit. I’ve got it.” You shake your head, insisting on doing something because you feel bad just sitting the whole time since he arrived. “You cooked. I’ll help.” He starts to get up, and you mirror it, the two of you moving like magnets, bumping hips in the tiny kitchen, laughing softly when your knees knock. You reach for the glasses; he grabs the bowls. “Not the pans,” you say, nudging him. It's messy and disgusting. You feel like he's not also in the mood to clean it though. “That’s a tomorrow problem.” He grins and sighs. “Yeah.” You take the dishes to the sink while he collects the cutlery, wiping the table with a damp cloth, pretending to be productive but really just stalling. You glance over at him, rolled sleeves, back straight, water running hot. The plate in his hand looks small, and the veins in his forearm flex with each movement. He’s quiet and focused, like doing the dishes is some ritual.

You grab the wine bottle and top off your glass, taking a slow sip to let the warmth coat you. You drift, listening to the water, feeling the weight in your stomach, the aftertaste of thyme and tomato. He’s right there, humming under his breath, relaxed in a way that makes your chest ache a little. You move behind him and wrap your arm around his waist while the other free hand of yours is holding the wine glass, just enough for your cheek to press against his shoulder blades. He goes still, then sets the dish down and turns on the faucet. He doesn’t speak; he just lets you hold him there, your arm loose around his stomach.

“You’re warm,” you murmur. “So are you,” he hums before he replies. You chuckle and close your eyes, breathing in the moment. The sink water is still hot, running over his hands, catching the last of the tomato-streaked plates. You kiss his back once, just a small press of lips. He pauses, then resumes, calm and silent. You're feeling needy. Two reasons: you miss him and the wine puts you to be in the mood. You grin to yourself and kiss him again, higher this time, and he exhales, amused.

You hold him tighter, wine glass still in your hand, then set it on the counter beside him. He’s rinsing now, turning off the faucet, shaking the water from his fingers. He reaches for the towel with a rhythm that makes you ache. You shift against him and press another kiss to his spine, then lower- kissing the small of his back, nuzzling there. Your nose brushes the hem of his shirt, and he tenses slightly.

You smile. “You’re doing a good job.” Your tone is playful but sincere. Complementing him. Just acknowledging what he’s doing for you. “Of what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Everything.” You nod, emphasizing the warmth in the moment. His breath catches as he folds the towel deliberately, then sets it aside. He turns to face you, and you look up at him, chin tipped, flushed and warm. He raises a hand and brushes a thumb across your bottom lip. “You’re drunk,” he says, studying your face. You shake your head. “Just full.” You're not really drunk. You can't get drunk that fast from the wine. Maybe just feeling looser. “Full,” he echoes, his voice low. “Of me?” His voice drops, a hint of vulnerability. You bite your lip.

He steps closer, and when he kisses you this time, it’s deep and intentional- one hand at your jaw, the other sliding down your waist, gripping your hip. You gasp softly into his mouth, fumbling until your fingertips hit the counter. The wine glass clicks gently as you set it down, too focused on his touch. His mouth doesn’t leave yours; he pulls you closer- hips to hips, his chest warm and steady. His fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt, slow and aching.

First, at your waist- palm flat, calluses brushing your skin. Then higher, gliding up your stomach until his knuckles skim your ribs. You inhale sharply, and he smiles into your mouth. “Okay?” he murmurs. You nod and press your mouth back to his. “More,” you whisper. He gives it to you, his hand going slow and sure, dragging heat with it- up until his palm slides beneath your breast, fingers curling slightly. You sigh, breathless. His other hand lifts to your throat, just to hold- thumb at your jaw, fingers curved gently behind your neck. Just feeling territorial over you. He kisses you harder now, tongue slow and controlled, like he’s been starving for this and he is. So starving for you. To have you.

He swipes his thumb across your nipple, and you break the kiss with a gasp, breath hitching. He leans in, kisses along your jaw, down your neck. His hand cups your breast again, groping it in his hand, thumb circling your nipple through your shirt, slow and lazy. You make a soft noise- half moan, half whimper- and his mouth curves into it. “Pretty,” he murmurs against your skin. His other hand slides lower, curves around your waist, down to your hip, then your ass, squeezing once, firm. Making it bounce a little. You gasp again, your knees going loose.

You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers sliding into his hair, tugging slightly. He kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. His hand slips under your shirt completely, hot and sure, sliding up your spine. You arch into it instinctively- chest to chest, breath caught. You don’t realize you’re moving until your back bumps the wall. He breathes against your mouth like he planned that, proud of it. But he doesn’t pin you; just kisses you again, slow and open-mouthed. His hand curls into your hair, gripping the base of your neck, while his other palm is full on your breast, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.

Your hands move like instinct. One slides under his shirt- palm pressed flat to his stomach. He twitches, groaning into your mouth. The other hand goes lower, pressing against the front of his jeans. He stutters against your mouth and then kisses you harder, hips pressing into your hand like he’s already aching. You squeeze gently, rubbing once, slowly. “Fuck,” he breathes, voice quiet and hoarse. He pulls you away from the wall, walking you backward, his mouth never leaving yours. Your legs bump the edge of the hallway. He guides you around the corner, not gently, not softly- hungrily. His hand keeps dragging your shirt higher. He doesn’t stop; he just wants more skin.

You don’t stop palming him; you work him through his jeans with deliberate pressure, and he’s rock-hard already, hips flexing into your touch. His cock getting more reactive from your touch. His hand slides up your back again- under your shirt, over your spine, up between your shoulder blades. His other hand stays over your breast, squeezing, thumb brushing your nipple. Your mouths are messy now- wet, open, your lips parting just to inhale each other. He kisses like a man who has nothing left to say, who’s told you everything in the way he fed you, touched you. And you? You kiss him back like you know, like you want it all.

He walks you faster now- still careful, still guiding- but desperate in the way his hips stay pressed to yours. You’re practically tripping backward, your hand leaving his cock only to grab the back of his neck, pulling him back into your mouth. The heat between your legs is sticky now, liquid and throbbing. You ache to sit on him, to be filled. The bedroom stretches open behind you, the door already wide, a lamp casting soft light, the bed waiting like it knew.

Your knees hit the edge of the mattress, but he doesn’t stop kissing you. He doesn’t stop touching you. His palm stays full on your breast, cupping you through your shirt- no bra, just thin fabric- your nipple pressing firm against his thumb as he rubs lazy, taunting circles. His other hand grips your waist, slipping beneath your shirt, fingers splayed wide across your back like he’s holding you together. You gasp into his mouth and moan when he tugs the hem of your shirt upward.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your shirt over your head. You raise your arms without thinking, and it lands somewhere behind you. You’re bare from the waist up now, hair mussed, breathing heavy. Your skin glows in the lamplight- chest flushed, nipples tight, stomach trembling slightly when the cool air hits you. He groans- actually groans- when he sees you, and then leans down, taking one nipple in his mouth, warm and slow and deep. You whimper, fingers threading through his hair as your hips roll against his thigh, reflexive and needy. The soft cotton between your legs sticks wet to your skin, and there’s no hiding it anymore- not the heat, not the mess, not the way you’re already soaked through. “Fuck, Patrick- ” you manage to say, your voice thick with desire.

He hums against your skin and sucks harder. You reach for his shirt, fisting the back of it, then tug. “Off,” you command, urgency lacing your words. Your palm flattens against his chest, trailing down slowly over his ribs, feeling the heat coming off him in waves. Your other hand dips lower, sliding past your waistband, fingers slipping into the soft cotton of your shorts- wet already, clinging, thin enough that your knuckles drag over the slick between your legs almost immediately. But before you can go any further, before you can even press your fingers where you ache, he catches your wrist gently, firmly. He brings your hand to his mouth, kissing your knuckles once- soft, purposeful. “Let me,” he says low, his eyes locked onto yours. You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Then he sinks to his knees, eyes never leaving you as his fingers find the waistband of your shorts. The knot at the front comes loose with one tug, and his hands slide inside- skin to skin- as he pulls them down slowly, dragging the soaked fabric down your thighs, past your knees, watching the way it peels away from you like he’s unwrapping something rare. You’re bare beneath him, just flushed skin and wet heat, glistening where he’s barely even touched you. He breathes out like he’s in pain. “Jesus,” he mutters, taking in the sight of you. You say nothing, just look up at him, your heart racing. He stands, straightening fully, eyes still on yours, hands loose at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch next- your shoulder, your mouth, your thighs- all of it. He just breathes for a moment, heavy, as you shift on the mattress, legs falling open without thinking.

Now he’s standing between your thighs, bare-chested and flushed, watching you like he might break if you stop. You’re still sitting at the edge of the bed, completely bare, knees parted, your hands still warm from tugging down your shorts. The heat between your legs is slick and obvious, and his eyes flick down for just a second, like he can’t help it, then right back to you. You reach for him slowly, one hand at the button of his jeans, the other dragging lightly up the front of his thigh. He flinches slightly- just the tension, not fear- like your touch is too much. You pop the button and tug the zipper down, the fabric parting. Glancing up at him through your lashes, your palm slides over the front of his boxers, and he’s already so hard you can feel it twitch under your hand.

“God,” he breathes, his voice breaking on your name. You hook your fingers in the waistband, and he lets you drag them down- jeans and boxers both- slow and smooth, the fabric catching briefly at his thighs. He steps out and kicks them aside, standing completely naked, just like you, with his cock heavy and flushed, dripping at the tip. You don’t say anything; you just reach forward and wrap your fingers around him. You stroke once, slow, feeling him pulse in your hand, thick and twitching, the skin warm and stretched. Leaning in, you don’t tease or suck him off; you just want to taste. Your mouth closes over the head- soft and brief- your tongue flicking once across the slit to catch the precome before it drips. His hips jerk, a broken sound leaving his throat. You suck just once, light and slow, like you’re drinking from the source. Then you pull back and lick your lips. “Get on the bed,” you whisper.

His hands are shaking as he moves, climbing back while keeping his eyes locked on yours. His breath is tight in his chest, as if he’s forgotten how to breathe without your body pressed against his. He leans back against the pillows, legs spread slightly, his cock hard and flushed, slick where your mouth has touched him. You follow him up, climbing into his lap, straddling him slowly and deliberately. It feels quiet, as if this isn’t about sex, not really, but about care- about giving back what he’s already given you. You place your hands on his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. And then you say it, soft and honest: “I want to ride you,” you murmur. “Because you cooked for me.” His breath stutters as you roll your hips over him, not sinking down yet- just pressing your slick heat against the length of his cock. He shudders under you, and you lean in, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his throat. “Because you took care of me.”

He exhales as if he’s been holding his breath all night. His cock rests heavy and flushed against his stomach, already slick and twitching. You shift your hips, sliding slowly over him, your clit catching on the thick ridge as you roll forward, deliberately. Humping it as if it's a pillow. “Because you’re a good boyfriend.” You drag yourself up his length again, slow and smooth, your slick coating his stomach, leaving a trail as you grind against him. His hands grip your thighs, but he doesn’t push; he just holds on and lets you take the lead. “Because you treat me right,” you breathe, your voice warm and dreamy as your hips roll again, your clit barely catching at the tip now. “Because you make me feel loved.” Another drag, another grind. Your breath stutters in your chest, thighs starting to shake from how sensitive you’re becoming. “Because you made me dinner,” you whisper, kissing the corner of his mouth. You press down harder as you rock over him again, and he groans- quiet, broken, desperate. “Because you poured my wine.”

You feel the slick stick as you roll forward, your whole body melting into it, catching him just right. “Because you cleaned up.” Your hands plant against his chest as you lean your weight forward. Your rhythm is steady now- slower and dirtier, a deliberate act of devotion. “Because you let me hold you at the sink,” you murmur. “Because you let me kiss your back.” He gasps, fingers twitching as he watches you with his mouth half-open, eyes glazed like he’s witnessing something sacred. “Because you’re soft with me,” you say next, your voice quieter and breathier. Your clit rubs hard against the head of his cock, and you can’t help but moan, high and gentle, forehead resting against his as your hips move again. “Because you’d do anything I ask,” you whisper, so close that your lips brush against his. “Because you’d never hurt me.” He lets out a choked sound, trembling now, his whole body tense beneath yours.

You reach down between you, taking him in your hand and guiding him to your entrance- just there, resting. You grind one last time, slow and close, his cock sliding along your soaked slit, the tip catching right where you’re warmest. And then you breathe, barely audible, just for him: “Because you deserve it.” That’s what you whisper when you finally stop grinding, lifting your hips to guide him- thick, hot, and twitching against your fingers, both of you breathless and messy. You angle him just right and sink down slowly. The stretch punches the air from your chest, so full, so deep, and you’re not even halfway. He groans like he’s in pain, head falling back against the pillows as his hands grip your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to this moment. You press your palm to his chest, steadying yourself, and slide down another inch. God, he’s thick; the way he fills you makes your whole body lightheaded.

“F-fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so- fuck, you’re tight.” You bite your lip, breath shaking, loving how he sounds, how he’s trying so hard to stay still, letting you take your time. You settle the rest of the way, hips flush to his, thighs trembling around him, fully seated. All of him is inside you. You breathe. He breathes. Nothing moves for a moment- the room is still, your skin flushed, your mouth hovering just above his. You feel him throb inside you, and your own heartbeat stutters where you're wrapped around him. Then you move, beginning a slow grind, barely lifting off him. You rock forward, letting him feel the heat, the squeeze, the way you clench every time he presses against the spot that’s already burning. His hands slip up your waist and back down- everywhere- like he doesn’t know where to hold on, as if you’re too much.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good- ” You smile, lazy and wine-drunk, riding him like you’ve got all the time in the world. “I know,” you murmur. “I wanted you to feel it.” You roll your hips again, slower this time, letting him drag against every inch inside you. His cock twitches, and you moan softly. He’s completely under you- shaky and still- allowing you to move how you want, how you need. You keep it steady: up, down, grind. Your clit brushes against his pelvis every time you seat yourself again, making your head spin. You can’t tell if the slick sounds are coming from him, you, or both; it’s all soaked and sticky and loud in the quiet room. Suddenly, he grabs your face and kisses you hard. You melt into it- your tongue against his, your cunt fluttering around him from the way he moans into your mouth.

You pull back, panting and dazed, your forehead resting against his. The air between you is hot and heavy; every breath makes your chest brush his, your hips shifting instinctively to keep moving on him with shallow, needy rolls. He brushes his knuckles down your cheek, eyes half-lidded, voice low. “Don’t rush it.” You blink and nod, feeling the weight of his words as his hands find your hips again. This time, he holds them firm- not to stop you, just to guide. One thumb presses into the curve of your waist, the other tilting your body slightly forward. “Stay close,” he murmurs. “Grind on me. Real slow. That’s all I want right now.” So you do. You listen and settle into it, starting to move again in small, languid circles, a rhythm that feels like it could last forever. He’s so deep inside you, the drag of every roll catching just enough to make you gasp.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t lift off me yet. Just stay right there.” Your hands clutch his shoulders as you moan softly, lips parted and skin flushed. His cock feels thick and warm, the pressure hitting deep without the sharpness of a thrust- just this perfect, stretching fullness that makes you feel safe and desperate at once. “You feel so good like this,” he whispers. “Let me feel every inch of you.” Your thighs tremble, and he notices. “Slow it down,” he says again, gentler now, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re getting worked up. Take your time.” You breathe and steady yourself, rolling your hips again, slower this time- longer, deeper. It makes you twitch, and you whimper as he swallows it with a kiss. His hands never leave you; one roams up your back, under your hair, while the other strokes the side of your thigh.

“You’re so…” he murmurs but doesn't even finish it. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to feel you like this for a while.” You nod again, feeling helpless. You can sense how wet you are, how soaked the space between your bodies is. Your clit pulses every time you grind forward, and it’s so good, but you hold back because he asked, and because he’s right. You’re not ready to come yet- not when it feels this good just being here. You kiss him again- slow and deep. He groans into your mouth and murmurs, “We’ll get there. I just want to stay like this.” And you do too. You keep your hips low, your body pressed to his, his cock resting deep inside you like it was always meant to be. There’s no rhythm now, no urgency- just the slow grind of slick skin and soft breath, just the stretch, just the heat. His hands roam lazily- one at your hip, the other drifting up your spine, slipping under your hair and spreading warmth down your back with every slow pass.

You move gently above him, rolling your hips in long, slow circles, not lifting off, just grinding. The kind that makes your clit throb every time your bodies meet just right. He breathes harder through his nose, brow drawn like he’s trying to hold on, like this is the only thing tethering him to the moment- your body, wrapped around his, rocking so slow it doesn’t even feel like movement until it hits you just right. You shudder, and he feels it; his hands flex. “You’re so warm,” he comments, his voice softer now, almost dreamy. “So good.” Your lips brush his cheek, his jaw, his mouth again. You don’t speak; you just grind deeper. Another soft moan spills from your throat. He keeps you close- doesn’t thrust, doesn’t chase- just lets you ride it out, lets you use his cock like it’s yours, like it’s your anchor, your relief, your final comfort.

But after a while, the tension shifts. It grows- not sharp, not urgent- just heavier, just warmer. Your body wants more now: a little more drag, a little more stretch. So you lift yourself- just barely- until the tip of him threatens to slip free, that shallow, breathless place where you’re empty for a second. Then you sink back down. Slow. Deep. Full. He groans beneath you- low, wrecked, head tipping back as your cunt takes him again, warm and tight and wet, like you were made to keep him there. You move again, the same rhythm: half-lift, slow descent, letting him feel the squeeze, the slide, the way you grip every inch as you move. It’s not bouncing- not yet- just a lazy, liquid rise and fall, a rhythm built for dragging out pleasure, not chasing the end of it.

He watches you now, eyes half-open, mouth parted. His hands stroke your hips, guiding you but not controlling- just helping, just holding you steady while you ride him soft, deep, and warm. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Just like that.” You keep going, lifting and sinking over and over, thighs starting to burn from the slow control. His cock drags along your walls just right, pressing into that spot each time you drop down again, and you feel yourself start to flutter around him, breath coming faster. He feels it too, tightening his grip and letting out a groan. “Fuck- keep going.” And you do: over and over, slow, fluid, deeper now. A little more bounce, a little more breath.

His hands roam up your sides, sliding over sweat-slick skin. Thumbs brush beneath your breasts before he cups them fully- warm palms, steady hold, catching their weight as they move with you. He watches everything: the way your body lifts and falls, how your tits shift in his hands with every bounce of your hips, and the way your cunt tightens around him when you drop down deep. You’re not rushing, not pounding- just riding him slow, bouncing in that lazy, delicious rhythm that leaves you both panting. Your thighs ache, and your body shakes. Every movement presses him into your sweet spot just right, almost too much. Your clit rubs against his stomach when you sink down far enough, making you whimper and claw at his chest like you need to hold onto something to stay grounded. He groans under you, hands tightening at your breasts, thumbs brushing across your nipples again and again. Leaning up, his mouth is hot, tongue flicking out to taste the curve of one.

He sucks it in- soft at first, then deeper- and the way you twitch above him makes him moan like he’s the one unraveling. “Jesus,” he breathes, lips dragging across your skin. You keep moving, hips rocking, thighs trembling, hands braced against his shoulders as you bounce- not high, not fast- just enough to stay filled and to keep grinding the pleasure into both of you like it could last forever. The room is thick with it: slick sounds, breathy moans, and the wet drag of your cunt around his cock as he throbs inside you, harder now, hotter, desperate to stay buried. His mouth trails down your chest, and his hands slide to your hips again, gripping tighter now- not guiding, not yet, but wanting to. He looks up at you, eyes glazed, lips swollen, and chest heaving. Then he says it, voice low and raw, barely holding back: “Can I fuck you now?” It’s not rough or urgent; it’s reverent, quiet- like he’s asking for something sacred. “I mean- ” his voice catches, trying to smile through it, trying to hold himself steady. “Really fuck you. Let me take over. Let me feel all of you.”

You slow your hips, hovering there, still full of him. He breathes again, softer now, as if it’s the only thing he can think to say: “Please.” It’s soft, barely audible, but wrecked. You lean forward, chest to chest, pressing your mouth to his- one more kiss, sweet and warm and loaded. You feel his fingers curl harder around your hips, and you nod, barely, against his lips. That’s all he needs. He flips you gently but surely, hands firm, arms curling around your back as he rolls you both over in one smooth motion. You gasp at the shift, at the way his cock slips almost all the way out before he sinks back in- slow, thick, and perfect- pushing deep until you’re gasping, legs falling open wider beneath him. He braces himself above you, one hand cradling your thigh, the other sliding up to cup your cheek. He looks down at you like you’re something he’s not sure he deserves but plans to keep anyway.

“You’re so good,” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours. “So fucking good for me.” Then he starts to move, slow thrusts that are full and deep. He doesn’t slam into you; he fills you, rolling his hips like he’s been waiting his whole life to do this right. Every stroke is long, thick, and tender, and every time he pulls back, you feel the drag of him, the stretch, the delicious pressure. You whimper beneath him, legs trembling as they curl tighter around his waist. Your arms come up around his back, nails digging in lightly. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” He stays close, never leaving your body. His chest presses to yours with every thrust, his mouth brushing your skin, your hair, your lips. You feel his cock grind deeper inside you, slow and rhythmic, the head hitting that spot that makes your eyes flutter and your breath stutter every single time.

He’s not pounding; he’s pouring himself into you- each stroke slow, full, and unbearably deep. His hands move constantly- stroking your thigh, smoothing up your ribcage, cupping your face- like he can’t choose where to touch because he wants all of you at once. “You’re so good for me,” he whispers, kissing your temple. “So fucking good, baby. You take me like you were made for it.” You moan beneath him, your body a mess of nerves and heat. You arch into him, letting him press you deeper into the mattress. He rolls his hips harder, slower, pushing so deep you swear you see stars. “So tight,” he breathes. “Like a virgin all over again. Fuck, baby- you’re perfect.” His hands slide to your breasts now, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples as he thrusts in again- slow and deliberate. You clench around him, crying out when his fingers squeeze just right. He groans, dropping his mouth to your ear. “Gonna fill you up.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t stop moving- just keeps grinding deeper, his voice low and steady as he fucks the words into your skin. “You’d look so pretty carrying my baby.” You whimper, and he kisses your cheek, still fucking you soft and slow and maddeningly deep. “Can you imagine it?” he murmurs. “These tits- ” he squeezes them, thumbs circling- “full. Heavy. Leaking. Made for me.” You shake beneath him. It’s too much. It’s not enough. You’re so close now, clenching around him with every slow, deliberate thrust. “Don’t need it now,” he whispers, voice thick. “But one day? Fuck. I’ll fill you up and keep you that way.” Your mouth falls open. He grinds into that spot again, making your eyes roll back. “You’d be so good,” he says, almost tender, almost reverent. “So warm. So soft. Letting me fuck it in deeper every night.” And you moan, helpless beneath him, head tipped back in offering.

He kisses your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. Still moving- slow, deep strokes that make your body jolt when he hits that angle. Not fast. Not rushed. Just patient, like he’s trying to carve himself into you. His hand finds yours, laces your fingers together beside your head, thumb brushing lazy circles into your palm. “You don’t need anything else,” he murmurs. “No job. No noise. No reason to leave the house.” His other hand glides down your body, palm catching your breast, your waist, and finally your thigh- pressing it up, opening you further, sinking himself deeper. “You’ll stay home for me,” he says softly. “Wear those little dresses I like. Keep everything warm and soft and mine.” You whimper again, cunt pulsing around him. “I’ll win my matches,” he continues, “and you’ll be waiting at home, all perfect and quiet and dripping.” The words land in your gut like heat. You can’t breathe. You can’t look away. Your whole body pulses around him, like it’s agreeing with everything he says.

He moans into your mouth, voice trembling. “Fuck, you’d look so good with my ring on your finger.” He thrusts deeper. You cry out, nails digging into his skin. “Mrs. Zweig,” he murmurs, and it sounds like worship. “That’s all you have to be.” His hand strokes your belly- slow, possessive- and his mouth hovers right at your ear. “You’ll come to my matches glowing. Full of me. Round with it. And I’ll fuck another one into you the second we get home.” You gasp- his hips grind down instead of pulling out, rocking into you, thick and hot and deliberate. Every thrust is more intense than the last. “I’ll take care of everything,” he breathes. “You’ll cook when you want to. Sleep when you want to. Keep the house pretty. Keep my cock warm. Let me breed you every night until you’re begging me to stop.” Your hands clutch at his shoulders. He kisses you again, slower now. Deeper.

Your body trembles under him. Every stroke feels heavier, like his hips are sculpting your body to fit him permanently. And it’s building- hot and sharp in your belly, curling tighter with every grind. You can’t stop it. He feels it too. His voice cracks open, sweet again. “You’re so close, aren’t you?” he whispers. “I’ve got you, baby. Come on. You’ve been so good.” You nod, breath caught in your throat. Every slow thrust wrings a moan from you. “You’re doing so good for me,” he says, slower now, like he’s in awe of you. “Taking me so well. Just like that. Let it happen, baby.” His hand strokes your cheek, and you realize- too late- you’re crying. His thumb wipes the tear gently. “That’s it,” he breathes. “You can come now. I’ve got you.”

And you do. Your whole body locks around him- tight, shaking, your thighs trembling, heat spilling out from your core. You arch up into him, mouth falling open in a broken cry as your orgasm crashes over you in slow, endless waves. You sob his name. You hold on like you’ll fall apart without him. And he doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, slow and deep, as if he needs to feel all of it, every twitch and pulse and aftershock. He groans- rough, shaking- as his rhythm falters. “I’m gonna come,” he gasps. “Fuck- baby- inside?” You nod before he can even finish. And then he’s breaking. His cock pulses deep inside, his body curling forward like it’s too much, too full. He stays buried in you, kissing your mouth, your jaw, your neck, whispering thank you thank you thank you between every breath like a prayer.

You’re still shaking, still pressed together. Still joined. When the tension finally fades- when all that’s left is the sound of your mingled breathing and your hearts pounding- he kisses you gently and says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, “Shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” Like he didn’t just fuck your future into you. Like he’s just a boyfriend. A man who made you dinner, and then made you his. Your body’s still twitching as he slows. His hips lose rhythm, his breath catching as the last of him spills into you. He groans against your skin, cock buried as deep as it can go, and he stays there. Just for a moment. Like he can’t bear to leave. And maybe- he can’t. You lie there, tangled together, soaked and shaking, breathless and stunned. His hand strokes your side. His chest rises against yours. You’re dazed from it- fucked out and full.

Eventually, he pulls out. You whimper. He hushes you with a kiss to your shoulder. Then he shifts in the sheets, pulling you into his chest from behind, spooning you, bare skin against bare skin. One leg hooked over yours. One arm wrapped around your waist. His hand settles low, over your belly. Protective. Possessive. Gentle. You’re still catching your breath, still wet where he filled you. His palm just rests there- like he’s holding something in. Like he’s dreaming of something that hasn’t even begun yet. He kisses the back of your neck and murmurs it so softly, you almost don’t hear it. “I’d kill for you.” You smile. Eyes flutter closed. It sounds like a promise. Like love. You think it’s just a phrase. Something people say when they’re drunk on each other. Something sweet. Something harmless. You let him hold you tighter, his hand still pressed over your belly as you slip into sleep- skin sticky, heart full, the scent of sex and wine still clinging to the sheets. You don’t ask what he means. And he doesn’t explain.

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

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oddlylovingaddiction · 9 hours ago

Text

Part 1: here , Part 2: here , Part 3: here , Part 4: here , part 5: you’re here!

CW: Reader is pregnant BUT is gender neutral only being referred to as you, if you don't have the ability to get pregnant you do now (in this series). Neglected reader x (platonic.) bat family, Reader x Conner “Kon-El” Kent (romantic.). Reader is probably around in your 20s (21 - 25) and is the 5th(??) oldest

TW: Angst, abuse in the form of neglect, descriptions of anxiety, reader’s dead mom gets brought up, pregnancy.

You made a good choice to spend the day in bed, your body felt almost like mush and you had no energy to do anything but relax in the comfort of your husband and bed. You could hear your joints pop every time you stretched almost like bubble wrap, your belly felt a comfortable full from the breakfast and lunch Conner and watching your favourite show? Absolute bliss.

But the gnawing feeling in your stomach is still somewhat there, and Conner notices it. “You feeling okay?” He nudges your side playfully making you laugh softly.

“I’m fine, I just think there’s just the residue of anxiety that’s kind of lining my heart, you know what I mean?”

He chuckles, “oh I know that feeling. It feels like it’s chewing on you.”

“Exactly!” You smile, happy he understands what you’re talking about. “Perhaps I feel this way because I’ll eventually have to talk to my family about what I saw… I’m really not looking forward to that conversation.”

There’s a moment of silence, you don’t expect him to reply just to listen. The TV sounds kind of muffled as you stare at his hand unconsciously, you can feel him staring at you as well. The setting sun gently cracks through your curtains and shines on both you and him, almost illuminating you both like you were some tragic scene from a movie. Two people who needed their family but ended up creating their own. Conner brings his hand down and towards your belly, gently touching it before awkwardly pulling away.

“I’m sorry.” He mutters which catches your attention, making you look up at his face.

“For what?” You ask confused at his sudden apologetic behaviour.

“The fact I didn’t tell you that your family were superheroes.” He whispers, his face scrunching like it was physically hurting him which earned a soft chuckle from you.

“Oh please, don’t be sorry. You didn’t know I was a Wayne. Still have my mother’s maiden name after all.”

“Yes but…”

“No, you didn’t know and you said it from the first time you revealed the fact you were superboy along with telling me about the other super Kents, that you didn’t want to tell me the other heroes identities to protect me. I respected that so neither of us knew.” You firmly reply, you don’t want him to feel guilty by your other family’s mistakes.

“Yes I know but if I had known that you were in that house and I had met you earlier maybe I could’ve protected you from getting hurt.” He genuinely looks like he’s about to cry. “I never want to see you crying. Especially the way you cried on the floor like that.”

You softly laugh again, “jeez, if I had known I was marrying such a caring man, I’d probably have married you sooner.” You pinch his nose teasingly, to which Conner makes a fake ‘gah!’ Sound like it’s personally hurting him even though it’s definitely not. Perks of being a super. “I remember the first time we met drunk at a bar and the next morning I remember I caught you trying to leave me your number on the nightstand.” You suppress your laughter. Conner groans at the memory.

“Don’t remind me of that okay?”

“Remind you of what? The fact you tried ditching your future spouse?”

“I wasn’t doing that! I had work to do and you were still asleep so I thought it would be okay since you would just call me later.” He whines dramatically

“I don’t knowww…. Seemed like I was nearly ditched, because how do I know you would’ve picked up?” You grin at his exasperated expression.

He trips over his words momentarily struggling to explain himself before he sighs, “You know what? Keep believing I was going to ditch you hot stuff, because no matter what in the end we got married and have a beautiful child on the way, so no matter what I see this as a win in my books.” He gloats patting your pregnancy bump, as you scoff playfully.

Conner gentle rests his hand there as you both bask in soft marital bliss before you both suddenly feel a soft kick.

“We should sign the kid up for kickboxing.” You laugh.

“Does it hurt or something?” He asks concern once again blooming on his face.

“Surprisingly yeah. It’s not super painful but still a bit uncomfortable. That’s the thing about pregnancy nobody tells you that the kicks hurt.” You shake your head shrugging.

“It’s lucky the baby can’t catch any sunshine otherwise those kicks would just hurt.” He huffs making you laugh.

“Yeah lucky me otherwise this would all be way messier. Thank god I’m not see through.”

“You may not be see through but I do have X-ray—“ he says making you laugh before getting cut off by his phone ringing.

He glances over at the phone and gives you an apologetic look, “one second love.” He says kissing you on the cheek before grabbing his phone and walking out the room. You decide to relax and rewind the movie since you both weren’t paying attention at all.

“WHAT THE HELL YOURE DATING ONE OF MY SIBLINGS AND YOU DIDNT TELL ME?” Tim yelled into the phone which made Conner wince and pull away, he did say he’d call Tim later but to be honest he was kinda just saying that to get Tim off his back.

“I didn’t even know dude! It’s not like you both share the last name either and you never mentioned having another sibling.” Conner groans annoyed that he had to be stripped away from his love, however he does his best not to be too mean to Tim, he is… was? his best friend. Honestly he’s not sure where he stands with Tim right now. The love of his life was neglected and Tim took part in that neglect, even if it wasn’t deliberate. But that doesn’t erase him and Tim’s history, he was someone on his side during the rocky times of his life before you came into the picture.

But Conner also knew about your history. It was something you bonded over late at night as you stared down at the city, both of you sat on the edge of a random building, he remembered that moment because he never felt more understood and in love in that moment. If you asked him it would probably be that moment he decided he wanted to marry you, not only because he felt seen but when you looked down at the traffic below, the soft yellow lit up your face making his heart feel like it had stop beating. He swore in his vows to protect you and not let you get hurt ever again, especially not like that.

And he’d be damned to the hell inside his head if he saw you on the floor crying again.

He knows you’re not bothered by the fact you were sobbing on the floor, he remembers you telling him about your childhood and how you used to do the same thing occasionally when something triggered the memories of your mother who you told him had passed, so it’s no wonder you’re probably less shaken up about that part. But he can’t get it out of his head.

“How could you not know?! We even look alike!” Tim squawked breaking Conner’s train of thought and bringing him back to reality as he furrowed his brow, pulling his phone away a second to think about what he just heard before putting it back to his ear.

“You’re both not even biological related to each other though?” Conner monotones.

“Still though.”

Conner rolls his eyes, before replying “anyways to be serious, I… I’m not sure what to do.”

“What do you mean ‘what to do’?” Tim replies confused, his voice a bit concerned.

“You know, I.. our friendship.” Conner pauses, the silence is deafening from the other line. He’s not sure what to do, he cares about both you and Tim. It’s just that if he were to choose, it would be you. “I want to stay friends but.. I just..”

“… I get it.” Tim’s voice doesn’t sound malicious or angry, maybe a little sad? But he didn’t sound like he was crying. “I understand man, A spouse and a child on the way, of course you’d be upset and worried especially about it all and you’d want to stand by their side, it’s only natural.” He paused not saying anything for a phew seconds before adding on.

“I never knew how much I was hurting my own damn sibling, I thought it was the right thing to do. I wish I never listened to Bruce, the damn man probably couldn’t tell a hug from a threat and now I can see not just I but this entire cursed family fucked things up royally.” Tim’s voice cracks as he sounds like he’s about to cry. “Hey… how is…” He trails off, too nervous to say your own name but Conner was the same way. The whole situation made your name feel like glass that could be shattered, it made them both nervous but Tim far more. Like he never deserved to say it in the first place.

“Doing well. We are just watching a movie in bed, it was a rough night but we are doing well, including the baby. To be honest I think we are lucky that nothing else happened, stress isn’t good for anyone especially pregnant people.” Conner gives a forced laugh trying to make the situation lighter.

“Yeah.” Is the only thing replies, and Conner winces when he hears soft sobs on the other line.

“Hey man. We.. are still friends. I still care about you… just right now-” Conner goes to say but is cut off.

“I’m not crying over that dumbass, it’s the fact I made someone cry like that… that’s making me cry.” Tim sniffles, and Conner internally sighs in relief because he really didn’t want it to be because of him. “I’m going to fix this okay? I’ll work on my family here, it’ll take a bit but just make sure both of you are okay alright?”

Conner smiles softly before replying, “Yeah, if you need help call me okay? Though knowing you, you probably will because I don’t mean to brag but I am literally super—“

“Alright wrap it up.” Tim snorts smiling softly, “I’ll… call you later.” He adds on softly

“Alright.”

Then Tim hangs up and Conner breathes a sigh of relief finally feeling like a small weight was lifted off his back but that didn’t the largest weight.

What about you? Will you end up reconciling with them? Do they really deserve your forgiveness? Abuse is abuse even done with the best intentions. It made him anxious. But for now he knows you are waiting for him in bed and that’s what he needs to focus on.

Worry can come later. You come first and always will.

#🩷 ~ long fics || oddlylovingaddiction #reader is gn despite being pregnant #x reader #dc x y/n #dc x you #dc x reader #batfam x neglected reader #neglected reader #tw emotional neglect #batfam x reader #conner kent x reader #conner kent x you #x you #x y/n #reader is pregnant #pregnant reader

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gallantblade · 2 days ago

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This is a kind of weird question to me because defining personhood is weird. I don't really know what to do with most definitions of the concept because they're very philosophical and... abstract? I feel like people rarely try to form a rigorous technical definition of "personhood", so in effect the word is usually more of a flexible rhetorical shorthand than anything. And I don't see much point in trying to define myself in reference to something so nebulous, right? I'm a person in some senses and not a person in others, and I am more comfortable in the wibbly boundary than I would be trying to commit to one or the other.

That said, my personal definition of "person" is primarily political. "People" are a protected class within human cultures defined by their ability to have agency within society. Probably the most stark example of this is in how euthanasia is considered: if an animal is experiencing conditions that cause chronic pain or severe lifelong disability it is generally accepted that the ethical thing to do is euthanize it, however in the case of a human who is afforded personhood euthanasia is either not considered an ethical option at all or is something the patient must request. Similarly, animal husbandry is considered acceptable but eugencis has proven to be deeply evil. These are extreme examples but I think they illustrate my point. And it's important to note that many many many humans both historically and now have been denied political personhood! Denying personhood is a huge tool in the toolbox of every kind of oppression.

I am very much not a political scientist or even at all very well-read, so I am sure someone has articulated this idea better than I have. But I hope it's enough to articulate why in this specific context I value my personhood pretty fucking highly.

I have a question for other Alterhumans/nonhumans. Do you consider yourself a person? I saw a post saying they think of animals as people and It made me curious.

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xandezsims · 3 days ago

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L&D Trans Sim Tagging: EA Made an Oopsie

Xan here. Remember how I never got into Fullbody outfits, in the original Trans Sim tutorial? Well, I am honor-bound to get into it a little. Why? Because I made a discovery, and it's...not great.

TL;DR: The Part Flags for most of Life & Death are messed up. Trans Sims are wearing the wrong meshes and it cannot be avoided; EA has to fix it.

If this concerns you, please upvote the report, and spread the word. They have ignored the Sims community about gender-related glitches in the past. Help us make them fix this, so we don't have to.

In-depth explanation about the problem below.

I was stoked to see we got clothes for both frames in the newer packs. Finally, Sims can wear whatever gender clothing they want! That's the goal, right? But, recent testing made me wonder how they handle opposite-frames. I thought I could learn something to help with inclusive tagging. So, I stuck Carmen in a dress from L&D, and:

It passes from the front, but...her chest. That's the opposite gender distortion. The one caused by putting a AM (masc frame) mesh on any AF (female) Sim, trans or not. I've definitely talked about this.

I went and cloned both meshes to check the tags, and sure enough:

Quick tagging lesson: toggling Restrict Opposite Frame means Carmen can't wear the AF one. She has to wear the AM frame dress, because as a trans Sim, her frame is AM. (Literally, the Opposite Frame of her gender.) But because she has breasts, she inherits the chest distortion all female Sims get wearing a man's top. The same applies for Erik, her counterpart (AM w/AF frame).

With a sinking feeling, I went back to the game and tried...everything.

I ran out of space, there are more. Trans-men are the same. I got halfway through the AM catalog and ran out of willpower. I'm betting almost every item made for both frames in this pack is tagged wrong. It's locked by frame, instead of gender. With pants, that's not a problem--but tops, dresses and suits will all be swapped.

So, now we know Fullbody meshes work similarly to tops. They need to be locked by Gender. And it's really just that tag. To test, I went back to my cloned dresses, and fixed it with two clicks:

This means all women regardless of frame can use the AF, and all men can use the AM. And here's the result: AF dress on AF Sim, AM dress on AM Sim. They literally swapped dresses.

So, easily fixed! That's 2 files out of...all of them. (sigh) I filed a Bug Report, linked above. Hopefully the amount of evidence I provided will get an actual response. That, or they'll think I'm an arrogant prat for telling them how their game works. But, I didn't break it.

Moral of the Story: this is a great example of what not to do if you make cc, or if you retag what you download. Remember, if you want to limit who can wear a mesh:

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for Tops and Fullbody; this makes sure all AF and AM Sims wear their meshes, and don't end up with chest lumps.

"Restrict Opposite Gender" for AF Bottoms; Trans-AM Sims break in half. Don't Restrict AM Bottoms at all. They fit everyone.

Or, Don't Restrict Anything, if you want all options. Note: distortions will happen. Mark your gender filters. They help a lot.

Earrings, Hats, Makeup, Gloves, Socks, Tights work for everyone

Necklaces and Nails are "Restrict Opposite Frame"; Trans Sims can't wear these from their own gender. They don't fit.

If you got this far, thank you for sticking it out. My innocent question turned into a tagging lesson (again). But, if it helps anyone in the future, I'll be glad. At least now we know there's a problem.

Please boost the Bug Report, share if you found it useful, and thanks for reading. I'm on the soap box again re: trans inclusion, but it's still Pride and I can't not stand up for my people. The more we know, the better we can do on our side.

Finally, tagging some folks who might want to know, if they don't already (feel free to ignore): @sejianismodding @the-crypt-o-club @yooniesim @whyhellosims @thefoxburyinstitute @sims4tutorials @mmfinds @gncc

#sims 4 bugs #ts4 bugs #s4 tutorial #ts4 tutorial #sims 4 studio #lgbt sims #ts4 trans #carmilla #phantom #realizing I never actually explained how tagging works #might be time soon #in my defense I didn't know when I wrote the first guide #but I'd rather not annoy everyone banging on about this

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vee-dmsr · 23 hours ago

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Hiii I’m the person who told you about the pride flag, I finally got it!! I’ve hidden my face for obvious reasons💔

I would like to mention I’m not following you because of spoilers (I used to but I got a tiny spoiler from one fanart one day and decided the time is not right) but you are definitely my favourite tlt artist and I absolutely love the way you draw Ianthe 😭💖 (I keep asking said friend if you’ve posted anything about her)

But umm yeah! I went with this one cause I reference it all the time. I hope you have a great day 💖💖💖

OH MY GOD?????????

what the fuck!!! this is so cool this brings me so much joy 😭 u chose the best image to use too LOL. i saw in ur pinned post you've only read gtn... well if u love ianthe then u will absolutely LOVE harrow the ninth, it's personally my fav of the series (closely followed by nona the ninth). wow this made my whole fucking week i could just do a backflip!!

#ianthe tridentarius #the locked tomb #vee asks #fav

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lkblackham · 22 hours ago

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Ship Sleep Dynamics: Atash Laidir x Emmrich Volkarin Edition

(repost of probably one of my favourite paintings I've ever done ever)

I was tagged by the awesome @dragonracer for this little exercise. Thanks!

I have the say that, being ace-spec, this kind of cuddle intimacy is very very very much my jam. So of COURSE I've thought this through way too thoroughly:

How often do they sleep together?

Oh, once they come to that point in their relationship, it is every single night. Atash pretty much only uses the meditation room for getting dressed and actually meditating. In my little HC universe, Atash actually hates sleeping alone (grew up in a big family, didn't even have her own bed until she was an adult, has deeply entrenched trauma from being shut up in slaver brigs as a little kid) and before Emmrich offered his bed, she would sleep in random public spaces around the Lighthouse (the kitchen, the library, etc.) where people would be passing through regularly during the day.

Where do they sleep?

I am one of the “Emmrich has a hidden bedroom behind one of the bookshelves” people. It is perfectly keeping in character, and out of all the team he's the most likely to succeed in “convincing” the Lighthouse to give him his own bedroom. He would also likely be the most motivated to do so - he’s very active and fit, but come on. Man is not gonna endure a dinky little infirmary cot.

How do they prepare to sleep?

Emmrich is very regimented, with a strict routine he adheres to come hell or high water. It involves the normal bedtime stuff like brushing teeth, but also includes his skincare routine and a short meditation session to transition his mind from “work” to “sleep” mode. This is what he's referring to when he offers to teach Bellara breathing exercises to help her sleep.

Atash is very much a delay-er when it comes to sleeping, so the first part of her preparations is just avoiding going to bed as long as possible. Eventually, she does a quick face wash and teeth brushing, and then settles in for a long night of staring at the ceiling and feeling deep existential dread. Luckily, there's also a hefty stack of erotic novels by her couch.

Since she started sleeping with Emmrich, though, her sleep hygiene has significantly improved. But she still has her stack of erotic novels close by. They often read together before they go to sleep, but they have made a hard rule to not allow anything academic or mission-related in their room. They’d never sleep otherwise.

What do they wear to sleep?

I'm gonna have to echo all the other EmmRook people out there and say Emmrich's definitely a silk/satin pajama man (although he says it like ‘pyjamas’, which should ostensibly sound exactly the same as ‘pajamas’ but he somehow manages to pronounce the ‘y’ differently). He has several sets, as well as several dressing gowns and slippers. The man loves clothes and he rocks it.

Atash just takes everything off and sleeps in the nude, or her smallclothes. She doesn't really see the point in pajamas/pyjamas, for which Emmrich is initially torn between feeling dismay and slightly salacious appreciation. He doesn’t mind it in the privacy of their room but gets really embarrassed when Atash just casually answers the door without any clothes. Rivaini, I tell you. So shameless.

Do they cuddle?

Oh, they cuddle. They cuddle hard. They are both very touchy feely people and Atash hasn’t had anyone to hug (apart from Harding - Varric is not a huggy person) for over a year. Again, coming from a big family of equally huggy people, she’s been absolutely starved for affectionate touch and is so happy to meet someone who is willing to give it, even before they figure out they “like like” each other. And although it is literally officially fully canon that Emmrich gives the best hugs, he hasn’t really had anyone to give hugs to before joining the Veilguard. He becomes the group’s Resident Hugger very quickly. Members of the team will just come into his office looking sad, he’ll open his arms, they’ll hug, and then they continue on with their day. Atash is the first who’s willing to fully reciprocate and give him cuddly attention, though, and he’s really into it.

What are their preferred sleep positions?

This is where it gets a little bit complicated. Atash has Big Ass Horns that she can't sleep directly on, and has to ensure that her head is immobile while she's sleeping so she doesn't roll around in her sleep and accidentally wrench her neck or thwack her partner. She also is significantly heavier than Emmrich (seven feet tall and 230 lbs. vs. six-foot-four and 145 lbs. soaking wet) and so has to make sure she doesn't roll over him either. She would prefer to be draped all over him all night with her head on his chest and her limbs all wrapped around him, but physiology forces her to use a special Qunari pillow that props up her horns, cradling her neck, and doesn't really allow for any other position besides sleeping on her back.

She's very very bummed about this, particularly after finding a partner. Sleeping on your back gets real boring, and deep in her soul she's really a side sleeper. And dammit she wants to cuddle.

Emmrich, for his part, is a side sleeper, and before Atash he would generally sleep very neatly and tidily with his arms across his body - sort of hugging himself to sleep. All his previous partners have been human or elves smaller than him, and so he's used to being the Big Spoon.

With Atash, he's now found himself in the novel position of being the smaller partner, and finds himself rather enjoying it. His preferred position is laying his head on her chest, arm wrapped over her, other arm tucked up against his body, legs tucked through and over hers. Just as snuggled up as he can possibly be. She wraps an arm around him and likes to massage his head to lull him to sleep.

After Atash gets her horns broken off in the fight with Ghilan'nain at Tearstone, her grief over her horns is greatly soothed by the fact that she can now spoon Emmrich properly and be fully spooned in return. She can rest her head on his shoulder. She can lay her head in his lap. She can nestle. She's never been able to nestle before. She loves this so much she actually seriously considers keeping her horns short. But Qunari tradition/vanity wins out in the end. It's very taboo to intentionally file down your horns, even among the Vashoth.

How easy do they fall asleep?

When she's not alone, Atash is just out like a light the minute she closes her eyes. She's gotten very very good at sleeping anywhere (as long as she's got a pillow or couch arm or sack of coffee beans or bundled up shirt to prop her horns on) and has no trouble just conking out anytime anywhere at will.

Emmrich takes a bit. In his youth, he really struggled with anxiety-induced insomnia, and during times of particularly intense stress (which, like, is pretty much his whole life while he's at the Lighthouse) he needs a bit of time to talk, cuddle, read, soothe his racing thoughts until he can fall asleep. Atash's head massages have been very therapeutic to this end.

Do they toss and turn a lot?

Atash probably would if she weren't rendered immobile by pillows, and when she loses her horns she does go through a period of thrashing around in her sleep due to PTSD-induced nightmares. For his own safety, Emmrich had to put up a pillow barrier between them for a while, which absolutely broke both their hearts. If he were really pragmatic, he would have just slept in a separate bed altogether, but neither of them can even stand the thought. Thankfully this period doesn't last long (the thrashing, not the PTSD, sadly) and they're cuddling again in no time.

Do they snore?

Atash does. Sleeping on her back and having an ever so slightly deviated septum causes her to snore pretty loudly, which means she is very easy to find when she’s napping around the Lighthouse. She's initially very self conscious about this when she starts sleeping with Emmrich, but he actually finds it rather charming in a funny, cozy kind of way. He even finds himself profoundly missing the sound (to the point of not being able to sleep) when she's trapped in Solas’ Fade prison.

He himself does not snore at all, of course. Maker forbid.

Who hogs the blanket?

Being a Qunari, born in the tropics of Par Vollen and raised on the warm, sunny coast of Rivain, Atash gets cold very easily and will hog all the blanket if the temperature is anywhere below Bright Rivaini Summer’s Day. Snuggling with a partner helps, of course, but she is very big and has a lot of body to warm up. Thankfully, the Lighthouse is pretty temperate and she even forgoes blankets altogether on some nights.

Anywhere else… well, Emmrich's learned to pack three blankets instead of just one (one for him, two for her).

Emmrich does not hog. He discreetly and politely scoots the blanket from underneath his partner until it mostly covers him on cold nights.

What do they dream about?

Atash and Emmrich never remember their dreams - unless they're particularly bad nightmares. Depending on how stressed he is, Emmrich will sometimes have night terrors - full-on panic attacks in his sleep, thrashing and whimpering and hyperventilating and clawing at his hair and sheets. Atash has learned not to immediately wake him up in these moments (the disorientation makes the anxiety way worse) but instead gently holds him (not trapping him, just a light touch) humming and speaking softly and quietly, usually repeating their breathing exercises. This helps him settle down gradually, easing awake and then back into peaceful sleep.

Atash has her own nightmares after the Fade prison, expressed through violent thrashing initially, gradually evolving to curling up into a fetal position and sobbing quietly. Emmrich does actually wake her up when it gets to that point of despair, gently bringing her back to reality and then soothing her back to sleep.

How easily do they wake up?

Emmrich, being such an early riser, seems like he should wake easily, but the truth is the man is a creature of routine and he does not appreciate being awoken before his usual wake-up time. It’s very very hard to get him to wake up before dawn.

Atash, on the other hand, is up immediately no matter what time she’s awoken, ready to go at any second.

How awake are they afterwards?

When his schedule is respected, Emmrich is quite bright and energized after waking up. He is a morning person and enjoys every second of consciousness he possibly can.

Atash isn’t exactly a ‘morning person’, per se, but she is definitely a “well, if I’m up I’m up, let’s get to work,” person. So she’s not happy but she’s getting on with it.

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kkoffin · 1 day ago

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i’m absolutely by no means… well educated on the topic of eugenics, and tbh i hadn’t gotten up to that part in the book (or the pro-life part) when i made this post (maybe a poor decision on my part to recommend books and advertise them as radfem before i’ve actually finished them) This isn’t me rly answering ur question regarding if it’s a fair claim, i might also be a person screaming “eugenics!!” when not rly. idk! this is just. somewhat in self defence regarding me being like “this book is great!!”, particularly concerned i’ll get allegations of being pro-eugenics or smthin.

far as i’m in now, it’s certainly not “yeah disabled people and black people shouldn’t be allowed to reproduce” or anything, moreso “oopsie we had overpopulation issue so uhhh some were chosen to not have children” with a side of “we politely suggest criminals/bad-behavers don’t have children, if they do, they’ll be educated by others” it does also literally refer to this stuff as “negative eugenics”. so. i guess yeah it is eugenics.

they’re all the same race, they’re technically. somewhat clones of one another? they are white, but it’s not like they’ve intentionally rid of darker skin tones. I don’t think it’s “based on eugenist themes” - they just had to address the overpopulation thing in order to not have a plot hole, and then i guess. had to explain who’s chosen to not reproduce. it would be rly hard to say there’s racial eugenics. maybe ur normal “savages” and “developed countries” terminology, but the eugenics has no link to race. there’s also definitely a huge thing for “motherhood”, but there’s no “divine purpose” or anything for said motherhood. it’s never implied it’s women’s sole purpose, but it does imply that motherhood is like… the ultimate joy?

i’m still not done the book!! maybe it gets way worse! so far i’m just pretending chapter 6 wasn’t real. also worth mention, i almost always go into books 100% blind. when i made this post, simply had not gotten up to that part + had not googled anything about the book. again, that was dumb of me. apologies. tbh now, having gotten up to those parts, i would’ve considered my words a lot more + probably spoken to someone who’s read the book and knows more about the ethicality of these sorts of things.

I need everyone in radblr to go buy urself a copy of "Herland"(1915(?)) by Charlotte Perkins Gilman as soon as possible. Yall do not understand. I cannot believe this isn't like, basic radfem/female separatist literature already.

Same author as "The Yellow Wallpaper", three men find a land consisting of only women which is a literal utopia. The men question their own failures in patriarchal society while the women of this land politely exchange information with them about their own lands.

You have no idea how therapeutic this book is. men casually say "oh no man can do that!" and the women respond "oh, no man? can women do it?" and the men go "oh yeah, also no women". There's also such brilliant regular feminist thinking through the book;

"These women... were strikingly deficient in what we call "femininity". this led me very promptly to the conviction that those "feminine charms" we are so fond of are not feminine at all, but mere reflected masculinity- developed to please us because they had to please us, and in no way essential to real fulfillment of their great process."

Insane for 1915 and such a fucking relief and pleasure to read. I hope all the anons who have asked me about radfem books see this bc yall NEED IT

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dailypj · 3 days ago

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(Assuming that you’ve already put some thought into characterizing PJ, tho feel free to ignore this if not! I’m just trying to scope out how to potentially write PaperJam’s character into a fic, since him being sort of a skeptic could mean that he wins the idgaf war too well and has no impact on the central plot yknow)

Do you have ideas for any fun internal conflicts or character arcs for PJ? If there’s a multiverse-threatening conflict unfolding, what would PJ be doing about it, if anything? What mcguffins or circumstances could be triggered that would quickly pique PJ’s interest enough to get involved?

As always my first piece of advice for writing anything pj is to go through the resources provided by his creator, @7goodangel (@-ing in case you wanna put in ur 2 cents, he is ur guy)

Here are the links for:

Pj’s bio

Pj info tag

Pj faq page (bit of a shortcut for the info tag since it holds answers to a lot of previously asked questions, tho not all of them)

now for an actual answer, there's a long ramble under the cut, enjoy

first thing that ik for sure is canon, pj would step in if it's necessary to protect his family (I believe it was a comment somewhere by 7 that stated that pj would go as far as suffocating someone for threatening his kid's life)

if the multiverse being in danger has the capacity to hurt his loved ones I'm sure he'd do something about it, but I think the lengths he's willing to go will vary depending on what/who is causing it and which other characters are joining the fight

Ink for example is definitely an interesting ally considering their past. a conflict between them is pretty much inevitable, especially if you take from canon and had them separated years prior

Now if pj’s loved ones aren't present here, that’s where my guesses on how she’d act get fuzzy. In the past, pj took it upon herself to judge whether certain aus should stay alive or be erased. She believed that what error did was wrong not because it was a massacre of innocents, but because he did it too indiscriminately

(I’d say it was pretty easy to gain a dehumanizing view of others when the 2 biggest influences she had referred to the masses as just fictional characters or anomalies…)

Now, she does indeed spare aus she deems acceptable, but I’m not sure how much she’s willing to risk for them. Cuz like, part of her self-given job is motivated by the want to prove she isn’t a mistake to the man who wants every universe to die

Basically she’s got some pretty dark grey morals and it’s fun to deconstruct them (or make them worse if you wanna go the antagonist pj route, equally fun imo)

now a more headcanon-y idea (aka the trait I tend to exaggerate in nearly every pj varient I've made thus far for angst purposes) is leaning into the whole "I have to be useful to be worthy of anyone's care" thing, and just strongly wanting to disprove bad assumptions/expectations about herself (especially the mistake thing) which couldd lead to her going down a phase of believing she should follow in ink's protector footsteps to try and become more of a priority in his eyes (with the added bonus of keeping fears other characters may have about her "becoming like error" at bay)

does it work? idk but maybe if she just obsesses over it even more the identity crisis will be worth it Slash J

so ya that's my 2 cents on a potential conflict based on canon stuff, absolutely feel free to go ham on whatever direction you feel like taking pj I'm just a big advocate for "learn the rules before you break them" 👍✨

#paperjam #anonymous #headcanons #shy rambles #sighh maybe I do need a not daily tag as opposed to not pj.....#anyways pls pls share the fic link once u post it I would love to read 👀

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pmdcollector · 10 hours ago

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"Special Interview: The Past, Present, and Future of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon"

Nintendo DREAM. Volume #181. Spring 2009.

Translation by Smaturin. Editing and formatting by NeonHumBuzz.

Seiichiro Nagahata (Chunsoft)

Director, Head of Development Department

Shinichiro Tomie (Chunsoft)

Development Department, Planning Section, Game Producer

Hironori Ishigami (Chunsoft)

Development Department, Programmer

Kunimi Kawamura (The Pokémon Company)

Development Supervisor, Head of Development Management Department

The newest installment, Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Sky (hereafter referred to as "Sky"), is set to be released soon. This time the subtitle is "Explorers of Sky," but from the perspective of the average player, during "Explorers of Time" and "Explorers of Darkness" (hereafter referred to as "Time" and "Darkness"), one would likely imagine Dialga and Palkia when thinking of "Time." So "Time/Sky" would seem like the normal way to go. Why did you start with "Time/Darkness" and then go on to "Sky" for this game?

Kawamura: That was exactly what I wanted. To have our players think just that. As I’m sure there are still people who have not played Time/Darkness yet, I cannot say anything specific, but a Pokémon from Time actually appears in the first ending. And in the story after the ending, a Pokémon from Darkness appears. Does that explain it!?

Ah, I see!

Kawamura: Also, if we went with "Time" and "Sky" just because it was Dialga and Palkia, that would be too plain and predictable. And so we brought in "Darkness" in order to differentiate.

In that case, what were you imagining with Sky?

Kawamura: Sky is also "Space" and "Air" and can have many different meanings.

Shaymin’s Sky Forme is also based on "Sky."

Kawamura: Aside from stuff like that, we made Explorers of Sky with the concept of it being the definite version of the Explorers series. And so we wanted to convey the sense of expanding. "Sky" just happened to be perfectly fitting, but it took us a while to reach that conclusion. We also considered the "Sky" of outer space, but it was pointed out that this did not seem very bright. During development, there was also a film title that had "Sky" written as "Frozen Sky" (2008 film "Pokémon: Giratina & the Sky Warrior"), and so we wanted something more straightforward, and settled on the current "Sky."

For "Sky," the new additions for the protagonist are Riolu, Shinx, Eevee, Phanpy and Vulpix. How did you go about selecting these 5?

Tomie: When selecting the protagonist candidates for "Red Rescue Team/Blue Rescue Team" (hereafter referred to as "Red/Blue"), I confided in Kawamura-san during the process and came to the realization that the Pokémon I would choose were not very popular.

Everyone: (laughs)

Tomie: And so I withdrew from the process for Time/Darkness, and had Kawamura-san choose them. Also, there was a member of staff who really wanted Phanpy included. In the end, it’s better for the story if the protagonist and friends are Pokémon that look cute.

Kawamura: Also, with Eevee, there was this girl from France who was a fan of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon, and told us, "I love Eevee so much, so please make it the protagonist!"

A girl from France!?

Tomie: There was a keynote in France for Time/Darkness. And we received that question.

Kawamura: Eevee is especially popular among girls. Other criteria would be how expressive they were, the readability of emotions when they pop up in the portraits. The evolution, popularity, and if they look cute when walking… we considered different aspects while choosing until the current lineup remained.

"Remained." So there were many other candidates at first?

Kawamura: Indeed. For instance, Buneary was a candidate, but as its Ability is "Klutz," it cannot use the effects of the items it holds. Pachirisu was also a candidate, but when entering the early dungeons, it would be very difficult if you didn’t have a move that was decently strong. There were various reasons like that.

It’s been the case ever since Red/Blue, but what is the reason for "answering questions to determine the protagonist"?

Tomie: Ultimately, it comes from the setting of "you = protagonist", and "you have suddenly turned into a Pokémon one day." While being able to choose freely would be fine, that feeling of "boom, you are this Pokémon!", and having it decided for you might make it more relatable. Besides, I thought that if you don’t know which Pokémon you will become, then having one that is closer to your personality will allow for more conversation between players. Like, "I became Turtwig" and "I’m Torchic."

There are many new elements to Sky, but the Special Episodes have drawn the most attention.

Tomie: When it came to creating Sky, at first, we were thinking of making small changes to the scenarios of the main game. But after reconsidering it, we realized that it should not be touched. If we did make changes, it would just be adding a little something to the start of the story, or adding a little story after the ending. Those were the only choices we had. If that is the case, then we might as well add a side story, which would give us more freedom and allow us to expand. That was the conclusion we settled on.

I understand that the Special Episodes appear after advancing in the story to certain points?

Tomie: They do get unlocked as you play the game.

Kawamura: For instance, if Bidoof’s Special Episode appeared in the beginning, it would not be as enjoyable, since you do not understand what Bidoof’s role is in the main story. They are made to appear on the Menu Screen at the perfect time, when the foundation for enjoying the story has been set.

By the way, will the results of playing these Special Episodes be reflected in the main game?

Ishigami: Acquired items can be carried back with you to the main game. Otherwise, it would not be very fun.

How did you decide what character’s perspective to use for the Special Episodes?

Tomie: First of all, I knew that I wanted to use Grovyle. Ever since development on Time/Darkness had completed, I wanted to do it if I got the chance.

Kawamura: In order for players of Time/Darkness to enjoy it, we chose characters that had a lot of interactions with the guild members or protagonist. Like Bidoof (laughs).

These Special Episodes, like with Grovyle, for instance, it’s a story about returning to the future through the Dimensional Hole. Did this setting already exist during Time/Darkness?

Tomie: Not as a setting, no. Personally, I did have a vague idea of how it would be. As it relates to the ending, I cannot give away too much here, but I received a lot of comments from fans who wanted us to "save Grovyle too." I understood how they felt, and since it was from people who felt very strongly about Grovyle, it made me very happy. On the other hand, there was also a part of me that felt, "that's wrong." And with Sky, I had the chance to do something about it, which I was happy to do.

So Grovyle will appear in some other form… is that what you mean?

Tomie: Yes. It also means that Grovyle was doing his best! In the future world.

Spinda's Café has been added as a new facility. What is it, exactly?

Ishigami: As you advance in the game, I think you will have a lot of leftover items in your storage. Kangaskhan Storage has limited capacity, and so we wondered… if the leftover items could not be used for something else.

Tomie: Being able to turn Gummis into drinks is quite nice, isn’t it? If you pick up a Gummi, you definitely should go to the Juice Bar to get a drink.

The Recycle Shop also looks very interesting.

Tomie: It is quite interesting. I think that I’ve spent nearly half of the game wandering around there.

Ishigami: It’s like a place that you definitely want to stop by every time you come back from a dungeon.

What kind of prizes can you win with the Recycle Shop lottery?

Nagahata: We made it so you can acquire some amazing items now. Like a scarf that raises your abilities, and things you usually wouldn’t be able to acquire until after the ending. But you can now get them early on.

The Secret Bazaar is another new element. Under what kind of circumstance does it appear?

Nagahata: In general, it is random. You can be walking and the hidden staircase will just suddenly appear. So, you wonder what it is and you go inside to find the Secret Bazaar sprawled out in front of you.

Kawamura: We wanted to have players experience some good things inside of the dungeon, so it wasn’t just the thrill of encountering enemies that you cannot beat. "Ah, there are interesting places like this." We prepared a place where you don’t have to fight.

One thing I thought was incredibly interesting was the Lookalike Items. Like the Oren Berry instead of the Oran Berry.

Tomie: I was the one who was in charge of this new element. I had decided to think about it after I finished writing the Special Episodes. And so when I came to the staff with it a few months later, saying, "I want to do this," they all started saying, "what!"

Everyone: (laughs)

Tomie: The staff did not receive it well at first, but when I was writing, they gave me a lot of ideas. And from there, Kawamura-san and the other staff went through them until the current Lookalike Item was what remained.

Kawamura: It is very interesting!

Nagahata: It’s pretty terrible, isn’t it? (laughs)

Tomie: It’s fun to see the Reviser Seed being used. The programmers worked hard to make that.

Nagahata: They made it while saying, "won't this make young children cry?"

Ishigami: We even placed an explanation for the Lookalike Items in the tutorial.

Nagahata: You have to tell them that first. We were worried that if it came out suddenly, it would make people cry.

Various new elements have been added in Sky, but how is the difficulty in comparison to Time/Darkness?

Nagahata: Personally, I made it with the intent of it being about the same as Time/Darkness. And so it may seem easy for those who have played the series before, due to their experience.

Kawamura: In fact, during the Pokémon personality test that determines the protagonist in the beginning, you are asked if you have played Time/Darkness before. And the data balance changes a little depending on if you answer "yes" or "no." And so players of Time/Darkness and new players should be able to play it a little differently.

Nagahata: Also, in Time/Darkness, there were items that only appeared in Time, or only in Darkness, but in Sky, they all appear. For instance, in Time/Darkness, you may not have been able to get a Gummi that fits the protagonist type, and so you couldn’t raise your IQ… but this time, they appear with better balance, so the beginning of the game will be easier in some ways. However, we have also added some dungeons with higher difficulty.

For instance, a dungeon that is more difficult than Zero Isle…!?

Nagahata: There is. I thought that there would be no meaning in making something that was the same, so we made it even more difficult.

About the Exclusive Items from Time/Darkness, are there even more of them now?

Nagahata: There are. We have added nearly 400 of them.

Ishigami: We have them for everyone, including the Pokémon who did not have Exclusive Items in the previous games.

Kawamura: As there are many more types now, we made some adjustments to Croagunk's Swap Shop to make them easier to collect.

Nagahata: Since there are so many types of Pokémon, it’s quite difficult to get the Exclusive Item that you want, right? And so we added a system where if you "bring a certain item, you will receive an Exclusive Item." Also, you are able to send Exclusive Items from Time/Darkness over to Sky.

Ishigami: There is an advantage to sending Exclusive Items as well. As their Rarity goes up by 1 rank.

That’s very convenient! By the way, are Exclusive Items the only thing you can send?

Nagahata: No, you can send all items that were acquired in Time/Darkness over to Sky. For instance, if a newcomer who is starting with Sky, receives items from someone who played Time/Darkness, they may be able to enjoy a smoother adventure.

Aside from items, are there any network elements between Sky and Time/Darkness?

Ishigami: Interactions such as rescue requests and team battles in the Marowak Dojo are also possible between Sky and Time/Darkness. Request passwords can also be used as is. However, in regards to Wonder Mail, we plan to reveal something new for Sky, so it will not be compatible with Time/Darkness.

Kawamura: Furthermore, we have added something new in the form of demo dungeons. Ishihara (The Pokémon Company President and CEO, Tsunekazu Ishihara) had suggested that we could send a demo version through a Wi-Fi connection. Though, there were various problems, such as with capacity, and it was a lot of trouble for Chunsoft to implement.

Ishigami: In other words, even without the DS cartridge, you will be able to download and play the demo at Wi-Fi Stations and free spots. Also, players who have Sky will be able to send the demo dungeons to friends who do not own the game.

How much gameplay do they offer?

Kawamura: Some will be easy for complete beginners, while others will be challenging for Mystery Dungeon veterans. We made it with about 6 variations depending on difficulty.

Nagahata: Due to the limits with capacity, they are very compact. But they are made to convey what kind of game Mystery Dungeon really is.

As this is the first Pokémon Mystery Dungeon interview for Nintendo DREAM, please tell us how this collaboration between Pokémon and Mystery Dungeon came to be.

Kawamura: From the beginning, Ishihara was a big fan of Chunsoft’s Mystery Dungeon: Shiren the Wanderer series. So the start of it was the idea… that by combining this gameplay with the vast variety of Pokémon, we may be able to create a new world. I am also a big fan of Chunsoft’s games, so I was sure that the results would be very interesting. And so Ishihara went to Nakamura-san (Koichi Nakamura, Chunsoft Representative Director) and asked, "want to do this together?" and that led to where we are now.

Including each version, Sky will now be the 5th installment. Honestly, did you think it would continue this long?

Nagahata: If I am being honest, I was not thinking about anything. It was like, we will release it, and if it is received well enough, we’ll continue. Ultimately, Red/Blue were quite popular, so I think we were really lucky.

Also, the world of the Pokémon Mystery Dungeon series was pretty shocking. It's a world without humans and only Pokémon, where they talk normally. How did you come up with this idea?

Kawamura: If there were humans in the world of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon, this might not be the best example, but I thought the Pokémon would be like pets. In order to make scenarios where the player will relate to them, it would be best for it to be between Pokémon. However, since that had never been done in a Pokémon game up until then, we had to think about it seriously.

Tomie: Actually, when it comes to the world, while they do not make any appearances, humans do exist as far as the setting goes. But when discussing the world with Kawamura-san at the start, she said that she wanted to keep "Pokémon trainer throwing Pokéballs" as a separate thing. So, if it’s going to be a world of just Pokémon, which you can control, then the problem is how you make them communicate. After all, they have to be able to talk. And so there was much trial and error. At first we even considered having them say "pika-pika," and then have the meaning in parenthesis.

Ultimately, I think the world of Pokémon Mystery Dungeon was a great success. For Time/Darkness, we had a lot of comments from readers of Nintendo DREAM saying, "the story was amazing!" and "I cried!" How have you felt player reactions?

Tomie: As for me, I’m simply very happy. To be honest, that makes me more happy than the sales numbers. As someone who is a creator for a living, hearing that kind of reaction is a joy and gives me purpose in life. My feelings are really just, "thank you so much."

I get the impression that the stories are a lot more dramatic compared to the main Pokémon series. Was this always the direction you were going in while making it?

Tomie: I wouldn’t say that we were aiming to do that. To be honest, there was a lot of trial and error when it came to the scenarios. And there was a time when I considered going in a much more light-hearted direction. But then Ishihara-san said he wanted to "go with a classical story." And so I wondered how we could go with a classical approach. "Well, let’s go with a story of friendship between the protagonist and partner!" So after that was finally decided, I started writing what is now the finished story.

So Ishihara’s suggestion of "classical" is the reason for the current dramatic storylines.

Tomie: For instance, when it comes to Time/Darkness, there is a scene where bubbles are being blown by the coast. While writing the plot outline, I had decided at that point that I wanted to begin and end the story with bubbles. I thought that it was the life of the story while I was writing. As the graphics are also important for this scene, in spite of us not really having much time to spare, we used up a lot of time, and the person in charge of the graphics worked hard to depict it.

Then we should pay attention to the bubble scenes when playing Sky as well! By the way, what is the relationship between the worlds of Red/Blue and Time/Darkness?

Kawamura: That’s a secret. They might be connected, and they might not be connected. Perhaps it is a different era, or a different world. We’ll leave it at that (laughs).

It’s very interesting how unique Pokémon can be when it comes to personalities and the way they speak. Who is it that decides on such things? (Translator's note: "-desuwa" is a sentence-ending participle used primarily by characters who are supposed to be feminine and elegant.)

Tomie: It’s generally me. After deciding on the roles of the Pokémon, I make them talk in the way that I feel is right. However, there are times when it is the other way around. Where the speech patterns are already decided, and the role is considered later. This was the case for Sunflora in Time/Darkness, where Kawamura-san chose Sunflora for the role of the Pokémon who speaks with "-desuwa."

Kawamura: When it is a character that Tomie-san is very particular with, he is able to go on ahead with the specific scenario, but when that is not the case, there is just dialogue for Pokémon A and B, and then we choose a fitting Pokémon later.

Tomie: When I’m still at the point where the scenario is not fleshed out yet, for instance, like with the guild apprentices, the writing just mentions them as a large group. But by assigning roles for parts that I had just written in the spur of the moment, the story often starts to expand in various ways.

Was Bidoof’s tendency to say "-degesu" decided beforehand? (Translator's note: "-degesu" is an old-fashioned sentence-ending participle often used for comical purposes.)

Tomie: Bidoof came first. For some reason, Kawamura-san was a big fan of Bidoof, and would say, "please put Bidoof in it, please put Bidoof in it." And so I thought, "well, I better put Bidoof in it." I don’t know why, but he ended up saying "-degesu" (laughs).

Next, I would like to talk about characters who are especially popular in the Pokémon Mystery Dungeon series. Let’s start with Gengar from Red/Blue!

Kawamura: How nostalgic (laughs).

Tomie: From the beginning, I had been thinking of making Gengar a villain, and wrote up to the story’s ending that way. But then Kawamura-san said, "there should be a little hope for Gengar too." I thought it would be enough to just have Gengar pull out and save the protagonist from the underworld, but the others felt that Gengar was still a villain. And so that was why I started writing the story about Gengar and Gardevoir that happens after the ending. I felt that if I am going to write a conclusion for that story, then I also had to conclude the Ninetales legend as well. And so I faced it head-on while writing.

Kawamura: What we wanted to say was that "there are no bad Pokémon." Though, there are some who behave badly for a reason. I wanted to leave a reason or an anecdote that showed that Gengar was not a villain until the end. At first, it was really meant as a little bonus, so I didn’t expect as big of a reaction from players. Tomie-san’s scenario was also quite wonderful, and it was pretty much given the OK in one shot. To anyone who has not played it yet, please give it a try (laughs).

With Time/Darkness, we must start with Wigglytuff.

Tomie: Wigglytuff. This is going to be a little long (laughs). In Red/Blue, Wigglytuff was selling "Friend Areas," and while this might sound like a bad way of putting it, it was basically land flipping. At the time, my impression was just of a "single Pokémon who had a store," but I saw some fan opinions on the internet, and came to the realization that this character was more complicated than I thought. People were saying, "Wigglytuff says "friend, friend" a lot, but he doesn’t even have any friends."

Everyone: (laughs)

Tomie: I thought, "this character is actually quite deep." And so I started to think of using him as a sub-character in Time/Darkness. It was around that time that Kawamura-san said that she wanted something like a guild in Time/Darkness. We thought, if there is a guild, the protagonist and partner should live like apprentices. In that case, we’ll need a Guildmaster. Wigglytuff is the only one for that job! We decided it like that.

Guildmaster = Wigglytuff! It kind of seems straightforward, but maybe not…

Tomie: He is a genius. And as a genius, there are some things that only he knows, which dictates his actions. But it looks strange to those around him. But if you look at the big picture, it all comes together. He is that kind of character. And so I felt strongly about having Wigglytuff create a guild, so we could have the protagonist live there.

As it will spoil what happens after the ending, I cannot give too many details, but I really liked the part with the Grand Master of All Things Bad.

Kawamura: In that case, you’ll like Sky even more! Even from the music, it will hit you like Acupressure (laughs).

We cannot talk about Time/Darkness without bringing up Grovyle and Celebi. In the first place, why did you choose Grovyle for the criminal role?

Tomie: During the plot writing stage, it was actually Lucario who had the criminal role. And it was like that for quite a while. But one day, Kawamura-san said, "Lucario has a strong reputation for being a Pokémon of justice, and does not seem like a criminal." And so I started to think of which Pokémon I could use instead. Kawamura-san then selected a few candidates. And it was Grovyle who stood out more than the others. However, Grovyle is an evolved form of Treecko, which meant it could feel too similar to the protagonist and partner. We struggled over using it, but in the end, I think we made the right decision.

Why did you make Celebi a different color?

Tomie: In terms of the story’s setting, it was necessary for Celebi to be there. But when it came to having Celebi appear in the future world, Kawamura-san said, "there is a pink variant of Celebi, so let’s make her pink!" At that moment, my idea of Celebi changed into what is in the game.

Kawamura: The regular Celebi is green, and so if she is with Grovyle, it would be green and green. Also, I wanted her to seem special, as she has the role of the time traveler. A Celebi that is not normal, with a different color. And I chose pink to give off the impression of a girl.

In the official setting, Celebi does not have a gender.

Kawamura: When it comes to Pokémon Mystery Dungeon, due to circumstances with development, there was a need to decide on "girl talk" and "boy talk" in advance. And so we set temporary genders. I am sure you know about the Pokémon movie with Celebi ("Pokémon 4Ever", released in 2001), where Celebi had a mischievous and boyish personality. We wanted to be separate from that. It is just my fancy, but there is a proper reason for it (laughs).

I really like Celebi’s somewhat painful feelings towards Grovyle. While adventuring with Celebi in the future world, she says something quite different from the usual when you talk to her. And it is so…

Kawamura: You’ve played quite extensively (laughs).

Tomie: Those kinds of interactions between Grovyle and Celebi came out quite naturally as I was writing. I showed the other staff what I had written, and they said, "Celebi is tsundere, huh?" But I just thought, "oh, really?"

Kawamura: You didn’t write it like that deliberately.

Tomie: If anything, I was holding back there a little.

It was more extreme in the beginning!?

Everyone: (laughs)

Tomie: I wouldn't call it extreme, but it was a little more straightforward.

Kawamura: The future world is so dark and brutal, so I think that Tomie-san wanted to include that as a single bright storyline. Of course, if it depicted something too close to romantic emotion, then we would have to add a lot to the setting later… and so we kept it at a point where the players could just finish the story within their heads.

Tomie: Indeed. Though, I ended up having to write a Special Episode afterwards anyway.

In other words, Celebi will appear in a Special Episode!

Kawamura: Please look forward to it (laughs).

Also, in Pokémon Mystery Dungeon, the small characters really move with a lot of detail. It is very fun to watch, and I feel the intention behind it.

Tomie: The biggest thing is the love and passion of the person in charge! Also, whether they can make it while understanding how to stylize the character properly. Having a Pokémon jump up and say, "I’ll do my best!" and make it really look like it’s doing its best, that is the power of stylizing. Also, there is timing and pacing. A lot of small details. For instance, there is a scene in Treasure Town where Grovyle is being pulled away by Dusknoir. The others are all following Grovyle with their eyes, but the timing was purposely shifted for each. It’s these kinds of details and efforts that give them a soul and breathes life into the creatures. This is not me, but the work of Tanaka-san, who is really particular when creating.

Kawamura: A real character theater master (laughs).

Also, the Pokémon have to walk within the game. Is there someone who decides, for instance, which Pokémon walked on all fours or hops around? It was with this game that I first learned that Treecko walks on all fours.

Kawamura: There are times when we receive ideas from Chunsoft that are reviewed, and there are times when it has already been established, and we send them instructions on how to make it. Also, whether or not the results feel like a living creature, or if it is fitting for a friend who will always be walking with you. In the end, it is about love. Love!

Please leave a message for readers of Nintendo DREAM.

Kawamura: As the cover art suggests, it is an expansive, refreshing, enjoyable game that is also of great value. Additionally, this one includes something that will make you want to keep it in your bag, so please pay attention to that.

It’s the Sky Jukebox, right?

Ishigami: Compared to Time/Darkness, I think that this game has about 1.5 times more content. Not just in volume, but there are lots of new elements such as Spinda's Café, so you should be able to play it for a long time. Please give it a try.

Tomie: We really put our souls into making this game. So please, everyone. It would make me so happy if you would play it!

Nagahata: Combined with Time/Darkness, a lot of new elements have been added to Sky. My personal impression is that it has double the amount of content. It really is a good deal, and so I would very much like for people who have already played Time/Darkness, as well as people who have never experienced the series before, to play it.

Final question. What is your favorite Pokémon from Pokémon Mystery Dungeon: Explorers of Sky?

Kawamura: My favorite Pokémon is… all of them! However, if I had to choose just one, then it would be Lapras.

Tomie: During Time/Darkness, I kept saying that it was Palkia. I love the arrogant personality and sense that it is going wild. While writing the story, I wondered if such a violent Pokémon should really be a god (laughs). But it would be boring to say Palkia once again, so it’s going to be Sableye for "Sky."

Nagahata: I’ve been saying this for a long time now, but Bulbasaur really is my favorite. The reason is incredibly simple. Its Pokédex number is 001.

Ishigami: It’s Munchlax for me. Not only because it is cute, but I kind of like that from the beginning, it can do all kinds of moves at random with Metronome.

#pmd #pokemon mystery dungeon #pmd2 #explorers of sky #pokemon mystery dungeon explorers of sky #pmd eos #pmd spoilers #long post

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only-lonely-star · 3 days ago

Note

so your post abt your concerning amount of injured reader requests inspired me. you should totally do a gang x reader who just got out of surgery. like still under anesthesia that makes you act all high and stuff. i don’t remember if you do hcs involving the entire gang (separate ofc) or not, but if you don’t, then you could do this with dally or ponyboy— tysm ily and your writing 🤞🫶

Curtis gang x anesthetized!reader HCs

Curtis gang x gn!reader

Warnings: Reader is under anesthesia. Brief mentions of bruising and blood. Reader experiences mild pain.

Author’s Note: I decided to specify this request for wisdom teeth! I got mine taken out a few years ago so I have experience lol. enjoy!! <3

+ my little story time of when I got my wisdom teeth taken out at the end bc why not :)

✦ . 　⁺ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ 🦷 ✦ . 　⁺ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Ponyboy

As soon as he saw you being pushed outside from a wheelchair, he just felt bad. Not because he had done anything wrong, but because it feels so scary to see someone he cares about so out of it.

I feel like his idea of someone being anesthetized is like ‘they zone out for a bit and slur their words’, but your experience was totally different.

If you were crying, he definitely thought you were in pain from the surgery. (For reference, some people cry when waking back up from confusion, stress, etc.)

Just by hearing your rambling, he was genuinely thinking ‘What the fuck…? Did they put you on anesthesia or something else?”

He’d try to be as helpful as possible, especially at first when you were numb inside your mouth. I think he would make a great nurse for the day and help talk you through your discomfort.

Maybe Pony would read you a book once you calmed down enough to understand what he was saying. At first you can’t do much else besides lay there and mellow yourself out, so he could easily kill time reading to you.

Ponyboy would remind you of what you’re allowed and not allowed to eat/drink/do within the first few days. The thought of dry socket scares the SHIT out of him. He wants absolutely noooo part in that.

Johnny

Johnny would laugh his ass off when you’re first rolled out of the operation room. Deep down, he’s a little scared of the possibility that he might have to have his wisdom teeth removed, so he disguises it with laughter.

He would try to fuck with you a little bit because he’s aware you can’t form coherent thoughts just yet. He thinks it’s sooo funny to watch you panic like that 😭 “Where’s your tongue?? They removed that too?!”

Okay, after he’s had a good laugh, I think he would try to comfort you a little. Especially if you were more emotional when waking up, he’d probably feel slightly guilty for teasing. I can totally see him letting you rest your head on his shoulder or blab about whatever as his way of showing you he’s there for you.

If you WERE a crier right off the bat, Johnny wouldn’t joke like that. He imagines that would feel like pure torture.

Since you can’t smoke, he’d do you a favor and exhale towards you so that you can get your dose of second-hand smoke in until you’re better.

He isn’t fazed by your all-liquid diet. Hard times have led him to consume soup, broth, and whatnot even though he can chew. I think he might try and keep solid foods out of your sight as a sign of respect.

Dallas

Similar to Johnny, I think Dallas would take one good look at you before bursting into laughter. He’s familiar with various drugs and such, but anesthesia isn’t anything like the party drugs he’s used to.

He personally thinks your swollen, gauze filled cheeks are hilarious.

No matter if you’re crying or not, I think he would try to straight up interview you on the spot. “How’s your mouth? Does it hurt? You remember who I am?”

He would take advantage of your state and try to get you to confess the most embarrassing things. Stories he can recall from ages ago that he knows you would never retell would just slip out because of your lowered inhibition.

The never ending teasing Dallas would commit to is just ruthless. You’ll be “chipmunk cheeks” to him forever.

He wouldn’t know better when it comes to post-surgery rules. He would try and be nice for once by bringing you a milkshake just to find out you need to be spoon fed instead of using straws like normal. As much as it would grate at his nerves, he would go back and out of his way to find you a spoon to slurp from.

Sodapop

He would be concerned at first glance, noticing the bruising on your cheeks and the swelling around your jaw. Soda would try and comfort you physically whether it be holding your hand or letting you lean on him for support. (This can be interpreted romantically or platonically)

When you’re rambling, he would simply nod along and go “mhm” every few mumbles so you felt heard.

During the car ride home, he tried to keep you as calm as possible. Crying or not, there’s usually a bit of a panicked reaction when first waking up from the anesthesia. I actually think Soda may have gotten his taken out before, so he knows it’s not super pretty.

Constant reassurance if you were one to cry a lot. “No, no it’s okay. It’s over now. You’re doing great.”

Once you’re a little more conscious of your surroundings, he would sit and listen to you talk about how you feel, what you need at the moment, etc. Overall, I think he would be super caring (partly because he has experience).

Steve

He would make a 😧 face when he first sees you because of how fucked up you look. He would be on the more stunned/amused type rather than comforting.

He would poke at your cheeks in fascination. The slight bruising on your jaw is “tuff” according to his judgment. “Looks like you took a few blows. I mean, it looks pretty tuff if you ask me😼.”

I think he would save the teasing until after you’ve gained full consciousness again.

He would be the type of person to try and make you laugh/cheer you up if you were crying from the anesthesia. I assume he would think you’re crying in pain or because of the blood on your gauze because he doesn’t have personal experience in this area.

If this was a modern au, he would definitely try to sneak a phone in and record you to embarrass you with videos later. Not in a mean way, but in a playful & teasing type of way yk?

He leans your head against the seatbelt in the car, trying to NOT touch your puffy cheek. His worst fear in the moment is for your gauze to fall out of your mouth and land anywhere on him.

Two-Bit

He covered his mouth like 🫢 when he first saw you, trying his hardest to not laugh IN your face.

He would talk to you like a child, and it surprisingly worked well. The slower, more simple sentences could actually be comprehended even though you were still under anesthesia.

Tries to get you to open your mouth to show him where they operated on you because he thinks the concept of surgery is so fascinating.

Similar to Soda, I think he would play along with your loopy rambling. If you’re speaking straight up mumbles that only make sense to you he’d try to mumble back like you’re speaking a language only the two of you know.

He’s oddly gentle with you. I think he would offer you something to eat (liquid foods) right away. He would try to take care of your needs because being on anesthesia does NOT look like him to fun. Funny? Sure. But fun? He would pass.

He hypes you up HELLA. I’m thinking in an encouraging but also impressive way like, “Look at you, you’re all done. It’s over! I couldn’t ever get my teeth taken out.”

Two-Bit makes you feel ‘guilty’ when he assists you. Obviously he’s just teasing, but under anesthesia you can’t take the hint. He would wipe your drool or adjust your bloody gauze and proceed to say something like, “Who else would do this for you? Mhm, exactly. Exactly! You owe me.”

Darrel

He’s so gentle and attentive with everything. He’s used to the role of a protective, caring, selfless big brother, but it’s like something snaps within him when he sees you so drugged and out of it.

He tries talking to you immediately, surveying how you feel, if you’re in pain, etc. Bonus points if you’re crying- he’ll try to ask if there’s anything he can do to help.

He tries to read the little pamphlet with care instructions from the nurses but he can’t even focus on it because he’s so concerned about you.

I feel like Darry would try and shadow you 24/7 post-surgery. If you’re asleep or simply resting on the couch he would pop his head in just to make sure you weren’t laying on one cheek or eating solid foods.

Again, this is more of a modern au type of deal- I think Darry would try and scold anyone who tried to record you. BUTTT he would take a picture for himself to keep as a silly memory, not to tease you endlessly.

He would probably be the one to drive you home post-surgery. He volunteered himself since he trusts himself enough to bring you back safely.

He shushes you when you try to ramble, he doesn’t egg you on like the others.

Story time:

My story isn’t all that interesting, but it was pretty funny to me when I retell it from my own perspective. I wanted my parents to record me so bad, but my mom insisted on not doing so. Okay so— I was brought into the operating room and sat down like normal. After about 30 minutes, who I think ended up being my surgeon came in with a thick ass needle. I knew right then and there that was the anesthesia. He starts asking me about school, what grade I’m going into, and what my favorite subject is as he’s injecting the anesthesia into my arm. I was talking like normal and I swear I blinked ONCE and I was suddenly in the backseat of my dad’s car. I remember closing my eyes for .2938384882 seconds and opening them to find myself sobbing and asking something along the lines of, “but how did I get from there to here?” and “Is it over?” repeatedly. I was sort of hunched over my lap/the back of the passenger seat with my hand stuck out towards my dad. I remember him holding it and trying to comfort me because he thought I was in pain or something. I’m 99% sure I was just confused and a little overwhelmed with the surgery feeling like a LITERAL blink of an eye. I wasn’t sad or hurting or anything like that. What’s cute is that my best friend got her wisdom teeth taken out just months before I did and claimed she was crying for me. I ended up doing the same thing, asking both my mom and my dad if she was okay and if I could text her to tell her I was awake. I also remembered seeing my brother get escorted from the exit doors into the backseat next to me. He had his eyes closed and mouth open saying shit like “I am fully awake and fully conscious” knowing DAMN well he was nowhere near planet earth. He swears he never said that but I remember him trying to act all hard so vividly. OKAY THIS IS GETTING LONG—. To conclude my little story time, I have to specify that this happened the summer after 8th grade and my Outsiders obsession was still so new to me because I read it 4th quarter of 8th grade. I was a lot more awake by the time I got home, so I could somewhat slurp down some of the milkshake my dad bought me. My mom and I laid down in her bed and we binged the Karate Kid movies together since she grew up as a Ralph Macchio/Michael J. Fox kind of girl lol. She also knew that I was really into The Outsiders and said I would like Karate Kid because I thought Ralph was sooo cute. My cheeks were bruised and puffy for WEEKS and I literally hated every single second of recovery. It felt like I could taste my own flesh because there were literal holes in my mouth from where the teeth used to be. To end this (for real this time) on a better note, I think it’s safe to say the surgery wasn’t all that scary. I was really nervous beforehand, but it turned out just fine. I recovered quickly and safely, and that’s all that really matters. So if you’re scared, don’t be! It wasn’t bad at all.

IF YOU READ MY LITTLE STORY YOU HAVE MY WHOLE HEART LOL (ts was NAWTTT little, it was longer than all of the headcanons combined)

TYSM FOR READING!!!

-Sophia 🫶🏼

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goooofy-goooober1121 · 2 days ago

Text

Saja Boys Headcanons

Aka I give them real names, personalities, and possible backstories 😋

Ft. Abby Saja, Romance Saja, Baby Saja, and Mystery Saja!

Requests are open here!!

Reblogs are always appreciated!

DISCLAIMER: I’m not a kpop fan nor am I Korean LMFAO. so if I get anything inaccurate or incorrect please let me know so I can fix it!!!

Abby Saja

Name and Backstory

- when selecting his name I wanted to look into the meaning of the name combos!

- after quite a bit of googling (bc my ass is NOT Korean) I chose Kang-Dae, meaning “mighty and strong”

- take a wild guess as to why I chose that lmfao

- ironically though as for the backstory I envision for him, he was NOT always mighty and strong 💔

- consider: Abby (who I will be referring to as Kang-Dae) was actually a very sick and frail young man in joseon-era Korea. I’m thinking he was born into a family whose business relied largely on physical labor for income, like farmers. I do not envision him having belonged to a wealthy family, and he gives off “only son in a house of daughters” vibe.

- none of his sisters are sick; that’s because he has a sex-linked genetic disorder passed almost exclusively (except for in cases of genetic mutations in female children) from mother to son. It’s a long explanation but to put it shortly: the mother contributes the X chromosome to her child. Because biological males only have one X chromosome, they are more susceptible to genetic disorders caused by a mutation in that inherited chromosome than biological girls; this is because girls have two X chromosomes and if one is mutated, there is a better chance that the other healthy X chromosome can compensate.

- I’m thinking he’s got something like Duchenne muscular dystrophy.

- ANYWAYS enough with the biology lesson

- Joseon-era norms are primarily based on Confucianism, in which men were appointed and expected to be the heads of the house; they were expected to be strong and responsible for the family’s livelihoods.

- Now, Confucianism also stresses the importance of family and filial piety. A culture centered around Confucian philosophy would most definitely put a lot of pressure on someone chronically ill and male because suddenly he’s gotta deal with male standards AND being the foundation of his family AND since this is like anywhere from 1392-1897 AD, he probably would’ve died young because again, CHRONICALLY ILL.

- add that to him being the oldest and only son in his family (he probably had like five sisters LMFAO) and he’s cooked.

- and that is where the root of his shame came from: never feeling like he was good enough to take care of his family and feeling like the legacy would die with him.

- So! Gwi-Ma sees one (1) vulnerable man and says “hey wanna make a deal” and of course Kang-Dae is desperate and crumbling under the weight of shame for who he is and the expectations he must uphold and accepts the pact.

- AND BAM. Abby is born.

- I imagine his fatal flaw, however, was that he began overcompensating for the time he lost. Threw himself into so much work that while yes, he did get the recognition, he was blinded by both his job and the admiration for his sudden recovery and work ethic and physique and ended up leaving his family and other loved ones behind.

- I think his storyline would revolve around how some people are part of the family, but that doesn’t make them family— like how a parent can support their child financially however much they like, but they’re not really a parent if they don’t act out the role of one.

- something something blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb

- tldr: Abby’s real name is Kang-Dae. He was chronically ill and physically weak in the joseon era. Because of the philosophy around men and women’s roles at the time, he felt a lot of shame at being unable to fulfill what was expected of him and support his family due to his illness, so he made a deal with Gwi-Ma for strength and health. After making the deal and making a miraculous recovery from his illness, he threw himself into work and got a huge ego from all the praise and adoration thrown his way from others; this, however, did not save him from losing sight of his family and leaving them behind in favor of the strangers who fed his pride.

Personality

- To me, Kang-Dae gives off the energy of both Johnny Bravo and Kronk 💀

- LISTEN

- maybe I do love himbos okay

- He’s got that Johnny Bravo-esque quality of always trying to impress someone, especially by making a show of his body and strength, and that Kronk-y side of him that’s like… he’s kinda a meathead LMFAO.

- But he can be a sweetheart when he gets past all his pride and ego.

- However, deep down he most certainly feels shame for having prioritized strangers over his family, and partially still feels ashamed of his body even after it got all strong and stuff (because as someone who has myself struggled with body image issues, that shit doesn’t go away completely, even when you do physically improve).

- Unironically posts thirst traps

- obsessed with protein

Romance Saja

Name and Backstory

- For his name I’m thinking Seo-Jun, meaning ‘auspicious’ and ‘handsome’.

- Lowkey? I feel like as a human he would have been some form of nobility. He’s got that rich boy feel to him yk

- I feel like his big issue was his greed/lust (and not necessarily in the sexual way, more like in the ‘constantly desiring something’ way; though I do headcanon that he was kind of a fuckboy LMFAO)

- So picture this: wealthy, kinda spoiled nobleman Seo-Jun who is slave to his greed (hoarding of material possessions such as money) and lust (intense desire to obtain things, even to the detriment of yourself or others). He falls in love with another human who doesn’t reciprocate. He can’t understand why— he has so much to his name, after all. All that power, status, money; he can have anything he wants except for the one person he’s in love with.

- And thus comes his doubt. His shame. He has never really been told no before, nor has he failed to obtain something he wanted. He starts doubting his worthiness, losing his sense of worth in himself and the world around him.

- And here comes Gwi-Ma, who promises him very specifically “I can grant you love”— but does not specify what type of love he means.

- Seo-Jun, of course, is like “hell yeah brother” because of course he thinks Gwi-Ma means the person Seo-Jun is in love with. And thus the demon we know as Romance Saja is brought into existence.

- He gets with his crush, but plot twist: Gwi-Ma is a treacherous bitch as was like “lmao watch this”.

- Gwi-Ma did not specify what kind of love Seo-Jun would receive; while he’s with his crush, Seo-Jun is loved for his money, his body, his status, his possessions— but never for him.

- and Seo-Jun? Seo-Jun wants that romantic, deep love more than anything else in the world— but no matter what he does, he simply can’t get it and it just makes his shame and insecurity grow (thus empowering Gwi-Ma’s grip on the world, too).

- he brings his lover flowers. Buys them the finest silks, tells them the sweetest words, bends himself backwards for them— but still, he is never, ever loved the way he wants to be.

- and that’s how he lives out the rest of his time as a human: bleeding for a romance that never comes about.

- tldr: Seo-Jun (Romance Saja) is essentially Korean Jay Gatsby. Spoiled rich boy who falls in love with someone who doesn’t reciprocate. Spirals into “why am I not good enough for them????? How can I be good enough for them?????” and subsequently makes a deal with Gwi-Ma who is promising love. Gwi-Ma does a little trolling though and because there’s multiple types of love, Seo-Jun is thus never loved romantically by his significant other, more often than not experiencing affection only for his possessions, body, and status.

He never achieves that true love he craves.

Personality

- a YEARNER

- wholly and completely kins Jay Gatsby

- gets really cheesy with the romance stuff.

- starved for that affection that was once denied by someone he thought was the love of his life; therefore he gets a lot of teeny crushes on anything that shows him affection.

- Thinks he’s an absolute Casanova (steals cringe lines from instagram pickup artist pages)

- “Are you 🤨… open minded? 🥰” (if you get this reference ily)

- Subconsciously a people-pleaser. Cannot stand being ignored for more than ten minutes at a time.

- kinda spoiled lol. Rich boy syndrome.

- collects shiny things off the ground.

Baby Saja

Name and Backstory

- I’m naming him Min-Soo. There’s a couple interpretations depending on how you write it but the interpretation I’m going for is “gentle” (Min) and “clever” (Soo)

- Gentle, of course, pertaining to his outward appearance and clever pertaining to (my headcanon) his cunning/intelligence

- Why? Because I like to think he was a pansori performer and poet. Probably wrote all his songs/poetry himself, and made a pretty good living off of it.

- he was mainly revered for his youthfulness and the juxtaposition of it against his skillful and clever writing/completely unique performance style (cute guy, deep ass voice)

- BUT

- his greatest fear would be in becoming irrelevant. I feel like he fed a lot into the ��lol i have a baby face” and didn’t initially consider what would happen to his relevance when he grew out of that appearance; not until suddenly he noticed the signs of maturity catching up to him. That’s when it hit him like a truck.

- so his ultimate shame would stem from his aging and the idea in his head that he isn’t *actually* good— people just think the contrast between him and his art is humorous. It’s kinda like a form of imposter syndrome.

- So Min-Soo’s deal with Gwi-Ma is eternal youth. But here’s the thing: goals change. Standards change. Acts get old.

- and after a while, the whole “oh haha baby face deep voice” thing fades away from the charm. Maybe someone new comes along. A different style of performance, maybe.

- And Min-Soo? Min-Soo is stuck being what he’s always been.

- the fear he had about becoming irrelevant due to his aging? Now he’s irrelevant because he couldn’t change.

- tldr: singer-poet Min-Soo has built his career off of looking cute but sounding much more mature/serious. when he starts aging, he freaks and spirals; imposter syndrome hits hard and he starts thinking things like “the only reason people like me is because of how much I contradict myself— I’m not actually talented” and makes a pact with Gwi-Ma for eternal youth to hold on to his act/notoriety. However, times change, and so do the opinions of the masses. Min-Soo fades into obscurity anyways, not because he changed, but because he couldn’t.

Personality

- in Every screencap of him I’ve seen of him he’s either :3, :O, or >:3

- I think he can be pretty playful/mischievous/childish in behavior, yet simultaneously keep up that distant/nonchalant/cool personality.

- I also imagine him to be pretty clever and cunning

- pisses off Jinu to no end because he only does things when *he* wants to do them.

- Hates himself for his stubbornness back before the modern day. I think that’s where his distant demeanor comes from; even though he knows how to act towards the public (such as how he acts as a maknae for the Saja Boys, all cute and silly and such), he internally feels like he needs to overcompensate for how much he tried to hold on by now not attaching himself to anything at all.

- Paints his bandmates’ nails.

- “mew 🥰 I told you we needed more glitter.👹”

- unironically does enjoy the comfy and looser clothing he’s made to wear.

- curses like vivziepop wrote him (/hj)

- master of pranks. REALLY good at acting innocent about it too.

- knows he’s adorable and uses it to his advantage.

- (he’s my bias and I love him to death)

- (please one chance I’m BEGGING YOU 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏)

Mystery Saja

Name and Backstory

- I’m gonna call him Dae-Shim, meaning “great depth” because he’s got a lot of possible depth to his character

- I’m actually kind of having trouble with him because there’s quite a few directions I could go with him

- To me, he’s giving this kind of eccentric, ‘weird kid in school’ vibe.

- So here’s what I thought up: as a human, Dae-Shim was a scholar. He was regarded as odd and eccentric and suspiciously quiet by his peers, mostly because he spent most of his time in his head more often than not, thinking about and reviewing everything he’d learned during the day.

- In Joseon-era Korea, scholars were held in high, HIGH regard. Called Seonbi, they were highly respected by the people and often studied history, literature, and philosophy alongside Confucian teachings.

- I like to imagine Dae-Shim was one of these Seonbi, or at least in training to become one.

- But he craved knowledge. Hated when someone knew more than him. Held himself to the impossibly high standard of “I must always be the smartest in the room”.

- whenever he didn’t know something, he felt ashamed. He’d spiral. He’d be like “all this work and I still know nothing.” And just berate himself like “bro I’m so stupid” (he recited an entire philosophical essay by memory two minutes prior).

- At his core, his academic hubris was his downfall. When he goes blind later on (probably due to some sort of infection like scarlet fever, meningitis, or just a simple eye infection that got out of control; he became more susceptible to illness because he overworked himself to death trying to know everything), he freaks out.

- he’s barely in his twenties, and there’s still so much to learn and so much he wants to do. Now he can’t read or see anything anymore and it feels like his world is ending.

- Therefore his deal with Gwi-Ma was to have all the knowledge in the world — and it ultimately drove him kinda crazy (thus why he feels the need to bark at people 💀).

- he’s unhinged, but in the quiet, kinda terrifying kind of way.

- Before getting yoinked into the demon world, he spends the rest of his days as a human locked away in his room, alone, just progressively getting more and more insane.

- also, I imagine him having a kinda Toph-vision thing going on. If he knows everything in the world, then he knows positioning and what things look like despite being blind (though I think they’d appear more as images in his head and premonitions than actual vision, if that makes sense). Do not be fooled, he’s still blind as fuck.

- tldr: Dae-shim has dedicated his life to his studies. He cannot take it when someone knows something he doesn’t, because in his head, that means he’s not intelligent or capable enough to meet his own ridiculously high standards. He studies for hours on end at the detriment to his health; he catches a sickness that leaves him blind and that’s when he snaps because how is he supposed to be great if he can’t even see the texts he’s supposed to be studying? So he makes a deal with Gwi-Ma for all the knowledge in the world and subsequently loses his mind because having everything everywhere all at once crammed into your brain does that to you.

Personality

- like I said, unhinged as all hell

- it’s not really his fault though. If you were also exposed to every bit of knowledge everywhere at once in the world you’d also be a little (a lot) insane

- very quiet. People don’t really notice he’s appeared until he’s two inches away from them like “hello. 😐”

- doesn’t talk much and has a lot of trouble expressing himself.

- Has a poor concept of personal space but can barely stand being touched.

- out of all the boys, he has the ugliest moments of regret for what he did to himself. And I don’t say “ugliest” as a form of insult or anything— i mean it like “it’s physically painful to watch him break” type shit. It’s not pretty or romanticized or anything. Brother is the most mentally unstable out of all of them and his breakdowns? Snotty and spittle-y. The type of emotional state that has him suffocating on his own tears and probably throwing up because his head just won’t shut up.

- whispers random ominous shit at the worst possible moments. Like idk maybe one of his bandmates is trying to go to bed and Dae-Shim just appears from the shadows and says something like “the hat man is coming. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.”

- makes friends with his sleep paralysis monsters when he doesn’t scare them off.

- probably eats dirt or something idk

————

A/N: Hyperfixation goes crazy. When there is not enough characterization in the film I will do it myself 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

(BABY SAJA ONE CHANCE PLEASE)

#saja boys #saja boys headcanons #kpop demon hunters spoilers #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters headcanons #kdh #kpdh #baby saja #Abby saja #abs saja #mystery saja #romance saja #k pop demon hunters #saja

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