#forgotten plotline maybe?

[hozaloza]

Who the fuck was Alex's friend, and why did they casually give Alex a high rank's keycard

"Hey bro, snatch this shit for me" "I gotchu" hello??😭

I'm sure Red will be able to patch this plot hole up, but it felt like it was something that was supposed to lead to another character being introduced and helping Alex get the kids out, but got swept up bc of some sudden writing change (idk)

[unproduciblesmackdown]

being alive at the time i gleaned some general elements abt encanto but never actually heard we don't talk about bruno beyond awareness it existed popping off & i think i heard like the title recited off key off rhythm but in a way that indicates speak singing nonetheless lol so upon experiencing it it's like oh but it's the Verses? while the last refrain goes harder but prior to that it's comparatively underwhelming to said verses which feels appropriate like verses / pieces of a larger picture & that a "we don't talk about him" as a disappointing Lid on infinitely richer more characterful & dynamic "but: talking about him" instances. like well personally it'd be like um seven foot frame....anyway besides being able to firsthand go like oh damn Real (the kind of thing you know exists if alive at the time) it's like alright hang on lol. one thing when a core theme is yeah like "is it a refuge if 'especial' vulnerability ultimately gets pushed out rather than made safer" subset like the parties whose even observation of truths (problems) & drawing attention to them is seen as Ruining Things, like if you're painted as Making futures that aren't simply what's desired or reassuring rather than a guidance via just observing & sharing the truth. but then it's like whaddaya mean living in fear of bruno stuttering and stumbling you could always hear him sort of muttering and mumbling lmao like now that's just Association between the Truth Perceiving & Telling behavior & behavior that's just apparently distinctive of the same person. & like Not Accidentally when [what if people were magic] specifics are obviously primarily abt a metaphorical meaning & like, indeed it was made clear like oh this situation isn't Just b/c [boo we hate your prophecies] & that [an Ability that isn't directed towards what anyone Wants / is "weird" even by these magic standards] isn't Coincidentally given to someone who just so happens to already be "weird" in other ways & be set up to have a different perspective & be pushed away due to having the supposed "extra" vulnerability of unmet needs / insufficient support, same as someone who doesn't "correctly" have any kind of magic ability....like yeah banger and also like Oh Yeah Kind Of Devastating re: that metaphorical resonance allowing for like [set the metaphor aside] now hang on with this about this disabled family member lol. misinterpretation to The Ruinerrr / The Problemmm / The Maliciousss etc (i.e. the scapegoatinggg) despite their efforts likely entirely to the contrary. then despite like, efforts aside, Just Existing, always kind of muttering & mumbling like & what of it. & then like oh sorry weird pets. weird [auspicious for adaptable tenacious thriving surviving; either way simply creatures, existing] pets.

truly like As Is The Idea I'm Sure quickly becomes like hands behind back standing at the window Uh Oh Sisters musing on all the [disabled person] metaphorical & already literal elements there. blair witching it in contemplation like We've All Been There whether being so resented for the mere disruption of "existing in a group as the 'abnormal' odd one out" or like people talking shit abt anything associated w/you as soon as you've left the room, which is also made relevant like, this wasn't Only directed at this person when seemingly permanently gone, nor were they unaware / unaffected prior....pacing in the Musing parlor like things don't Have to be compared to billions but i only ever even see so many things & it's like billions sure is like "get scapegoated rword" & then said scapegoating is presented as only beneficial & we hate autists & even beyond that it's like, grabbing billions, Imagine If Things Meant To Be About Something Were About Something. quite a contrast when they are & furthermore like, deliberate thought & Care for [who gets scapegoated & why] & the truth of like, people getting pushed aside & out who have a key perspective & are primed / liable to come through for others similarly vulnerable & the supposedly Ruinous, Problems Generating disruptiveness is actually the strongest effort to make essential changes to a group. & come through with like, it'd be undermining thee point if it was "reassuring" us like oh haha people will be supportive b/c bruno will be more normal, so great that it Didn't like no, no Normality Reassurance(tm), presence of abnormalities(tm), Good, & everyone Can Deal b/c if you don't then it's pushing this person away, is exactly what happens, including even if they're still Around but are being mistreated b/c that is entirely part of that pushing away like anyone's victim blaming is ready to pounce at any time but if someone can't stand to stay / leaves b/c they can't see another option like that's not out of nowhere nor Regardless of what full support & flexibility they were getting lol. these Active Measures everyone loves so much, which are everywhere always & would include Staying & Trying To Make It Work & those efforts would be "disruptive" & resented & Bringing It On Oneself & etccc smh

that is to all say like. Woww when clearly basically the core thread was these beats of like, the crucial site of [thee scapegoated], & why that comes down on someone & how that plays out. endless ideas about how someone weird(tm) & disabled (&/or queer. but there's no Or here lol. & again like it's a Context like, to even be the one person without kids? likely not living up to "full" correct sexuality in that way alone; any oppression's logics of "inferiority" being logics of ableism, ready examples being that "inferior" race, gender, sexuality (& their experiences as people classed as inferior) all being pathologized as disordered) are seen & treated as someone Ruining Things & who cannot belong like whew. bracing. winding. which, i also recall like i was watching with headphones & during this one dialogue pause i was like "?? what's this Extra Sound i heard there" & had to go over it like twice before being hit upside the head like well it Was still the dialogue pause but it was also bruno Stuttering in a very quiet whisper for the duration of that pause before continuing like iiiiiiii x_x

[butch-chastity]

rich doesn't get to wear his stupid little outfits anymore :(

[rosierin]

just a kiss (it wasn’t) | suna rintarou

synopsis; (y/n) and suna share the story of their first and only kiss. they don’t talk about it much but that doesn’t mean they’ve forgotten

warning; NSFW, mature content, explicit content‼️

part two here!

this fic is part of the off-season quartet™ series! for more, click here :)

It was a rainy Saturday evening—which, in this household, meant one thing:

The perfect excuse for a movie night.

The pitter-patter of rain filled the living room, the sound rousing the sort of mood that made you want to burrow under a blanket and never crawl out. The scent of burnt popcorn (courtesy of Atsumu) still lingered in the air, barely masked by a candle someone had lit a few minutes earlier. On the TV, a romcom played, casting lights across a couch that had seen better days.

They were all tangled somewhere on and around it.

Suna was slouched in his armchair, one hand tucked behind his head, the other loosely holding the remote. The couch, meanwhile, was a mess of limbs. (Y/n) was wedged between the twins, blanket pulled over her legs, comfortable enough not to apologise when her thighs accidentally bumped one of theirs.

The movie was halfway through.

Some soft-hearted childhood-sweethearts plotline—filled with lots of longing glances, a slow dance in the kitchen, and a romantic first kiss on New Year’s Eve under fairy lights.

It was sweet and frankly a little bit sappy. But to (y/n), nostalgic in a way that made the room feel warmer than it was.

‘Course Atsumu had to go and ruin it.

“Okay but like,” he gestured towards the screen, “it’d be so weird kissin’ someone you’ve known since you were, like, six. Right? Isn’t that basically incest?”

(Y/n) sighed and pressed her eyes shut. “That’s… not how incest works.”

“No, but you get what I mean,” Atsumu rambled. (Y/n) didn’t grace him with a response. “You’ve watched ‘em eat glue and pick their nose yer whole life. How d’you go from that to makin’ out?”

Osamu made a thoughtful noise. “I mean, I get it. It’s weird if they feel like family.”

“Exactly!” Atsumu said. “Just feels wrong.”

Suna, who had diligently said nothing for the last fifteen minutes, shifted in his chair.

(Y/n) glanced at him, saw the barely perceptible twitch of his mouth, and cleared her throat.

And for whatever reason—maybe it was the sensual kissing scene playing on screen, maybe it was the quiet thrum of mischief in the air—she spoke without thinking.

“I’ve kissed Rin before.”

For a moment, nobody spoke. The rain drummed steadily against the windows.

She could practically hear the gears turning in the twins’ heads, the words ricocheting around their skulls before slotting into place.

Atsumu’s frown was pure instinct. “…Huh?"

Osamu turned his head, eyes widening a fraction. “You what? Seriously?”

Suna gave a lazy shrug. Then, with a quiet hum—like it wasn’t worth making a fuss over—he responded, “Yeah.”

“Wait. Hold on.” Osamu pointed between them, a grin tugging at his lips. “You two. Kissed. Like—on the mouth?”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow, fighting back a smile. “Is there another way?”

Atsumu’s eyebrows pulled together, not quite a glare, but close. “Wait—when?” His tone sounded as though he didn't know whether to be be confused, angry, or both.

She hesitated.

That was the thing. It had been years ago. Just once. A long, blurry night tucked behind them like a folded photograph they never took back out. But even now, her face grew warm.

“It was… a while ago. We were… eighteen, I think. Funnily enough it was on New Year's too." She pointed to the movie.

Atsumu turned toward her fully, one leg folded beneath him, the other dangling off the couch. His brows were drawn tight, mouth parted. “And yer just tellin’ us now?!”

(Y/n) offered a weak shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

Oh, it was.

It definitely was.

But she wasn’t about to give the twins the full retelling.

The whole time, her attention was drawn to Suna—trying to get a read on him, even though he wasn’t giving her much to work with. Still, she had a feeling he was more invested than he let on.

“Was it, like... a dare?” Osamu asked.

Suna shook his head. “Nah.”

“So... a practice thing?”

He popped a kernel into his mouth. Smirked just a little. “Ask, (y/n).”

Bastard.

At once, both twins turned to look at her.

Atsumu was the image of impatience. Leaning in, eyes narrowed like he was half expecting her to admit she was joking.

Meanwhile Osamu, calmer but no less curious, raised one brow in silent question.

She shrank back against the couch cushions, suddenly hyper-aware of the space—or lack thereof—between them.

Two sets of expectant eyes on her.

Two completely different expressions.

One identical intensity.

She swallowed.

She could still remember it—the quiet pop of fireworks outside Suna’s window. The way his eyes looked that night, different somehow. Older.

The memory made her pause, words caught somewhere between embarrassment and pride.

She glanced at Suna and their eyes met.

He didn’t say anything outright, but his shoulder lifted slightly. A silent go on. And if she hadn’t known him for so long, she might’ve missed the faint flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. The quiet, smug little challenge that said:

Go on. Tell them. Let’s see what version you pick.

She cleared her throat and chose her words carefully, eyes darting between Atsumu and Osamu.

“So… we were alone. Remember? We’d gone to his parents' house over the holidays. You guys had gone back to Hyōgo to spend Christmas with your family.”

The twins nodded. Let her continue.

“Anyway, at first we were just talking...” Her fingers toyed with a loose thread in the blanket over her lap.

“Then he looked at me,” she went on, gaze drifting towards Suna. She paused, unsure how much he was willing to let her to share—if he wanted her to tell the rest.

He didn’t look her way. Just let the silence stretch, eyes fixed on the credits like none of this concerned him.

Right. Point taken.

“And he just… I don’t know—you know how guys have that specific look when you wanna kiss someone?”

Osamu snorted. Atsumu shook his head. "No?"

(Y/n) rolled her eyes. "Okay, well—you do. Anyway. He gave me that look and..."

“And?” Atsumu clicked his tongue. “Jesus woman, how long ya gonna keep edgin’ us for?”

Her fingers curled into the couch cushion as she shot him a weak glare. “Well… after that, he kissed me. So… I kissed him back.”

Her tone was even, but a flicker of a smile tugged at her lips—because no matter how nonchalant she tried to sound, the memory still lit something warm in her chest.

Osamu let out a low whistle.

Atsumu gawked—shocked, maybe a little relieved. “That’s it?”

She risked a glance at Suna.

It was faint, but she could tell he was biting back a grin. That quiet glint was there again. Something so typically Suna—aloof, amused, and just a little bit smug. Like he was remembering it too.

“She’s leaving out the good part."

(Y/n)’s heart jumped. “Rin—”

Suna either missed the flicker of panic on her face, or ignored it. He just sat up with a slow stretch, sweatshirt riding up to reveal a sliver of skin. A sound slipped from him—half sigh, half yawn.

“It wasn’t just a kiss,” he stated—flat, but a little too suggestive. Probably on purpose.

Osamu’s eyebrows shot up, eyes locked on Suna now. “You guys…?”

“No,” Suna said before anyone could finish the thought. “We didn't get that far."

That earned him a full double take from both twins.

“Go on," Atsumu demanded.

(Y/n) was at a loss for words. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the twins. It’s not like they’d go around repeating the story—why would they? But even so. Nobody knew about her past… lore with Suna. Not a soul.

And while she didn’t mind mentioning the kiss, the rest—well. The rest was, for lack of a better term, not safe for work.

Not safe for her dignity, either.

That night had been a lot of things.

Spontaneous, yes. Heated. But also more complicated than she'd ever admit out loud.

She’d known the twins for years—ever since they were teenagers. And yet, she’d never told them about her crush on her best friend. Never told them about one of the most pivotal nights of her love life.

And perhaps tonight wasn't the night for that.

Instead, she shook her head, cheeks burning as the memories began rushing in. “I dunno what to say! We were just… stupid and curious and just being your typical horny teenagers, that’s all.”

That earned a quiet snort from Osamu, who looked more amused than surprised at this new piece of backstory.

Atsumu, on the other hand, didn’t laugh. He just stared, like he was trying to figure out what to say but didn’t quite know how to frame it. His lips parted, then pressed shut again.

As for Suna... He simply kept quiet. Knowing him, he was probably just as torn about sharing the details. If anyone valued their privacy, it was Suna.

And (y/n)—despite herself—felt her gaze drop to her hands in her lap, fingers twisting in the sleeves of her hoodie Her skin prickled—not quite from embarrassment, but from the heat of the memory... and the leftover tension hanging in the air.

Mercifully, neither twin pressed any further. Even Atsumu, surprisingly.

(Y/n) exhaled a little breath as Osamu pulled his brother and Suna into a brainstorm about which movie to watch next.

Hopefully not another romance.

She wasn't sure if he'd done it out of sympathy, or if it just happened to be good timing. Either way, she was grateful for the distraction.

They never brought it up again.

But that didn’t mean her mind didn't.

Every now and then, she’d glance over at Suna. He looked relaxed—detached, even—but she couldn’t help but wonder if his mind was buzzing too. If his hands had gotten clammy. If his heart had even skipped a beat.

She was too caught up in her thoughts to notice him pull out his phone.

Her phone buzzed seconds later.

Blinking herself out of the haze, she looked down at her screen and gawked.

From: Rin tell your brain to be quiet can hear it from here

She ignored his message.

And glared at him instead.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

It was right after graduation. In winter, on New Year’s Eve.

A night with no romance, no candles, no feelings—just the quiet kind of chaos that only happens when trust, timing, and tension mix in the worst possible way.

They’d known each other since they were nine.

Back then, it was simple. He was the quiet kid who liked video games and hated group work. She was the chatty one who always finished her lunch first and dragged him out of the house. They just… clicked. Simple as that. A friendship built on years of inside jokes, late-night calls, and knowing each other like the backs of their hand.

It wasn’t until middle school that her feelings began to change.

Not overnight. Far from it. But somewhere between study calls and the first time he pulled off his hoodie in front of her, something settled in her chest. It crept up on her like a slow burn. A feeling you don’t notice until it’s already been there a while and planted its roots.

She started caring more. Laughing harder at his jokes. Noticing when his replies came slower, when his voice sounded a bit more tired than usual. Being around him just felt... better than being around anyone else. There was comfort. Trust. And the type of closeness that made her heart ache for all the right reasons.

Love, probably. But the shy, unspoken kind. The kind you don’t confess because you're afraid it might ruin everything.

And then, of course, they both had a glow-up—that was just the truth. He got taller. His voice dropped. His jaw sharpened. And she noticed.

The same way he noticed her legs that summer she started wearing shorts more often. The same way his eyes lingered a little too long when she bent over to grab something. The way his teasing lost a bit of its brotherly edge and got a bit more... biting.

She wasn’t stupid. He found her attractive. She knew that.

But she also knew that’s where it stopped. It was purely surface-level. Because Suna wasn’t the type to fall easily. And if he ever saw her as anything more, it never lasted long enough to mean something.

Not like hers had.

She’d been in love with him for years. Secretly. Hopelessly. Love you don’t act on because it’s easier to carry in silence than risk putting it down and never getting it back.

So no—

They weren’t a thing. They weren’t anything.

Except... aware.

Almost as if something sat between them, constantly humming just beneath the surface. A quiet almost that only one of them seemed to feel.

Until that particular New Year’s night, when the hum turned into something louder.

His house was quiet. His parents and little sister were off celebrating with friends, and he’d bailed last minute with the most Suna excuse ever:

“Too many people. Too much noise. Don’t feel like pretending to care about countdowns.”

(Y/n) had agreed without thinking. Like always. By now, saying yes to him felt like second nature, so when he suggested she stay the night, it didn’t even feel like a choice.

Now they were in his room—lights off, movie playing in the background, the faint sound of fireworks crackling somewhere in the distance. Her legs were curled up on his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. Suna sat beside her, phone face-down, arm draped loosely across the back of the mattress.

They weren’t saying much. Just watching. Existing.

Until the scene changed.

And—what the fuck?

Where the hell did this come from?

Out of nowhere, the couple on screen were now tangled up on a couch—shirts half-off, lips clashing. Moans slipped out between kisses, fingers clawing at fabric like they couldn’t get close enough.

The scene wasn't explicit by any means, but showed enough to make (y/n) cringe. Flushed skin. Bare thighs. The unmistakable rhythm of two people getting lost in each other.

Her spine straightened on instinct.

She cleared her throat and looked away, shifting in her seat under the guise of getting comfortable.

She could feel Suna's eyes on her.

“Do scenes like this make you uncomfortable?” he asked, voice laced with amusement.

She stiffened. “No. I mean—maybe a bit.”

He hummed, glancing sideways. Her eyes flicked between the couple on screen and Suna, trying very hard not to combust at the explicit sounds that now filled his moderate sized bedroom.

“…Do they not make you uncomfortable?” she countered.

He shrugged, gaze slipping back to the TV with that usual calm. “Nah. Not really.”

Typical.

She narrowed her eyes. "What does make you uncomfortable, then?"

His response came far too fast. “Kita.”

She fought back a grin. “Seriously?”

“Correct." He gave a curt nod. “Kita Shinsuke freaks me out.”

Out of all the things. His stoic volleyball captain from high school is what got him?

She snorted, shaking her head a little. “How come? I think he’s nice!”

Suna’s face stayed neutral, but she could've sworn she saw him shudder.

“Try having him breathe down your neck for a day,” he mumbled. “That guy’s terrifying.”

“Kita’s not scary,” she argued. “He only picked on you ’cause he knew you were a major slacker.”

His lip twitched. “Only one who got scouted to Inarizaki though.”

(Y/n) nodded, conceding with a half-smile. “That you were.”

Thankfully, by the time she turned her attention back to the TV, the sex scene had ended.

Thank God.

Unfortunately, it was only then that she noticed how close they were sitting. She blamed the way she’d shifted earlier, trying to act normal. That was on her. And maybe it was the scene that had just played out on screen, but now the space between them felt… tight.

Suddenly, the movie wasn’t the only thing messing with her focus.

She looked over at him once. Then again.

Their thighs brushed every now and then. Not fully touching, but enough for the heat of him to bleed into her side. Every shift he made—the way his hoodie rustled, the subtle rise and fall of his breathing—felt loud in her ears.

She tried to focus on the movie. Really, she did.

But her eyes kept drifting.

Just for a second. Then another.

He looked good. Effortless like always with his hoodie half-pulled over his messy hair, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, eyes half-lidded like he could fall asleep any second.

But he wore his tired well. Even the faint shadows beneath his eyes didn’t make him look worn—they made him look soft. Still strangely handsome.

Her gaze slipped to his jaw. Then the sliver of collarbone visible beneath his hoodie, the way the fabric stretched across his broad shoulders.

Then lower—to where his hands rested in his lap, fingers loose and half-curled, adorned with a silver ring on each pointer finger. She didn’t remember when he started wearing them.

Her throat tightened slightly. They suited him. She’d always thought his hands were pretty. Usually, it was just a fleeting thought. A simple observation.

But tonight—tonight, she found herself wondering what those hands could do. What they’d feel like against her skin.

Her cheeks flushed. She looked away. Cleared her throat.

Get a grip, (y/n).

It wasn’t a big deal. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. She was over him. Had been, for a while now. This was the movie's fault. Or maybe some leftover curiosity—that’s all.

“Hm?”

Suna's voice drifted over, pulling her from her daze.

She straightened a bit too fast, hating how guilty she sounded when she replied, “What?”

There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth when he glanced over. “Were you checking me out?”

Her response was like a bad reflex. “No.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I was just—” Her eyes dropped to his lap, and she could've cursed at the mindless action.

Why'd I do that?

He's probably gonna think I was looking at—

She caught the way his brows lifted as she looked back up, his smirk broadening into something almost boyish.

Of course.

"Your hands,” she clarified, louder than intended.

“My hands?” He echoed, almost innocently. But something in his voice sounded suspiciously pleased.

She could’ve brushed it off. Could’ve left it at that. But her mouth had already run ahead of her.

"Mhmm. I was just thinking how nice they are."

If her words weren't enough to make her cringe, then Suna's reaction was. He didn't bother hiding his amusement this time, not as he slowly lifted a hand in front of him and flexed his fingers a few times.

She hated how her gaze lingered on the movement, on the glint of silver on his fingers, the subtle shift of muscle beneath skin, pronounced with each curl.

Lazy, controlled—like he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Thanks," he drawled.

She swallowed.

God.

Her mind went somewhere it absolutely should not have gone.

Her thighs squeezed together under the blanket.

He dropped his hands back into his lap without a word and looked at her.

She daren't meet his gaze.

She shouldn’t be having these thoughts. Not about him. Not now. They’d sat like this before—shoulder to shoulder, legs touching, even sharing a bed more times she can count. But it had never felt like this. Never made her pulse quicken or her mind wander the way it was tonight.

So why now?

Maybe it was the quiet. The late hour. Maybe even the stupid movie.

Or maybe it was the fact that it was just the two of them—alone in his room with nowhere to be, nothing to do, and too much unsaid sitting between them.

Because something about being here with him like this always brought old feelings to the surface.

“Do you think we’ll be different this year?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them—quiet, barely a whisper.

Suna’s eyes flicked to her face. “You mean like… emotionally evolved?”

She tried not to fidget too much and nodded once, lips pressed together, already regretting her question.

But Suna didn't make her feel guilty. Didn't tease. Didn't overreact. Just held her gaze and asked, “Did you want it to be different?”

The question made her stomach twist, eyes drifting to the way her hands fiddled with the sleeve of her hoodie. She could feel it, that pulse of awareness between them. The one that made the hairs on her arms prick up. The one she used to feel and thought she’d finally outgrown—until now.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Probably not.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. But it certainly wasn't the kind she was used to.

She swallowed the lump in her throat as Suna turned to her fully. The slight shift in position was negligible, probably nothing but a few centimetres. But she felt it enough to make her heart stutter.

It took her a great amount of effort not to shrink beneath his gaze.

Suna and his damn eye contact.

"Something's on your mind."

It wasn't a question. More like an observation that landed straight in her gut.

Her breathing shallowed. "How can you tell...?"

“You’re acting weird tonight,” he murmured. Not an insult, but something almost like curiosity.

“So are you,” she shot back, voice mirroring his hushed tone.

A ghost of a smirk. “Yeah?”

“You’re sitting closer than usual.”

“Am I?”

“You’re looking at me different.”

Indeed. He didn’t deny it.

His eyes were half-lidded. Hazy. Fixed on her like he was seeing something he hadn’t let himself look at before.

She recognized that look.

She’d seen it in other guys before—guys at parties, in passing glances, in moments that felt fleeting and charged.

But never from him. Not Suna.

And now that it was him—looking at her like that—her stomach twisted with something half-forgotten. Something she thought had burned out long ago.

Her voice came out smaller than she intended, tight in her throat. "...What’re you doing?"

He didn’t answer right away, but the dip in atmosphere was palpable.

“Tell me to stop.”

Her heart lurched—at the words, at the tone. Silken, but brazen. Familiar, but suddenly foreign.

The feeling in her chest felt like reopening a book she’d shelved a long time ago.

A chapter she never thought she’d revisit.

She didn’t move. Could hardly breathe. All she could do was sit there, heart hammering as he leaned in—close enough for her to catch the scent of his cologne. For her eyes to flick to his mouth—once, then back up.

"...What?"

Usually she'd deflect. Change the subject. Look away. But she couldn't this time. Or rather... she wouldn't.

“I said,” he murmured, gaze dropping to her lips, “tell me to stop.”

Her mouth parted, but no words came out.

Not as he tilted his head, lips brushing hers in the faintest whisper of contact.

Not when his nose bumped hers and her breath hitched.

She barely had time to register what was happening.

Next thing she knew—

He was kissing her.

No rush. No pressure. Just the feeling of his mouth on hers, tentative and warm, slow enough to give her time to pull away, soft enough to make her brain fog.

And in her head, all the years came rushing in.

The laughter. The teasing. How she used to look for him in every room like it was second nature. The late-night calls. The company that had always felt like safety.

She thought she was past this. She really did.

But now, with Suna kissing her like that—like she was something precious and just barely his—she wasn’t so sure.

His mouth moved against hers with a kind of lazy confidence, lips parting just enough to make her dizzy. Her body tensed beneath the softness, thighs pressing together, fingers twitching where they rested in her lap, aching to reach for something—him.

And just when she thought she might actually lose her balance, he pulled away. Not far. Just enough to look at her.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just stared. Eyes locked on hers like he was watching her process the moment in real time—studying every twitch, every breath. Waiting to see if she’d move first.

But (y/n) was in a daze, her lips still parted. Eyes bleary and blinking as if she was seeing a different reality entirely.

She had kissed Suna.

Suna.

Her best friend Suna.

The one she had pining over for years.

And better yet—he had made the first move.

"Earth to (y/n)..."

His voice reeled her back in. Soft and teasing.

"I..."

Suna’s brows lifted just slightly as she searched for words.

He didn't press. Didn't joke. But there was something playful in his gaze, and maybe just a little bit restrained. Like he was holding back on purpose. Not just out of respect, but to test her. To see what she’d do next.

A quiet dare.

Her nerves flared. She tried to fight it—tried to keep still. Tried to fight the urge to do something truly and utterly reckless. But failed.

Because for a moment, her nerves didn’t matter.

The second-guessing, the what-ifs—gone.

Fuck it.

She reached for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—and crashed her lips onto his.

Harder this time. No hesitation.

He groaned low in his throat—surprised for half a second before melting into it, as if that was all the permission he needed.

His hand came up fast, fingers sliding along her cheek, then down to the hinge of her jaw, guiding her into him with an impatience that felt so unlike him.

(Y/n)'s body lit up at the contact—something involuntary slipping past her lips, a soft, needy sound she didn’t mean to make.

Suna was on her in an instant, tongue slipping past her lips without hesitation—slow, coaxing, claiming, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to break her open.

A shiver rolled down her spine.

She fisted the front of his hoodie, tugging him closer, anchoring herself to him. The kiss felt good. Intoxicatingly good—like finally getting something you stopped wishing for.

She wasn’t sure what it meant. But right now, she didn’t want it to stop.

His hand moved almost carefully, brushing her jaw, then dropping down to her thigh. Warm. Grounding. Asking without asking.

Her body responded before her mind could make sense of it all.

Buzzing. Yearning. A little afraid.

She broke the kiss for half a second, lips brushing his as she whispered, “Rin”—barely more than a plea.

“Still with me?” he asked smoothly.

She nodded.

He leaned in again. This time his mouth found her neck.

Her breath caught.

Then his hand slipped under the hem of her hoodie, fingers dragging along her waist, slow and tailored to make her shiver.

She let out a shaky breath. “This is insane.”

“Yeah,” he rasped. Then, with a tinge of humour, “Don't worry, I locked the door.”

She almost laughed, but then his hand slipped higher beneath her shirt, and all she could do was gasp.

His fingers traced her ribs. His mouth brushed the spot just beneath her ear, where her pulse fluttered.

She was trembling, and yet he didn't stop.

But he did pause. Looked up at her again. “Still okay?”

She nodded.

She didn’t know what started it—maybe the silence. Maybe the look in his eyes when he was about to kiss her. Maybe the way she didn’t stop him when he leaned in.

Whatever the reason, she didn't have it in her to pull away. And clearly, neither did he.

Not when his mouth claimed hers again—slow, heated, open.

Not when his hand slid up the back of her hoodie and skimmed her bare spine as though he’d been holding himself back.

Not when he pulled her onto his lap, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side of his thighs, bodies flushed, hearts thudding in sync.

The kiss deepened. Got messy. Hot. A mixture of pants and breathy sighs.

They barely parted for air before their mouths collided again, each kiss more desperate than the next, breaking only when their lungs forced them to.

Every kiss said, Don’t stop. Every inhale said, More.

Her hands slid into his hair, threading through the soft strands at his nape—pulling, guiding. He groaned softly into her mouth as his tongue brushed hers, slow and filthy. And when she let out a soft, helpless sound against his mouth, he gripped her tighter.

She felt it then—him—hard beneath her, pressing up where she was aching, and her body reacted in the most hopelessly honest way.

She rocked against him once.

He sucked in a breath.

The reaction must've snapped something in him, because in a blink, he was kissing down the column of her throat—eager hands roaming her flushed curves. His mouth working its way along her skin, teasing, but never quite giving her what she wanted.

He pulled her hoodie up in one fluid motion, breaking the kiss just long enough to yank it over her head. Her top followed, peeled away with the same quiet urgency, until she was left in nothing but her bra.

His gaze dipped once and everything soft about him disappeared.

She barely noticed the cold.

She noticed his mouth.

On her collarbones. On her chest. Open, warm, teeth dragging lightly just to make her gasp. She tilted her head back, lips parting around a little sigh, hips unconsciously rolling into his lap again and again like her body was trying to chase something it didn’t fully understand.

His hands found her hips, head hitting the headboard with a quiet thud.

Suna made a noise, low and hoarse—like the air had been knocked out of his lungs. His jaw went slightly slack. His hands tightened.

“Do that again.”

The authority in his voice was mind-numbing. She could’ve sworn goosebumps rose along her arms at the command alone.

Her cheeks flushed, heat prickling across her skin. But her hips moved again, experimentally and obediently. The drag of her clothed core against him made them both stutter a breath.

Something curled in her chest. Not quite pride. Not quite shock. Just a quiet thrill—sparked by the way he looked at her, like she’d just undone something in him.

His eyes were half-lidded, dark and heavy. Every shift of her hips made his lips part a little more. His breathing became ragged, jaw tightening when her movements grew bolder. His fingers dug into the dip of her waist like he was trying to keep her steady, or to keep his own hips from bucking up.

She ground down again—this time with more pressure.

His head fell back. “God, (y/n)—”

She kept going.

Grinding in slow, shallow rolls. The heat between her legs was blinding, the friction building in waves. She could feel the outline of him beneath her, hard and twitching through thin layers of clothes. His hoodie had ridden up his abdomen, her thighs trembling against his joggers.

Yet, Suna—despite the state he was in—was somehow still completely focused on her, like he physically needed to watch her fall apart in his lap.

His hands slid up under her bare stomach, raking over her waist, ribs, then cupping her clothed breasts. His thumbs brushed over her nipples and she gasped, hips jerking at the sudden contact.

“You like this,” he muttered darkly, “You’re getting off on the thought of riding me."

She bit her lip, but couldn't bring herself to deny it.

For a moment, she wondered what that non-verbal confession had done to him. If she’d imagined the glint in his eye. The way his muscles tensed beneath her.

She got her answer soon enough.

With one rough, fluid shift, he flipped them—her back hitting the mattress with a soft thump. Suna hovered over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, caging her in.

She looked up at him with wide, glazed eyes as he bent low, hooked a finger under her shorts, and gave them a slight tug.

“Next time we do that,” he murmured, “I’m taking these off.”

She didn’t answer—just whined as heat coiled tight in her abdomen.

His hand slid between them.

Inside her shorts.

Then inside her underwear.

Her whole body seized up.

His fingers found her—hot, slick, already aching—and he hissed like the feel of her actually hurt him.

“Shit,” he muttered, jaw flexing as his eyes dropped. “Already?”

He looked up again, lips curling slow. Confident and just a little bit smug. “I barely even touched you.”

Disbelief flickered across her flushed face, her eyebrows pinching above her lidded eyes. “You’re joking, right?” she whispered, a little breathless.

Suna just smirked.

His fingers moved again—confident, unfairly skilled, trailing through her slowly without slipping inside. Testing. Mapping her with long, maddening strokes.

She could feel the way her body clenched around nothing, the unmistakable warmth pooling between her thighs. Every nerve ending lit up, impossible to hide.

Her face burned.

He didn’t rush.

It was almost cruel, how calm he was. He didn’t need to ask what felt good. He could read it in her breath, every soft gasp that slipped from her lips, every poorly concealed moan as he deliberately avoided the places that would’ve undone her too quickly.

She pressed her forehead to his shoulder, his name slipping past her lips in a quiet whimper.

He worked her open with soft, torturous rhythm. One finger, then two. The stretch wasn’t new, but it still made her gasp—tight, full, a pulse-deep pressure that had her legs falling open wider, heels digging into the sheets.

His fingers curled deep, knuckles pressing just right against that tender spot inside her, and then he started moving—slow, sinful, obscenely precise—each thrust dragging just enough to make her clench around him, like her body couldn’t bear the emptiness he kept leaving behind.

Her head fell back. A broken sound slipped past her lips.

“Please,” she whimpered. “Don't stop—”

She didn’t care how her voice sounded—needier and more desperate than she’d ever heard, her fingers clutching at Suna’s arm. Her best friend's arm.

Her hips pressed into him, seeking that pressure, riding the curl of his fingers like her body couldn’t help it. Her movements weren’t shy or composed anymore. She was writhing, desperate for more—chasing every thrust of his hand with a helpless pace.

Suna watched her like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

His mouth was slightly open. Eyes cloudy, fixed to the point where their bodies met.

“Look at you," he breathed.

She barely heard his voice.

She just kept moving, breath hitching every time his thumb caught the right spot. The pressure inside her was building too fast, overwhelming, but she didn't stop. Couldn't.

“Usually so sweet,” he crooned. “So polite. So proper.”

His smirk was lazy, laced with awe. “And now you’re fucking yourself on my fingers."

A shaky, flustered sound escaped her throat. “Rin—please—”

“Didn’t know you could be this filthy,” he teased, lips brushing her temple. “You were holding out on me.”

She whined, hips stuttering for a second—mostly from pleasure, partly from shame.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he muttered. “About me doing this to you. Making a mess of you."

She bit her lip, eyes squeezing shut. Her body was moving on instinct now—hips rolling into his hand like she didn’t care how it looked, how desperate it felt. And maybe she should’ve cared. Maybe she should’ve been mortified by how easily she came apart for him. But right now, with his fingers buried inside her, and that voice in her ear—

She couldn’t bring herself to stop.

“Oh, fuck, you do,” he groaned. “That’s why you’re squeezing me like that.”

She was close. So close. Her body burned, curling toward his hand, her movements frantic now, messy—rocking hard against him like she couldn’t hold out any longer.

Her stomach tensed. Her entire body locked up.

“I’m—Rin—”

“I know,” he murmured. “That's it—just like that."

One more stroke. One more definitive grind of his palm against her and the tension inside her belly snapped.

Her whole body arched into him. Her hands clutched his shoulders, lips parting in a silent cry as she came on his fingers—thighs trembling, chest heaving, whimpers spilling out between broken sobs of his name.

Suna didn't ease up yet, working her through it, his fingers slowing just enough to guide her through the last wave of it.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he muttered, watching as she fell apart. “Good fucking girl."

She twitched, chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as he finally relented. He eased his fingers out, gliding them slowly through the mess between her thighs.

(Y/n) was limp against the sheets—dazed, flushed, and thoroughly exhausted.

And yet, amid the wreckage of her orgasm, one stupid thought surfaced like a stray balloon floating into the mess of her mind.

Has Rin always had such a potty mouth?

Something must’ve shown on her face—maybe the pinch of her brows, the slight narrowing of her eyes, or the way her lips parted in quiet confusion—because Suna glanced down at her with a bemused expression.

“You okay?”

He had the audacity to look as casual as ever, hovering over her with one arm braced beside her head. She tried not to shudder as his other hand slowly traced the length of her bare thigh, and instead met his gaze with an almost sceptical stare.

“…Since when are you so chatty?”

He stared. And then, to her delight—he actually laughed.

It wasn’t his usual dry, sarcastic snort either. No—this was one of his rare laughs. Breathy, warm and genuine. The sound made her chest feel funny. The sight even more so: the slight crinkle of his nose, the way his sharp eyes softened like the moment meant something.

“That’s what’s on your mind right now?” he asked, half laughing as he said it.

(Y/n) rolled her eyes but her cheeks flushed anyway, one hand coming up to brush her hair back from her face.

“Well—yeah,” she huffed. “It was just—you know, a lot.”

His smirk lingered, followed with a slight tilt of his chin, brows raised in quiet expectation. If he was waiting for her to elaborate on that statement, he was sorely mistaken.

She groaned and covered her face with her arm. “Don’t make me say it," she grumbled. "You clearly had a lot to say. You never talk that much, even during volleyball.”

He chuckled, quiet but no less smug. “Guess we’re both full of surprises tonight.”

That line landed like a spark on open flame.

She dropped her arm just in time to catch the pointed look he gave her. Like he hadn’t forgotten the way she’d been squirming under him moments ago, how she’d clutched at the sheets and rolled her hips into his hand like a woman possessed.

Her face burned as she averted her gaze.

“Don't,” she warned weakly.

“C'mon, I thought we were past the shy part.”

She kicked weakly at his thigh, but her heart was thudding all over again. That look in his eyes—it wasn’t gone. If anything, it had simmered. Softer, but no less heated. Like he was watching her come back down just to see if he could wind her up again.

And then he just… looked at her.

Not in the lustful, primal way from earlier. This was quieter. His gaze flicked over her face in that typical, unreadable Suna fashion.

She shifted beneath it, suddenly aware of her appearance—her smudged makeup, her flushed skin, the way her hair was probably a mess against the pillow. Something about the way he stared made her feel more exposed than before.

She wondered what was going on in that indecipherable mind of his. What he was seeing. The flaws. The cracks. All the little imperfections she’d spent years picking at in the mirror.

Then his hand lifted, thumb brushing her cheekbone with a tenderness that sent butterflies loose in her stomach.

“Pretty girl,” he murmured.

That was it. Just two words. And yet they hit her square in the chest. Her breath caught, the corners of her eyes prickling with the irrational urge to cry.

His gaze lingered on her, searching or admiring.

“You look surprised,” he mused softly.

She blinked at him, stunned. For a second, it felt like they were fifteen again—a time when her words jumbled and her mind raced. A time when everything felt awkward, flustered, and a little too much like love.

“You’ve never called me that before,” she whispered.

His thumb kept moving in slow, reverent strokes across her cheek. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought it,” he said. “You’ve always been beautiful."

Something swelled in her chest, something old and warm. And when he traced his hand lower to run his thumb over her bottom lip—slowly, like he wanted to memorize it, brand it into memory—her heart cracked a little.

Still, her mouth parted for him.

And he stared, stared at the way she wrapped her lips around the pad of his thumb, at what she was allowing him to do. She caught the subtle clench of his jaw, the flicker in his eyes—the exact moment his restraint gave out.

His kiss wasn't soft.

His body pressed flush to hers, and she could feel him now, fully. Hard. Hot. Nestled right where she was still sensitive.

His hips ground against her, slow and firm, swallowing the tiny gasp she let out. She arched up, and he groaned low. His breath was hot against her ear when he spoke.

“You gonna take me for real this time?”

He shifted again, one hand gripping her thigh, spreading her legs just enough. He slotted between them, the thick heat of him pressing right against her core, only the thin layers of her shorts and his sweats between them.

He rocked once. Harder.

A moan slipped past her lips, more drawn-out than the rest.

“Yeah?” he crooned, almost breathless. His hips rolled again, the length of him dragging slow and heavy right against her clothed core. She felt how hard he was. How ready. How badly he wanted in. "You want it? Just say the word."

“Okay,” she whispered. Her hands were already in his hair. Her hips lifted.

He reached down, hooking his fingers into her shorts and underwear in one motion. She lifted her hips without needing to be asked, then raised her legs so he could pull them all the way off.

Then she felt him.

Skin to skin.

Hot, flushed, heavy against her entrance.

He didn’t push in—yet. Just lined himself up. Let her feel it. Bare and hot and right there, rubbing slowly against her—back and forth, teasing, testing her breath.

The pressure. The stretch. The way it would be.

And it hit her.

Each inhale came shakier than the last. Her body tensed, but not like it had before.

She wanted to want it. God, she really did.

But something cracked inside her chest. Like a wave of uncertainty slamming into a brick wall.

Her mind felt loud all of a sudden.

This wasn’t just a hook-up. Not with him. It couldn’t be.

Not after everything.

Not when her feelings had just barely begun to quiet down.

Not when she still didn’t know what this meant. Or what it didn’t.

Her body buzzed, but her heart tripped over itself. And it was like her mind finally caught up to what was happening.

This is Suna.

Her best friend.

The boy she’d loved.

The boy she was supposed to be over.

And she wasn’t ready for what would come after this.

The weight. The shift. The maybe.

Her breath hitched. Her fingers stilled in his hair.

He noticed instantly.

He didn’t push in. Just stayed right there, wary, his breath stalling as he searched her face.

“(Y/n)?” he asked, voice softer now. Cautious.

He hovered. Silent. His fingers flexed where they were gripping her thigh, like he was holding himself back from giving in completely.

She could feel him twitch against her. Feel how close they were to crossing that line.

She bit her lip, and the world narrowed to nothing but heat and heartbeat.

She couldn’t do this. Not like this.

“I…”

She stared up at him—at the flushed cheeks, the blown pupils, the lips that had been all over her skin. At her best friend. She felt the pressure of him, still right there. Felt the heat in her cheeks, the racing of her heart, the way her thighs clenched tight without meaning to.

“I can’t,” she rasped, throat tight.

He nodded. Instantly. Pulled his hips back. “Okay.”

“I want to, but—I just…”

“It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, face burning.

“Don’t be.”

“I thought I could but—”

“Hey.” His voice was soft now, calming. “It's okay. I get it.”

She looked at him, and what hit her hardest wasn’t disappointment or frustration—it was the absence of it. He wasn’t angry. Didn't look bitter or impatient. He just remained still, like he was giving her space to breathe, letting the moment settle without putting more weight on it.

Maybe that’s what made the guilt feel worse.

Her skin still tingled from the way he touched her. Her body was still wound tight from the high he gave her, and he hadn’t gotten anything in return. He’d given her so much—his hands, his patience, his restraint—and she’d unraveled completely under him, only to stop short. She felt raw. Vulnerable. Embarrassed. And above all, selfish.

He kissed her forehead, slow and lingering, and pulled the covers over her exposed body.

The act was so gentle it nearly broke her.

“Thanks for stopping,” she murmured, barely a whisper.

“Hey,” he started. But his voice, although mostly gentle, was laced with something serious. “Don’t ever thank anyone for that. Promise?"

Her throat tightened. She forced a nod.

He laid back beside her, one arm slipping beneath her shoulders, tugging her gently into the space beside him. No questions. No pressure. Just his steady presence.

She didn’t know what she expected—to cry, maybe. Or for him to roll over and distance himself. But instead, he did the opposite. He held her in silence like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t just flipped the entire dynamic between them on its head.

She curled into him, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, too ashamed to look him in the eye. His scent was still on her skin. Her pulse was still racing, her body still warm—and yet her chest felt hollow.

His hand rested on her back, moving slowly in comforting strokes that made her feel fragile. Not in a bad way. Just… a bit vulnerable.

The room was quiet for a long while.

Then, his voice—

“Did I scare you?”

Her eyes, drooping slightly like she might fall asleep, immediately shot open.

She debated moving so she could look at him. But Suna didn't move. Just stayed where he was, breathing steadily, his thumb still brushing small circles against her spine. But it was his voice that gave him away. Quiet. Careful. Laced with something unspoken. Guilt, maybe. Or doubt.

Her chest ached.

“No,” she said softly. “You’d never scare me.”

And she meant it.

But she didn’t know how to explain the rest—that it wasn’t fear holding her back, but the opposite. That it was the feelings she had buried, the ones she had never voiced that made her back down. The ones that had clawed their way back to the surface the moment he touched her tonight.

She swallowed, choosing her words wisely.

“It just… felt like a lot, all at once.”

A pause.

Then a quiet hum from him. Not disbelieving, not dismissive—just thoughtful. Like he’d been hoping for more, but wouldn’t ask.

Instead, he just pulled her closer.

His hand settled again on her back, firm and grounding. Like he was telling her, wordlessly, that he was still here. That nothing had changed.

She let herself believe it.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

SUMMARY: During practice, you find out Tara Carpenter is the girl from the new Stab 7 movie.. the real girl. The guilt hits hard — especially when the two of you end up locked in the gym that same night. She’s not just your tutor anymore; she’s a mystery you’re suddenly dying to understand.

PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader

WARNINGS: ghostface mention, daddy issues.

WORD COUNT: 3.2k

AUTHOR’S NOTE: are they getting too close too fast? it’s abt to heat up so idkk

part one | part two | part three | part four |

____________

Mindy had always been careful — just never neat. She could recite obscure film trivia without blinking, but somehow lost her pencils, notebooks, textbooks, novels, art supplies, even an entire school-issued camera kit in the weirdest, most impossible places. Anika once told her, "check yourself twice before leaving a room."

She never listened.

You were mid-drill, ball in hand, sweat still fresh on your skin, when she barreled onto the court waving her phone like it was on fire.

"Okay, just look into the camera and say: 'come to the Blackmore Cinema at 8 p.m. next Friday for the film festival,'" she rushed out, breathless.

You sighed, palmed the ball under your arm, and plastered on a practiced grin.

"Hi everyone," you chirped, way too rehearsed. "Come to the Blackmore Cinema at eight p.m. next Friday for an insane film festival. My team and I are pulling up, so you should too."

"Perfect!" she squealed, just as the unmistakable voice of your coach echoed across the court.

"I love you," Mindy added dramatically. "Come over for dinner tonight!"

You squinted at her.

"Dinner where? I've seen your dorm. It's like three feet wide and smells like broken dreams."

"What? No." She scoffed. "You think I'd voluntarily subject people to that trash bin? Hell no. It's at Tara's. We're doing like, a friend dinner or whatever."

You blinked at her like she'd just asked you to run suicides voluntarily.

"Hard pass. I'm not about to walk into my torturer's home."

"You are so dramatic," she groaned, already turning away. "Maybe join the theatre department instead of the basketball team."

You snorted and shoved her shoulder. Right on cue, Coach's voice sliced through the gym.

"Hey! Four! Baseline. Now!"

Your teammates groaned like you'd personally betrayed them. You grimaced. "Great. Thanks for getting me killed, Mindy."

She only grinned. "Always happy to help."

And with that, she trotted out of the gym — leaving her bag sitting dead center on the bleachers like a forgotten plotline. Practice was already bleeding into the evening, the gym clock ticking toward 5 p.m.

You jogged to the baseline, ignoring the muttered curses from your teammates. Eight laps. That was the punishment.

By lap four, your legs were already aching — and so was your ankle, screaming with each step like it had something to prove. You pushed it down. Again.

Sarah caught up to you by lap five, eyebrows raised and smug.

"So," she panted, "you still failing that easy-ass film class?"

You wiped the sweat from your brow with your jersey.

"First of all, it's not easy. Film is technical. And creative. Which are two things I severely lack. Second..." You winced. "Kinda. But I've got a tutor."

Sarah's laughter cracked across the track.

"You're doing so bad they had to assign you a tutor? Damn, I thought people were just joking when they said you couldn't analyze a movie to save your life. Why'd you even take the class?"

You don't answer right away.

The truth is heavier than your legs feel.

Your mom had pushed you into it — ever since you were a kid. Because your grandfather was some hotshot director back in the 60s or 70s, and your mom practically grew up on soundstages. She chased the acting dream once, but it didn't pan out. She settled for memories and nostalgia. And, apparently, forcing her daughter to take intro film classes at college.

"They said it would be easy," you muttered.

Sarah just laughed again, breezing past it. "Okay but who's the lucky tutor? Anyone I know?"

You hesitated. The pain in your ankle spiked — sharp and sudden — as your foot struck the floor wrong. But you didn't let it show. You couldn't. Your dad had made that very clear.

"Uh. Probably not. She's... kind of introverted?" you said. "I don't know. All I do know is that she hates me. Like, full-on loathes my existence."

Sarah raised a brow. "What's her name?"

"Tara Carpenter."

And just like that, Sarah's expression twisted — less surprise, more oh.

Her pace slowed for a step. You noticed.

"Okay... why'd you slow down?" you asked.

"Tara Carpenter is your tutor?" she asked, like she was double-checking the universe.

You blinked. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Oh," she said, breath catching, "you don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" You narrowed your eyes.

"Have you seen the newest Stab movie?"

You blinked again. "I don't watch movies."

Sarah gave you a look like you were an alien. "Well, they're based on Tara and her sister. She's from Woodsboro. You know... that Woodsboro. Her and her sister got attacked — brutally. One of her close friends went full Ghostface. It was all over the news."

You stopped mid-stride, almost slipping on the court. "What?"

"Yeah." She unscrewed her water bottle as the whistle blew for your final sprint. "It's insane. And, like, Tara's not introverted. Not even close. She just hates everyone. Drinks a lot. Parties a lot. And honestly? I get it. If the whole internet was calling my sister a psycho, I'd be drunk every weekend too."

She jogged ahead, leaving you behind — frozen. Breathless. Numb.

You'd only ever known her as your tutor and Mindy’s close friend from high school. The girl who rolled her eyes every time you got a director's name wrong. The one who always acted like being around you physically hurt her.

But now?

Now she had a backstory. A tragedy. Headlines attached to her name.

Wait, was Mindy a part of this too?

You'd never watched Stab. But you knew that mask. That voice.

What's your favorite scary movie?

You exhaled, long and shaky.

And for the first time since this whole tutoring thing started, you felt it — the guilt curling in your chest like smoke. Why would you ask her what her favorite movie was? Fuck. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot!

You had no idea.

⸻

The gym was nearly silent now, save for the faint hum of the overhead lights and the soft creak of the old bleachers cooling in the evening air. The echoes of practice—whistles, laughter, the bounce of basketballs—had long since faded into memory.

You sat on the bottom row of the bleachers, ankle stretched out, sock peeled halfway down, your shoe abandoned beside you like it had given up too. The swelling had gotten worse. Angry and pink and tight.

But you weren't looking at it.

You were looking at her.

Not in person. On your phone.

Frozen images of Tara Carpenter lit up your screen, too-bright photos taken without consent, grainy screenshots from security cams and news segments. A clip sat paused where her name was captioned in bold, capital letters beneath her pale, exhausted face.

"Woodsboro Survivor Speaks Out."

"Final Girl: The Carpenter Legacy."

"Stab 7: The Real Story of Tara and Sam Carpenter."

You didn't even realize how deep you were in it until the door creaked open.

Your head snapped up.

She was already inside.

Tara stood a few feet from the entrance, hoodie on, bag strap slung over her shoulder. She paused just long enough to register the scene: empty court, one player still here, and her best friend's gym bag forgotten near the top bleacher.

Her gaze fell to you.

Then to your phone.

Back to you.

She didn't blink.

Your stomach dropped.

"I—" you started, fumbling to lock the screen and shove the phone face-down. "Sorry. I didn't think anyone would—"

"Be here?" she finished, voice flat.

She walked slowly toward Mindy's bag, each footstep somehow too loud in the quiet. She picked it up like it weighed more than it should, then turned around and leaned back against the bleacher railing, arms folded.

"I guess I should be used to it by now," she said. "People looking."

You stood up too quickly—your ankle shouted in protest. You hissed, nearly stumbling before catching yourself. Tara didn't move to help. But her eyes flicked down to your foot and then right back up.

"I wasn't trying to—"

"Sure you were." Her voice wasn't angry. Just exhausted.

You stood still, phone still in your hand. "I didn't mean to make it a thing."

She shrugged. "Too late."

The lights above flickered once. Faint, but noticeable. You glanced at them, then back at her. "Mindy leave her entire life here again?"

"We were supposed to have dinner tonight but she had a dinner date with someone named 'free sushi.' So, basically ditched us for her girlfriend — again."

You smiled, tentative. "Oh, right. Dinner. At your house."

Tara didn't return it.

The silence between you thickened.

"I wasn't reading it to... judge you," you said, softer now. "I didn't know. Not really."

Tara's jaw tightened. "That's the problem, isn't it? Everyone thinks they didn't know. But the moment they do, it's all they can see."

She turned toward the exit. And that's when it happened.

A mechanical click. Subtle. Sharp. Final.

You both froze.

Tara's head turned slowly. Her eyes locked onto the gym door. She took a step forward and tried the handle.

It didn't move.

She pulled again. Harder.

Nothing.

You felt your stomach sink. She loudly gulped in front of you, "Wait—what time is it?"

You checked. "6:10."

Tara stepped back, laughing—but not like she was amused. "Of course. They installed the auto-locks last week."

"I also... forgot to sign out."

She looked at you, something sharp in her gaze. "You didn't sign out?"

Innocently, you raised your hands up like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar, "I didn't know I had to. I thought it was just a suggestion! That's a new thing, right?"

"It was in an email."

"I don't read those."

"Clearly."

She didn't say anything. Just stood there.

Still.

Too still.

You moved toward her. "Hey. It's okay. They'll do a sweep—Coach always checks before locking the building down for the night."

"Unless he left early."

You blinked. "He wouldn't."

She didn't answer.

Her breathing was shallow now, eyes fixed on the door like it was a trap. Like something on the other side was about to burst through it. You could see the tension running down her arms, her spine, her fingers flexing around the bag strap like she wanted something to hold onto.

You stepped closer, careful. "Tara."

She didn't look at you.

"I get it," you said. "I know this feels... familiar. And wrong. And like the lights are about to go out."

Still no answer.

"But they're not," you added. "You're here. You're safe. You're not seventeen in a hospital bed anymore."

That made her flinch.

You winced. "Shit. I shouldn't have—"

"No," she said suddenly, voice tight. "You're right. It's just a room. Just a gym. Just a locked door."

She exhaled slowly. Then again.

You shifted your weight and your ankle pulsed, making your whole leg throb. You grimaced, half-sitting on the bleacher beside you.

"Are you okay?" she asked, eyes flicking to your foot again.

"Yeah," you lied. "Just overdid it."

She raised an eyebrow.

You grinned. "Fine. I fucked it up three games ago and have been pretending it's fine ever since."

Tara shook her head. "Idiot."

"I prefer 'dedicated.'"

"Self-destructive."

"Passionate."

"Reckless."

You shrugged. "Semantics."

Finally, a smile. Barely there. But it counted. You shifted your weight, and your ankle screamed beneath you. You managed not to wince. Barely.

"I could use a distraction," she murmured, like it hurt to admit it.

You perked up. "I happen to be an expert at those."

Her brow lifted. "Do you usually flirt your way through disaster scenarios?"

You smirked. "Only with emotionally complex horror girls."

A long pause.

Then, finally: "Fine. Distract me."

You bent down—carefully—and picked up the ball. "Let me teach you to shoot."

Tara laughed, dry. "Absolutely not."

"Too late." You bounced the ball toward her. She caught it—awkwardly, palms stiff like she didn't trust it.

"You're lucky I don't throw this at your face."

"You'd miss," you teased.

She shot you a look. "I hate you."

But her lips twitched.

You limped a little closer and stood behind her, hands gentle as you guided hers on the ball. "Okay. Spread your fingers a bit. Relax your elbows. No death grip."

"Stop whispering like this is a Ghost pottery scene."

You grinned. "I'm a woman of many talents."

She turned her head slightly. You were close enough to see the fine strands of hair falling loose from her clip. Close enough to see her eyes change when she realized how close you were. Your voice dropped. "Try bouncing it. Not slapping—just push."

She did. The ball bounced crooked but came back.

You smiled. "Look at you. Natural."

She rolled her eyes. "Liar."

You stepped in front of her. "Shoot now."

"It's gonna be humiliating."

"I'm ready to be humbled."

She squared up. Breathed in. Took the shot. It bounced once on the rim—then dropped in. Her jaw dropped.

You gasped like she just hit a half-court buzzer-beater. "Holy shit, Carpenter. You're a prodigy."

"No way—did that actually—"

"You. Are. Athletic royalty."

Tara covered her mouth with her hand, laughing into it. It was soft and breathy and real. And for a second, she looked like someone who hadn't grown up dodging knives and headlines.

You stepped toward her, heart still racing. "You want to try again?"

She nodded, breathless. "One more."

You handed her the ball. "This is how it starts, you know."

"What?"

"Every sports romcom. The cool jock and the snarky outsider, locked somewhere after hours..."

Tara laughed. "Is this the part where we slow dance with a boombox?"

"I forgot the boombox," you said. "But I can hum The Notebook score if you want.”

She tilted her head, smiling at you now, but in that different kind of way—warmer, quieter. "You're not what I thought."

You looked at her. "What did you think?"

"That you were just another athlete who couldn't name a single female director."

You mock-gasped. "I'll have you know I cry during Greta Gerwig movies."

"I bet you do."

A beat passed.

Then she stepped closer. Ball in her hands. Looking up at you like maybe—just maybe—this was the first time she felt safe in a long time. Her voice dropped. "Thank you. For this."

You smiled, heart pounding, ankle forgotten. "Anytime."

And then—

BANG.

The gym doors burst open.

"TARA?!" Sam Carpenter's voice cracked like a whip.

Tara jumped back. You both turned as she stormed inside, her eyes wild, scanning for blood or bodies. Coach followed right behind her, winded and visibly pissed. "We've been calling you for twenty minutes—security had to override the damn system—"

"I'm fine," Tara said quickly, wiping her hands on her jeans. "I swear, we just got stuck."

Coach turned to you. "You didn't sign out?"

Your heart jumped into your throat. "I forgot. I thought practice ran longer."

His eyes narrowed. "You better not have been doing drills alone."

"No, sir." You shook your head with a tense close-lipped smile.

Tara didn't look at you.

But she stepped a little in front of you. Subtle. Quiet.

Coach scanned the room. "I want both of you out of here. Now."

Sam still hadn't stopped hovering. "Why weren't you answering?"

"I left my phone in Mindy's room," Tara muttered. "We're fine, Sam. Calm down before you catch a stroke or something.”

Coach sighed, rubbing his face while turning towards you. "You're lucky I was still here."

Tara glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes found yours again. And this time, they were soft. Still a little scared. But soft.

She mouthed it more than she said it: "Thank you."

And then she left. But not before her sister thoroughly — and scarily — glared at you. All you could do in return, was gulp.

——————

You're flat on your back, one arm draped over your forehead, ankle still elevated on a bunch of useless Calculus textbooks and throbbing in sync with your heartbeat. The room's dim, lit only by your phone screen and a distant streetlamp flickering through the blinds.

You're not texting her.

You refuse to text her first.

Probably.

Wait, does she even have your number?

But then—

[9:41 PM – Unknown Number]

still thinking about the shot i made

tell the WNBA to start scouting me immediately

You sit up so fast your pillow slides to the floor. Your heart? Immediate cardiac tap dance.

[9:42 PM — You]

who is this?

is this the girl who missed the rim like 8 times in a row before finally scoring?

[9:42 PM — Tara Carpenter]

it was 7

i won't be slandered by someone with a busted ankle and an inflated ego

[9:42 PM — You]

i think you secretly loved it

you looked so proud

i haven't seen a smile like that since we team beat NYU

The bubble pops up immediately. Typing. Pausing. Typing again.

[9:43 PM — Tara]

yeah, well

it felt weird

good weird

like... maybe i'm allowed to be proud of something again

You don't breathe for a second. You read it twice, then three more times for no reason other than you need to be sure she meant that.

You settle back, fingers tight around your phone. She's not just flirting. She's letting you in.

[9:44 PM — You]

you are.

you should feel proud more often

i think it looks good on you

There's a pause after that. Your stomach coils, the silence somehow louder than the pain in your ankle.

[9:45 PM — Tara]

you're too nice

it's unsettling

aren't jocks supposed to be emotionally unavailable?

[9:45 PM — You]

oh i am

but you bring out my soft side

congratulations. you've unlocked a new level

You stare at the screen, waiting. Waiting for her to pull back. Make a joke. Pretend it didn't land.

She doesn't.

[9:46 PM — Tara]

careful

keep that up and i might start thinking you're into me or something

Your pulse stutters.

You grin, sharp and stunned.

[9:46 PM — You]

depends

would that be a bad thing?

No answer.

Just the typing bubble. And your heart, doing acrobatics.

Then finally:

[9:48 PM — Tara]

wow

someone's feeling bold tonight

okay, varsity

try not to let the attention go to your head

You drop your phone. Literally drop it onto your chest like you've been hit.

Varsity.

You blink. You swallow. You scream inside. You reread it like it's poetry, like it's prophecy, like it's not the thing that's going to live rent-free in your head for the next decade. A nickname feels different coming from her.

[9:51 PM — You]

"varsity" is wild

not denying it tho

kinda sounds hot when you say it

[9:51 PM — Tara]

i'm immediately regretting it

consider it revoked

[9:51 PM — You]

too late

putting it on my jersey next season

[9:52 PM — Tara]

please don't

i'll transfer schools

[9:52 PM — You]

that sounds like a long-winded way of saying you'd miss me

[9:52 PM — Tara]

shut up

how's your ankle?

You glance down at it. Purple. Angry. Still pretending you're fine. You've been ignoring your dad's insistent calls to you for the night, you're trying to choose peace tonight.

[9:53 PM — You]

loud

dramatic

demanding attention

basically me in bone form

[9:53 PM — Tara]

perfect

you can bond

i'll bring ice and coffee tomorrow

unless that's weird now

Your heart softens. You sit there for a second, staring at the message like it might vanish.

[9:53 PM — You]

not weird

kinda the best thing i've heard all night

[9:54 PM — Tara]

good

see you tomorrow, varsity

You bite your lip so hard it leaves a mark.

[9:54 PM — You]

sweet dreams, final girl

[9:54 PM — Tara]

oh, and next time don’t skip dinner at my apartment

Oh, fuck.

[writingsoftarnishedsilver]

*insert Elmo in flames meme*

Ahhhh! I'd be happy to give you some Ominis fic ideas 😁🩷 of course, you could just scrap this altogether but I was thinking 🤔 could we have a 7th year Ominis being able to gain financial freedom from his family because MC gave her Hogsmeade shop to him? I know a lot of people want him to escape to America but Hogsmeade just feels so cozy and perfect for him being a shopkeeper.

And MC realizing her feelings for him during one instance when she had to return to him to replenish her supplies from her travels, and maybe decides it's time to be with him? 😣💕

It's okay if you don't like this plotline but I just finished the Haunted Hogsmeade quest, and I immediately thought of Ominis being its owner!

Thank you so much!!

Threads of Fate | Ominis Gaunt x Reader

Anon, I hope this is everything you hoped for! Thank you for the request and inspiration <3 it was my absolute pleasure writing this.

Words: ~6,700

Tags: Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Post Canon, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Fluff, Fluff AGAIN

“You’d think after all these years I’d be better at writing letters, but somehow, I still find myself pausing, trying to decide how to start. Then again, you always make it easier when you write first. Your last letter was… exactly what I needed. You have a knack for saying the right thing, even when you don’t realize it.”

“Anne stopped by the shop recently. She told me to stop ‘hovering like a nervous bird’ over your enchanted scarves and to start charging more for them. Apparently, she’s appointed herself my business manager, whether I wanted one or not. She also asked about you—how you’re doing, where you are, why you haven’t written her back, and, most importantly, when you’re finally coming home. I told her I didn’t know, but she was unimpressed by my answer. Honestly, I’m not impressed either.”

“Sebastian, meanwhile, has decided that I’ve become too boring for his liking. He keeps trying to convince me to pack up and visit you, as though I could just leave the shop to run itself. His words, not mine. It’s ridiculous, of course, but I wonder if there’s something to it. You’ve been gone so long now, it’s hard not to feel like there’s a part of this place missing.”

“Speaking of which—are you planning to come back anytime soon? You told me six months, and that was, what, six months ago? You’re not terrible at keeping promises, but you’re testing the limits here. I’ll forgive you if you write soon with some good news—or better yet, with the promise of coming home.”

“The shop is still standing, though I’ve made a few small changes here and there. I hope you won’t scold me when you see them. It’s funny, even when you’re not here, I find myself thinking, ‘What would she do?’ And sometimes, I swear I can hear your voice, usually chiding me for something I’ve misplaced or forgotten. I wonder—did you know, even then, how much this shop would mean to me? …Did you know how much you mean to me?”

“Take care of yourself, won’t you? Though I doubt I need to remind you. You’ve always been reckless, but you’ve never been careless. But I can’t help worrying about you—it’s impossible not to.”

“Write soon, or better yet, come home. I’d like to see you again. I’d like to… well, there’s plenty I’d like to say in person.”

Yours, always, Ominis

The letter, over a month old now, was worn at the edges, its parchment soft from being folded and unfolded too many times. Your fingers traced the familiar loops of Ominis’ handwriting, lingering over the slight smudge where his quill must have hesitated.

Even as the train carried you closer to Hogsmeade, you felt guilty. You hadn’t written back. But you hadn’t trusted yourself to put quill to parchment, not even to Anne or Sebastian, neither of whom could be trusted to keep your long awaited return a secret.

Six months. You’d promised him six months, and here you were, long past that mark. You’d wanted to return sooner—Merlin knew how much you’d wanted to—but there had always been one more ruin, one more curse to break, one more excuse to stay away.

It wasn’t just the work, though. The truth you hadn’t dared admit to yourself was that the thought of walking into Stitches and Draughts again, of seeing Ominis after all this time, terrified you. What if things had changed? What if the delicate balance of your friendship—of your stupid, traitorous feelings for him—had changed?

Merlin knew you had.

You caught your reflection in the train’s window, and for a moment, it felt like looking at a stranger. The girl you once were, the one with the boundless energy and effortless grace of youth, was nowhere to be found. Gone was the lithe figure and carefree ease that had come with an 18-year-old’s metabolism, replaced by a version of yourself you were still learning to accept. The life of a cursebreaker hadn’t been kind to your body—or your soul. Years of chasing dangerous leads, grueling physical labor, and long nights spent deciphering ancient scripts had taken their toll. Meals were often hurried, whatever you could grab between assignments, and the relentless travel left little room for rest. You were softer now, and your body bore the marks of your journey—an ache in your shoulders from carrying too much weight, faint scars from brushes with danger, and an exhaustion that felt carved into your very bones.

You turned away from the window, forcing your reflection out of sight. The sight of it only dredged up insecurities you had no business indulging—not now, not when you were so close. It was stupid to worry about it, you told yourself. What did it matter whether Ominis found you attractive? Seven years had passed. Seven years of separate lives, separate paths. You couldn’t expect him to still see you as he once might have—or to have waited for you at all.

Back then, you were just kids, after all. Even when your friendship had danced on the edge of something more, neither of you had ever been brave enough to take that final step. You thought of the moments that had felt like more—his hand brushing yours when you walked side by side, the way he’d linger in the shop late into the night, his head tilted toward you as though he could hear the shape of your smile. But those moments were fleeting, always followed by silence or a change of subject. Neither of you had ever said the words.

And now? Seven years was a long time to expect someone to wait for something that was never truly spoken aloud.

Still, the thought haunted you, gnawing at your resolve. Would he notice the changes in you? Would he care about the extra softness to your curves, the faint lines of exhaustion that hadn’t been there before? The idea that he might—that he’d look at you with anything less than the quiet warmth you remembered—made your stomach twist.

The train jolted, pulling you from your spiraling thoughts as it slowed to a screeching halt at Hogsmeade Station. The sound of the brakes, sharp and familiar, was like a spell breaking. You rose stiffly from your seat, clutching your bag as you tried to gather yourself.

The platform was just as you remembered it: bustling with witches and wizards, steam curling in the crisp air, and the faint smell of coal mingling with the fresh, wintry scent of snow. Twinkling fairy lights hung from the lampposts, casting a warm glow on the frosted cobblestones, while festive garlands of holly and enchanted mistletoe draped along the edges of the station roof. You adjusted the strap of your bag and stepped off the train, your boots crunching against the frost-dusted ground.

The walk into the village was surreal, like stepping back into a dream you hadn’t dared let yourself miss too much. The bustling streets, the cheerful glow of the shop windows, the distant chatter of students—every detail tugged at something deep inside you. It looked the same, as though no time had passed, and yet that was precisely what unsettled you.

Time had passed. Seven years, to be exact.

Seven years since you’d walked these streets as a Hogwarts student, clutching a bag of Honeydukes’ sweets or ducking into the Three Broomsticks with your friends to escape the cold. Seven years since you’d stood inside Stitches and Draughts as its owner, turning your ideas into enchanted creations, the room filled with the warmth of softly glowing candles and the sound of laughter. Seven years since you’d worked side by side with Ominis, his sharp wit cutting through Sebastian’s dramatic tales of Quidditch triumphs, all while the three of you shared late nights in the shop as though the world outside didn’t exist.

But even then, you’d known the shop wasn’t meant to be your forever.

The decision to give it to Ominis had come in the quiet months of your seventh year, after countless conversations where he’d confided in you about his family, his fears, and the cage he felt he could never escape. You’d listened as he spoke of the suffocating expectations of the Gaunt name, how every aspect of his life had been dictated by tradition and duty.

And money.

It wasn’t fair. Ominis deserved more than that. Far, far more.

Your Ominis deserved everything.

The idea had taken root during one of those late nights in the shop. He’d been helping you charm a batch of scarves to repel rain when you’d caught him standing at the counter, running his hands over the worn wood. There’d been a wistful look on his face, one that had stayed with you long after the candles were extinguished and the shop had gone dark.

By the time graduation loomed, the decision felt inevitable.

You still remembered the day you handed him the deed, the way his pale fingers trembled as he unrolled the parchment. His expression had been unreadable at first, his face carefully composed as he scanned the document.

“What is this?” he’d asked, his voice low and wary.

“It’s yours,” you’d replied, keeping your tone light even as your heart pounded. “The shop. Everything in it. Consider it a… graduation gift.”

The silence that followed had been deafening. Ominis had stared at you, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“You can’t be serious,” he’d said finally. “This is yours. Your work. You can’t just—”

“I can,” you’d interrupted, placing a hand over his. “And I am. You’re the only one I trust to take care of it. To make it more than I ever could.”

He’d tried to argue, of course. Ominis always argued. But you’d stood your ground, knowing in your heart it was the right choice.

“It’s not just about the shop,” you’d said softly, looking into his unseeing eyes. “It’s... about giving you a way out. A chance to build something that’s yours—not theirs.”

That had silenced him.

He’d accepted the deed reluctantly, his gratitude laced with disbelief. And though you hadn’t admitted it aloud, you’d known you were giving him more than just the shop. More than just securing his freedom. You were giving him a part of yourself, a way to stay connected even when you left.

And now, as Christmas loomed all these years later, your legs carried you through the village, back to that very same place. You were almost on autopilot, even as your heart pounded erratically in your chest with every step that brought you closer to the shop. Around you, the village bustled with holiday cheer, but all of it faded into the background, a distant hum drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat.

And then you were there.

And Stitches and Draughts looked beautiful.

The building had been freshly painted, its trim gleaming with a soft, snowy white that contrasted perfectly with the deep emerald of the shop’s sign—still the same one you’d painted years ago, but lovingly restored. The doorframe was draped with enchanted holly garlands, the bright red berries twinkling like tiny stars. The windows sparkled in the glow of lights strung carefully along the eaves, and the front display was nothing short of magical.

Inside the glass, enchanted scarves floated gracefully in midair, their threads shimmering with subtle, festive embroidery—snowflakes that danced along the hems, holly leaves that twisted and turned like they were caught in a gentle breeze. Beside them, self-heating gloves sat arranged in neat little bundles, their tags tied with golden ribbons that seemed to hum faintly with charmwork.

It was perfect. Too perfect. And the sight of it, so familiar and yet so undeniably different, had your heart aching in your chest. This wasn’t just a shop anymore—it was his shop. Every detail spoke of Ominis’ care, his precision, his thoughtfulness. He’d taken what you’d built and turned it into something so much more.

Your grip tightened on the strap of your bag as your eyes flicked between the display and the freshly polished door handle. The urge to turn and flee surged through you, but your feet remained rooted to the spot. You’d faced cursed ruins, ancient traps, and magic designed to kill, but nothing—nothing—had ever felt as daunting as the prospect of walking through that door.

Would he even want to see you? Would he welcome you after all this time, after the months of silence and unfulfilled promises? Or had the years widened the distance between you too far to bridge?

The bell above the door jingled as someone exited the shop, their arms laden with carefully wrapped packages. They offered you a polite smile as they passed, but you barely noticed, your gaze fixed on the door that had swung closed behind them.

Your legs felt heavy as you took a hesitant step forward. Then another.

With a deep, unsteady exhale, you pushed the door open, the familiar chime of the bells above echoing like a memory brought to life.

The warmth of the shop enveloped you immediately, the scent of cedar and lavender mingling with something faintly sweet—probably from a batch of enchanted candles near the counter. Shelves lined the walls, filled with bolts of fabric, potion bottles, and racks of neatly displayed scarves and gloves. The hum of magic thrummed softly in the air, a comforting, familiar sound.

But none of it mattered, not really.

Your eyes were drawn to the figure standing behind the counter, his back to you, the blond of his hair catching the golden light.

"Be with you in a moment," he said, his voice smooth and warm, but it hit you like a jolt of lightning.

It had been so long—too long—since you’d last heard his voice, and even now, it was exactly as you remembered, richer with age but still undeniably Ominis. It overwhelmed you, the weight of it pressing down on the breath you tried to draw, stealing the words you’d thought you’d prepared.

And then he turned.

The sight of him was truly your undoing.

Ominis was taller than you remembered, his frame lean but strong, elegant but unyielding. He was wearing a soft sweater in a deep charcoal gray, the fabric snug across his broad shoulders and loose around his narrow waist, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal the sharp angles of his wrists and the pale skin of his forearms. His blond hair, a touch longer than it had been when you’d last seen him, was still combed back, though a strand at the front had fallen to rest against the curve of his face.

Time had only refined the sharpness of his cheekbones and the strong, angular line of his jaw. His features were striking in a way that felt almost unfair, the kind of beauty that drew the eye and held it captive.

And yet, there was something softer about him, too—something that hadn’t been there before. The rigid tension that had so often defined him in your Hogwarts years seemed less pronounced, replaced by a quiet ease as he worked. He looked… content.

It was too much.

You’d imagined this reunion a hundred different ways, but none of them had accounted for the way it would feel to see him again, to hear his voice, to stand so close and yet feel the weight of all the time and space that had separated you.

“My apologies for the delay. Welcome to Stitches and Draughts,” he said, his tone polite and practiced, yet warm in a way that made your chest ache. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening more intently. “What can I help you with today?”

The words hung in the air, impossibly ordinary for a moment that felt anything but.

You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out. All the carefully rehearsed greetings, the lighthearted explanations you’d planned for why it had taken so long to return, evaporated.

Your silence stretched just a second too long, and you saw the faint furrow of his brow, the slight tilt of his head as he picked up on your hesitation.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice softening, concern creeping into his tone.

That was what finally broke you.

“Ominis,” you managed, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to steady it.

His lips parted as though to say something, but no words came, and his sightless eyes, usually so calm and focused, seemed to search for you in the space between.

“Is it—” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, trembling at the edges. “Is… it really you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and relentless. You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see the gesture.

“It’s me,” you managed.

Ominis moved before you could register it, stepping out from behind the counter with a swiftness that made your breath catch. “You’re here,” he murmured, his voice filled with something close to wonder. “You’re actually here. But you… you didn’t write back. I thought—”

“I know,” you said quickly, guilt flooding your chest. “I’m sorry, Ominis. I—” Your voice faltered. How could you possibly explain everything? The silence, the distance, the fear?

Before you could try, Ominis closed the gap between you. His hands reached out, tentatively searching, as though he were afraid to reach out and find nothing there. When his fingers brushed against your sleeve, he inhaled sharply, and then his hands moved upward, settling on your shoulders.

You watched as his expression crumbled. The carefully constructed composure he’d always worn fell away, replaced by something raw and unguarded.

“You’re home,” he said, his voice trembling. “How long have you been planning this?”

The crack in his voice broke something inside you. “I… for months,” you whispered, your own voice shaking. “I'm so sorry, it took so long—”

Your words were cut off again as Ominis pulled you into him, strong arms wrapping around you with a desperate urgency, his hands firm against your back as if he were afraid to let go, afraid you might slip away again. The suddenness of it made you stiffen, your insecurities flaring instantly to life.

He’d know.

He’d feel the difference—the softness of your curves where you’d once been lithe, the weight you carried now, both physical and emotional. The image of what you’d been years ago, the version of you he might still hold in his mind, clashed violently with the reality of who you were now.

But then there was the feel of him.

Him, warm against you, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the faint scent of his characteristic cologne—it was all so achingly familiar, so Ominis, that you couldn’t bring yourself to care about the way you’d changed.

Tears spilled freely down your cheeks as you let yourself sink into his chest, your arms lifting to wrap around his waist. You clung to him, the years of distance and silence collapsing between you as if they’d never existed.

His hand moved gently, brushing over your hair in a soothing rhythm that made your heart ache. “I missed you hopelessly.” He murmured, his voice muffled by your hair

“I missed you more than anything,” you murmured, pulling back just enough to look up at him, tears still streaming freely down your cheeks. “I thought about you every day.”

Ominis pulled back slightly, his hands still resting lightly on your shoulders. His sightless eyes searched your face as though he could somehow see you, the corners of his mouth twitching into the faintest of smiles. You felt his thumb brush against your sleeve, as if he needed the tactile confirmation that you were truly there. One of his hands slid down to grasp yours, his fingers curling firmly around yours as if to anchor you both in this moment.

For a long, breathless second, neither of you spoke.

Then, without a word, Ominis turned toward the shop’s entrance, your hand still firmly in his. He moved quickly, his steps sure as he crossed the space to the door. Releasing your hand only briefly, he flipped the sign to Closed and twisted the lock with a decisive click.

“To hell with work,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The words caught you off guard, pulling a startled laugh from you—a sound you hadn’t realized you’d been holding back.

When he turned back to you, his expression softened further, though there was still an edge of something you couldn’t quite name in the set of his jaw. Relief, perhaps. Or the determination of someone who wasn’t about to let this moment slip away.

“Come upstairs,” he said, his voice low and steady. “The shop can wait.”

He didn’t give you a chance to argue—not that you would have—before leading you to the small staircase tucked behind the counter. His hand stayed in yours as he guided you, his grip firm but gentle, like he was still afraid to let go.

The stairs creaked faintly under your feet as you followed Ominis into the flat above the shop. The scent of cedar lingered here too, mixed with something faintly herbal—his cologne, no doubt.

“Forgive the state of things,” he said quickly, his tone uncharacteristically self-conscious as he gestured toward the room. “I wasn’t exactly expecting... well, anyone. Least of all you.”

But as your eyes roamed the space, you couldn’t find the “mess” he spoke of. The room was tidy, cozy, and so very him. A small bookshelf stood against one wall, lined with neatly arranged tomes you recognized from your Hogwarts years, alongside a few newer additions. A comfortable-looking armchair sat in one corner, its seat draped with a soft, worn throw blanket. A half empty mug of tea sat forgotten on the small table beside it, next to what appeared to be a half-finished crossword puzzle.

There were small signs of his life everywhere: a folded sweater resting on the back of the chair, a walking stick leaning against the wall by the door, a well-cared-for violin resting in its case near the bookshelf. The window was framed by simple curtains, their edges charmed to shimmer faintly in the light, a detail that felt unmistakably him.

“It’s perfect,” you said, turning to him with a soft smile.

He let out a huff of disbelief. “Hardly. It’s small, and I wasn’t expecting guests, so it’s a bit—”

“No, really,” you insisted, stepping further into the room. “It’s... you. I mean that in the best way.”

His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to argue, but he seemed to think better of it. Instead, his free hand gestured vaguely at the space. “I haven’t had much reason to bring anyone up here,” he admitted, his tone quieter now. “I usually keep to myself unless Sebastian or Anne drag me out for something."

You turned back to him, catching the faint blush dusting his cheeks as he moved to straighten a few items on the table near the armchair. The sight made your heart ache in the best way, the years falling away as though you’d never been apart.

“It’s nice to see you’ve kept up the crossword habit,” you teased, gesturing toward the table.

Ominis smirked, his confidence returning just enough to quip, “It’s either that or let my mind wander, and we both know that can only lead to trouble.”

You laughed, the sound light and easy, "That's true."

He gestured toward the couch near the window, its cushions plump and inviting. “Sit,” he said, his tone soft but insistent. “I'm sure you’ve been traveling all day.”

You hesitated, still standing near the door, but Ominis stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Please,” he added, his voice quieter now.

With a nod, you set your bag down near the door and crossed to the couch, sinking into its cushions. It was as comfortable as it looked, and you let out a quiet sigh as the tension in your body began to ease.

He moved toward the kitchenette. “Tea?” he asked, his head tilted slightly in your direction.

“Yes, please,” you said quickly, your voice softer than you intended.

Ominis nodded, his movements fluid and purposeful as he filled the kettle and set it on the small stove.

“I’ve got chamomile, mint, and… some Earl Grey that Sebastian swore I’d love but tastes like someone soaked socks in bergamot,” he said, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smirk.

You laughed softly, leaning back into the couch. “Chamomile sounds perfect.”

He nodded, plucking the sachet from its place with an almost practiced precision, his hands moving with the same quiet grace you remembered so vividly. Despite the ease of his movements, you could see the faint tension in the set of his shoulders, the way he hesitated before reaching for the mugs.

"Did Sebastian and Anne know about you coming back?" Ominis asked, his voice calm but carrying a subtle edge of curiosity.

You hesitated, fingers tracing the edge of the couch cushion. "No," you admitted softly. "I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t… want them to spill the secret. I thought it might be better this way."

He turned slightly, his sightless eyes tilted in your direction, one brow arching faintly. “Better for whom?”

You huffed a humorless laugh, biting your lip. "Me, I guess. I thought if I just showed up, it would be easier. Less... complicated."

Ominis tilted his head slightly, as though weighing your words, his fingers brushing the rim of the mug as he prepared your tea. "You thought sneaking back into Hogsmeade unannounced would be less complicated?"

A faint smile tugged at your lips despite the knot of nerves in your chest. "Okay, maybe not less complicated. But at least it meant I wouldn’t have to explain myself to Sebastian. You know how he gets."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound light and genuine, and it warmed something deep inside you. "Indeed. He is relentless," he said, placing the mug of chamomile tea in front of you on the low table. "Though, I can’t say I’d have been any better. If I’d known you were coming, I wouldn’t have been able to focus on anything else."

You looked up at him, startled by the quiet sincerity in his voice. He wasn’t smiling anymore, his expression open and unguarded as he sat down across from you, his own mug cradled in his hands.

“I didn’t mean to make you wait,” you said softly, your fingers curling around the warm ceramic. “I just—” You paused, your words catching in your throat. "I don't know. I suppose it doesn't matter. I'm here now."

Ominis’ lips pressed together for a moment, his brows furrowing slightly as though he wanted to press further. His hands tightened almost imperceptibly around his mug, the tension in his shoulders betraying his thoughts.

But then he exhaled softly, the lines of his face smoothing as he nodded. “You’re here now,” he repeated, his voice quiet but steady, though you could hear the unspoken for how long? lingering in the air.

You quickly took a sip of your tea, the warmth a welcome distraction as you scrambled for something that would steer the conversation elsewhere. “This tea is lovely,” you said, offering a smile that you hoped looked effortless. “Everything is. The flat, the shop... it’s all incredible. You must be so proud of what you’ve built.”

Ominis tilted his head slightly, his expression softening into something almost amused. “That’s kind of you to say, but I hardly think a well-stocked tea shelf qualifies as incredible.”

You laughed, grateful for the easy banter. “It’s not just the tea shelf, though it is very impressive. The shop looks amazing—I noticed the display when I walked in. And the enchanted holly on the door? It’s such a nice touch. It’s all so... you.”

He leaned back in his chair, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I did have some help with the holly—Anne insisted. She thought it might ‘soften my cold, foreboding reputation.’”

You grinned, picturing Anne bustling around the shop, her infectious energy clashing against Ominis’ quieter demeanor. “I think it works. Though I can’t imagine anyone thinking you’re 'foreboding'.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said dryly, his smirk deepening. “Anne says I scare away the first years who stop in. Apparently, my ‘stern demeanor’ doesn’t pair well with curious children looking for enchanted scarves.”

You laughed, the image of wide-eyed first-years inching cautiously into the shop playing vividly in your mind. “I’m sure you’re not that bad,” you teased. “Maybe they just don’t appreciate your charm.”

Ominis quirked an eyebrow, his smirk softening. “Charm, is it? I’ll be sure to tell Anne you said that next time she accuses me of being the ‘shopkeeper equivalent of a Boggart.’”

That earned another laugh, lighter this time, and you shook your head. “If she really thought you were a Boggart, she wouldn’t have helped with the decorations.”

“She likes to keep me humble,” he replied, his tone full of wry affection.

But even as Ominis joined in your banter, you could see the way his fingers drummed absently against the side of his mug, his thoughts clearly turning over something unsaid. He was playing along with your attempts at small talk, but you knew he wasn’t fooled.

Still, for now, he let it go, his quiet smile lingering as he said, “So tell me, how does it feel to be back?”

The question caught you off guard, and your smile faltered slightly. “It feels... surreal,” you admitted, your voice softer now. “Like I’ve been gone forever, and yet somehow nothing’s changed.”

Ominis nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Hogsmeade does have a way of staying the same. But you..." He hesitated, and his words hung in the air, unfinished but heavy with meaning.

You’re different.

He had noticed. Of course he had. Ominis was nothing if not perceptive.

You lowered your mug to the table, your hands curling into your lap as if that could somehow steady you. The warmth that had spread through your chest moments ago was now replaced with a twisting unease, a voice in the back of your mind whispering, This is it. This is when he sees what’s changed and decides it isn’t enough. That you aren’t enough.

"I know I’m different," you murmured, your voice trembling under the strain of your nerves. It cracked as you spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "I… I’m not the same person I was when I left. I know I’m not exactly how you remember me, and I—" Your breath faltered, hitching as you shook your head, your thoughts spiraling. "I just didn’t want you to be disappointed."

“Disappointed?” Ominis’ voice broke through your spiraling thoughts like a sudden, sharp wind, and when you looked up, his sightless eyes were fixed on you, his expression taut with something between shock and frustration. "Is this... is this why you've taken so long to come home?"

The question hung in the air, sharp and unrelenting, like the edge of a blade poised to strike. You opened your mouth to answer, but no sound came. The truth was tangled in your chest, knotted with years of insecurity and fear, and the weight of it pressed down on your throat, stealing your voice.

Ominis’ expression softened as he straightened in his chair, his jaw tightening as though he were holding back his own frustration—not at you, but at the very idea that you could feel this way. He exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his mug before setting it aside with deliberate care.

“Is that really what you’ve been carrying all this time?” he asked, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. “You thought I’d be... disappointed? In you?”

The lump in your throat grew heavier. "I’ve been gone so long... and you’ve built this incredible life here, and I—” You hesitated, your breath catching as you fought to steady yourself. “I didn’t know if I’d still fit into it.”

“You think I could ever—” He stopped himself, exhaling slowly as he ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin’s beard, don't you have any idea how much of this life exists because of you?”

Ominis leaned forward further, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped tightly together. His fingers curled and uncurled against one another, as though he were searching for the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, but no less firm.

“Do you know what I thought when you walked into that shop today?” he asked, his words deliberate.

You shook your head, though he couldn’t see it. “No,” you whispered.

“I thought I’d finally woken up from the longest, most frustrating dream of my life,” he said, his lips twitching into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. "And now, you’re sitting here, telling me you’re afraid I’d notice you’ve changed. Of course you’ve changed. I’d be more worried if you hadn’t. Life does that to people. It changes them. But just because you're different doesn't mean..." he swallowed, his words catching for just a moment before he pressed on, his voice quieter but laced with conviction. “Just because you’ve changed doesn’t mean you’re any less.”

He paused, his fingers tightening where they rested, his knuckles pale with the effort. His expression softened as his words seemed to tumble out, as if he couldn’t hold them back any longer. “That couldn’t be further from the truth, actually.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone, by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

Ominis sat back slightly, his hand running through his hair in a rare display of bashfulness. “It’s been seven years,” he continued, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Seven years, and in the brief time I’ve had to—to touch you, to hear you, to smell that very same perfume you always wear, you’ve only… Merlin, I don’t even know how to say this without sounding foolish.”

You felt your breath hitch, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. He wasn’t looking at you, not exactly, but the intensity in his voice made it feel as though he could see every piece of you, laid bare and vulnerable.

He exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly in your direction as he gathered his thoughts. “You’ve only improved,” he said finally, his voice low but unwavering. “Despite whatever ridiculous notions you’ve been carrying around, you haven’t diminished. You haven’t become ‘less.’ If anything, you’re... more.”

“You’ve been away, yes," he continued. "You’ve faced things I can only imagine. And yet here you are, sitting in front of me, as strong and resilient and...” He hesitated, his lips curving into a faint, almost shy smile. “As breathtaking as the day you left. You think I’d notice the changes and find fault with them? How could I, when every single one is just another piece of the person I’ve been missing for so long?”

Your hand flew to your mouth, your vision blurring with tears. "Are you... you sure? You really don't have to say this, I—"

He shook his head, raising a hand to stop you, though his touch hovered just shy of reaching across the small space between you. “Of course I'm sure,��� he said, his voice soft but insistent. “I’ve never been more certain of anything."

He drew in a slow, measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling as though he were steadying himself for a duel.

“I’ve spent seven years wondering if I’d ever get the chance to say this,” he admitted. “To say all the things I was too much of a coward to admit before you left. And I won’t waste it by letting you believe for even a second that you’re anything less than extraordinary," his voice softened, trembling at the edges as he stood from his chair. For a moment, he simply stood there, his sightless eyes cast downward as though steadying himself for what he was about to do. Then, slowly, he moved forward, kneeling on the floor in front of you with a grace that made your breath catch.

His hands reached out, tentative but deliberate, brushing over yours where they rested in your lap before curling around them.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said quietly, his voice raw with emotion. “But I need you to hear this. I need you to understand.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he shook his head, cutting you off gently.

“I love you,” he said, his voice trembling slightly, his thumbs brushing over the backs of your hands. " I’ve loved you for so long that I don’t even remember what it feels like not to. And I know I should’ve said this before. I should’ve told you when we were still at Hogwarts, when you handed me the shop, when you left. But I was scared. Scared of what it would mean, scared I’d ruin what we had. And then you were gone, and I thought… I thought maybe I’d lost my chance.”

You couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, your heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might shatter through your ribs.

“But now you’re here,” he said, his words almost a whisper. “And I can’t let you leave again without knowing how much you mean to me. You are the most extraordinary person I’ve ever known, and I’ve spent seven years building a life that, no matter how complete it might seem from the outside, has always been missing you.”

You stared at him, your breath catching as the world seemed to slow around you. The face you’d waited seven years to see again—its every detail etched into your memory but now somehow more vivid, more real—was right before you. The faint furrow of his brow, the slight parting of his lips as though bracing himself for your response, the glisten of unshed tears in his sightless eyes.

It was all so achingly familiar, and yet time had made him even more beautiful in his quiet, unassuming way.

And you loved him.

You always had.

The years apart, the missed chances, the countless letters you’d written and rewritten but never sent—it all fell away, leaving only this moment. This man. The only person who had ever made you feel like you belonged.

“I’ve loved you too,” you whispered, the words spilling from your lips unbidden, your voice trembling but resolute.

Ominis stilled, his brows furrowing further as though he hadn’t quite heard you. “What?”

You reached out, your hands shaking as you cupped his face, your thumbs brushing over the faint stubble on his jaw. His breath hitched, his sightless eyes searching the space between you as though trying to see what your touch already told him.

“I love you, Ominis,” you said again, your voice steadying as you saw the hope flicker to life in his expression. “I always have."

His lips parted, his breath catching audibly as he tilted his head toward your hands, leaning into your touch as though it were the only thing grounding him.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

You smiled through your tears, leaning closer until your forehead rested against his. “I love you,” you murmured, your voice soft but sure.

A shaky laugh escaped him, a sound filled with so much relief and joy it sent a fresh wave of tears streaming down your cheeks. His hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent and tender as his thumbs brushed away your tears.

“Merlin,” he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. “I can’t believe... after all this time...”

“Believe it,” you said, your voice filled with quiet certainty.

His grip tightened slightly, his hands trembling as he pulled you closer. “Promise me,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over your lips. “Promise me you’ll stay—I’m begging you—don’t leave again. Merlin, I... I can’t go another seven years without you. Not knowing where you are, if you’re safe, if you’ll ever come back.”

You didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

[lover-of-mine]

Its not even the Buddie of it all. Its why have the writers forgotten how to tell, conclude and setup story arcs across both a season and episodes. Its basic writing? 4 minutes to 'conclude' 18 eps worth of storytelling ain't it.

No, but that's literally the thing, up until 812, the arcs make somewhat sense. Then Tim decided to kill Bobby and proceeded to drop every single character arc in favor of a death he also dropped the ball with. What the fuck was this season? It makes no sense. It pushed every character backward. Maybe not madney. But like, everyone is where they were in s5 or 6. The Mara adoption? Rushed as fuck. I could not tell you what happened to Chim before Bobby's death. Buck is once again lost in abandonment issues breakup with Taylor style. Eddie literally just relieved his s5 arc off screen. They didn't even show Maddie having the baby. Like, what the fuck? Not a single plotline had a satisfying follow-through.

[jkthiighs]

I fell into LotR - chapter 2 || [x reader]

❀lord of the rings/fellowship men x reader (eventually) ➔classic 'girl fell into middle earth' plotline. self indulgent ❀ word count ; 4.4k disclaimer: this chapter might feel weird but it'll make sense in the long run TRUST TRUST

Ensnared. 

       You really should have thought this through. Of course, they would ask for proof; in fact, it would have been suspicious if they hadn’t. So why couldn’t you produce an answer? Anything would do–anything inconsequential. Your mind raced through the timeline of the movies, teeth catching the skin of your lip, searching for something that could suffice. Meanwhile, Gandalf and Elrond were staring you down expectantly, impatiently even, as they waited for your reply. Surely, this woman did not possess more foresight than a sorcerer's capacity? Even more so than the Elven race? 

        “Well, I could tell you of the council members you invited? There's Legolas, son of Thranduil. Gimli, son of Glóin, or Boromir, son of… Well–I’ve forgotten his father's name, but I know he's the steward to… uh, Gondor. A-and he has a brother named Faramir. There’s Aragorn, son of Arathorn II and heir to Isildur. The hobbits–” You had started rambling, but the half-elf cut you off. 

        “Clever words from a clever tongue. Yet cleverness is no proof of innocence. This does not attest to your claim to see the future,” He started. “It only deepens the suspicion that you are a spy. Perhaps in the service of Sauron himself.” 

        Gandalf raised a hand in your defense. “Now, now, Elrond. Lady, uh–what is your name, by chance?”

        “(Y/N).” You offered quietly.

        “Lady (Y/N) deserves a chance to speak in her defense, and perhaps, uh, offer explanations. You and I know very well not everything is as it appears.” Gandalf spoke with a cadence that was slow and steady, and yet a ghost of a smile haunted the corners of his words, a mischief buried just deep enough to wonder if you were imagining it. 

        They don’t trust you, and why would they? You needed something more convincing. “I… I could tell you of your daughter’s decision, Lord Elrond, and your grandchild that results from it. But it’s nothing you haven’t seen yourself, and it does not break your heart any less.” You were fidgeting again, this time with the silk of the tablecloth that was draped around you. ‘Might as well just get it over with, right? What’s the worst that could happen?’

         “I’m sure you’d rather I just tell you about the ring, though... Well,” You took a deep breath before looking the two immortals square in the eye. “Frodo gets the ring to Mordor, but he isn’t the one who destroys it. Gollum takes the ring from Frodo but falls into the fires while holding it, thus ending the power of Sauron.” 

        You expected a reaction. Disbelief or skepticism. A raised eyebrow. Outrage, maybe? But there was nothing, not even a blink. It was like they were frozen. At least for a few moments, anyway. “‘Well’ what, child? Please, do not keep us here all day.” Elrond spoke suddenly, his irritation seeping into his voice once again. You furrowed your brows, confusion plain on your face. “What do you mean? You didn’t hear what I said?” 

        Gandalf sighed, tapping his staff on the ground once or twice as he re-adjusted his stance. “You haven’t said anything. Now, what can you tell us of the Ring?” It was clear the old wizard, as patient as he claimed to be, was getting irritated as well, but you couldn’t understand why. You had told them already, hadn’t you? 

        “The ring will be destroyed in the fires of Mount Doom. That is its fate.” You answered again, this time with a tilt of your head while you studied the pair. Once again, their faces held no reaction. Frozen, unblinking. Could it be that time paused to prevent you from telling them the future? Their future? ‘What is this, a k-drama?’ You decided to test this theory. Before they could scold you again, you spoke; “Gandalf, you will perish fighting the Balrog that lurks within the mines of Moria.” 

        No movement. Their eyes held no indication of understanding, either. ‘Fascinating.’ You would have kept going, if only to see them stuck there while you admired them as if they were statues. But something–no, someone, interrupted. 

“I will not let you tarnish this universe by spoiling its events so soon.”

        You thought it might have been the wizard at first, but he was still standing there, unmoving. Elrond as well. You looked around the room, spinning on your heels. The guards nearby were also frozen, but otherwise, no one else could have produced that voice. You could feel your heart racing, pulse echoing in your ears. 

        “What was that? …God?” You asked tentatively aloud. There was no reply, but time remained anchored in place. “Who are you? Are you the one who brought me here?” You questioned, looking up towards the ceiling–towards the sky, as if it would help apparate the disembodied voice. You weren’t even sure why you had bothered asking or where those questions came from. But the sound was so…otherworldly, that it seemed unlikely that it was anything but.

“You have been chosen.”

        This voice…did not belong to one speaker alone; it was a tapestry of tones, some high, some low, some no louder than breath. It rolled in like midnight mist—low, steady, and velvet-smooth, each word drawn out with patient precision. The voice was neither warm nor cold, neither urging nor warning, yet stern. Like it was inviting you to step forward, to become something more. Beneath its calm exterior lay the faintest thrumming, a subtle reverberation, as though the voice itself had roots that reached deep into the fabric of the world. 

        “Chosen? Chosen for what?” You were still now, listening. Waiting. ‘Wait…should I be asking permission to speak?’ This wasn't the quiet authority that the immortals in front of you exuded; this was…absolute. Looming. Like breathing wrong might warrant punishment. It wasn’t oppressive, per se, not yet. But it was heavy. 

“To be my sword. My champion.” 

        The voice answered, but you could tell it wasn’t in full. You had a million questions, your mind reeling like it did when you first arrived. But what could you say? What could you ask that would compel a god to answer? You decided on the simplest: “Why me?” 

“I needed someone…moldable, with nothing to lose. Become my vessel and be rewarded.”

        The voice was beckoning now, as if a siren’s lure. You felt your anxieties quelled, your mind lulled, and your hands stopped fidgeting. “What…do I have to do?”

“Obey. You will be my weapon. You will strike without question, without hesitation, mercy, or failure.”

        Could this be the work of Saruman? Or Sauron? You didn’t know. You’ve never heard the voice of a god before. But this one didn’t feel evil. All you could wonder is ‘why’, but you had no will to do so besides one: “What is the reward?” At first, there was nothing. A few moments passed, and you could feel a sort of…amusement in the surrounding air. As if a knowing smile. Victory, even.

“You will not survive ‘middle-earth’ as you are now. In exchange for your life service, I will offer you the abilities of a warrior.” 

        The voice melted into your head, coiling around your thoughts, consuming your being. It showed you the rules, the exceptions, and a taste of the power it offered. This entity knew your deepest desires, your lust for acclaim. The need to be seen, known. Praised. You could be renowned. A hero. In this world, in others. All you had to do was accept. All you had to do was sacrifice. You could not choose any power of godlike capacity, but there were others. Your favorite. The Ghost. The weight of the sword in your hand, the finality of its bite. Your own. Heat spread from your stomach, bloomed into your chest. You felt it snake around your heart, squeezing your pulse ever so gently. ‘Be mine, ’ it called. ‘Sacrifice.’ 

        You would never return home, but you never really wanted to, did you? There is no harm in giving away something undesired. You could no longer tell what wants were your own, what thoughts, what feelings. It blended–no, disappeared into nothing. Refusal would end this dream and would have you tossed aside like garbage. Forgotten into the world you came from. You didn’t want that, right? You wanted to be here. You chose this place. Your testing grounds. ‘Accept.’ It cooed. Coerced. Seduced. ‘Accept.’ A flicker of doubt rose up—small, trembling—but it was crushed under the weight of a thousand unseen hands, ushering you toward your fate. Finally, the words rose from your throat: “Okay…I will be your champion.” 

        The entity—no, your god—did not answer, but you felt its satisfaction ripple through the stillness like a hand smoothing silk. And suddenly, without warning, you were wrenched from your body, no longer standing in Rivendell, no longer yourself. Some unseen force hurled your consciousness elsewhere, locking you behind another's eyes, another's flesh. You were a passenger only, bound to observe, bound to learn. You started out young, heir to a great clan: Sakai. You bore his tragedies as your own—the sting of failure, the hollow ache of endless training, the terror of battle crashing onto blood-soaked shores. You lived Jin’s life thread by thread until the weave of it was damn near indistinguishable from your own. Every failure, every broken bone, every skill and victory, all yours to claim. You wielded his katana as if it were an extension of your very arm, and it was. Months went by, bleeding into years. You got what you wanted and became the Ghost. And when the last invader fell, when Jin’s story closed, you were hurled back—snapped into the body where it had all begun—facing the wizard and the elf once more, as if no time had dared to move.

        Were you the same? Maybe. That was up for debate. You barely recognized your own voice, steady and unyielding. A distant part of you missed the anxious girl from moments before—at least you understood her, but did it even matter in the grand scheme of things? You stood in the same body, wore the same borrowed silk, and yet it was as if your bones were heavier, your blood thicker. You were a stranger to yourself. But knowledge thrummed under your skin, restless and alive, and nothing had changed outwardly. Exhaustion clung to your bones, but otherwise, everything seemed untouched. Seemed. You looked down into your empty hands, not having time to ponder what the hell had just happened before the grey old man cleared his throat. Time had resumed, and they were still waiting for your answer. ‘Right…’ It took a second to recall what the three of you had been talking about before you responded. “The Ring’s fate will be the same whether I interfere or not. However, I might be able to save some lives along the way should you permit me to travel alongside the hobbit.” 

        The words left you crisp and sure, but they startled you all the same. When had your fear been replaced by certainty? Lord Elrond furrowed his brows, clearly contemplating your answer, but Gandalf seemed to ignore it altogether. He was staring at you, more so than before. There was something different; he could sense it. Before, you had been merely foreign. Now, there was something else—something coiled around you, silent and strangling, like a serpent enveloping its prey. Yet you stood there, unafraid, like a lamb resting against the jaws of a wolf.

        “Knowing the enemy’s move before they make it could prove useful,” Gandalf said carefully, finally turning his gaze from you to the elf. Elrond, ever the skeptic, shook his head. “You’d place the fate of Middle-Earth into the hands of this…oddity?” You frowned with a few curses in mind, but said nothing. “She has come to us with knowledge no others possess. With war imminent, we are in dire need of allies. At the very least, we should have the council decide together what to do with her.”

         Elrond stepped away, looking out onto the terrace as he pondered your existence. But then something clicked. You could see it in the way he turned to look at you. “Tell me then, clairvoyant. Why do you ask to ‘travel alongside the hobbit’? No such decision has yet been made–or rather, no hobbit has yet offered themselves to bear such a burden.” 

        Your heart skipped a beat, having not even realized you’d slipped. “I told you, I’ve seen the future.” The reply was a matter of fact, like that was all you needed to explain. You could see it was not enough. Not for him. “Besides, hobbits are resilient in ways greater beings overlook,” you added, an attempt at smoothing things over, knowing that was a sentiment in which the wizard would agree.

        Gandalf’s eyes sharpened with intrigue, turning towards Elrond with a knowing raise of his brow. “Resilient they are. We’ve certainly seen enough to understand that fate often falls upon the smallest of shoulders.” The elf was still unconvinced, and he couldn’t fathom why the wizard had already taken your side. The man always had a penchant for taking in strays, it seemed. Elrond’s eyes narrowed. “Even if we believe your claim of foresight, the path to Mordor is not gentle. You might have been able to enter my halls undetected–but stealth alone will not guard you against Sauron’s forces.”

        You raised your chin slightly, but before you could move to speak, you felt your deity’s amusement—anticipation, tickling the back of your mind. A glint from steel across the room caught your attention, a glimmer in the corner of this vast chamber. Something foreign lies neatly arranged upon a stone table–metal gleaming softly under the ripples of pale moonlight. Weaponry–your weapons placed like an offering. A gift of goodwill from your new master. Unmistakably familiar were a curved katana, a matching wakizashi, two elegantly crafted bows, and a set of kunai. A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips. “Stealth is hardly my only strength now, I assure you.”

        “Prove it.” Elrond’s voice is crisp, a direct challenge that pulls you out of your trance. ‘What is it with this guy and proof?’ You gave a polite nod to mask the exasperated sigh that left you, though you were sure he heard it all the same. Elvish acuteness and all that. Slowly, deliberately, you approached your blades. The pair of immortals watching closely, not even realizing the weapon's appearance until the katana was in your hand. A shiver of recognition runs through your veins, your grip instantly comfortable–familiar, an extension of yourself. Jin’s memories pulse at your fingertips. However, in this body, the blade was heavy. Holding it out in front of you tired your arm quickly, and that would not do. Dread filled you as you realized you'd have to dedicate time to strength training…again. Your personal hell: never being able to escape going to the gym, no matter what timeline you were in.

        “How did you sneak weapons in here?” Elrond's voice cut across the hall, demanding and wary. With a quick motion from their lord, the guards nearby took up their bows and aimed their arrows directly at you. “They were not there before,” Gandalf murmurs, fascinated. He was not as concerned with the elf’s actions as he perhaps should have been.

        You turned, looking more at the archers than their lord, calculating the distance. Fear still managed to bite deep in your chest, knowing that if you mistimed a deflect, it would mean your end. But you didn't need to draw it; the katana remained sheathed, and you weren’t here to fight. Not them, anyhow. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill from my…benefactor,” whatever that meant. You responded calmly, turning the blade effortlessly in your grip, every movement elegant, practiced, controlled despite its weight. “I may have come here by mistake, but I wanted to help. I can help. Do you truly consider me a threat, my lord?”

        He said nothing, tension thickening until finally Gandalf breaks it, voice gentle yet firm. “Elrond. She has offered her service willingly, and clearly she has some measure of skill. Again, we should at least bring her before the Council. Let all decide her place.”

        The elf sighed, visibly troubled but finally conceding. “Very well,” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, to which his guards lowered their bows. “You will join the Council on the morrow, but understand this: if you threaten the lives of anyone here or Middle-earth’s fate in any manner, no weapon nor strange ‘benefactor’ will shield you from my wrath.”

        You bow your head respectfully, taking into account the gravity of his words as relief floods through you. "You got it." Elves were harder to convince than you originally thought. 

        The Master of Rivendell looked less than pleased, his face twisting into that sort of angry, disapproving look that turned him into a meme, creasing lines into his otherwise flawless face. “Escort Lady (Y/N) to the guest chambers,” Elrond instructed firmly, barely turning to his guard's direction. “She shall remain there under guard until the Council convenes.” 

        Gandalf seemed amused. You placed your katana back onto the table where it appeared, not expecting to be allowed to carry it with you, as irritating as that was. You had grown rather fond of them in Tsushima. With a sigh, you followed the guards without further protest, through winding halls and picture-perfect scenery. ‘That's one thing the fanfictions never mention,’ you thought to yourself whilst admiring the roaring waterfalls. ‘Despite all this, you still manage to miss your phone.’ Withdrawal from technology was hard, but luckily for you, there was literally no other choice. Still, you found yourself reaching towards your back pocket for the time or to Google a question you had, purely out of habit. 

        When you arrived in your chambers, the room inside was breathtaking. Ethereal and elegant, blending seamlessly with the surrounding landscape. Evening sunlight filters softly through expansive, arched openings, ever so gently illuminating the room with tranquility. You had thought that ‘under guard’ meant you were a prisoner, but it was hard to feel like it when the room was fit for a king. Intricately carved wooden pillars and graceful arches framed the space, depicting motifs of leaves, flowers, trees, and Elven figures. Candles rested in beautifully crafted holders, adding warmth with an ambient glow. The bed itself was a dream; rich, silken sheets in earthy, muted tones. The frame smooth, dark wood. Outside, lush greenery and winding pathways visible through open balconies that overlook the gardens. 

        The design was so open that you had no idea how they planned to keep you from leaving, but you were hardly complaining, nor did you want to. Your first instinct was to run and jump straight into the bed, but you stopped yourself to save what little dignity you had left. The saree was already dangerously loose around your hips now, and you feared it might come undone entirely. You needed real clothes. There was no way you were going to face a council of Middle-earth's greatest heroes looking like you'd stumbled out of a frat party gone wrong. So, before they could walk away, you turned to the guards with a coy smile. “Could you request the seamstress to visit me? I am in desperate need of new…appropriate attire for the upcoming meeting.”

        The elf raised a brow, looking you up and down. At first, the look was that of vexation, but as his eyes caught more and more of your exposed skin, a flush crept into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. After a moment too long, he tore his gaze away with an ‘ahem’ and a readjustment of his posture before giving a curt nod. He walked away so fast you thought he might trip and fall along the way. 

        After he disappeared into the distance, you were alone again. As much as you could be, anyway. You sat quietly on the bed, running your hand over the silk, finally having a chance to catch up to all your thoughts and feelings. ‘Dropped into a fictional universe, ensnared by a god, thrown into a different one just to be ripped back and tossed back into the beginning.’ You lie back on the bed, closing your eyes for a moment. It was hard to wrap your head around. Especially the part that seemed more like it belonged more in Solo Leveling than in your life. You closed your eyes and collapsed back into the bed, finally letting the exhaustion settle over you. It had only been a day in this universe, but you had spent a few years as The Ghost, and that was…a lot. Not worth dwelling over at this moment. However, before the beginnings of sleep could settle, you heard footsteps coming towards your…archway? There wasn't a door after all.

        It was a beautiful elf maiden who approached. Long, flowing brown hair framed her delicate, ageless face. Her pale blue gown rustled softly, decorated with embroidery of silver thread that shimmered in the fading sunlight. “You asked for me?” Her voice was warm and soothing, like a lullaby. You sat up on your elbows, offering a polite smile. “Yes, thank you for coming.” You replied.

        The seamstress stepped fully into the chamber, having carried a woven basket filled with fabrics and measuring tools. “I was told you needed suitable attire for a council meeting. Was there…anything else that you needed besides that?” Her words were kind, but there was careful curiosity in her gaze that was unmistakable. It felt like she could damn-near see through you. 

        “Well, I don’t have any clothes. Like, at all. So if it’s possible, I’d like to commission two or three pieces for travel and such.” You sat up fully now, fussing with the edge of your silk so that it revealed no more of your chest. “I have something specific in mind if it’s not too much trouble.” 

        The she-elf tilted her head slightly as she looked over you and the tablecloth you wore. “‘Commission’?” She asked, her voice betraying a bit of playful disbelief. “You plan to pay?” 

        “Yes…By courtesy of Lord Elrond.” A lie, and it made a grin spread to your lips, which caused the seamstress to let out a soft laugh. “Very well,” she responded, taking the chair that was next to your bed and placing it in front of you, sitting down, and pulling out a piece of parchment. “Please, describe your wish.” Her eyes twinkled with interest, but you couldn’t tell if it was your imagination or not. 

        You hesitated, trying to find the right words. The memories of Jin’s attire flashed vividly before your eyes. “Clothes that are comfortable, battle-ready, but still look good,” you started carefully. “I’m sure that might sound strange.” 

        “On the contrary,” the elf seamstress replied warmly, already sketching out her ideas on the paper. “We elves hold both beauty and practicality in high regard. I would be honored to craft garments that reflect your spirit.” You watched her draw closely, and though you didn’t doubt her ability, you knew she wouldn’t come up with what you were thinking. You thought perhaps explaining it more might help. 

        “It’s… sort of a warrior’s outfit, not the kind you’re used to seeing here, I think. The top is loose, it’s called a kimono, but for you, perhaps it’ll look more like a robe. I want it dyed a deep crimson—not bright, more like aged blood or dark cherry wood. It should fall past the hips, with wide sleeves that don’t cling too tightly—enough room to move freely, or conceal blades if necessary.” The seamstress nodded thoughtfully as you continued. “The lower half is a kind of pleated trouser—wide-legged and heavy, almost like a skirt at a glance, but stiff, like armor made of cloth. I’d like it dark, nearly black, maybe with the faintest green or blue tinge depending on the light. They wrap around and tie at the waist—thick, layered folds that hang in straight lines.” To your surprise, she managed to sketch down everything you had requested, but you were hardly finished. “There’s an obi belt around the middle—a wide sash to hold everything together. Gray or charcoal in tone, maybe with a white rope layered over it to secure weapons or pouches. It should sit tight but not restrict breathing. Layers matter—not for beauty, but for function. I’ll need it to endure movement, travel, and fighting. Light enough not to drag me down, but strong enough to survive swordplay.” You thought that maybe your ramblings might have been too much, but the she-elf had a smile on her face. 

        “All this is just…one garment?” Her tone was teasing, yet you felt embarrassed all the same. “Too much?” You asked sheepishly. She shook her head. “Consider it done.” 

        Once the seamstress had taken her measurements and later her leave, silence fell again. You sat there for a long while, still unsure of what to do with yourself. You were tired, but now sleep wouldn’t come. Eventually, you wandered toward the open archway. Beyond it, a narrow balcony unfurled like a ledge carved into starlight. Cool marble met your bare feet. The breeze was gentle, brushing past like a whisper, carrying the scent of pine and wet earth. You leaned against the curved railing, eyes tracing the dark lines of treetops below, waterfalls glittering in the distance. The sun had set now, giving way to the stars. They were unfamiliar—sharper, whiter, scattered like glass across black velvet. You couldn’t make out any constellations, nothing you could recognize. This wasn’t your sky, wasn’t your world. 

        That’s when it hit you. 

        Not in a dramatic, cinematic way—but like an ache. A hollowness inside your ribs. You would never go home. That realization was quiet and cruel in its finality. No more late-night drives. No more playlists. No more gaming. No more phone. No more family. No more you, at least the version you were yesterday—rather, before you came here. A single tear escaped down your cheek before you could stop it. You wiped it away quickly with a deep sigh, as if the night itself were watching. “I ain’t no bitch.” You cursed to yourself. “I chose this, so suck it up.”

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format © starmapz. dividers © chachachannah & cafekitsune.

[toriasporia]

☆ Uncommon Realities & Plotlines ☆

☆ Lifestyle ☆

Hometown Teen Superhero - A reality like your OR ( for lack of a better term ) but you obtain powers and are now in charge of protecting your hometown from some type of evil.  Could be a magical force, a secret society, Supervillain ( could be someone you know in your OR ), or just regular crime. Plotline Idea - After a couple months of settling into your new position as your town’s protector, a new hero comes out of the woodworks, competing for your spotlight. Will you embrace your new companion, or will a thrilling ( maybe even passionate ) rivalry spark?

Runaway - Reinvent yourself with a new city, a new name, and a new life. Take a partner or explore the world alone. Cross state lines and run as far away as you can. Plotline Idea - The same faces, the same routines, the same slow suffocation. One night, under a sky too big for small dreams, you take the keys, the cash, and the road stretching beyond the streetlights. You flee suburbia, chasing freedom on the open road, never looking back.

☆ Historical ☆

Ancient Egypt - Become a noble or a scribe, learning hieroglyphs and studying the ancient language. Visit the Mouseion and explore the library of Alexandria. Take a dip in the Nile and enjoy the cool African waters. Plotline Idea - You are a revered scribe, healer, or an overlooked noble, but your life changes when you stumble upon an ancient scroll hidden within the depths of a temple. The prophecy foretells the rise of a new Pharaoh, chosen by the gods, one who will bring Egypt to an age of enlightenment. The more you read, the more you realize the prophecy speaks of you.

Renaissance Artist - Become an inspiration to future generations with every brush/pen stroke. Paint, Sculpt, Carve, Write, Compose, ect… or even be the apprentice of an influential mind like Leonardo da Vinci or William Byrd. Plotline Ideas : Writing - You dream of becoming a renowned writer in an age when the printing press is revolutionizing Europe. But with censorship, the Inquisition, and the ever-watchful eyes of those in power, your words could mean fame or imprisonment. Sculpting - Carving marble is a brutal test of skill. As you train under a master sculptor, you risk everything to prove that your hands can shape beauty from stone. Painting - After years of study, you are given the opportunity of a lifetime: a commission for a grand cathedral. With no patrons to answer to, you are free to create as you please, immersing yourself in the work day after day, watching the walls come alive with light and color. Composition - You stumble upon the forgotten sonnets of a deceased composer, filled with ideas never brought to life. Inspired, you attempt to complete their vision whilst making a name for yourself. Non-Specific - You and another artist rise in prominence at the same time, constantly competing for the best commissions. While your rivalry fuels innovation, it also breeds passion.

Roaring Twenties – The world is alive with jazz, art, and rebellion. A world of dazzling speakeasies, smoky lounges, and moonlit city streets. Live as a jazz musician in Harlem, a mysterious detective, a silent film star rising to fame, or a flapper in a prohibition-era city. Plotline Ideas : Music - You land a job playing piano at a lively speakeasy, where the city’s most interesting characters pass through. From bootleggers to flappers to rising politicians, you become a quiet observer of the changing times, all while trying to compose your own music and make a name for yourself. Socialite - You live a life of glamour, attending lavish parties and rubbing elbows with the elite. But behind the feathered headbands and champagne toasts, you’re running a secret operation. Whether it’s a newspaper column exposing corruption, a hidden speakeasy, or as an undercover detective fishing out bootleggers.

Ancient Mesopotamia - Step into the cradle of civilization, where towering ziggurats rise above bustling city-states. As a scribe, priestess, merchant, or artisan, you navigate a world of innovation, trade, and political intrigue. Plotline Ideas : Scribe - As the personal scribe to the king, you record royal decrees, important treaties, and the stories of the empire. You spend your days in the palace, surrounded by scholars preserving history in clay. Noble - As a noble in the palace, you live a life of luxury, education, and diplomacy. You study poetry, music, and astronomy. And although your life is planned for you, your influence at court is unexpectedly powerful, guiding policies and decisions with a forceful grace.

Wild West – Dusty trails, open plains, and freedom beneath an endless sky. Whether you’re a wandering cowboy, a sharp-eyed gunslinger, or a lone rancher carving out a life on the land, every day is a test of grit and survival. Ride through bustling towns, capture outlaws, and survive duels. Plotline Idea - You rob banks but leave money for the struggling townsfolk, you break the law but never kill without cause. The newspapers may write you as a hero, but the price on your head keeps rising, and bounty hunters are constantly tryna' track you down.

Victorian High Society – Navigate a world of grand estates, glittering balls, and whispered scandals. Afternoon teas hide veiled rivalries, marriages are strategic affairs, and influence is the most valuable currency. Plotline Idea - You are one of the most powerful people in society, and unlike many of your peers, you want to use your wealth for good. Whether it’s funding schools, aiding the poor, or advocating for social reform, your actions draw admiration and scandal in equal measure.

☆ Mythology ☆

Yōkai Village – Hidden deep within misty mountains or nestled in an ancient forest, a secret village thrives. One where chosen humans and Yōkai coexist in a delicate balance. Live among Japan’s supernatural beings like kitsune, tanuki, and tengu. Plotline Idea - Once every few years ( however long you'd like ), the Yōkai village hosts a grand festival where spirits from all over Japan gather. As a trusted figurehead in your community, you are given the important role of organizing the event.

Hollow Earth – Beneath the surface, a vast and hidden world thrives. One untouched by time, where ancient cities, towering bioluminescent forests, and creatures long thought extinct roam freely. A world where the Earth is hollow and home to an advanced, hidden civilization. Plotline Idea - Locals have always warned of a massive cavern beyond the great cliffs, a place no one returns from. You wish to only observe the caverns, but the unstable rock beneath you falters as you fall into the cracks of earth below. You find yourself in the streets of a hidden kingdom, beneath the planet's crust lies incomprehensible beauty you never dreamed to experience.

☆ Media ☆ ( Plotlines not included because said media already provides them )

Trollhunters - TRUST it’s worth the watch and the shift 🙏

Star Wars - Lightsabers??? Space Exploration??? HELLO???

What We Do in the Shadows - Silly vampire roommate reality <3 Shifting here for Nadja (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Our Flag Means Death - Fun pirate reality, entertaining story line, cute romance between pirate captains (ง ͠ಥ_ಥ)ง I’m shifting for Jim and the pirate life <3

Ark - Script majority of dinosaurs are docile or have a lot of safety measures in place. Either follow the game’s plot or survive on your own ( I recommend you script you already have shelter ) and meet other survivors. I am groupshifting here with a friend of mine 🦕

Stardew Valley - Romance the residents, manage your homestead, forage, explore, build relationships, and so much more! I’m personally looking forward to seeing my fixer-upper husband Shane ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

Sims 4 - 100% recommend. Meet vampires, werewolves, woo the grim reaper, maybe even get abducted by aliens! Explore San Myshuno, Oasis Springs, Forgotten Hollow, Granite falls, ect…

Slime Rancher - Leisurely manage your ranch and collect all the slimes you can! You can script in other ranchers and sustain your homestead together <3

[alltheboysandgirlsiloved]

There's one scene that I need to see in jwct S3 and that we will probably never get.

Seeing as Ben's girlfriend is real, I want Ben to actually confront the rest of the Nublar Five (Brooklynn is obviously excused because she's in her toxic evil yuri era), why they didn't believe him when he said that he had a girlfriend. And I want them to answer honestly. Because they didn't believe him, not in season 1 (maybe except from Yaz) and clearly on their way to Ben's gf, they were still veeeery dubious about this. Like... The impossibility of Ben's gf existence was the running thought during all conversations about Ben's girlfriend. More than that. In the trailer for season 3, we can also see Kenji and Yaz doubting this too! (And Yaz seemed supportive in S1 while Kenji didn't know back then).

So I want to know, because it was framed like this on purpose. For me as a viewer, it's obvious why they framed it like that (yes, it was suggestive, it's a classic "he's telling that she's real but she's not" and don't even try to argue with me about that). But I want to know why they reacted like that from the jwct universe's point of view.

Why they didn't believe their best friend?

I would really like to know, and I suspect that it will never be brought up ever. They will maybe apologise "hey, man, sorry for doubting you" but that will probably be all. But I truly would love to know the reason why seemingly all of them were convinced that she wasn't real.

Because Ben is... He's a catch really, let's be real? He's a bit of an odd-ball yes, but he's lovely, sweet, kind and caring, he's smart and passionate. He's Tall and from what we can tell well-built, and he is objectively handsome. There's a lot to love about Ben and Nublar Six knows that because they love him the most with all his quirks and oddities. So... Why. Was it so hard to believe? And don't tell me "well, he doesn't seem like the type to enter a long distance relationship". His long distance friendship with the Nublar speaks for itself. "Well, he doesn't seem like the type to be in a relationship". Honestly? Looking at Nublar, I'd sooner point at Darius as a potential "not the type for relationships" kind of guy (yes, yes, I haven't forgotten about the Brooklynn plotline, dw).

And anyway, if I was Ben. I'd like to know. What was so hard to believe.

We will never find out, I guess. I don't have high hopes for that.

[honk--mimimimi]

Are u still watching armada after getting spooked by some of comments (totally wasn't me who left one of those comments lol)

I apologize for the late update, but INDEED I AM 🙌 ngl I was terrified but I PRESSED ONNNN Here are some more screenshots of this absolute icon aha ☺️

I'm still on season 2 but I notice Starscream is like 'ahaaa maybe it's time for a new leader' and him and Megatron are giving each other glares. I'm getting an uh-oh feeling y'all. But a good thing is that this diva had the star saber and a squad of minicons for ONE EPISODE just following him around, and I found it hilarious because it lowkey reminded me of a parent and their 3 kids LMAOAOO

I should draw Starscream again... 😔 thank you forgotten-plotline for the ask and just so you know I am now looking for every little detail, if anything happens to him I'll tweak

edit: MEGATRON GASLIT HIM AND DID SOME VOODOO TRICK OF THE FOG AND HE GAVE UP THE SABER IM GONNA HRHSJHS

[billpottsismygf]

March Madness was a pretty underwhelming episode (I don't know enough about sports to know or care about the demon thing, since it wasn't doing enough on its own apart from yet another blinder of a performance from Matt Berry), but it brought home to me just how much the show has completely dropped Guillermo's fighting prowess. It bothered me in episode one when Jerry got him by the throat, but it's even worse here where it's Colin beating him up. Did we just forget that Guillermo is capable of slaughtering an entire theatre full of vampires and can beat Nandor in single combat? Maybe he doesn't want to alert the office to his almost supernatural slaying abilities, but he should at least have been able to hold Colin off.

I guess I don't mind the show moving on from slaying being his main focus (though it was my favourite Guillermo plotline), but I don't see why they seem to be retconning him to be just some guy again.

Guillermo is still my favourite character, but it really feels like they don't know what to do with him anymore (or any of them tbh). His desire to become a vampire that clashed with his slaying heritage was really compelling, especially when paired with his complicated relationship with Nandor. Now they've resolved the wanting to be a vampire thing and forgotten about the slaying thing, and he barely even speaks to Nandor. Whether their relationship is going anywhere I don't know, but removing their dynamic to the extent that they have really hampers their individual characters and the show itself.

[kikyoupdates]

Changing Plotlines ⭑˚💞⭑ 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑎 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑦𝑔𝑜𝑒𝑟

yandere!ocs x f!reader

yandere, reverse harem, yandere reverse harem, original characters x fem!reader, slowburn, isekai

A desperate cry on your deathbed leads to you being given a fresh start at life. You're overjoyed at having finally obtained a healthy body and a real chance at living normally, only to discover that you've been transported into a yandere game, where danger lurks at every corner. Determined to protect your new life at any cost, you vow to stay as far away from the major characters of the game as possible. But things don't always go as planned.

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Zodin had promised you that your stay in this world wasn’t just temporary and that you’d be allowed to live out a full life. That was, of course, assuming none of the yanderes decided they wanted to hurt you. But it was still a weight off your chest, and all you really needed to do was keep your head down and stay out of their way.

You were going to focus on your studies, hone your sword skills, and keep an open mind as to whatever other possibilities this lovely new life of yours had to offer.

“[Name], don’t forget that we have that gathering at the Simmons estate tomorrow,” your mother told you over breakfast.

“Uh, what?” you gaped, a few crumbs of croissant falling out of your mouth.

“The gathering at the Simmons estate,” she repeated, giving you a curious look. “Have you already forgotten? We agreed to attend a good while ago. A lot of other families will be there, so we thought it’d be fun. Perhaps you could make a few friends.”

Make a few friends, she said. Not make a few new friends, which implied that the version of you in this world didn’t have any friends to begin with. Looks like some things never changed.

But I’m not even a sickly recluse here! Why am I always so goddamn unpopular?

You’d sort of suspected as much, since no one in this world had ever approached you claiming to play the part. You weren’t exactly sure why you didn’t have any friends. It could be that it was a direct parallel to the life you’d lived previously, or maybe people just didn’t like your personality. Who knew, really.

But that wasn’t even the biggest issue. The Simmons household that your mother was talking about was none other than Theresa’s family. It was at this very gathering that Theresa bullied Flora to the point of making her cry, whereupon Flora would later run into Lawrence. You felt bad knowing that something shitty was going to happen in advance and being absolutely helpless to stop it, but you really couldn’t risk getting involved any further. The easiest way to avoid running into either Flora or any of the yanderes was to skip the gathering altogether.

So, you resolved to do just that.

“No, I remember,” you said, neatly wiping the corners of your mouth with a napkin. “But I was just thinking... would it be alright if I don’t go? I think I’m coming down with something.”

Your father frowned at you from across the table. “Coming down with something? As in, you feel sick?”

“Hm, I’m not sure. But just to be safe, I’d rather stay home and risk embarrassing myself in front of a bunch of people. Is that okay?”

“Well, of course we wouldn’t want to push you if you feel unwell,” your mother acknowledged. “But... you don’t really look sick, my dear. Are you certain you might not be imagining it?”

“We can have a doctor come by to check on you,” your father chimed in.

You cleared your throat. “Um... no. There’s no need for that. I really do think I’m getting sick, even if it doesn’t seem all that bad yet. But if I get enough rest early on, it shouldn’t turn into too big of a problem. So, I’ll just stay home while the two of you visit the Simmons estate, alright?”

“Sweetheart, if you’re sick, all the more reason to bring in a doctor.” Your mother’s brows drooped dejectedly. She looked absolutely gutted by even the chance that you might be a bit ill. Ugh, this was bringing back awful memories from your previous life.

Still, you stuck to your story.

“No doctors,” you insisted. “I just need to rest. That’s all. I promise I’ll be okay. Don’t worry too much about me and just go and have a good time.”

They didn’t try to fight you any further. Your parents had never been the type to pressure you into anything if you were clearly uncomfortable with it. Although right now, using it to your advantage was making you feel ridiculously guilty.

“Go ahead and rest up,” they nodded. “We thought it’d be nice for you to meet someone new, but there will be plenty more chances. Your health is more important.”

Well, it wasn’t totally a lie. Your decision to stay home was rooted purely in self-preservation, so in a way, you were looking out for your health.

Lizbell, however, wasn’t having any of it.

“Your poor parents,” she tutted disapprovingly, wiping down your wooden cabinets. “My lady, I never took you for such a shameless liar. Can’t you tell how excited they were for you to join them for such a festive occasion?”

“What’s so festive about the occasion?” you sighed. “It’s just your run-of-the-mill house party. We hardly even know the host family, anyways. Plus, I’m sick.”

You let out a rather dry, unconvincing cough, which just made Lizbell grimace and shake her head.

“It isn’t very nice to deceive them, that’s all I’m saying,” she huffed, then proceeded to turn up her nose in an overtly judgmental fashion.

Aw, c’mon! Just let me have this!

“Fine,” you reluctantly sighed. “I’m not sick. You got me.”

“I was never convinced for a single moment, but do go on.”

“I’m not sick, but... I still don’t want to go,” you said, shrinking in on yourself. “There’s someone... that I’m trying to avoid. I have to avoid them, no matter what. I’m being honest with you, Lizbell, so I hope now you understand where I’m coming from.”

Lizbell’s expression softened somewhat. “My lady, it isn’t good to avoid facing your problems. It will only create even more problems later on. And I’m sure that the person you’re choosing to avoid, for whatever reason, is nowhere near as fearsome as you seem to think they are. No one would dare to stir up a fuss at such a public function. Not unless they were willing to risk tarnishing their reputation.”

Sure, the odds of you getting outright attacked if you showed up were practically zero. The likelihood of anything bad happening was absurdly small, you knew that. But every meeting with Flora, or anyone else from the main cast, just put you more and more at risk of getting dragged into the game’s insidious plotline. Even if it was extremely unlikely that you would become a target, you just couldn’t risk it.

You wouldn’t. No matter what. Even if Lizbell kept staring at you with those judgmental bright blue eyes of hers that were pretty much implying she expected better from you.

“Sorry, Lizbell.” You grabbed a book and sat down on your bed, flipping it open to the first page. “I’ve already made up my mind.”

For some reason, Lizbell looked like she was smirking at you.

“Yes,” she hummed. “I, too, have already made up my mind.”

Um...

“My lady, my lord!” she cried out, all but running out of your room, “I’ve just ascertained for a fact that [Name] is not sick! She told me that she just wanted to stay home and gorge herself on sweets all night!”

Lizbell, that little rat! She was tattling on you! Also, that last part was a blatant lie!

Your parents were lovely, patient people. Both in your previous life, and in this one. But that didn’t mean that they didn’t get annoyed with your antics from time to time.

“[Name], what’s all this about?” they sighed. “Come on, honey, don’t be difficult. It’s good to make appearances and meet new people. It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Lizbell, please take her temperature just in case and keep an eye on her to make sure that she isn’t actually getting sick. But otherwise, we expect you to come with us. It isn’t often we get to go out to gatherings as a family. Alright?”

“Um, um..."

You floundered hopelessly, but it was difficult to make a case now that your authenticity had been called into question.

Your parents proceeded to smile at you, as if reassuring you that everything would be fine, then promptly left.

Absolutely livid, you turned towards Lizbell with a glare.

“You goddamn traitor!” you fumed. “I trusted you!”

Lizbell looked awfully pleased with herself. “My apologies, Lady [Name], but I can’t help but want what’s best for you. I recall last time you were on campus, you said something about being afraid of another run-in with Lord Cassius. I assume it’s him that you’re hoping to avoid. I just want you to get over your unnecessary fear of him. He isn’t going to bite, you know.”

Cassius was one of the people you wanted to avoid, yes, but she clearly thought you were being overly paranoid, when in fact your fears were completely justifiable. But again, there was no way to convince her or your parents. What could you tell them, that you’d witnessed firsthand what the future had in store for this world? Of course not. That was a one-way trip to the loony bin.

“Lizbell,” you glared, crossing your arms angrily, “we’re not friends anymore.”

“My lady,” she gasped, pretending to look devastated. “Surely you don’t mean that?”

“...fine, I was exaggerating a bit. But still. Not cool!”

“I think I can live with that,” she shrugged.

Thus, against your deliberate wishes and better judgment, you found yourself attending Theresa’s stupid house party.

It was certainly busy, with nobles bustling about and happily mingling with one another. The Simmons estate was even more impressive than your own, but you were hardly taking the time to admire the decor and architecture. You were too concerned with glancing around in a panic, keeping an eye out for any of the people you wanted to avoid. Spotting them amongst the crowd was a tall task, but you hoped that if you couldn’t see them, it meant that they also couldn’t see you.

They’re probably pretty busy, anyways. I’m not sure exactly when, but Theresa will have her hands full trying to humiliate Flora, and then Flora and Lawrence will end up meeting, so they might not even have time to run into me.

The fact that you didn’t know when the fated scene would take place was putting you even more on edge. You did also still feel quite a bit guilty about it as well. Goddammit, Lizbell! If you’d been home right now, you could’ve just curled up with a good book and been none the wiser. But there was nothing you could do about it now. You just needed to get through the evening without causing any trouble. Which, in your experience, was admittedly easier said than done.

“What’s wrong?” your father frowned. You’d taken to latching your arm around his, wary of taking so much as two steps away from your parents. You figured you were safest by their side. Not that you were intent on using your own parents as a shield or anything, but they could probably make up for your shortcomings if something went awry.

“Nothing,” you lied. “There are a lot of people, and I’m just... nervous.”

“There’s no need to be nervous. You’re a lovely young lady. So talkative and pleasant to be around. We really don’t understand how it is that you haven’t made a single friend yet...”

It’s not my fault people don’t like me! Stop rubbing salt in my wound!

“Ah, is that Albert?” your father said, his eyes lighting up. He immediately pulled away from you, outstretching his arms as a smile spread across his lips. “Albert, my good friend! I didn’t expect to see you here!”

“Oh, if Albert’s here, that means Sofia must be too!” your mother exclaimed gleefully.

Before you could even process what was happening, your parents had already deserted you in exchange for a happy-looking couple. Well, that was just perfect. It didn’t seem like they had trouble making friends, at least.

You were left alone, awkwardly twiddling your thumbs. You could’ve probably inserted yourself into your parents’ conversation, and they would’ve gladly welcomed you, but you hadn't a clue about those people, and what if the you of this world had met them before? You wouldn’t know what to say. All you could really do was hope that your parents would come back to you sooner rather than later.

Ugh, it doesn’t look like there’s any food here, either. Everyone’s just walking around and chatting.

You opted to grab a seat in some quiet corner of the room, but you’d hardly taken two steps before an arrogant voice accosted you.

“Would you look at that,” the woman said irritably. “I seem to have found a familiar face. To think that you would have the nerve to show up here, after what you did to me...”

Ugh. You shouldn’t have been too surprised, since she lived here, but you’d really been hoping not to run into her today.

Theresa was glowering at you, her sharp eyes challenging you for a response. “Well? Aren’t you going to grovel at my feet and beg for forgiveness?”

“Uh, not really,” you said, then booked it the hell out of there. There were a lot of people, so you’d been hoping to lose her in the crowd, but she obviously knew her way around her own home, and it didn’t take long at all for her to track you down again.

“You ran away with your tail between your legs,” Theresa snickered. “You must be terribly afraid of what I’m about to do to you.”

You sighed loudly. “No, I just didn’t want to deal with the hassle of having to talk to you.”

“What did you just say to me?!” She was already fuming, outright stomping her feet in frustration. Seriously, she was such a child. “I won’t be forgetting what you did to me,” she hissed. “That sort of embarrassment... I haven’t yet decided what I’ll be doing to pay you back, but rest assured that you will suffer more than ten times the humiliation.”

God, what a pain in the ass. If you’d known you were going to have to deal with her, you would’ve sooner hung out with Albert and Sofia.

“I already said I wasn’t trying to hit your face,” you said, shaking your head tiredly. “Can’t we just let bygones be bygones?”

“Are you dense?” Theresa spat. “Did you seriously think I was ever going to let you get away with what you did? My poor, beautiful face... it could have been permanently damaged that day! You could never hope to compensate me for such a loss!”

She proceeded to blabber on and on about how much of a stunner she was, which sure, she was definitely very pretty, but you weren’t really in the mood for a narcissistic display right now. Also, she was being so loud and annoying—in true villainess fashion. It was getting to be quite tiresome, and some people had even taken to glancing your way.

Exasperated, you clamped a palm over her mouth and leaned in close. “Okay, okay!” you cried out. “I’m very sorry about what I did. I just don’t like it when people harass others, but it’s true that it was really none of my business. I apologize for butting in and hurting you. It won’t happen again, alright? Promise.”

You slowly removed your hand from her lips and pulled away, hoping that she’d quieted down a bit.

She wasn’t yelling anymore, thankfully, but she was now beet red and shaking from mortification.

“H-How dare you touch me so carelessly,” Theresa stammered out, clearly doing her utmost to keep from breaking down into tears. “Mark my words... you’ll pay for continuously undermining me!”

She outright huffed, then scampered off in a hurry, even stumbling over her own feet a couple of times.

You squinted at her pathetic little escape. In the game, she certainly seemed much more imposing, probably because you played it from Flora’s perspective, who was repeatedly bullied at Theresa’s hands. But now that you were interacting with her in person... she kind of just struck you as annoying little pest. A flea, or something.

Honestly, you didn’t really anticipate her giving you that much trouble. 

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💞 main masterlist ♡ character appearances

[huckleberryblossom]

rue macnamara and her currently unnamed daughter (ill think of something eventually, rip)

(a whole lot about wotb under the cut)

the way wotb handles disability is um. not great. i think lasky tried to balance an empowering take (multiple times in the series a gnaw wolf's greatest talent is somehow related to/because of their disability, they just dont ever get the chance to utilize it because of Wolf LawTM) with the "accurate" representation of wolf pack structure, but in today's day it really just comes across as a tired representation of disability. and also i just dont think it was ever very good to begin with, because it was just introduced as the way of the world and nothing was done with it, beyond faolan's identity struggles (and edme's, later). and as far as ive gotten in the books, he simply escapes his problems by going to the watch, and iirc, he doesnt feel at home there either. hamish didnt, and says as much to coryn, all he'd ever wanted was to be an equal. which is like, fucked up! and could have been interesting to explore further, but isnt ever. instead theres a bear war, i guess

im not fully finished with my reread of wotb, so my opinion on this might change a little, but man. i think it was a big missed opportunity to set up what is actually just eugenics and then try to navigate around it by slapping a few "your disabilities make you strong :)" here and there on top of it. like! the macduncans couldve revered faolan for jumping the wall of fire, if shadow wolf was about faolan earning his "place" in the clan then they shouldve been behind him after that, his strength was recognized but never utilized. maybe they couldve gone hey, maybe its a little fucked up to send newborns to designated places to die like its an artform and then banish both of their parents, and if they happen to survive we let them stay but only as the lowest ranking member of the pack forever. its made even worse by the fact that faolan SEETHES about it! he recognizes that he's better than this treatment, he just gets used to it! its upsetting to see these threads just let go in favor of other plotlines, because faolan is so passionate of a main character, and horrible injustices are introduced and just forgotten about, because theyre accepted as the way things are.

so idk. i think that conflict is interesting and as someone with disabilities that make my daily life fucking harder, i kind of dont want to just wipe away all those parts of the culture, even as shitty as they are. but im not about to rewrite wotb or anything, so im just going to make some ocs and let them do it. theres some things ill probably get rid of completely (like the ember healing the watch, and the obeas) but for the most part i think i want to tackle the society naturally, within the story of the ocs. also, this doesnt have much to do with the rest of this post, but lasky loves to do "evil family" and its very apparent with the wolves, bc hundreds of years later the macheaths are still naturally evil! so i probably will be addressing that as well, in the way wolves move from clan to clan

i just felt like it needed to be addressed if i was going to start posting wotb ocs, since its just. well its just a mess all around

[tinylongwing]

I found this file on my desktop called "idk what this is" and opened it, because I had forgotten. And uh, it's like a fragment of a fic? It's a concept that I wanted to put into words, that has no start or end or plotline. It's never going to be "finished" beyond its current state. So I'm just going to post it here, you can read it if you like, and that'll be its home.

--

Sure, the World Ender was a dad once.

But that's the thing, that's the key word. Once. He's no father to the gang; Johnnie doesn't treat him like a father. Johnnie's father is an absent alcoholic fuckup. He doesn't need another one.

So the man who was Cobb Avery, is not some replacement dad. A dad wouldn't wield his adoptive sons and daughters like a weapon against the world. The World Enders are a swirling vortex of disaster; a force of nature that cannot be stopped. Hell, the Ender himself doesn't exactly wield them anyway. Nobody has power over them. He's not standing and giving orders, pointing a finger and directing them who to take on and when to hold back. He could, if he wanted. He has, once. They would listen. But maybe he's content letting them surround him, envelop him in their revelry and chaos. They orbit in a loose cloud, rather than neatly-controlled ellipses. The hierarchy among them is slight, and exists mostly out of mutual agreement that sometimes, someone has to be the go-to for this or that. They do as they please, and at the center, he exists, and where once those dark eyes reflected humanity, all that is in them now is fire.

There's a haze tonight, city lights reflecting off smog, or fog. Maybe both. Sfmog. Johnnie leans forward against the porch railing, arms folded across the top of it. He's here to wait while the creature of outer void that wears the shape of a man discusses something with Alex indoors. Johnnie is near enough to overhear, if he wanted - it's a nice summer night, the windows are open - but business shit is boring when it doesn't involve him. He tracks movement instead - cars driving by on the freeways, pigeons fluttering in the gaps between the darkness and the stars. The silhouette that must be Mateo, seen across the courtyard and through the window of his apartment as he gears up for a night out.

Nobody but them takes care of them, that's the thing. They lean on each other. Anarchy doesn't mean they're all individually on their own, it means that they support each other as a group. Even the ones "in charge", the Ender, his brothers, they're not tyrants and they're sure as hell not parents. They're all pulling their own weight, they're all bringing in money and notoriety and connections and contacts, things that help all of them out. The crew wouldn't stand for a so-called leader who was worthless any more than they would stand for one who gave orders they couldn't trust, or who never joined in a fight and shed blood alongside them.

[ingenuitique]

this was probably the rookie’s strongest episode of the season (i don’t remember if there were others but I genuinely enjoyed it sm today). they handle multiple cop plotlines so well it truly felt like before (idk before what but i also sort of do know the exact issue they have). positives first - i loved lucy and celina’s plot, it was fun to see them just be badass, saving the day (lucy especially THAT’S MY GIRL crashing through windows fr). i am really glad they put Tim back in the TO roles because he might be good as a sergeant but he really shines with his interpersonal dynamics and I love seeing Tim and Miles (they’ve managed to nail another TO-Rookie dynamic which is basically my favourite thing about the show anyway). even the last few episodes where they show what a great teacher Tim is, because he understands his rookies and what they need.

The Tim-Angela scene was cute too, Tim being one of the girls is always fun to see reiterated.

I also liked seeing Miles take on something like this. He really loves his job so it’s nice to see him have individual storylines too. I don’t know where they’d eventually go with this whole Nyla cop reform storyline but it’s an important conversation so I’m happy to see it.

I honestly don’t mind that Tim and Lucy are not “together” because they basically… are? They’re not looking to date other people, they are just sort of both waiting for things to fall into place career wise (and Lucy needs time to trust him again which is completely understandable so like this is a great place for chenford to be in idk)

Also them winning the game ahah Tim as captain was a guaranteed win that man cares about the game too much.

Andd a random prediction I have (also sort of wish) that whoever sent that guy to Tim’s house is how Tim ends up with a near death experience this season… like gimme it. Come on.

Now the negatives:

First of all they REALLY need to give wopez a storyline this season because literally everyone else is doing something and they had that random cop-has-a-crush-on-angela story that ended up being nothing anyway and then nothing!! give me something! I miss them, I wanna see them!

i am glad lucy addressed the true crime thing but i also sort of found it uncomfortable cause lucy was, quite literally, a victim of a serial killer too… she just lived through it and idk maybe they’ve just forgotten it? And i don’t understand the point of removing lucy from the final scene too… everyone was there they actively made it a point to not have her there is there some eventual plot there or what

the first scene of Bailey trash talking Nolan was so?? Like it was objectively bad acting there was no emotion in the way she was saying stuff idk i was so confused.

The Amazon Prime plugin reminded me of 9-1-1 instantly and was literally the only thing I liked about the scene oops?

Also… I HATE that they got zero consequences for aiding a hitman for Jason? Like uh… their relationship constraint barely existed, there was no moral ambiguity. I was expecting at least SOME plot about Nolan being confused in a crucial moment of whether he should let Malvado go… i was totally convinced it will happen, Malvado will slip from his hands and Nolan will have some moral crisis if he was genuinely outsmarted or if he let him go to save Bailey like at least that would make it more interesting? Why is there no actual threat? Why is it that conveniently Angela is the one who killed him so there’s no reason for Nolan to even be in the picture? There was so much scope and they did nothing with it just throwaway line about him maybe threatening them?? Show don’t tell? Idk what I’m saying but it was so anti climactic. Even Nolan being the one who shoots him and questioning if he did it because the situation called for it or because he wanted to “get rid of the evidence”.