#fragile elephant

[adamsvanrhijn]

someone should go back in time and tell my parents not to give me a stuffed elephant so that i don't become obsessed with an animal that when in the form of a fragile item has a long extremely breakable nose

[jungkoode]

THE 25TH HOUR | 10

"𝐂𝐎𝐆𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄"

"Information overload has consequences when your brain tries to map infinity. And some revelations about intellectual competition, tongue habits, and emotional resonance tracking really shouldn’t happen in the same afternoon."

next | index

— chapter details

word count: 8.5k

content: noma being demandingly curious, yoongi being feral about her dying 16 times, jungkook trying to be helpful, cognitive temporal dissonance aftermath, sobbing jungkook, angry yoongi, taehyung not being able to register info as a threat, team guilt spiral ft. everyone learning why information is literally dangerous, noma waking up in hopemin's bed (jimin is SO pressed about it), mission briefing: formal wear edition, jimin's fashion expertise meets his general disdain for houseguests, hoseok being chaos incarnate about intellectual foreplay patterns, "the tongue thing" revelation (rip noma's brain), yoongi's arousal tracking hitting 347% (someone pls help this man), gala infiltration setup, and SO MUCH unresolved sexual tension it could power the entire resistance base.

— author’s note

AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH IT’S HEEEREEEE it’s FINALLY here. The chapter I have been holding in my evil little claws like Gollum with the ring. My precious… (⁠ʘ⁠‿⁠ʘ⁠)

Okay okay okay. Deep breath. This chapter is so much. Like we are in full “this is why nobody should say anything around Noma without thinking first” territory. I’ve been WAITING to show you the consequences of information being mishandled around a brain like hers. And it was such a challenge to write because obviously YOU (dear reader) need to get some of this lore and intel too—but we’re not in omniscient narration. We’re in deep, close POV with Noma, and occasionally Yoongi, and that means there’s no “as you know, Bob” exposition. That’s amateur hour. Everything that comes through to you has to come through them. It has to feel lived in. Felt. Filtered. With weight.

And YEAH. There’s a reason I wrote it the way I did. The info needs to creep in, not be dumped on you. This chapter was a narrative challenge and a DREAM to tackle because of that. I went full evil little narrative goblin. There are crumbs. There are cracks in the wall. There is an entire buffet of lore and psychological tension here. If you don’t pick up on it… I will cry. And then stab you. Lovingly.

Also. That convo between Tae, Jungkook, and Yoongi? YEAH. That’s not filler. That is pivotal. I needed to show how people in a massive resistance organization aren’t perfectly synced or briefed. This isn’t a YA chosen-one fantasy. Jungkook is a literal baby with powers he doesn’t fully understand, Taehyung is a modded enforcer who doesn’t register information as a threat (which is SUCH a fascinating limitation, ugh I love him), and Yoongi is the only one who has full comprehension of the consequences. The disparity is real. Organic. Messy. And necessary.

Tae’s assumption that Noma chose to push herself?? Very on purpose. Because if any reader also thought that? WRONG. And I wanted that to get addressed in canon. Noma didn’t push anything. She’s not reckless. She’s a computer. A genius. The kind of person who hears a truth and immediately starts mapping it across every axis of possible meaning. She’s Yoongi’s intellectual match. They are both monsters of cognition. They get off on being the smartest person in the room and guess what—it’s each other, always. They’re each other’s equals. That’s what makes their resonance so terrifying. So fragile. So powerful.

And yeah. It’s like when someone tells you not to think of an elephant. Your brain immediately defaults to elephant. Same with telling someone like Noma “you control space.” It doesn’t stop at space. It spirals. What does that MEAN? What are the LIMITS? What are the variables? Her brain starts crunching a concept that shouldn’t be understood. And it fries her.

So yeah. Now you know why they have to be so careful about what they say to her. Why Yoongi said back in earlier chapters that forcing memories or info on her could be catastrophic. This was that moment. I’ve been waiting to show you.

Also HEEEHEHEE the Hoseok and Jimin section is SO FUN. I love them so much. I couldn’t go deep into their backstories here because your brains already got fried with the temporal dissonance meltdown, but I loved weaving in the details carefully. The way they look at each other for permission to share, the way they dance around what’s safe vs. unsafe to say, the way Jimin cuts himself off—TENSIONNNNNNN. There’s a REASON she doesn’t have access to everything. There’s a REASON some things are safe, and others aren’t.

And let’s be honest. The moment Yoongi detects her arousal spike from three floors down??? Bro. I am unwell. Imagine being a telepathic soulmate with emotional resonance and you’re trying to drink your 4am rehydration tea and SUDDENLY you’re aware the love of your life is thinking about your sexy dissertation and the angle of your tongue. I’m gooning. I’m shriveling. I’m vibrating.

Anyway. Chapter 10 is intense. And intimate. And so so layered. I hope you love it. I hope you scream. And I hope you pay attention. Or else.

— read on

ao3

wattpad

The transition leaves an aftertaste of ozone and broken physics.

One moment, you are a collection of atoms held together by sheer will and Agent Min’s grip; the next, you are solid again. 

Your feet meet a floor of polished, off-white composite material that seems to absorb all sound. 

Back in the resistance headquarters; your mind helpfully supplies. Back to that long, sterile corridor that stretches before you, lit by light panels that emit a flat, shadowless glow.

The raw, bleeding edge of the portal behind you pulses once, then seals itself shut with a sound like tearing fabric, leaving no trace it was ever there.

“What was that?” is your first immediate question, referring to their commentary about Jungkook’s apparent teleportation abilities. 

Your processing centers demanding data to fill the void left by the impossible event. It’s directed at the back of Agent Min’s head as he walks ahead.

No answer.

Agent Min’s shoulders remain rigid, mint-colored hair looking like someone splashed watercolor in a grayscale simulation.

You can see the unnatural angle of his left shoulder, the controlled set of his jaw against what must be a significant level of pain.

But his gait suggests someone who’s done answering questions for the next seventy-three hours.

The probability he is ignoring you registers at 98.7%.

Fine. If he won't provide the data, you'll find a more willing source.

You turn your head, your gaze finding Jungkook. “What did you do?”

Jungkook’s eyes dart from you to Min’s rigid back, a flicker of conflict crossing his features. He presses his lips into a thin, unhappy line and gives a minute shake of his head. 

A clear non-verbal cue: can’t.

The first spark of real frustration ignites in your chest. A low-grade thermal reaction. It’s inefficient. Annoying. 

“Why is nobody telling me anything?” The question bursts out, louder than intended, echoing off the sleek, quantum-reinforced walls. Your vocal modulation is off—pitch elevated by 12%, volume spiking beyond optimal conversational levels. 

You don’t care. The lack of input is suffocating, a void where data should be.

“What did he do? He mimicked my abilities, didn’t he? I registered that much. I heard it.”

The query is directed at Taehyung this time. He’s the most likely to respond, with a 43% higher probability of verbal engagement based on past interactions.

But he just lets out a long, weary sigh, the sound echoing unnaturally in the dead air of the corridor. He doesn’t reply. Instead, his hand closes around Jungkook’s forearm, and he begins walking, pulling the younger agent along with him. 

Jungkook releases a sigh himself, this one loud and theatrical, a clear broadcast of his own displeasure with the mandated silence.

Your hands curl into fists, knuckles whitening under the pressure. 

The sensation is odd—muscle tension at 87% of maximum capacity, a physical manifestation of something you can’t quite name. 

Anger? Frustration? Both? 

You’re a walking processor, a system built for logic and analysis, not this messy, bubbling surge that threatens to override your control. 

But it’s there, undeniable, pushing against the edges of your restraint—you want to slam your fist into the nearest wall, propriety be damned. 

Instead, you plant your feet, the soles of your boots gripping the floor with a stubborn finality.

“I require answers.” The statement is flat, cold, and absolute. “If you refuse to provide the necessary information, I will acquire it through alternative, and likely less cooperative, means.”

That does it.

Taehyung and Jungkook freeze mid-stride. Min stops a few paces ahead, his back still to you, but the tension in his shoulders makes him seem taller, more dangerous.

Your eyes, those traitors, find the mint strands of his hair—a soft, pale contrast to the harsh black of his tactical vest and jacket. 

The color is striking, almost unfairly pretty, like a glitch in an otherwise monochromatic design. It distracts you for exactly 0.7 seconds before you force your focus back to his face, to those golden eyes that always seem to see too much.

“Min.”

He turns slowly, the movement measured and deliberate.

“Noma,” he begins, his voice low and grating, “you are not in an adequate headspace for a tactical debriefing.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“No.” He takes a step toward you. “I am.”

A humorless laugh escapes you, a puff of air. “By what authority? My operational parameters are my own.”

“Not when they intersect with mine.”

“And why,” you challenge, taking a step to meet him, closing the distance, “would you have any say in what I need, or what I don’t?”

His breath hitches, a ragged, sharp intake of air that speaks of immense pressure barely contained. 

It sounds like he’s holding back a scream, or venom, or wrestling with something volatile. Anger, maybe. Or something darker. You don’t know, and that lack of knowing is driving you up the wall.

He stalks toward you, his gait fluid despite the injury. Taehyung and Jungkook melt away, retreating to the periphery as if clearing the stage for a collision they know is inevitable.

He doesn’t stop until he’s so close you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze. Inches away. 

You can feel the heat radiating from him, and this time

it’s not just the ozone—but spearmint, that sharpens in the air around you. His eyes are no longer just tinged with gold; they are molten, blazing down at you.

“Because it became my choice,” he grits out, each word a shard of gravel torn from his throat. 

Your own defiance rises to meet it. “I don’t recall giving you a choice.”

His jaw ticks, a violent spasm of muscle. “It became my choice the moment I had to watch you die sixteen times.”

The air vacates your lungs in a single, silent rush. 

Sixteen times.

You died sixteen times.

Revival technology, temporal manipulation, parallel timelines—none of the models align with the raw certainty in his voice.

How is that possible? You’re alive. You’re here, breathing, thinking, processing data. There’s no evidence of revival technology in your medical records. No gaps in your memory that would suggest temporal manipulation. No—

If revival is possible, if you’ve died and returned multiple times, what does that mean for the fundamental laws of physics? For the nature of consciousness? For the reality you’ve been operating under?

What timeline are you even in? Or better, worse—how many have you lived through that you don’t remember? 

“And I’m not letting you become a seventeen.”

He spits the last word out like poison, a final, damning verdict. 

Then he turns, the motion sharp and decisive, and walks away down the corridor without a backward glance, leaving you shattered in his wake.

Jungkook and Taehyung remain stationary.

You note Taehyung’s grip on Jungkook’s arm—pressure increasing by approximately 12 newtons. Restraint behavior. But Jungkook’s eyes find yours anyway.

Then—

Something shifts inside your skull.

Not pain. Not memory. Something else entirely.

A voice that isn’t yours, speaking words that arrive without traveling through your auditory processing centers.

«Yes. It was your abilities. You control the spatial dimension.»

The transmission carries Jungkook’s vocal patterns but bypasses standard sensory input entirely—direct neural interface.

Telepathy.

He’s using Taehyung’s ability without anyone else detecting the connection.

Your gaze remains locked with his for exactly 0.7 seconds before he allows Taehyung to guide him forward.

Spatial dimension.

The words echo through your consciousness, connecting to memory fragments of golden tendrils and impossible physics. Of matter phasing and reality bending and distances that compress at your unconscious command.

Sixteen deaths. Seventeen possible.

You control space itself.

And apparently, nobody trusts you enough to explain why that matters.

The dream always starts the same way—with your hands mapping his chest like you're solving an equation.

You're above him, thighs bracketing his hips, that familiar analytical tilt to your head as you study him. Your hair falls in loose strands across your forehead, catching the low light of whatever timeline this is. Your mouth is parted just slightly, breath coming in those careful, measured gasps that drive him fucking insane.

You move like you always do—deliberate, testing, like every roll of your hips is gathering data. Like his body is some complex system you need to decode. Your palms press flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat, cataloging the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

"Fuck, Noma," he breathes, voice already wrecked, and you pause—just for a second—to process the sound. 

That little furrow appears between your brows, the one that means you're filing away his response for later analysis.

Then you sink down on him again, slow and torturous, taking him inch by inch like you're conducting some kind of experiment. His hands move to grip your waist, but golden tendrils—yours, not his—wrap around his wrists, pinning them to the mattress above his head.

The restraint makes him growl, a sound that rumbles up from his chest. Every instinct screams at him to flip you over, to pin you beneath him and fuck you until you stop thinking so goddamn much. 

But your tendrils hold firm, crystalline and unforgiving, and all he can do is lie there and take whatever pace you set.

"You're studying me," he pants, watching the way your eyes track every micro-expression that crosses his face.

"Always," you murmur, and the admission makes his cock twitch inside you. "Need to understand how you work."

You lean forward, changing the angle, and he sees stars. 

Your breath ghosts across his ear as you whisper, "What does this do to you?" and roll your hips in that specific way that makes him see fucking galaxies.

His answer is a broken moan, hips bucking up involuntarily. The tendrils tighten around his wrists, a gentle warning, and you make that soft sound of satisfaction—like you've just confirmed a hypothesis.

"And this?" You clench around him, internal muscles squeezing, and his vision whites out for a second.

"Christ, Noma," he gasps, straining against the golden bonds. "Let me touch you, please—"

But you just smile, that small, secret curve of your lips that means you’re exactly where you want to be. In control. Gathering data. Driving him out of his fucking mind with the slow, methodical way you take him apart.

You ride him like you have all the time in the world, like this is your favorite puzzle to solve. 

And maybe it is—maybe he’s your favorite system to understand, the one equation you never get tired of working through. The way you look at him, like he’s the most fascinating thing in any timeline, like every reaction is precious data you want to memorize.

He knows that look. It’s the same one you get when you’re completely absorbed in something you‘re obsessed with.

He’d let you study him forever if it meant keeping you here, keeping you safe, keeping you—

The orgasm builds slow and devastating, your name falling from his lips like a prayer as you work him closer to the edge with scientific rigor.

“Yoongi.”

His name in your voice, breathless and wanting, and he's gone—

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath, forearm thrown across his eyes, skin slick with sweat. His heart hammers against his ribs, the phantom sensation of your tendrils still wrapped around his wrists.

His room is dark, as usual, silent except for the climate control system. 

He turns his head lazily toward the nightstand, where the digital clock glows an offensive blue: 3:47 AM.

He fucking hates that thing. Analog clocks don't mock you with their precision. They just tick, steady and reliable, marking time without judgment.

But digital clocks? They count down to the exact second when everything falls apart.

Again.

He keeps the forearm pressed against his eyes for a few more seconds, chest rising and falling in measured intervals. 

In, out. Steady. 

He wills his heart rate to slow, tries to sink back into sleep, back into dreams where you're safe and whole and—

His forearm jerks away from his face.

Something's wrong.

The feeling hits him like ice water in his veins, sharp and immediate. 

He checks his Chrono-Sync Watch with frantic urgency, heart hammering against his ribs so hard it might crack them. The numbers blur—he doesn't give a shit about the time.

It's you. He feels it in his head, in his soul, in his fucking heart. 

Something's wrong with you.

The sheets tangle around his legs as he throws himself out of bed, stumbling forward with too much momentum. His knee hits the floor hard, pain shooting up his thigh, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. His chest is caving in on itself, lungs refusing to work properly as he runs.

Your door is already open when he rounds the corner.

Taehyung and Jungkook stand in the doorway like sentries, their faces pale in the hallway light. He darts past them without a word, shoulders clipping the doorframe.

The scene inside makes his stomach lurch.

Namjoon is on the floor, cradling your limp form against his chest. Jin kneels beside him, one hand tilting your head back, the other checking your pulse clinically. 

There's blood—so much fucking blood—pooling on the concrete floor beneath you.

Your nose. It's your nose, dripping steady and relentless, painting your lips and chin crimson.

You're motionless. Completely still except for the shallow rise and fall of your chest.

His hands shake as he forces himself to breathe slowly, eyes darting around the room, cataloging details. 

Your nose. Non-stop bleeding. 

The telltale signal of cognitive temporal overload—too much information, too fast, your brain trying to process data it’s not ready for.

"Who told her."

His voice comes out low, barely above a whisper, but there's enough venom in it to make everyone in the room tense. Everyone except Jin, who's too absorbed in monitoring your vitals to care about the threat in Yoongi's tone.

"Who. Told. Her."

He rounds on Jungkook, whose eyes immediately dart away, guilt written across every line of his face. The kid can't even look at him.

Yoongi strides forward, rage building in his chest like a wildfire, but Taehyung steps between them.

"Yoongi."

"Move."

"Yoongi, listen—"

"Move!"

His eyes flick up to meet Taehyung's, and whatever Tae sees there makes him take a half-step back.

"He's just a kid," Taehyung says, voice steady but careful. "He's the youngest. Has only been active since timeline 715."

The bile rises in Yoongi's throat. 

He's not violent—never has been. Doesn't lose his temper like this, doesn't let emotion override logic. 

But if you're dead, if you fucking died for the seventeenth time because some kid couldn't keep his mouth shut—

He delivers a blow to Taehyung’s stomach. Hard. The impact sends pain shooting up his arm, and he hisses, shaking his hand.

Taehyung doesn’t even flinch.

They both know he wouldn’t. Former enforcer, body modified to withstand worse than anything Yoongi could dish out. 

That’s exactly why he hit him instead of Jungkook—because Taehyung can take it, and because the kid doesn’t deserve his rage.

But someone needs to feel it. Someone needs to understand that this isn’t a fucking game.

“Feel better?” Taehyung asks quietly, not moving from his protective stance in front of Jungkook.

Yoongi’s breathing is ragged, chest heaving. “She’s bleeding out on the floor, Tae.”

“She’s not bleeding out. Jin’s got her.” Taehyung’s voice carries that enforcer-calm that always makes situations feel more controlled than they are. “And this isn’t anyone’s fault. She made a choice to push her abilities—”

“Choice?” Yoongi’s voice cracks with disbelief. “You think this was a fucking choice?”

Behind Taehyung, Jungkook’s face crumples. 

“I just told her what she was doing,” he whispers. “She asked why I could grab her abilities, and I said—I said she controls spatial dimensions. That’s it. That’s all I said.”

“All you said.” Yoongi repeats the words like they taste bitter. “Do you have any idea what that means? What controlling space actually entails?”

Jungkook looks genuinely confused, eyes growing glassy. “She was already using it. When I mimicked her signature, I could feel how powerful it was, so I thought—”

“You thought what? That because you can copy abilities without consequences, everyone can handle that knowledge?”

“I don’t understand,” Jungkook says, voice breaking. “She manifested spatial manipulation during the rescue. I was just explaining what she’d already done.”

Taehyung’s jaw tightens. “He was trying to help her understand her own abilities. That’s not reckless—”

“Not reckless?” Yoongi rounds on him, eyes blazing gold. “Do you know what spatial dimension control means, Tae? Do you have any fucking clue?”

“I know it means she pushed too hard—”

“She didn’t push anything!” Yoongi explodes. “It’s called cognitive temporal dissonance, you absolute dimwit! It’s a fucking medical condition!”

Taehyung blinks, doubt creeping in his enforcer certainty for once. “What?”

“Jin?” Yoongi whips around, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Help me out here.”

Jin doesn’t look up from where he’s monitoring your pulse, voice dry as sandpaper. “Bit busy keeping her stable. Ask Joon.”

“Joon,” Yoongi turns to Namjoon, who’s still cradling your limp form. “Tell them. Tell them what cognitive temporal dissonance actually is.”

Namjoon shifts carefully, making sure your head stays supported. His voice slips into that analytical tone he uses for briefings. 

“Cognitive temporal dissonance occurs when an Outlier’s consciousness is exposed to information that exceeds their current neural adaptation threshold.”

“Incongruent. She has better neural adaptation than any of us here. She should be able to process minimal information like that with ease, especially when she’s faced—”

“Jesus Christ.” Yoongi drags his hands through his hair. “It’s not minimal information Tae, it’s an entire fucking dimension of reality. When you tell someone they control space itself—not just ‘spatial manipulation,’ but the actual fabric of dimensional reality—their brain tries to comprehend the scope of that.”

Taehyung simply blinks, eyebrows furrowing. Yoongi sighs out loud, gestures wildly at your unconscious form. 

“She doesn’t get headaches because she’s analyzing equations. She gets them because her human brain is trying to process the concept of controlling something infinite. Something fundamental to existence itself.”

Jungkook’s face goes white. “I… I didn’t know it was that big. When I copy abilities, they just feel like… like tools. I can use them without thinking about what they actually are.”

“Because your mimicry protects you from the full cognitive load,” Namjoon interjects softly, never taking his eyes off your vitals. “You experience abilities in ‘safe mode’—all the function, none of the existential weight.”

“But she was already using them,” Taehyung insists, clearly still struggling to categorize information as a physical threat. “How is knowing what you’re doing more dangerous than actually doing it?”

“Because doing it unconsciously is instinct. Understanding it consciously means your brain tries to map the parameters. And when the parameter is ‘I control one of the fundamental forces that governs reality’…” Yoongi gestures at the blood on your face. “This happens.”

Jungkook is sobbing now. “I thought I was being helpful. She seemed frustrated not knowing, and I just—”

“Your brain can barely fucking handle copying my temporal manipulation for seven minutes, Jungkook,” Yoongi cuts him off. “Could you handle knowing you control time itself? That every second that passes is subject to your will? That causality bends around your existence?”

The kid’s face crumples completely. “No. No, I couldn’t.”

“She’s been Outlier-aware for three days. Three fucking days. Her neural pathways are still forming the connections needed to process basic temporal awareness, and you just told her she controls space.” Yoongi’s voice breaks. “That’s like… that’s like telling someone who just learned to walk that they’re actually capable of flight. The concept is too big for a brain that’s still learning how to exist outside normal time.”

Taehyung is quiet for a long moment, his expression cycling through several configurations as his modified brain processes this new categorization of information-as-threat.

“But she’s strong,” Jungkook says desperately. “She handled manifesting the abilities—”

“Unconscious manifestation is completely different from conscious comprehension,” Namjoon explains gently. “When abilities manifest naturally, they’re filtered through instinct and necessity. When someone consciously understands the scope of what they control, their analytical mind tries to map it, test it, understand its limits.”

“And Y/N’s mind…” Yoongi’s voice is barely a whisper. “Y/N’s mind doesn’t half-ass anything. When she learns something, she learns everything about it. Every variable, every possibility, every potential application. Tell her she controls space, and her brain immediately starts trying to comprehend infinity.”

The room falls silent except for the sound of your steady breathing and Jin’s quiet monitoring.

Taehyung stares at you for a long moment in what Yoongi knows is enforcer processing—that mechanical way his brain reorganizes information when it encounters something that doesn’t fit his neural framework.

“I didn’t know,” Taehyung says finally, voice flat in that way that means his modifications are struggling with the concept. “Information overload isn’t… my brain doesn’t process it as a threat.”

Jungkook looks up at him, confusion mixing with his guilt. “What do you mean?”

“Enforcers were designed to absorb massive amounts of tactical data without psychological impact,” Taehyung explains, still staring at your unconscious form. “When you told her about spatial control, and you looked to me to see if it was dangerous…I literally couldn’t register it as harmful. To me, it’s just information. Like learning the time of day.”

“Yeah, that’s why you thought she was being reckless instead of recognizing she was having a medical emergency.” Jin sighs loudly. 

Taehyung nods slowly, that mechanical processing still evident in his movements. “I thought she chose to push herself with new abilities. My programming doesn’t… it doesn’t understand how knowing something can hurt you.”

“Because it can’t hurt you,” Namjoon adds quietly. “Your modifications make you immune to information-based trauma. You could learn you control reality-warping abilities the same way you’d process a weather report.”

Jungkook makes a broken sound. “It’s my fault. When Tae didn’t react like it was dangerous, I thought it meant it wasn’t.”

“No, it’s my fault.” Taehyung runs a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through calm. “I keep thinking there should have been warning signs. Behavioral indicators. But information processing doesn’t trigger my threat assessment protocols. I should have deferred to Yoongi, should’ve known better than to let Jungkook make that call.”

“We all should have known better,” Jin speaks up without looking away from your vitals. “But beating ourselves up won’t fix her brain chemistry.”

Yoongi kneels beside you, careful not to disturb Jin’s positioning. 

Your face is pale, dried blood still crusted around your nose, but your breathing is steady.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “any questions about abilities, about the past, about anything—you come to me first. Both of you. No matter how harmless it seems.”

“Understood,” Taehyung says, slipping into that formal tone his enforcer training defaults to during protocol establishment.

Jungkook just nods, still crying softly.

Yoongi reaches out toward your face, then stops himself, hand hovering in the air between you.

Even like this—unconscious, vulnerable, bleeding from cognitive overload—he can’t quite bring himself to touch you.

Not when you don’t remember choosing to let him.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Particles of light drift together like puzzle pieces finding their home.

The ceiling materializes above you—unfamiliar angles, different shadows. Not your assigned quarters. Not even the sterile white of Jin's lab space. 

This ceiling has character, personality. Warm lighting fixtures instead of clinical panels. Personal touches that speak of actual habitation rather than temporary assignment.

Your processing centers catalog the discrepancies while your vision sharpens from static to clarity. 

The bed beneath you is softer than regulation standard, sheets that smell like fabric softener instead of industrial detergent. 

Someone's personal space, then. 

But whose?

Voices carry from somewhere beyond your field of vision, muffled by distance and what sounds like architectural features—columns, maybe, or room dividers.

"—absolutely ridiculous, Hoseok. She's not our responsibility."

"Where else is she supposed to go? Her room's a biohazard zone.”

A scoff. “So we’re the charity case now? It’s not fair to us, Fuyu. Why not just stick her in Jin’s lab?”

“Because Jin’s not a doctor, Jimin. He’s a memory tech. He doesn’t want her in there while he’s running diagnostics. She needs rest, not a front-row seat to his data streams.”

A pause. The sound of someone pacing, footsteps sharp against what must be concrete flooring.

"Yoongi's room, then. He's the one who—"

A sigh from Hoseok. “You know the protocol he set for this cycle, Jimin. Minimum proximity. No unnecessary contact. He’s trying a different variable; we have to respect that.”

“Respect it? He’s miserable. And right now his misery is sleeping in our bed.” There’s a sound of restless pacing. “I don’t want her here. It’s bad enough we have to watch him self-destruct from a distance, I don’t need a front-row seat to the cause of it.”

“She’s not the cause, Jimin. She’s the… focus. And you know as well as I do she can’t be in his space. Even without the distance protocols, she just went through a neural fissure. The least she needs right now is more cognitive strain.”

Your head turns slightly, seeking the source of the conversation, though the movement sends a dull ache through your skull—not the sharp, stabbing pain of cognitive overload, but the lingering throb of neural exhaustion.

"She could trigger memory fragments just by being in his space," the first voice continues, petulant. "Fine. But that doesn't mean she has to be in ours."

"It's temporary, Mochi. A few days at most."

"A few days of what? Pretending we're running a halfway house for temporally displaced analysts?"

Footsteps approach, and a figure emerges from behind what you now see is indeed a decorative column. Orange hair catches the warm lighting, and Jung Hoseok's face comes into view. His expression shifts from mild exasperation to something softer when he notices your open eyes.

"Oh. You're awake."

You manage a nod, the motion careful and measured. Your vocal cords feel scratchy, unused.

"Well," he says, hands finding his hips, "you really know how to put on a show, huh?" 

A scoff of laughter accompanies the words, but there's genuine concern in his eyes. He sighs, the sound carrying relief and residual worry in equal measure.

He walks toward the bed, movements easy and unhurried. "How are you feeling? Scale of one to ten, with ten being 'ready to manipulate dimensional reality' and one being 'please keep the lights dim.'"

"Somewhere around a four," you manage, voice rougher than expected. "Maybe a three-point-seven."

"Specific. I like that." He settles into a chair beside the bed, leaning forward slightly. "Any nausea? Dizziness when you move your head?"

"Minimal. Cognitive processing feels... sluggish. Like running diagnostics through damaged circuits."

"That's normal after what you went through. Jin says your neural pathways are basically reorganizing themselves. Building new connections to handle the information load."

You process this, filing it away with the growing collection of data about your condition. 

"Why am I here? In your room?"

"Because everywhere else was either contaminated, occupied, or specifically off-limits." 

Pink hair like cotton candy ambushes your vision next, familiar, snappy voice joining the conversation. Jimin appears from behind the same column, arms crossed. 

"Lucky you." Jimin’s tone carries enough sarcasm to power a small generator.

"Your room's got blood all over the floor," Hoseok explains, shooting Jimin a warning look. "Jin's lab isn't set up for overnight stays. And Yoongi..." He trails off, diplomatic.

"Yoongi's being a dramatic bitch," Jimin finishes, not bothering with diplomacy. "So you get to camp out here. In our space. With our things."

"Jimin."

"What? She should know what she's signing up for." Jimin's gaze finds yours, walking until he’s next to Hoseok. "This is the biggest room, so we've got a spare bed set up in the back area. But don't expect us to tiptoe around your delicate temporal sensibilities."

You blink, processing the implications. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," Jimin continues, deadpan, "if you hear sounds at night, you can suck it up. I'm not putting my sex life on hold just because we have a houseguest."

"We can be considerate for a few days," Hoseok sighs. 

"Absolutely not." Jimin's response is immediate and firm. "What if two days become three? Become five? You know how Yoongi gets.”

His fingers trail down the front of Hoseok’s shirt, a deliberate, slow movement that draws attention to the motion. His eyes flick from his own hand to Hoseok's face, intentionally loaded.

“And you know how I get.”

Hoseok's hand moves to catch Jimin's wrist, stopping the downward trajectory. He licks his lips, head tilting in what looks like a silent plea.

Jimin's eyebrows furrow in response, and you realize you're witnessing an entire conversation conducted through micro-expressions and body language. 

A communication system developed through intimacy and time, that you somehow, suddenly, crave. 

You clear your throat. "I can handle background noise. My auditory processing filters are quite efficient."

Jimin jerks his hand away from Hoseok’s grip, snapping back to full irritation mode.

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he says, rolling his eyes as he starts walking away.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder with an expression that clearly expects you to follow.

Hoseok offers his hand, palm up—steady, warm. You take it, more out of protocol than necessity. 

Your legs hold, but the world still lags half a step behind your movements. 

He keeps pace beside you, easy and patient, while Jimin moves ahead with the attitude of someone eager to put distance between himself and the problem.

“Thanks,” you say, voice low. 

It’s the kind of word that feels strange in your mouth, like you’re borrowing someone else’s language for a moment.

Hoseok glances down at you, one eyebrow raised. “For what?”

You keep your gaze ahead, watching Jimin’s back.

“Allowing me a place to stay. Even when your partner is clearly… less than enthusiastic about it.”

He snorts, the sound soft but genuine. “I’m not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending Jimin’s thrilled. You’d see right through it anyway. And I’d be lying.”

You nod, cataloguing the honesty. 

Hoseok’s direct, but not unkind. 

“He understands the need, though. Even if he hates the idea.”

You allow the silence to settle. Two seconds pass—long enough for discomfort to threaten, short enough to feel intentional.

“I asked him last time if he dislikes me.”

Hoseok’s lips twitch. “And?”

“He said yes.”

He laughs again, louder this time, shaking his head. “That’s Jimin for you. He doesn’t sugarcoat.”

You blink, parsing the statement. “Is that… typical?”

“Very.” He grins, then sobers a little. “He’s honest to a fault. If he doesn’t like you, he’ll tell you. If he does, you’ll know. There’s no in-between with him.”

You blink, trying to process the humor. “Why does he hate me?”

Hoseok’s gaze drops to the floor, mouth curving into a half-smile. 

“It’s not hate. It’s… frustration. This whole mess has been rough on everyone, but Jimin—he takes things personally. Holds onto them. It’s just how he is.”

You nod, not sure you understand, but the explanation feels sufficient. 

Maybe you don’t need to understand all the variables to accept the outcome.

The corridor opens up into a space that could pass for a boutique if not for the utilitarian racks and rows of tactical gear. 

Jimin is already there, hand braced on the edge of a table, posture radiating impatience.

“Welcome to heaven,” he says, deadpan, not bothering to look back as he starts sorting through hangers with practiced flicks of his wrist.

“What is he doing?” you ask Hoseok.

Hoseok moves to a nearby section, fingers trailing through what appears to be a collection of coats. The fabric makes soft sounds under his touch—silk, wool, materials your tactile processors can identify even from a distance.

“Prepping you for your next mission.”

You narrow your eyes slightly. “I was not informed there was a mission.”

Jimin doesn’t look up from the rack he’s browsing. “Right. Because you were unconscious. Bleeding from your face. Kind of hard to deliver briefings in that condition.”

“That would imply poor timing on your part,” you say dryly. “Or an urgent operation being executed under suboptimal readiness conditions.”

Hoseok exhales—an audible, weighty thing. “It’s not ideal, but it’s happening. And you’re the only one who can do it.”

Your gaze drifts to the gown Jimin is holding, then back to Hoseok. “You’re sending someone who just experienced cognitive collapse into a mission requiring social infiltration?”

Jimin finally lifts his eyes, voice clipped. “Welcome to the resistance. We don’t have backups. We have probabilities.”

“That is not an explanation,” you counter. “It’s a deflection. Explain the mission parameters and the rationale behind assigning me.”

“Okay, before you go all ‘I demand answers’ on us, let me remind you—you just had a huge temporal dissonance episode. We will not be giving you new, life-altering info like Jungkook did.” Jimin snaps back. “Accept that first or there will be no answers.”

You narrow your eyes at him. 

Curiosity demands answers.

Jimin demands accepting uncertainty.

Not accepting will result in no answers at all.

Plausible compromise.

“I accept.”

Hoseok rubs the back of his neck. “There’s a gala. High-level CHRONOS operatives. Important enough to warrant surveillance. We need eyes inside. Preferably someone who won’t trip alarms just by walking in.”

Your mind catches on the phrasing. “Yoongi.”

Jimin snorts under his breath.

You glance at him. “This is about Agent Min.”

“Of course it’s about Agent Min,” Jimin mutters. “He’s the only one who can get in without being flagged. You know that.”

“Because he disrupts CHRONOS’s detection systems,” you recall. “He reflects causality. Appears unindexed. A statistical blindspot.”

Hoseok nods. “Exactly. But using his ability too long causes fluctuations. Even Yoongi’s signature starts to spike.”

You blink. “So you need a stabilizer.”

“You,” Jimin says flatly.

You frown. “I stabilize his temporal signature?”

“You synchronize with it,” Hoseok corrects. “Your presence keeps both of you from triggering scans.”

Like on the rooftop. 

Jimin crosses his arms. “And with CHRONOS agents watching everything? Even a small spike gets flagged.”

You nod once, calculation already forming behind your eyes. “So I’m the stabilizer. Redundancy protocol.”

“More like failsafe,” Hoseok mutters. “You’re the only one who keeps him from unraveling.”

“And vice versa,” Jimin adds. “You two stabilize each other.”

You don’t remember practicing synchronization. You don’t remember learning how to do it. But your body does.

You remember Yoongi’s presence—how time slows when he’s near, but never quite slips. You remember the way the air holds still when he stands too close. 

And how your temporal signatures synchronized to 0% on that rooftop.

“I see,” you say. But you don’t see, not really, because— “Why not assign Jungkook as the stabilizer? Have him mimic Min’s ability to stabilize himself.”

A beat of silence.

“Should I…?” Hoseok prompts, looking for Jimin’s eyes.

“It’s basic info. She already knows Jungkook’s mimicry and some scope of what Yoongi can do.” He replies. Looks at you again. “It doesn’t work like that, Yoongi’s stabilization doesn’t work on himself. He anchors other people, sure, but he can’t anchor himself.”

You frown. “But why? If his ability can neutralize temporal spikes, why doesn’t it neutralize his own?”

Jimin’s jaw tics. “Because it simply doesn’t, okay? We’ve seen it. Firsthand. When he spikes, he spirals. No one can pull him back unless you’re—”

He cuts himself off, lips tightening.

You wait. He doesn’t finish.

Hoseok clears his throat gently. “His ability reflects outward. It doesn’t fold inward. He’s a buffer for others, not for himself. And if the pressure’s high enough… he unravels.”

“And Jungkook can’t hold his ability long enough anyway,” Jimin adds, apparently returning to safe grounds. “Mimicking heavy abilities drains him fast. Which is why he wouldn’t be able to mimic yours for long either—and you’d have to be present anyway. So.”

Your brain ticks through the logic—matching memory to data to anomaly.

And then it clicks.

“The travel spot,” you murmur. “When I lost stability. Jungkook—he was mimicking Min’s ability when he stabilized me.”

Hoseok nods once. 

Jimin scoffs. “Look at her, she can actually process info slowly and make her own answers through assumptions. Who would have thought?”

Hoseok ignores his partner’s commentary. “Jungkook was able to do it for a few seconds. Long enough to suppress the spike and get you through.”

“He seemed fine afterward.”

“He was,” Jimin says. “It was under a minute. Well within what he can handle. But he still can’t sustain it for long periods of time.”

“That’s… inefficient,” you murmur. “Reliant on replication. He’s not a constant.”

“Exactly,” Hoseok says, voice quiet. “But you are.”

You process the implications.

Yoongi: a walking temporal singularity with no internal stabilization.

You: the only Outlier whose temporal signature resonates with his to perfection.

Together, you cancel out the spikes.

Together, you are balanced.

A paradox in perfect sync.

It seems deliberate. 

Jimin breaks the silence. “Look, I don’t care if you’re barely recovered. You’re his anchor. That’s why it’s you.”

You look down at the dress again. “And if something goes wrong?”

Hoseok shrugs. “Then you sync with him.”

Jimin huffs. “Better keep the ticking bombs contained.”

You nod once, the weight of the truth settling over your shoulders like armor.

“Understood,” you say. “I’ll be ready.”

Jimin eyes you, skeptical. “Physically, maybe. Emotionally? I’d bet against it.”

“Emotions are statistically irrelevant to mission success,” you reply.

Jimin just snorts. “Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”

You watch Jimin aggressively pull out another hanger. 

Your mind immediately drifts back to resource allocation within this resistance base. 

“May I ask how does this organization acquire such resources? This collection suggests significant financial investment or alternative acquisition methods.”

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Yeah, that’s safe info. Shouldn’t trigger any significant memory bleeds. The problem is usually with information you are not consciously aware of.” 

Hoseok chuckles, pulling a velvet jacket off a rack. “Let’s just say my network of ‘friends’ in unregulated territories have eclectic taste. We trade in information and temporal contraband—unregulated timepieces, pre-war historical records, that sort of thing. They help us, we help them stay off CHRONOS’s radar.” 

“And sometimes,” Jimin adds with a smirk, not looking up from a silk blouse, “CHRONOS just conveniently ‘loses’ a shipment of luxury goods. Taehyung has a knack for manipulating their inventory logs.” 

“So formal wear is necessary for this gala.”

Hoseok chuckles. “It’s a social infiltration. High-security event, lots of important people, very specific dress code.”

“Define ‘very specific.’”

“Black tie,” Jimin says, returning his attention to the dress in his hands. He holds it up, studying the cut with professional interest. “Which means floor-length gowns, designer labels, and the kind of jewelry that costs more than most people’s annual salary.”

“I don’t own formal wear.”

“Obviously.” Jimin’s tone suggests this is the most ridiculous statement he’s ever heard. “That’s why you’re here instead of standing around looking helpless.”

“Jimin’s got an eye for this stuff,” Hoseok adds, moving to examine a section of what appears to be evening wear. “Fashion, style, making people look like they belong in places they definitely don’t belong.”

“Mhm,” Jimin hums, pulling another dress from its hanger. This one is milky white, with beading that catches the light. “The right outfit can make you invisible, or it can make you the center of attention. Depends on what the mission requires.”

“And what does this mission require?”

Jimin pauses, dress still in his hands, and looks at you directly for the first time since you entered the space. 

“That depends on whether you can handle being someone you’re not for an entire evening.”

"I seem to follow that particular directive quite well," you observe, processing the implications. "Being someone I don't know I am appears to be my default operational state."

The words emerge as simple factual analysis, but Jimin's hands still on the fabric he's examining. He turns slowly, fixing you with a look that could strip circuits.

"I had just forgotten how analytically cunty you can be."

You blink, head tilting slightly as your processing centers attempt to parse the statement. 

"Define ‘cunty’."

"Girl." Jimin's voice drops into a register that tells you his patience has officially expired. "I've seen you and Yoongi's version of foreplay. Very semantic, very 'I'm such a genius and I'm gonna demonstrate my intellectual superiority through vocabulary precision and get you horny whilst doing it,' so don't even try me."

Your optical processors stutter for exactly 0.4 seconds. 

"I don't understand that reference."

"Of course you don't." Jimin returns to his clothing analysis with renewed vigor, pulling a cordovan dress from its hanger and holding it up to the light. "Because your brain conveniently resets every time you figure out that your analytical observations are sometimes intellectual dirty talk."

Hoseok makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh. "Jimin."

"What? I'm stating facts." Jimin's tone carries that particular sharpness that means he's building momentum.”Yoongi’s already interrupted her twice when she starts with their whole intellectual play kink. She already knows she does this thing where she breaks down complex systems using precise technical language, and somehow makes equations sound like pillow talk. It's very specific. Very her."

"That sounds highly improbable," you say, though something in your neural pathways flickers—a ghost sensation, like muscle memory for conversations you've never had.

"Improbable." Jimin repeats the word with theatrical precision, mimicking your inflection. "See? There it is. Nobody says 'highly improbable' when they mean 'unlikely.' But you do, because your brain processes everything like it's conducting peer review on reality itself."

He moves to another section, pulling what appears to be an evening gown with a thigh cut. 

"And apparently, certain people find that incredibly attractive. Which says concerning things about their psychological profiles, but here we are."

Your arms cross in front of your chest. "I don't recall engaging in any behavior that could be classified as—"

"Intellectual seduction?" Jimin supplies helpfully. "No, you wouldn't. Because every time you remember how to weaponize your brain for romantic purposes, CHRONOS hits the reset button."

Hoseok steps closer, clearing his throat. "Maybe we should focus on the mission parameters."

"Oh, we are." Jimin’s scoff is loud. “Because watching her figure out how to be someone else while simultaneously being exactly herself is going to be the entertainment highlight of this entire operation."

You process this information for 2.3 seconds before responding. 

"Mission success probability increases when operatives maintain behavioral consistency within acceptable deviation parameters."

"There it is again." Jimin gestures at you with the dress still in his hands. "That sentence could have been 'I work better when I can still be myself,' but no. You chose the academic route. Every single time."

"Because precision in communication reduces misunderstanding and increases operational efficiency."

"And because you think being smart is sexy," Jimin adds, deadpan. "Which, according to my observations across multiple timelines, is apparently correct. At least for certain mint-haired individuals with concerning attachment issues."

Your mouth opens, then closes, processing algorithms struggling with the concept that analytical precision could be interpreted as flirtation.

Hoseok clears his throat. "Should we maybe start with sizing measurements?"

"Excellent suggestion," you say, grateful for the redirect to practical considerations. "Accurate dimensional data will ensure proper garment fit and reduce probability of mission compromise due to wardrobe malfunction."

Jimin stares at you for exactly three seconds, then turns to Hoseok.

"I rest my case."

“Could you provide specific examples of this alleged intellectual foreplay, though?” you ask, genuinely curious about the behavioral patterns being attributed to you. “I find the correlation between semantic precision and sexual arousal to be statistically unlikely.”

Jimin’s eyes close for exactly 2.7 seconds—a clear indicator of someone gathering patience. 

“I’m not doing this right now.”

Hoseok, however, releases a delighted cackle that echoes off the boutique walls. “Oh, this is perfect. She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

“Doing what, specifically?” You tilt your head, awaiting clarification.

“The way you two go at each other,” Hoseok grins, settling against a nearby rack like he’s preparing for storytime. “It’s not about complimenting each other’s intelligence. It’s the competition. The verbal sparring. Like in Timeline 289—you spent forty-seven minutes deconstructing his temporal cascade theory just to prove you could find a flaw in his logic.”

“That seems like standard peer review protocol,” you observe.

“Except it ended with him pinning you against a whiteboard while you tried to explain quantum entanglement with his tongue down your throat.”

You blink, processing this information. Your core temperature rises by 0.3 degrees.

“Or Reset 12,” Hoseok continues, clearly enjoying himself. “When you corrected his pronunciation of ‘dirigible’ during a mission briefing and somehow that turned into a three-hour debate about linguistic evolution that had the conference table creaking by the end.”

“Hoseok, please stop,” Jimin interjects, but his voice lacks real conviction.

“She asked for examples,” Hoseok defends, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Remember Timeline 467? The great coffee temperature optimization argument? They literally got into a screaming match about thermodynamics that ended with—”

“I get it,” you interrupt, though your analytical centers are spinning. “You’re suggesting that intellectual competition serves as our primary arousal mechanism.”

“Not just competition,” Hoseok clarifies. “It’s specifically when you try to out-genius each other. When you go all ‘actually, your calculation failed to account for these seventeen variables’ and he responds with some devastating counterpoint that makes you recalculate everything you thought you knew.”

You consider this data carefully. 

“That does align with certain observations. When Agent Min dismissed my temporal analysis with a condescending partial smile in the alley, I did experience a statistically significant increase in heart rate.”

“There it is,” Jimin mutters, pulling dresses with increasing aggression.

“It’s particularly pronounced when he does that slight smirk—0.3 millimeter lift of the right corner of his mouth—while explaining why my analysis is incomplete.” You pause, accessing the memory. “I find myself wanting to… dispute his conclusions. Though I attributed it to simple frustration at the time.”

“It’s never simple with you two,” Hoseok laughs. “It’s this elaborate dance where you’re both trying to prove you’re the smartest person in the room, and somehow that translates directly to—”

“Choose a dress,” Jimin interrupts loudly, shoving the navy blue gown in your direction. “This one. Backless. Navy. Will complement your features.”

You take the dress, examining the fabric. “This one is structurally sound. The open back allows for optimal movement and ventilation.”

Hoseok wiggles his eyebrows. “And easy access.”

“Hobi.” Jimin warns. 

“I doubt ‘easy access’ is needed. Agent Min has made it very clear that he refuses skin contact with me.”

Jimin straightens. “For the love of everything that’s holy—do not make skin contact.”

You nod, thoughtful. “Noted. Though with this cut, the probability of skin contact is high.”

“It’s not, because he will be wearing gloves like he always is.” Jimin interjects. “So just behave and don’t think about his big sexy brain.”

“I do find his brain appealing.” 

Hoseok is practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, and that’s not even talking about the tongue thing.”

You freeze mid-examination of the dress. “What tongue thing?”

“HOSEOK.” Jimin makes a strangled sound.

“You haven’t noticed yet?” Hoseok looks genuinely shocked. “But you mention it every timeline! It’s like your sexual Achilles heel.”

“Define ‘tongue thing.’”

Jimin lunges for Hoseok. “Don’t you dare—”

“When he’s thinking really hard,” Hoseok dodges easily, still grinning, “he does this thing where he’ll bite it to the side. Or lick the corner of his lip. Sometimes he’ll just let it rest against his teeth while he’s processing something complex.”

Your memory banks immediately scroll through recent interactions, isolating relevant footage. 

The briefing room. The coffee shop. That moment when he’d been calculating trajectories, pink tongue darting out to wet his lower lip while his eyes went distant with thought.

Oh.

Oh.

“Fascinating,” you breathe, skin temperature rising 0.3 degrees. “I hadn’t consciously catalogued that behavior pattern, but reviewing my memory files… I need to pay closer attention to that.” 

“No, you don’t.” Jimin groans. “What you need to do is try on the dress. Think about fabric. Think about thread count. Think about anything except—”

“The way his jaw tightens when I successfully identify flaws in his logic?” you supply helpfully. “Or how his pupils dilate by approximately 32% when I use technical terminology to dismantle his arguments? Or the specific angle his tongue—”

“This isn’t funny,” Jimin snaps at Hoseok, who is now doubled over with laughter. “You know what happens when she gets like this. He’s going to feel it, and then—”

A sharp beep cuts through the air. Jimin’s Chrono-Sync Watch lights up with an incoming message. He glances down, face draining of color.

“Fuck.”

“What?” Hoseok leans over to look.

Jimin holds up his wrist, displaying the text in glowing blue letters:

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗.

“Feel what?” you ask, but Jimin is already shaking his head.

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Just—” He gestures wildly at the dress. “Try this on. Make sure it fits. Don’t think about intellectual superiority or competitive dynamics or anyone’s tongue doing anything whatsoever.”

“That seems like an unreasonable request given the neural pathways that have now been activated,” you observe. “I’ll likely spend the next 3-7 hours involuntarily cataloging Agent Min’s linguistic microexpressions.”

“Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid,” Jimin mutters, then louder: “Dressing room. Now. Before this gets worse.”

“How could it get worse?” you ask with genuine curiosity.

Jimin and Hoseok exchange a look—Jimin’s expression screaming ‘don’t you dare’ while Hoseok’s radiates pure mischievous delight.

“Well,” Hoseok starts, and Jimin immediately throws a shoe at him.

Another buzz. Another message.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝙴𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝟹𝟺𝟸%. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚙.

“Fuck,” Jimin breathes. “He’s tracking percentages now.”

“He can quantify emotional resonance?”

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Jimin mutters. “Yes, he can tell exactly how aroused you are, probably down to the fucking decimal point. Which means he knows you’re up here having revelations about wanting to fuck his brain out.”

“The phrase ‘fuck his brain out’ seems anatomically impossible—”

“Stop saying the word ‘fuck’, stop thinking about tongues, brains and how hot it makes you when Yoongi is being intelectually challenging to you.” 

“That’s paradoxical. Telling someone not to think about something guarantees—”

“I know how cognitive psychology works,” Jimin interrupts. “Just. Try. Please. Before he decides to come investigate why you’re suddenly thinking about his doctorate in temporal physics.”

“He has a doctorate?” Your interest sharpens immediately. “What was his dissertation on?”

A third buzz.

𝐌𝐢𝐧: 𝟹𝟺𝟽%. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

“I’M NOT TELLING YOU,” Jimin practically screams. “THAT’S EXACTLY THE KIND OF THING THAT LEADS TO PROPERTY DAMAGE.”

Hoseok is now laughing so hard he’s crying, collapsed against the table. “She doesn’t even remember why she’s attracted to him but she’s already ready to throw down about academic credentials. This is AMAZING.”

You take the navy dress, mind already calculating the statistical probability of Agent Min doing that specific tongue movement they mentioned during the upcoming mission. 

The calculation suggests 87.3%.

Your core temperature rises another 0.4 degrees.

Behind you, Hoseok’s laughter echoes through the boutique while Jimin mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “he’s going to fucking kill me.”

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[mrsfancyferrari]

Hey author,

I really appreciate your work and have a Lando fiction request for you. Here's the idea:

Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship. He has flings with girls, but nothing serious. On the other hand, the Reader has been in love with Lando for the past one to two years but thinks he doesn't like her that way, which is why she doesn't propose. Lando doesn't propose because he thinks she deserves better than him.

Lando is very protective of the Reader, and the Reader is equally protective of Lando. Whenever his mental health is in ruins, she is always there for him.

The Reader knows about all of Lando's flings. Lando gets into these flings to try and get the Reader out of his mind. However, the Reader thinks Lando isn't interested in her romantically and believes he isn't relationship material. She's scared of getting her heart broken and ruining their friendship because she thinks Lando is never serious. She knows he sleeps around and is protective of him in a way that she advises him to be smart about who he sleeps with and to stay out of the headlines for anything other than racing.

The story starts after the Brazil race, where Lando had a tough time and went without sleep for 24-48 hours. When he returns from São Paulo, he finds the Reader already there, ready to comfort him after a bad race.

That's the plot I have in mind. I hope you like it!

Best regards,

Anon.

First Choice

Summary: LN4 + Lando and the Reader have been best friends since they were babies. Lando has been in love with the Reader since he was a teenager, which is why he has never had a serious relationship. He has flings with girls, but nothing serious.

Song: 505 · Arctic Monkeys

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶

Word count: 7.8k

MASTERLIST - F1

The scent of burnt toast hangs heavy in the air, a familiar morning aroma in your shared apartment. You sigh, pulling the offending pieces from the toaster.

Lando, ever the picture of chaotic energy even at this early hour, is perched on the kitchen counter, his legs swinging, a half-eaten banana in hand. He grins at you, that lopsided grin that still makes your stomach flip after all these years.

"Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice still raspy with sleep.

"Morning, burnt-toast aficionado," you reply, placing the sad, charred remains in the bin. "Honestly, Lando, you'd think after living together for five years you'd have mastered the art of toasting bread."

He shrugs, taking another bite of the banana. "Where's the fun in that? Plus, you always make the good stuff anyway." He watches you move around the kitchen, preparing your usual breakfast – a bowl of yogurt with berries and granola.

You feel his eyes on you, a familiar warmth settling in your chest. It's a warmth you’ve learned to ignore, to file away in the ‘best friend’ folder in your heart. You glance at him, your eyes meeting for a fleeting moment.

He quickly looks away, pretending to be engrossed in the peeling of his banana.

You’ve known Lando since you were babies, practically grew up in each other's pockets. There wasn't a significant moment in your lives that didn't involve the other. You've seen each other at your absolute best and, often, your absolute worst.

You've held his hand through heartbreaks, celebrated his victories with boisterous cheers, and held him when the weight of the world threatened to crush him.

He's been your constant, your anchor, the most important person in your life.

The problem, the elephant in your cozy, shared kitchen, is that your feelings for him have evolved. In the last year or so, things changed. The comfortable fondness morphed into something deeper, something more intense, and scarily complex.

You are in love with Lando. It's a truth you've kept fiercely guarded, a secret tucked away like a precious, fragile gem. You can't let him know. He deserves someone who’s not… well, who’s not you.

Someone prettier, smarter, someone not-so-hopelessly-in-love with their best friend.

And he, oblivious to the turmoil in your heart, continues to be just Lando. Carefree, charming, and infuriatingly handsome as he sits there, swinging his legs, a messy mop of hair falling across his forehead.

He’s had his share of flings, a string of fleeting affairs that seemed to come and go with the changing seasons. They never lasted, never meant anything, you knew that.

You've always attributed to his inability to settle down on the fact that he isn't ready for commitment, or that he simply doesn't want one. But the truth is, those relationships hurt you.

They always left a bitter taste in your mouth.

“Big day today, right?” Lando says, interrupting your thoughts. He’s referring to a photography exhibition you’ve spent months working on.

His tone is light, but you recognize the undercurrent of concern. He always feels your anxiety, even when you try to hide it.

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah, a little. But I’m excited too.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” he says, his eyes meeting yours again, this time holding a seriousness that makes your heart skip a beat. “You always are.”

Your exhibition is a success. The gallery is crowded with people, murmuring appreciative comments as they wander past your photographs. You see Lando weaving through the crowd, his eyes always finding you, a small, proud smile playing on his lips.

He’s the first to congratulate you, pulling you into a tight hug, his scent of citrus and something uniquely ‘Lando’ engulfing you.

“I told you,” he whispers in your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine. “You absolutely smashed it.”

Later that evening, after everyone’s gone, and the gallery is silent, you find yourself sitting on a small bench outside, the cool night air a welcome contrast to the stuffy interior.

You’re exhausted but exhilarated, a potent mix of emotions swirling inside you.

Lando sits beside you, silent for a moment, just observing you. You can feel him, the weight of him beside you, a comforting presence in the quiet night. You lean your head on his shoulder, a familiar habit you haven’t thought too much about until now.

As if on cue he puts his arm around you. For a moment, you let yourself indulge in the warmth of his touch.

“You know,” Lando begins, his voice soft, almost hesitant, “I’ve… I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Your heart clenches in your chest. You know what he means. He means as a friend.

You pull away slightly, forcing a casual tone. “We’ve known each other since diapers, Lando. That’s hardly a surprise.”

He’s quiet again, the silence stretched taut between you. You can feel the intensity of his gaze, even in the dim light.

“No,” he says finally, his voice low. “That’s not… that’s not what I mean.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You look at him, really look at him, and see the vulnerability in his eyes, a vulnerability you’ve only ever seen when his inner demons are creeping to the surface.

He’s looking at you like he’s about to reveal a secret, a terrifying, life-altering truth.

“I’m… I’m a mess, you know?” he continues, his fingers playing with the loose thread on his jacket. “I’m chaotic, I’m impulsive, I’m… I’m not good enough for anyone, especially not…” he stops, his gaze dropping to his hands.

The statement stings, you know exactly what he’s implying. You are not just anyone.

“Lando,” you say, placing a hand on his arm, “Stop it. Don't say that about yourself. You’re amazing. You’re brilliant, and funny, and kind.”

He looks up, his eyes locking with yours. “But you… You’re everything good. You’re sunshine, you’re calm, you’re everything I’m not. You deserve someone… someone better than me.”

The truth hits you like a punch to the gut. That’s why. That’s why he hasn’t let himself fall in love, not truly, not completely. He’s always been convinced you deserve someone ‘better’, and he’s deemed himself unworthy.

The irony of it all isn't lost on you. Here you are, convinced he doesn't love you, and he's doing the very same thing.

"You idiot," you whisper, a tear escaping from your eye.

He looks at you, surprised by your immediate reaction. His protective instincts are triggered. “Hey, are you okay? What happened?”

You shake your head, your heart aching. “You’re so, so wrong, Lando. So incredibly, completely wrong.”

He flinches at your tone as if you've slapped him, the confusion on his face mirroring what you feel inside.

“I… I’m in love with you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out of your mouth before you can stop them. “I have been for a long time. And I don’t care if you’re a mess, or chaotic, or impulsive. I love all of it, all of you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. It’s a silence filled with shock, disbelief, and a tentative hope. You hold your breath, waiting for him to say something, anything.

Lando reaches up, his fingers brushing against your cheek. A gentle, hesitant touch. “You… you’re in love with me?”

You nod, unable to speak, your eyes filled with tears.

He closes his eyes for a moment, a small smile playing on his lips. When he opens them again, his eyes hold a vulnerability that you’ve never seen before.

“I… I think I’m in love with you too. Have been… for years,” he confesses. “I just thought… I thought you deserved someone better.”

You laugh, a choked, tearful laugh. You reach out and cup his face in your hands. "Lando, you are the only person I've ever wanted. You are the best, for me, and for me only."

He leans into your touch, his eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

“More than anything,” you whisper, closing the gap between you.

His lips meet yours, a soft, tentative kiss that quickly deepens into something more. It’s a kiss that speaks of years of unspoken feelings, of shared history, of a love that’s finally found its voice.

And as you hold each other under the cool night sky, you know that you're not just best friends any more. You're a love story finally being written, and you can't wait to see where it leads.

Unfortunately it leads to you waking up in your bed with no one laying beside you and the feeling of embarrassment stuck in your mind as you screamed into your pillow. . . .

The scent of old books and rain hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort to Lando. He sat nestled in the corner of the worn armchair, fingers tracing the spine of a well-loved copy of The Little Prince.

Outside, the storm raged, mirroring the tempest brewing within him. He’d spent the better part of the day wrestling with the same old question, the one that always seemed to circle back to her: you.

He knew it was pathetic, really. He was a grown man, a Formula One driver, someone who faced death-defying speeds with a cool head, yet the thought of you sent his heart into a ridiculous, flustered flutter.

He’d been in love with you for… well, for a very long time, really. Since he was probably sixteen, when you’d morphed from the goofy, pigtail-wearing kid he’d built Lego castles with, into… you.

He'd never quite understood how you did it. How you could make his chest ache with a tenderness so profound it felt like a physical weight. It was a constant, low hum in his life, always there, a melody only he could hear.

He remembered the first time he felt it, a silly school dance, the scent of your strawberry hair spray and the way your hand had lingered on his arm, and that was it. He was a goner.

The girls he had flings with now, they were distractions, bright and shiny things that filled a void, but they never held the depth of feeling he had for you. They were beautiful, interesting even, but they were never you.

He'd tried, he really had, to foster something real, to move past this ridiculous, teenage crush. It never worked. The comparisons were automatic, the longing, a sharp pang that never went away.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the windowpane. Dark circles under his eyes, a weary set to his jaw. He was tired of the charade, tired of pretending that something, anything, else could ever come close.

He knew, deep down, that he was probably the biggest idiot on the planet. Here he was, pining after the girl who had been the constant in his life since he could barely walk, all because he thought he wasn't good enough for you.

He ran a hand through his hair, the memory of your laughter echoing in his mind. It was the most beautiful sound, that infectious, uninhibited joy that could light up a room.

He’d always loved making your laugh. He could face a hoard of angry fans, a high-speed curve, anything really, but that radiant smile was his true weakness.

He knew you were there for him, always. When the pressure of the season crushed him, when the disappointment of a bad race left him feeling hollowed out, you’d always appeared, like a calming balm to his battered soul.

A cup of tea brewed just the way he liked, a quiet presence, an empathetic ear. You knew him, understood him in a way no one else ever had, and it terrified him.

He’d seen the way you looked at him sometimes, a vulnerability that mirrored his own, and it sent a jolt of hope, a tiny flicker of something that resembled courage.

The rain outside intensified, and the room seemed to grow darker.

Just then, a soft knock echoed through the door. "Lando?" your voice was gentle, laced with concern, and it sent a shiver through him, not of fear, but of anticipation.

He cleared his throat, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah, come in."

The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your silhouette framed by the dim light from the hallway. You were wrapped in a thick, fuzzy robe, your hair slightly damp from the rain.

You looked… beautiful. You always did.

"You okay? I saw the lights on; thought I’d check."

"Yeah, just… thinking," he mumbled, his cheeks heating up despite his best efforts. He knew you could see right through him.

You walked towards the armchair, your steps light and graceful. You perched on the edge of the sofa across from him, your eyes fixed on his face. "Thinking about what?"

The simple question sent a wave of panic through him. He couldn't tell you, not now. Not after all this time. “Just… the race. And the… season is stressful.”

You nodded, your gaze softened. “It is. But you always handle it so well. You’re incredibly resilient, Lando, you know that, right?”

He looked down at the book, his fingers tracing the embossed lettering. “Sometimes… it doesn't feel like it."

You reached out, your hand covering his on the book. Your touch sent a jolt through him, a spark of something he couldn’t quite define. He finally looked up at you, into those warm eyes.

“Lando,” you began, your voice barely a whisper, “you’re… you're the bravest person I know.”

He wanted to tell you, right then, how you made him feel. How, just your presence was enough to calm the storm inside him. How, he wanted nothing more than to spend his life with you, to wake up every morning next to your smile.

But, the fear, the old fear that had nestled deep inside him, stopped him. Could he really risk this friendship? Could he really trust himself to make you happy?

“I… appreciate that,” he managed to say, his voice rough.

“Lando…” you hesitated, your eyes searching his. He felt like you could see right into his soul, and the thought alone was both terrifying and exhilarating.

“I know you don’t always… talk about things, but I want you to know that you can tell me anything. Anything at all.”

He swallowed past the lump in his throat. The irony was almost comical. You were practically begging him to open up, and here he was, silent, consumed by his own self-doubt.

"I have always felt… very safe with you Y/N. You have a way of making things better." he said, not really looking at you.

You smiled tentatively, a small, shy smile that made his heart clench. “So you’re not… you’re not just saying the race is bothering you?”

He hesitated again. He wanted to tell you. Really, truly wanted to. But the words seemed to get caught in his throat.

Instead, he shook his head, the lie thick on his tongue. “No, it’s the race. Just thinking too much.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed your face, but it was gone too quickly for him to be sure. You took your hand from his, and stood up. He hated that distance.

“Okay,” you said, your voice flat. “Well, you know where to find me if you need anything.”

He watched as you turned and walked towards the door, his chest aching with the words he couldn't say. “Wait,” he blurted, the word escaping his lips before he could stop it.

You turned back, your eyes questioning.

He looked up at you, really looked at you, and saw the same hesitant vulnerability he’d seen before. The same love that he knew was there, but that they both refused to acknowledge.

"Will you… will you stay? Here, a little longer?” He didn’t know why he said it, but he felt a pull, an urge, like a man lost at sea finally seeing land.

You hesitated, a small smile playing on your lips. "Okay, Lando."

The next few moments passed in comfortable silence. You sat back down, this time a little closer. He wanted to take your hand, to lean closer, to kiss you, but he didn't.

He was scared that if he did, you would back away, that he would finally lose the only constant in his life. As you two sat, the rain continued to drum against the windows, a soft melody that seemed to mirror the quiet hope that was slowly blooming in his heart.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he would be brave enough. Maybe, one day, he would finally tell you. . . .

The hum of the city, once a soundtrack to your life, now felt like a constant, irritating buzz. It was a far cry from the roar of the engines, the electric atmosphere of the paddock, and the shared thrill of a race weekend.

It had been three months since you last stepped foot on a racetrack. Three months since you’d last seen Lando in person, his smile brighter than any spotlight, his laughter a melody you’d carried in your heart since childhood.

You’d told him, of course, that work was piling up, that deadlines loomed like hungry wolves. A convenient lie. The truth was a knot of jealousy and longing coiled tight in your chest.

Seeing him with a different woman each weekend, a new face plastered on his Instagram, was a slow, agonizing torture. You'd tried.

You really had tried to convince yourself it was just how he was, how he’d always been. Casual. Light. A whirlwind of fleeting affections.

“You okay?” your friend, Maya, asked, her voice pulling you back to your chaotic apartment.

Papers littered the coffee table, a half-eaten sandwich lay forgotten on a plate, and a half-drunk mug of tea sat growing cold. You’d been trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to organize your life.

“Just… work, you know?” you mumbled, pushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You knew Maya saw through you. She had for years.

She’d been the one to hold your hand when you’d burst into tears after seeing Lando with that model at the Monaco Grand Prix party, the one with the impossibly high cheekbones and even more impossibly long legs.

“It’s Lando, isn’t it?” she probed gently, picking up your tea and heading to the kitchen to reheat it.

You sighed, the air escaping your lungs like a deflated balloon. “He… he has a new girlfriend,” you admitted, the words tasting like ash in your mouth. “She’s a… a dancer, I think? From Milan.”

Maya came back, handing you the steaming mug. “And that bothers you,” she stated, not questioning.

“Of course it bothers me,” you snapped, immediately regretting your tone. “It… it always does. It’s so stupid, I know. We’re just friends. He’s just… Lando.”

“But you’re not just friends, are you?” Maya’s voice was soft, kind. “You’re Lando and you. You two are… a constellation.”

You closed your eyes, the image of Lando’s laughing face, the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, the familiar way he’d nudge your shoulder when he thought you were being too serious, flashing across your mind. You felt a familiar pang of longing.

"He'd never... look at me like that," you whispered, the truth finally, painfully, out in the open. "He’s never serious. He jumps from girl to girl. I tell him he needs to be careful, but he never listens. He thinks life is this big party, and... I can’t keep getting hurt by it."

"And you think your heart is safer here, far away from him?" Maya asked.

"Yes," you said firmly. "It has to be."

The phone on the table buzzed, Lando's name flashing across the screen. Your heart skipped a beat, a familiar mix of dread and longing washing over you. You picked it up, a rehearsed calmness masking the turmoil within.

“Hey, Lando,” you said, your voice surprisingly even.

“Hey, you,” his voice, usually bright and cheerful, was laced with weariness. “How’s work?”

“Overwhelming,” you replied, keeping your tone light. “How was the race?”

“Frustrating, honestly,” he sighed. “The car was… not cooperating. And I… I’ve just been feeling… off.”

And there it was. The vulnerability you knew so well. The undercurrent of despair that only you, it seemed, could sense beneath the surface. The Lando behind the smiles and the social media posts.

Your Lando.

“Are you okay?” you asked, the work-related excuses falling away.

“Not really,” he admitted quietly. “I’ve been missing you at the track. It’s… different without you there.”

Your heart squeezed. You wanted nothing more than to be by his side, to offer the quiet solace he seemed to need. But the fear, the jealousy, held you back.

“I miss being there too,” you admitted, the lie slipping out effortlessly. “But this work is relentless.”

“Yeah,” he said, deflated. “I get it. Look, I just… wanted to hear your voice. You always know how to make me feel better.”

“Anytime,” you replied softly. “Just… try to get some rest tonight, okay? And be careful, Lando.”

“I will,” he promised. “You too.”

The call ended, leaving you staring at the phone, your heart a tangled mess of longing and regret. You knew your absence was making things harder for him.

Yet, you couldn't bring yourself to return to the races, to witness the casual intimacy he shared with other women, to have your heart broken all over again.

You tried dating. It was a disaster. Every conversation with a potential suitor felt flat, every joke fell short. They weren't Lando, and that was a truth you couldn't escape.

You went on awkward dates, tried to force connections, but your mind always, always, circled back to the same person.

You missed his quick wit, his infectious laugh, his unwavering faith in you. You missed him. . . .

The hum of the television fills your Monaco apartment, the familiar roar of Formula One engines a stark contrast to the quiet elegance that surrounds you. You’re curled up on the plush sofa, a half-eaten bowl of pasta forgotten on the coffee table.

Today is the Brazilian Grand Prix, and even though you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t, you’re glued to the screen, your eyes fixed on the familiar orange and papaya of Lando’s McLaren.

On the screen, you watch as he chats with Oscar, a polite smile plastered on his face. It’s the kind of smile he wears for the cameras, the fans, the world, but you know the truth behind it.

You’ve seen it too many times, that little tightening around his eyes, the subtle dip of his lip. It's a mask he uses to navigate the demanding world of Formula One, a shield he utilizes to protect a heart that you’ve seen be both incredibly kind and extraordinarily fragile.

The race starts, and your heart pounds along with the pulsing rhythm of the engines. You watch, your knuckles white as you clutch the throw pillow, as Lando battles his way through the pack. He’s aggressive, pushing the limits, but it’s not enough.

The chequered flag falls, and the screen flashes tenth place. A wave of disappointment washes over you, not just for Lando, but for yourself too.

You crave to be there, to pull him into a comforting embrace, to murmur words of encouragement that will soothe away the frustration that you know is eating him up inside.

Instead, you watch silently as he gives a series of interviews, the forced smile never faltering. Your chest aches, and you can almost feel the weight of his disappointment. You glance at the clock.

It was still early in the day, but you were feeling the pull of sleep. The television screen morphs into a blurry kaleidoscope of colours and sounds.

You switch off the TV and head to bed, an unwanted weight firmly placed within your chest.

The fluorescent lights of the Sao Paulo hotel room hummed, a monotonous drone that mirrored the turmoil brewing within Lando. The race had been a disaster, a slow, agonizing descent from the potential of the starting grid to a disappointing tenth place.

But the race itself wasn't the real problem. The undercurrent of fatigue, the gnawing anxiety that had kept him awake for the past two days, was the true enemy.

He hadn't slept properly since the qualifying session, his mind a relentless hamster wheel of "what ifs" and self-criticisms. All he wanted was a clear head, a moment of peace, and the one person who could always provide both.

All he wanted was the comforting weight of a blanket, a soothing voice, the familiar scent of her. He wanted her, you, more than he wanted a win, more than anything.

He knew, of course, that you weren’t coming to races anymore. “Work,” you’d said, a little too quickly, a little too vaguely.

He’d tried to understand, had told himself it was for the best, that you deserved a career as vibrant as yours, but a part of him, the anxious, insecure part, couldn’t help but feel abandoned.

Especially now, on nights like these.

He glanced at his phone, his thumb hovering over your name. The urge to call was a physical ache. He wanted to hear your voice, to see your face, to feel the comforting weight of your presence. But he stopped himself.

You were probably working, buried in whatever project you were passionate about this week. It was your standard excuse for not travelling to races anymore, a vague reference to your ‘work’ that he never pressed

He missed those eyes, even when they were filled with that unspoken emotion.

He tossed the phone onto the nightstand, the plastic clattering against the wood. He pushed himself up, the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Maybe a shower would help.

He dragged himself to the bathroom, the hot water a temporary balm against his frayed nerves. As the steam swirled around him, his thoughts circled back to you, to your quiet strength, to the way you always seemed to know how to navigate the labyrinth of his mind.

He knew you would have known how to fix this awful feeling, much better than any team strategies or a strong cup of coffee.

He finished his shower, a towel pulled loosely around his waist. He stood before the mirror, his reflection staring back at him – eyes red, skin pale, a hollow echo of his usual self.

He hated looking at himself in this state. He rubbed a hand over his face, the stubble scratching against his palm.

He needed sleep, desperately, but the thought of entering that restless abyss again was far more daunting than facing a race.

He hadn't wanted to add to your plate, but he couldn't shake the sense that there was more to it.

Had he done something wrong? Had his focus on racing somehow pushed you away? These thoughts circled his mind like vultures.

A deep ache settled in his chest. He desperately wanted to see you, to hug you, to bury his face in your hair and forget the disappointments of the day. The need to feel your warmth, your presence, was a physical thing.

He reached for his phone, his finger hovering over your contact. He could call, he could text, he could just hear voice.

But no. You were probably working, busy, most likely. He dropped the phone back down onto the bedside table. He couldn't, wouldn't, interrupt you. He had that part to respect.

Sighing, he turned away from the mirror and clambered back into bed, hoping against hope that sleep would finally claim him.

The next few days were a blur of travel, media obligations, and frustrating debriefs. Lando went through the motions, his head filled with the echoes of the disastrous race and your absence.

He found himself constantly glancing at his phone, willing a message from you to appear, but the screen remained stubbornly dark.

Finally, the team returned to McLaren's headquarters in Woking. Lando, still reeling from the Brazil defeat, was looking forward to a familiar place.

He'd hoped that getting back to the usual routine would somehow steady him. As he walked into the familiar corridors of the tech centre, he knew that he needed a distraction.

“Hey, Lando, you okay?” Daniel’s voice broke through his thoughts. Daniel was his teammate, and a good one at that. He always knew when things were a bit off.

Lando forced a smile, “Yeah mate, just tired.”

Daniel didn’t look convinced. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week. Want to grab a coffee?”

“Sure, why not?” Lando agreed, wanting to get his mind off of everything.

They made their way to the cafeteria, Lando’s mind wandering back to the one person he wished he was with. He couldn’t help but wonder what you were doing, if you were even thinking of him.

He couldn't seem to shake this restless feeling, a void where your presence so obviously used to be.

After a rather silent coffee at the usual corner of the cafeteria, Daniel, clearly not in the mood to let this go, turned to Lando, his voice serious. “Lando, what’s really going on? You’re not yourself.”

Lando hesitated, his gaze fixed on the swirling foam in his cup. “It’s nothing, really.” He could feel his throat clench. He knew he couldn’t keep putting this off.

Daniel raised an eyebrow, a clear challenge in his eyes. “Nothing? You look like you’re about to implode, mate. Come on, spill it.”

Lando sighed, knowing he couldn't keep up the façade any longer. “It’s just… I miss her, you know?” He ran a hand through his hair, his voice barely above a whisper.

Understanding flickered across Daniel’s face. “Ah, that’s it, is it? And you haven’t spoken to her?”

Lando shook his head. “She’s been busy with work, I guess. I don’t want to bother her.”

“Bother her? Lando, you literally look like a kicked puppy. You should try talking to her, sometimes you need to let people know you need them.” Daniel’s voice was gentle, understanding.

Lando knew Daniel was right, but the fear of being rejected, of confirming that you were pulling away, held him back. “Maybe,” he conceded, though his heart was already pounding at the thought of reaching out.

He would wait until he gets back to Monaco tomorrow to say anything.

The plane landed, and Lando dragged himself off, the familiar sun of Monaco a stark contrast to the overcast skies of Brazil. He made his way through the airport, his thoughts a tangled mess.

He needed to sleep, desperately. He needed to clear his head. He needed to... he didn’t know. He just felt utterly lost.

He reached his apartment, fumbling with the key in the lock. He pushed the door open, the sound echoing in the silence of his home – a silence that was immediately shattered.

“What… what are you doing here?” he stammered, his voice thick with surprise. His bag slipped from his numb fingers, landing with a dull thud on the floor.

You were standing in the middle of his living room, holding a duster, a small smile curving your lips. The sight of you, here, in his space, was so unexpected, so achingly welcome, that he felt his breath hitch in his chest.

“Um, I wanted to see you, so I waited here and cleaned the place,” you said, your voice nervous. You looked as if you expected him to be angry, as if your presence was an intrusion. “I… I hope you don’t mind.”

Lando couldn’t speak. He just stared at you, the exhaustion, the weight of the past 24 hours, the sheer loneliness he had been battling, all suddenly dissolving.

He’d been so caught up in his own turmoil, that he had forgotten the sheer comfort, the utter peace, your presence brought him.

You walked towards him, a worried frown creasing your forehead. Your hands cupped his face, your touch sending a jolt of warmth through him. “I saw you, Lando. I saw how much you were hurting, even with those forced smiles. I know you, you idiot.”

You pulled him into a hug, and he finally allowed himself to be held, to feel your warmth, your comfort, and your unwavering support.

It was like coming home after a long and arduous journey. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your familiar scent.

“I thought you were working,” he mumbled into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. He finally released the emotions that he'd bottled up. The race, the stress, the loneliness, all of it poured out.

“I am,” you said, pulling away slightly to look at him with genuine concern in your eyes. “But your mental health is my priority, you know that. And I had a few days off,” you added with a gentle smile.

He finally looked at you properly. It wasn't just the physical space that had grown from the time spent apart. It was the emotional distance he’d created, the wall he’d put up that felt so fragile now, now that you were here with him.

“Do you… do you hate the fact that I’m like this?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, the vulnerability raw and exposed.

He had never wanted to be a burden to you, and the thought of being a disappointment was a knife to his chest.

You cupped his face again, your thumb gently stroking his cheek. Your gaze was unwavering, filled with an intense love that made his chest ache. “Never. You hear me? Never. This is who you are, the good and the not-so-good. And if you have a bad day, I am going to be here for you. Always.”

He felt tears prickling his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He had you now, and that was all that mattered. He didn’t deserve your unwavering support, your unconditional love, and yet, here you were.

He grabbed your face with both hands, his fingers threading into your hair. He finally did the one thing he had wanted to do from the moment he saw you. He kissed you.

It wasn’t a frantic, desperate kiss. Instead, it was a kiss filled with gratitude, with relief, and with a love so profound that it was a grounding force against the turbulence of his life. It was a silent promise, a reassurance that even in the chaos, he was loved, and he was not alone.

His kiss, so full of emotion, shocked you. Your eyes widened, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. You kissed him back, the soft pressure of your lips a balm to his weary soul.

You knew that he had been hurting, that he had been doubting himself, and you just wanted to show him that you were there, always.

That you loved him, with all his faults, and all his glories.

"Can I have one more hug?" Lando muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes searching yours for any sign of disapproval.

"Aw, babe you don't have to ask, c'mere..." you said, your voice as soft as a feather. You opened your arms, and he moved towards you, his body almost trembling.

He buried his face in your neck, breathing in your familiar scent that grounded him again. He was already barely holding it together as he's getting his face held but then he feels that reassuring rub on his back and he just couldn’t.

The tears he had been fighting finally broke through, hot and heavy against your skin.

"I'm sorry," he muttered against your neck, his voice thick with emotion, his body shaking with the force of his sobs.

“It’s okay, baby, just let it all out. I’ve got you, I promise.” you said, your hand gently rubbing circles on his back in a comforting manner.

He hesitantly placed his hands on your waist and when he didn't get a complaint, he wrapped his whole hand around you, his grip tightening as he sought the warmth of your body against his.

He stood there for what felt like a lifetime, his tears soaking into your shirt, but you didn't move, didn't complain.

Instead, your arms tightened around him, holding him close, letting him know that you would always be there for him.

When he had finally cried himself out, the torrent of emotion slowly ebbing, he pulled back slightly, his eyes red and puffy, but a glimmer of peace had returned to them. You cupped his face in your hands, your thumbs wiping away the last of the tears.

"Better?" you asked softly, your voice full of concern. He nodded, a small smile gracing his lips.

“Thank you” he said, his voice raspy, "For being here, for… for everything.”

"Of course, Lando, I'll always be here," you responded, your voice filled with love. "You don't have to thank me for loving you, it’s like breathing for me."

He looked at you, a love so profound filled his eyes, “I know. I just… I don’t know what I did to deserve you”.

You smiled, pulling him close again, “You just have to be you, that’s all I’ll ever need.” You kissed him again, a soft, tender kiss that spoke of love and promise, “Do you want to go to sleep?” you asked when you broke apart.

He nodded, his eyes closing briefly as he inhaled the faint scent of your perfume. “Can I… can I hold your hand?” he asked hesitantly, his voice barely a whisper, like a child seeking reassurance after a nightmare.

You smiled at him, your heart aching with a tenderness that always surprised you. "Of course."

You grabbed his hand, your fingers intertwining with his, feeling the immediate comfort of his hand enveloping yours. It was a perfect fit, two halves finally finding their place.

He shifted again, discarding his hoodie with a tired sigh, revealing the soft, slightly sweaty hair at the nape of his neck. It was a move so familiar, so intimately Lando.

Your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the silky strands between your fingers. He snuggled into you, his head resting on your chest, and you obliged, your fingers gently threading through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.

You felt the tension begin to ease, his body becoming less rigid, and his breathing softening.

The silence that settled over the room was comfortable, a shared space where words weren’t necessary. You continued to run your fingers through his hair, the motion a silent lullaby. You watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his face relaxed in slumber, and your heart ached with a love so profound it threatened to spill over.

You noticed the faint tremble in his fingers now that they were no longer intertwined with yours and gently covered them with your hand.

Then, almost so quiet you thought you might have imagined it, he spoke. “You know, all those flings… they were all to distract me from the fact I couldn’t have you,” he admitted silently, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart fluttered, a thousand butterflies suddenly taking flight within your chest. You paused, your fingers still tangled in his hair, your hand still cradling his. You looked down at him, his eyes still closed, his face relaxed.

Did he mean that? You wondered, your mind racing.

You found that you couldn't contain yourself. You looked down at his face, so peaceful in his sleep, and you whispered, "Lando?"

“Mmmh?” He murmured, barely opening his eyes.

"Did you mean that?"

He opened his eyes fully and looked up at you, "Mean what?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his voice.

Your heart was thumping in your chest so hard you thought he might hear it, "What you... what you said about the flings," you stammered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He stared at you for a moment, a slow realization creeping into his eyes. He looked almost embarrassed, his cheeks flushing a pale pink.

He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing gently, before speaking. "Yeah," he said quietly, his gaze returning to your face. "I did. They… they never meant anything. They were just… distractions."

He closed his eyes again, his breath catching slightly. "I was a mess," he continued, his voice softer now. "I knew how I felt about you, always. But I didn’t think… I didn't think you would ever want me back. I thought I had ruined it, ruined us."

You smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. “You never ruined us, Lando,” you reassured him, your voice gentle, your heart overflowing with love and relief. “You could never ruin us.”

Years. Years of pining and longing, of a love that was so powerful it had been a constant ache within you. To hear him finally admit it, to know he felt the same way, it was almost too much to bear.

You had always loved him, ever since you were kids. You had always been there for him.

He opened his eyes again, and in their depths was a vulnerability that took your breath away. “Really?” he asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Even now? Even after everything?”

You nodded, your heart swelling with love. “Always, Lando. Always,” you whispered, leaning down and placing another soft kiss on his forehead.

You continued running your fingers through his hair, and he snuggled deeper into your chest, his hand finding yours again, his fingers wrapping tightly around yours.

The storm outside had finally passed, and the first slivers of dawn were beginning to paint the sky a pale, delicate pink. You sat there in the quiet room, surrounded by the soft glow of the city lights, and took in the moment, savouring the silence, the comfort, the quiet understanding that existed between you. It was you, and it was him, finally together. Finally home.

You continued to massage his scalp, the gentle, repetitive motions lulling him deeper into sleep. You watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, feeling a sense of peace that you had not felt in a long time.

You knew that there would be challenges ahead, you knew there would be more storms to weather, but for now, all that mattered was that you were here, together, under the soft city lights, your hands entwined, your hearts finally at peace.

You closed your eyes, a soft smile gracing your lips. This is all I could ever want. To be his first choice. you thought, falling asleep by his side. . . .

[writtenbymoonflower]

Hi lovely!! Firstly I want to say I love your works 🥰🥰 always happy to see someone keeping the poly!marauders tag alive! Could I request poly!marauders with fem!reader who just got her wisdom teeth out? Or some sort of procedure where they’re under anesthesia I’m not picky 😭😭 it’s always so cute to see reader all loopy and their bfs like “she’s so cute I want to eat her 😍”

Feel free to ignore this if you don’t vibe with it!! Love you loads 🎀

Thank you so much baby! I relate to this so much because in the two ish weeks I wasn't posting I actually got mine out! Love you loads as well! fem!reader x poly!marauders.

cw: surgery, pain meds, anesthesia

619 words

“C'mon, sweet thing. Let’s get you inside.” James coaxed, gently. He was basically holding you up as you stumbled over the threshold of your home, still spacey from the anesthesia and pain medicine. 

“W- we’re home!” You slurred, muffled by the gauze in the back of your mouth. You tried to struggle free from James’ grasp, but he held fast to your arm. He was far stronger than you in typical circumstances, but in your inebriated state it was like a bunny trying to tug on an elephant. 

“Easy, love.” Remus chided, placing the hand that wasn’t holding your prescriptions on your shoulder. 

“I can do it myself.” You pulled against your boyfriends’ hold again, missing Sirius' lovingly annoyed expression in your determination.

“I’m sure you can, baby.” Sirius placated. “But then you would be denying us the pleasure of helping you. Don’t be mean and let us help you, yeah?” He rubbed up and down your arm through your thick sweater. 

“I wasn’t trying to be mean.” You said, voice wobbling with misery. Remus avoided the strong urge to swat his boyfriend. 

“You’re never mean lovie,” James cut his eyes to Sirius before fixing you with an awfully kind look. “Pads is just being a git, yeah?” He encouraged you to lie down on the bed.

“He’s not a git!” You shot back. “I love him!” Sirius thought he could cry from fondness on the spot. 

“Aw, I love you too, baby.” He knelt down to stroke your hair and resisted the urge to kiss your swollen cheeks. James helped you under the covers while Remus set the bag of care supplies on the dresser. You made grabby hands at Sirius, trying to pull him on top of you. (sober you would die before being that blatant in wanting)

“Gentle, dovey. You’re fragile right now, don’t hurt yourself” Remus gently scolded. 

“B- but I wanna cuddle!” You whined. James wondered if your words right now were just your internal thoughts all the time, he kind of hoped they were. Sirius gently moved you over enough for him to crawl in, holding you to lie on your back while he wrapped his arms around you. Remus was still by the dresser, reading the instructions again and setting out your medications. James leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. 

“Thank you for doing this.” He whispered, stroking the taller boy's hair. 

“Don’t mention it. I just know when she wakes again she is going to feel awful.” Remus winced. 

“She’s a trooper, though.” James added. “Remember they had to wheel me to the car when I got mine taken out. I also sobbed the whole way home and had a death grip on Pads so much he had bruises.” He recalled from his operation. 

“Yeah, you were a big baby, huh?” Remus teased. 

“Exactly,” Sirius piped up, holding onto your now sleeping form. You were out cold, some of the meds still clearly in your system. “At least she’s a cute baby.” 

“Oi! You said I was cute!" James said furiously. 

“You were, love. You always are.” Remus said, cheeks flaming. James sighed, looking at you. 

“She’s so precious I could eat her.” He said, lovelorn. 

“Don’t think she’s gonna want that for a while, Prongs.” Sirius teased, still stroking your arms and hair.

“Get your mind out of the gutter!” James scolded, walking over to the bed and flopping down on your other side, Remus close on his tail. He kissed your head chastely, steering clear from any sore areas. You stirred in your sleep, not discontentedly, but rather reveling in their hold.

Your boyfriends didn’t know if they could survive this amount of fondness, but they weren’t complaining.

[absdoll]

Hi bee:3 requesting for Abby eating out or playing with readers 🐱 with her fingers while reader is playing a game

It's all I've been thinking about lwjeuvesivdsi

hi qt ૮ ˶´ ᵕˋ ˶ა i luv this idea ! ty for requesting 🎀

cw : pervy!abby <3 my beloved ♡ // reader is playing animal crossing new horizons !

“abs! guess who just came to my island?!” you squeal as abby lifts her head from her book to meet your sparkling eyes. “hmm let me guess, the weird looking red dog?” she asks, quite genuinely.

“wh-… oh! cherry? she’s so cute! you’re mean.” you furrow your eyebrows at her, offended she called one of your favorite villagers weird looking.

your girlfriend smirks, a sigh leaving her mouth. abby gets a rise out of making her sweet doll-face frown and pout. abby knows it’s wrong to think such dirty thoughts about how innocent you are. the way your cute little butt peeks out of the bottom of your cotton shorts when you try to reach the top cabinet. when you’re all doe-eyed and curious asking her what she wants for dinner. how you sit crisscross applesauce in the big comfy living room chair, looking so small and fragile. and right now, the way you’re so giddy about a silly animal video game. she takes a deep breath as she moves over to where you’re lounging.

“i’m sorry baby, can i see?” abby rests her head on your shoulder, her right hand settling on your bare thigh. you giggle when she gives your soft flesh a little squeeze.

“it’s chai! i’ve wanted her to move to my island since i started playing!” you ramble on about your beloved blue elephant. “she’s just like cinnamoroll, look!” you tilt your nintendo switch screen in abby’s direction, biting your bottom lip in excitement, so happy you get to share this moment with your favorite girl.

abby glances at the game for a moment, then looks up at you, your eyes glistening. she looks back down at the screen, noticing your small fingers toggling with the knobs of the device. she takes another deep breath.

“mm so cute angel, i love the little teacup on her head.” abby kisses your shoulder. “i’m gonna get something to drink from the fridge, you want anything?” she inquires. you shake your head no, too focused on trying to make a good impression on your new guest.

the tall blonde stands to walk to the kitchen, stopping to stretch her arms above her head, letting out a long sigh. she turns around to give you a sweet look before she leaves the room, but her eyes fall somewhere else.

as you sit with your legs in the butterfly position, your pretty pussy on half display. abby clenches her fists, she’s resisting the urge to pry your game out of your soft dainty hands, pin them above your head, and fuck you dumb. she can’t hold back much longer.

“baby,” abby breathes, she walks back over to you, kneeling before you, elbows on your knees. “just keep playing, okay? don’t mind me.” you’re too busy cleaning up your island and making small talk with your digital neighbors to give abby any more than a “mhmm! okay bibi!” and she knows it.

abby begins planting gentle kisses to your cold thigh, humming against your skin as she sees goosebumps rise up your legs. you shiver a little when her face gets closer to your half covered heat. you move your game slightly to the left, looking down at her. “what’d i say pretty girl? hmm? eyes on the screen, don’t look at me again.” abby softly speaks through her pebbled kisses. you frown, confused, but decide to listen and be the good girl abby wants you to be.

abby’s mouth is nearing your pool of slick, you can feel the warm breeze of her breaths tickling your entrance. she uses her nose to reveal your wet pussy from your shorts.

“abs!” you attempt to close your legs around her head, but she knows you, she knows your movements. she knows that you like to play this little game where you say “nooo abs! don’t wanna! too sensitive!” and then a few seconds later, you’re spread wide open, desperately waiting for her skilled tongue to plunge into your aching hole.

“cmon princess, i don’t have to tell you again, do i?” abby coos. “spread.” her voice a little huskier.

you nod and relax your legs. you resume playing, eyes glued to the screen again, quickly getting distracted by the singsong isabelle is putting on outside town hall.

abby’s tongue now inches away from your puffy pulsating clit. all she can think about is devouring every last ounce of you while you sit there, so innocently focused on something far less disgusting than what she’s doing.

your perverted girlfriend watches as your cute hole tightens around nothing, a smile forms on her freckled face. she extends her wet pink muscle and licks a gentle zigzag from fold to fold. “mm-aahh!” you let out in a high pitched moan. abby shoots you a glare, a warning, that if you acknowledge what she’s doing again, she isn’t gonna be so sweet and soft anymore.

she’s drinking your pussy, tongue circling your sensitive nub, slurping every drop of white cream that’s sticky all over her chin. abby glances up at you, “good girl, so proud of you angel.” you bite your lip so hard that you wince a little at the sudden taste of blood, but you know better than to look at abby, let alone let her know how good she’s making you feel.

abby slides one finger into your pussy with ease, your drenched entrance practically sucking her in. “so wet for me.” she’s making out with your thumping clit, curling her index finger up, the pad perfectly tapping your g-spot.

you can’t breathe, you can’t think, you’re trying to move the controls of your game, your hands shaking. all you want to do is buck your hips up to her face, shoving her tongue so deep inside of you that feel her nose touch your clit over and over and over. “you’re close princess, i can feel it.” abby hums.

she’s going so agonizingly slow, the soft sensation of her saliva mixed with the unhurried pump of her finger, you’re dying for her to pick up the pace — and that’s exactly what she isn’t gonna do.

“cum slowly for me baby, ride it out.” abby continues lapping up your slick, using her free hand to hold your legs open. “that’s it sweet girl, riiight…. there.” you’re cumming all over her face, from her nose to her chin, her face is buried in your juices.

“let me hear that pretty moan of yours.” abby’s eyes fixated on your blissed out face. finally granting you permission, you scream out in euphoria, “uug-uuuh aahh aaa-bby-y-y!”

abby removes her finger, plopping it in her mouth, eyes rolling to the back of her head as she sucks your cum off.

sliding your shorts back up your legs and kissing the top of your head, she starts to walk towards the kitchen. “you want something to drink now?” she teases.

a/n : i loved writing this ପ૮๑ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ๑ აଓ hehe if u don’t love pervy!abby then idk what to tell u , ur missing out ! 😵‍💫💕 hope u enjoyed bbs <333

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆ @whore4abby @hersweetheart @enbesbians ♡🧁

[skyahri]

Hate |Naruto Men X Reader| HC

Characters: Kakashi Hatake, Shikamaru Nara, Sasuke Uchiha

Summary: Hate is a strong word, but it's also a very fragile one.

Warnings: Brief smut, kissing mentions of p and v. Some angst, but all comfort. Mentions of blood, violence, and death.

Masterlist Ko-fi

- - - - -

Kakashi Hatake

You hated how full of himself he was. He was always talking down to people, to his teammates and so-called friends. He goes out of his way to show people up no matter how inappropriate the situation may be.

He hated that you always stuck up for people he considered weak. He hated how much time and energy you put into helping others instead of focusing on your own training. He hated that you had so much potential, yet seemed to waste it at every opportunity.

As time went on and you were forced into each other's inner circles, your occasional arguments became a constant bicker. It got even worse when you were assigned to his ANBU team. You questioned his every move and fought every decision he made.

In return, he always gave you the least desirable night shifts. He'd make you write all the reports, saying something about needing to learn to respect your elders (he's only a few months older than you).

Once you were put in charge of your own team, things quieted down. Not because either of you had mellowed out, but because you didn't cross paths as often anymore.

Because of how rarely you saw him, you always made sure to make your brief encounters worth it. You had practically written a list of insults to throw his way. He returned the same energy with out hesitation.

Eventually, after his genin team had gone their separate ways and you had finally retired from ANBU, you had a seemingly infinite amount of time to rekindle your rivalry with him.

He always seemed to be heading in the same direction as you were. It didn't matter if you were on your way to the Hokage's office, the shops, or meeting up with someone- he was always there.

You tried to fight with him like the good old days, but it was different now that you were grown adults. Maybe the ungodly amount of trauma combined with the wedge distance had created in your odd relationship had finally put an end to your petty war.

Thinking back, maybe this is what it had been all along, and your stupid kid brain was too proud to admit what was really going on.

Your arguing had turned into kissing the moment he stepped through your apartment door. Things moved quickly, expert hands doing away with endless layers of Jonin uniforms in a rushed attempt to feel more of each other.

It felt right. Like the decades of tension had finally come to a head and you were being forced to deal with it in the most animalistic way possible.

"I hate you."

Your mumbling between desperate kisses. He doesn't acknowledge you immediately, opting to instead lift you by your ass so your legs could wrap around him. He pushes you against the wall, pressing his clothed election right against your womanhood.

"I hate you, too."

Neither of you acknowledges the elephant in the room, that the word you're looking for isn't actually hate. But that's beyond your cloudy minds right now.

Shikamaru Nara

Shikamaru has never really bothered with social pleasantries or subjected himself to cater to what people like and dislike. In fact, he often chastised people for caring what others think.

He always commented about what you wore, how well groomed you were, and the overall effort you put into your appearance each day.

You hated listening to it, which is why you always did your best to avoid him.

It wasn't even about you specifically. You hated hearing how rudely he'd shut down Ino when she would ramble on about anything. You hated when he complained about how loud Naruto and Kiba were despite knowing that they're just excitable people. You hated hearing the damn near sexist remarks he'd make about how stupid people were for giving any shots about how they looked.

It was annoying. It didn't seem to phase anyone else anymore, but that almost made it worse.

You were at your breaking point. Just one comment away from losing your composure and you prayed to God you'd be able to refrain from saying anything too harsh.

But alas, Kakashi had assigned you to yet another mission with him- the sixth one just this month.

At least he waited until you were at the Inn before he started up with you. You honestly don't know why he let you shower first if it was going to be such an issue.

"Finally. I thought you'd be in there forever."

"What the Hell is your problem with me?"

He paused in his tracks. He wasn't expecting you to say anything to his usual grumbling, and especially didn't expect it to be so hostile.

"You always take forever in the bathroom."

"It was twenty minutes. You'll live."

"It wouldn't be that long if you didn't bother with all the extra shit you use."

"Why is it such a problem that I care about what I look like? I don't ever involve you in it and yet you're always talking about it."

He rolled his eyes, about to blow off whatever you were saying, but you started up again before he could.

"All you ever do is bitch and whine and moan about dumb shit that doesn't concern you. I like to look nice. I like wearing clothes that compliment my figure and putting time into the health of my hair and skin. It's not the end of the world, so shut the fuck up about it already."

You walked past him and lay in one of the twin beds, tired from the journey and pissed about your teammate's usual poor behavior.

He didn't say anything. He continued with what he was going to do before the argument and carried on like nothing had happened.

He kept any conversations strictly professional for the duration of the mission, something you were ecstatic about.

It wasn't until a few days after you returned home that you heard from him. He showed up at your apartment unprompted, looking irritated and slightly flustered.

"After talking with my team, it may have come to my attention that I might be kind of an ass."

You invited him in, curious as to what he had to say. He admitted that he had never been called out on it. Most people don't take him too seriously and he may have gotten a bit too comfortable voicing every thought that crossed his mind.

Although he had mostly soothed any nerves you had, you still decided he owed you.

You dragged him into your room, sat him at your vanity, and laughed when he groaned. You pulled out all the stops for him. You took him through your entire routine start to finish and when you were done, you asked him hiw it felt.

He hated that it felt nice. He hated that he suddenly realized how dry his skin usually was and how clean he suddenly felt. He would never fully admit that to you, though.

Him showing up at your apartment the next day, conveniently around the time you usually started these things, was all the confirmation you needed that he no longer deemed it a waste of time.

Sasuke Uchiha

He hated going to the Hokage's office, not because he was still in the thick of earning his freedom after the war, but because he hated Kakashi’s assistant.

You annoy him. He hates that you so confidently push his buttons. He hates that you're just a civilian, but you've been given so much authority over him. It was an unfit existence for the last Uchiha.

You enjoyed messing with him. He would grumble when given his assignment and you made sure to mock him with a playful pout. You'd check in with the ANBU watching over him to make sure he was behaving. You always used that word- behaving. As if he were a child.

Unfortunately for Sasuke, Kakashi isn't in the village right now, meaning he's stuck taking orders from you. He swears Kakashi picked you to oversee him intentionally, knowing how much it would bother him.

He's sitting next to you, helping you go through seemingly endless piles of paperwork. He wasn't sure if this was better than all the D-rank missions he'd been assigned lately, but he begrudgingly accepted the change of pace.

He glances at you through his peripherals. The sun is just going down, the orange light illuminating your soft features. Your usual bratty expression was replaced with a more peaceful one.

This was most likely just as much a break for you as it was for him. He wasn't oblivious to the way you had to reel Kakashi in every day, damn near having to tie him to his chair to get anything done.

"You can go home. I'll finish up here and we can resume tomorrow."

He didn't argue, thankful for relief from the horrifically tedious task. As he was leaving the building, he suddenly got this feeling in his gut that he should stay.

Of course, not wanting to do more paperwork than he was required to, he ignored the feeling and carried on.

He should've stayed. Just an hour after he left, while you were packing up for the night, the tower was raided by rogue nin.

The alarm sounded in the village, immediately calling all available shinobi. Bee, the ANBU assigned to him, gave him permission to lend a hand, and off they went to the tower.

He teleported himself to Kakashi’s office, knowing you would most likely be in there or at least somewhere near. What he wasn't expecting, however, was you standing over a body, kunai in hand and blood splattered across your body.

"Y/N?"

You didn't move, couldn't move. He reached forward, tugged the blade out of your shaky grip, and let it fall to the floor. You let him, not really in the mood to fight any more than you had to right now.

"Is he dead?"

Your question caught him off guard.

"I've never killed anyone before."

Ah. Civilian. Right. Sure, you belonged to a Shinobu village and even worked under the Kage, but that was vastly different than being on the front lines.

He thought for a second. Was he in any sort of position to be responsible for you at the moment? Should he hand you off to one of the other nin and return home?

"Cover your eyes."

It took a minute for his words to register in your hazy mind, but once they did you obeyed. If there was one thing you knew would benefit you, it would be allowing him to take the lead for now.

He put his hand between your shoulder blades and guided you through the hallways, down the stairs, and away from the tower completely. He glanced around, but couldn't find Bee, so he opted to take you back to his apartment. It would cause a lot less trouble if he was where he was supposed to be after all.

At home, he sat you down in the tub and turned on the water. He left you there, letting all the blood loosen from your skin. He returned a moment later, setting a stack of clothes down on the counter and grabbing a rag from the cabinet.

Neither of you spoke as he gently scrubbed your face. When he was done, he got a little bit of shampoo and worked all the red out of your hair.

You were slowly coming out of your daze. It was nice being brought out by something kind and comforting. It was almost enough to distract you from the night's events. Almost.

When he was done, he handed you the cloth, telling you to finish up and see him when you're done. You nodded, standing up and undressing when the door closed. You noticed how clean the water ran, most likely due to how thoroughly the Uchiha had taken care of you.

When you stepped out of the tub, you noticed the clothes on the counter. Upon closer inspection, they were similar to the ones he was wearing now- a t-shirt and sweats.

You joined him in the adjacent bedroom where he waited patiently. He all but forced you into his bed, shutting down all of your protests. When he went to leave the room, you quickly grabbed the fabric of his shirt to stop him.

"Please stay."

He didn't fight you. He walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down, leaning against the headboard and staring blanky in front of him.

You were thankful for the comfort of simply not being alone. Not after tonight, when so much had happened and the trauma was still fresh in your mind.

He tried telling himself that this was not a personal act, but instead one that would aid his village. But who was he kidding? He was realizing you weren't all that terrible and he had just allowed his angst brain to manipulate him into thinking so.

[unclewaynemunson]

"What. The. Fuck."

Over years of living in a trailer park, Eddie has seen his fair share of weird shit. But this right here? This surpasses everything.

Wayne is sitting on the couch in the living room, with an actual baby in his lap and a completely deadpan expression on his face like this is something that happens every day.

"Hey, Ed. Meet Sasha Munson."

"Sasha Munson?" Eddie repeats, hoping that saying the name out loud will make this whole thing less surreal. It doesn't, so he automatically switches right into disbelieving panic mode instead. "Sasha Munson?! What the fuck? She isn't mine, I promise, it's literally impossible, someone must've - Wait, hold on - Is she yours? Aren't you like fifty years too old to knock someone up? What the fuck did you do? Who's the mother? What were you thinking, man, we can't take care of a -"

"Eddie, sit down."

"No, I'm not sitting down, this is ridiculous, what the fucking fuck, we can't -"

"She ain't mine and she ain't yours."

"What the-" It takes a few seconds before Wayne's words sink in. Then, Eddie freezes mid-sentence, giving his brain a second or two to catch up to what Wayne just said.

"Wait, what?" he asks.

He gives the sleeping baby a distrustful look. It's small - too small to be a human, if you asks Eddie. It scares him a little bit.

"Then whose is she?"

"I told ya to sit down, Ed."

And Wayne's voice is so strict and serious that Eddie can only obey.

"Your dad was here earlier."

Those few words are enough to tell Eddie exactly what happened. He immediately feels sick to his stomach. He wants to cover his ears, or walk out of the trailer and never come back. But instead, he keeps sitting, frozen in his chair, and listens to what Wayne tells him.

"Sasha is his daughter. He had this girlfriend, Melody, 'bout a year ago. She's much younger than him, is all I know 'bout her. I think they were kinda serious at the time. But Clyde went and messed it up, of course. Cheated on her. She dumped him. Then showed up again a few weeks later all sobered up and told him she was pregnant. Far as I know, things went okay for a while after that. But she caved right after she gave birth. It took a toll on her, Clyde said. So she needed the drugs again. He left her; he didn't see a way to help her and he was worried 'bout Sasha's safety. So he took Sasha with him and brought her to me. Said he couldn't take care of a baby and that was that."

It is a story eerily similar to what Wayne told Eddie about his own early years, whenever he'd ask him questions about his parents.

Eddie looks at the tiny human in Wayne's arms. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is just slightly agape. She's wrapped in a blanket that has a soft shade of pink, with tiny elephants printed across it.

"He never learns, does he?" Eddie remarks with a sigh.

"He doesn't," Wayne affirms in a soft voice, shaking his head. "But you know what, if these are the consequences of his actions..." He first looks up at Eddie, then down at the baby in his lap again. "I can't even be too mad at him for it."

"Jesus Christ, what a mess."

"Don't think too badly of him, Ed," Wayne says. "He wanted to help them. Both of 'em. But he didn't know how. He did what he thought was gonna be best for Sasha. Just like he did with you. He ain't evil. Just a coward who makes bad decisions."

Eddie swallows thickly.

"We'll make it work," Wayne says with certainty in his voice. "It'll be tight, but we'll survive. We did it before, we can do it again."

Eddie nods.

"You wanna hold her?"

He shifts uneasily. She seems so fragile. He doesn't know a single thing about babies; he is his father's son, after all, not Wayne's, no matter how much he wishes he were.

"C'mon, Ed, she's your sister."

It's only now that Eddie notices how well it fits, Wayne with a baby in his arms. Like he was made to be a father. Like Sasha belongs there. There aren't any pictures of Eddie as a baby, as far as he knows, but he imagines it must've looked somewhat like this scene: the exact same couch, a different blanket, and a younger version of Wayne. One with less wrinkles and more hair; less worn-out by the sorrows Eddie has given him over the years. It's simple for Wayne, in a way it isn't for Eddie's father, and in a way that Eddie fears it won't be for him. To hold her gently and let her sleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat. To sit with her quietly and do nothing else. To give love and patience without expecting anything in return.

Eddie rises from his chair and sits down next to Wayne on the couch. He utters a shaky breath, trying not to show his nerves, and wipes his sweaty hands over his jeans before holding out his arms.

“Just like that,” says Wayne softly while he places Sasha in Eddie's arms.

She's warm and has that specific newborn baby scent clinging around her. She's heavier than Eddie expected. She stirs a little bit and makes a tiny sound, but then she continues her peaceful sleep. He studies her: her closed eyes, her tiny nose, the way her head rolls around helplessly if he doesn't support her steadily enough; the hand that's hanging out of the blanket, with minuscule but fully developed fingers that grab around nothing. He listens to the steady sound of her breathing and imagines the tiny lungs inside her body working on pure instinct to keep her alive. His sister.

He looks up and finds Wayne staring at the two of them with tears in his eyes. He only catches Eddie's gaze for a fraction of a second, then he looks away, to the window on his right side.

“You're wrong, you know,” Eddie says.

Wayne turns his head back to him.

“Bout what?”

“She isn't his. Neither am I.” He looks up from the girl in his hands to meet Wayne's eyes. “We're both yours. He didn't do jackshit for us, just dropped us here with you and ran away. You're the one who raised me, Uncle Wayne, and that makes me yours way more than his. And Sasha? We're both gonna be here for her, every step of the way. We're gonna change her diapers and feed her milk - I don't really know anything else about babies, but we're gonna do all of that, together. We're gonna see her grow up and become a person. She's ours.”

Wayne produces a noise that sounds somewhat like a choked-off sob. He puts an arm around Eddie and drags him closer towards him. He doesn't say anything, but Eddie didn't expect him to. He understands.

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 8 part 2

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

agatha closes her eyes when rio confronts her, she's scared and overwhelmed like during their fight in episode one, when she couldn't quite hide her panic behind all the posturing. their moment of complicity is gone, and rio's anger is back in full force

they're both posturing tbh. they're playing the old "killing is so sexy of you" game, but it's not working, flirting and deflecting is no longer possible, there is too much pain and resentment involved. these bodies, alice and lilia, are heavy between them, they're an open wound and an accusation.

agatha follows the script, but with no theatrics, no fake drama. there are no masks she can hide behind anymore, especially not in front of rio. it's just her, naked, with the grief and pain in full view.

and look, the placement of that tree has to be deliberate, it wasn't there a moment ago. the tarots cannot lie. the real agatha, stripped down to her ugly soul, carries this unfathomable pain, these three swords piercing her heart.

and there it is again, the elephant in the room. rio can't and won't ignore it.

agatha still tries to deflect, to buy time. look at her, she knows it's useless. she's crying, and she's so full of spite. flight is not an option anymore. fight it is.

they have BEEN through this. rio is supposed to do her GODDAMN job

but it's so much more complicated than that now. agatha literally went and fucked up a perfectly good grim reaper, is what she did. once upon a time rio would have had no hesitation, no resentment. but now she knows that harming billy will ONCE AGAIN hurt agatha and make agatha hate her even more, and it's too much to handle. agatha has put her in an impossible situation. again.

and THIS BITCH still has the AUDACITY of denying it. she still tries to walk out of the conversation, and rio has to step in front of her and physically stop her

te veo. always, always, always. despite all this shit between them, rio cares about her SO MUCH, all she can think about is what agatha is doing, how agatha is feeling. trying and trying to fix the impossible.

agatha attempts a mocking smile, but she can't. she can't put up that barrier anymore. rio's words are making her extremely uncomfortable. she is the one who observes, who schemes, who studies others for her own advantage. I can't believe I keep bringing up agatha's nakedness in such a non-horny way, but this woman HATES being perceived, hates showing weakness and revealing her fragility. it's a trauma response dialed up to the max.

this walk with another woman's son on a road that doesn't ex-

oh, rio. oh, baby. you're jealous. another woman, another child. she has chosen them over you, and refuses to see how much it's hurting you. how much she is hurting you. you're so, so angry.

rio is almost at her limit, and look at her. she is still trying to break through agatha's thick stubborn skull. it's no use, no use.

agatha is cornered. she's shaking with fury. she cannot run, she can only scream and lash out.

and dear lord, rio is still being soft. she's holding her ground, she's speaking her mind, but despite all, she doesn't yell, she's being so gentle with agatha. she's still trying to make her see reason. look what I did for you, agatha. I bent the rules of the universe for you. how can you not see it?

did I already say how glad I am for kathryn hahn's golden globe nomination? it's so well deserved. look how different she is here from her usual agatha, so still, devoid of any silliness. just pain and white hot rage. you call WHAT YOU DID special treatment.

and aubrey too, honestly. her characters are always so over the top and weird, and she is being so understated here. she flinches at agatha's words like she can't quite believe them. they really never had this goddamn conversation, agatha really avoided it and ran away screaming for two centuries straight. all rio wanted was to explain herself and to be forgiven, even though she's not guilty of anything and she knows it. but agatha's pain goes beyond reason. no, worse than that, agatha's pain is her reason, her raison d'etre, agatha protects it and fuels it and rio cannot compete with it.

the way she's almost breathless. like the pain is so much it's physical, like it's punching her stomach and chocking her airwaves.

and rio snaps at that. rio has her walls too, and she's very good at keeping her personal feelings at bay. agatha is headbutting those walls like a mad bull, and she's almost through. you are the one who takes, agatha. everything is always about you, your needs, your anger, your pain. there is never room for anything or anyone else.

agatha tries to run again, rio puts her whole body in the way, again. remember their first interactions in the show, when agatha kept running and rio would just let her? that's all over now.

rio hesitates. she takes a beat, and tries to deescalate. i cannot believe she is STILL trying, still pushing her anger back and asking about agatha's feelings instead, acting like a therapist. she is once again acknowledging agatha's pain and trying to walk her through it. do you see how unbalanced this is? and from someone who's ostensibly all about balance.

why do you make people hate you? why can't you open up about all that happened to you? why don't you want their help? my help?

she doesn't say nicholas. she calls him nicky. it's the intimacy of a child and grief that they share, no matter how much agatha wants to make it only about herself.

agatha needs a moment to answer, she needs to collect all her strength first. but she finally says it, and it's another tiny, tiny step ahead. there's almost a question in her voice, like she's testing these words so obvious but so strange to her. she'd rather make people believe she's cruel and uncaring, that she hates everybody, she hates children! that she exchanged her own son for the darkhold.

the truth is that she had a son she loved so fiercely, he was six years old, and he died. the truth is, she couldn't save him. and that is just too awful for anyone to comprehend. and so she lashed out, she inflicted pain, she embraced her anger and protected it like a treasure. being angry was easier than being sad.

meanwhile billy is still grappling with what lilia did.

jen too is grappling with lilia's selflessness. lilia has set an example that has affected her deeply.

she explains to billy what Green Craft is and why it makes sense for Death to be a green witch, and she's not as calm as she's projecting, there are tears in her eyes and she's sniffling, her voice is hoarse from screaming.

yeah, kid. it's a lot.

jen is like, have you MET agatha?

next up: rio has somehow convinced agatha to sit and talk. will they finally work their shit out? (spoiler: no they won't.)

go to episode 8 part 3

[uptoolateart]

Here's a whole bunch of initial thoughts I have after watching the London Special.

Time Travel

Speaking as someone who writes way too many stories involving time travel...there were a lot of holes in this special. Also, I appreciate that it's been 15 months since the S5 finale aired, and they probably wanted to remind us (and especially children) of the key moments...but some scene repetition felt like it was just there to pad out the episode length. But I'm gonna shrug all that off because of everything else this special did.

Lies, Lies and More Lies

I've not been quiet about how angry I was over Ladybug lying to Adrien and keeping vital secrets, in that S5 finale. I'm so glad to see that this special addressed that stuff. By the end, we see that both heroes are keeping secrets. Cat's identity has become more pertinent than never, and she has no idea.

Going Too Far

In their final conversation, Ladybug told Cat she worried she might have gone 'too far' this time. Throughout S5, we were repeatedly told no one has ever been able to handle unifying the miraculous like Marinette can. We also watched her change dramatically over that season. By the S5 finale, I felt like she'd become overpowered. In this special, I think she acknowledged that. Maybe she handed out the other miraculous because she realised she was in danger of becoming another Gabriel, e.g. making decisions about what's right for Adrien, etc.

Did She Make the Right Decision?

With no one else to turn to, Marinette asks Plagg and Tikki if she made the right decision. They don't tell her she's wrong, but they also seem very undecided. She also asks Bunnyx, who tells her that both paths - telling or not telling Adrien the truth - will lead to both happy and sad moments. This warns us that hard times are on their way. She wants to 'protect Adrien', but she can't. She can't keep him from pain. seems to suggest that Marinette's choice to keep the truth from him is going to lead to some hard times.

Kagami

Kagami intimated that she disagreed with Marinette's decision. When she comforted Adrien in the white room and told Bug Noire to go...that really hit me. There is so much going on there. Transformed, Marinette can't comfort Adrien. In fact, she's just hurt him, and Kagami is the only one in that scene able to help him pick up the pieces. Not just that, but Kagami can relate. Remember her name means 'mirror'. She's now in the position Adrien could be in, if he knew the truth. She's the one trying to come to terms with the truth about her parent. She's the one dealing with the knowledge that she's a sentibeing. She is an example of Adrien's alternate path. When she tells Bug Noire that she's letting her love for Adrien blind her...Kagami is speaking personally - as someone who can put herself in Adrien's shoes in a way Marinette just can't.

If I Could Turn Back Time

When Chrono Bug got that black cat calendar as a lucky charm, she must have known it meant Cat Noir was somehow the solution. But she ignored it. I think her emotions regarding Adrien blinded her from understanding what the universe was trying to tell her.

She and Bunnyx spent much of the episode trying to determine the crucial moment when things started spinning out of control - the moment they needed to change. Marinette focused on the revelation of her identity, which I'm sure was vital. BUT...the elephant in the room was the moment she chose to lie to Adrien. Standing in that time burrow, she had a chance to change the story she told him and undo everything that's on its way. Surely that cat calendar was hinting at this.

Kitten

I think it's telling that the cat on the calendar was a kitten. It felt like the universe was telling her there's something she isn't seeing in Cat - that he's more fragile and in need of nurturing than she acknowledges. When she sees him at the end, and he tells her he has his own awful secret - when he cries over it - she should be questioning why he's that eaten up about missing that final battle. What's his secret? Why's he so devastated? But she's too wrapped up in her own conundrum. Like in Cat Blanc, she's not 'listening'. For me, the most painful moment was when he tried to reassure her that things would be okay - now it'll be 'you and me again, just like old times'. She hasn't yet told him there's actually a huge team now. But they both must understand that the old times are well and truly gone.

The Truth Is Out There

We're now waiting for yet another reveal. Adrien and Marinette still have to find out they're Cat and Ladybug - but Adrien also has to find out the truth about his father. This special hammered it all in so hard that it's Chekhov's gun waiting to go off. What I wonder is if the writers had this angle in mind all along, or if they did this after they saw the fan reaction to that S5 finale. I suspect it's a bit of the latter, particularly because they also had Bunnyx explain that Marinette's reaction to Gabriel in the S5 finale was her getting the 'proof' that he was Monarch. Her reaction was one of many things we all questioned after that episode first aired, so I think the writers were trying to 'fix' things with this special. And I'm fine with that. I'm pleased that they're listening and not just moving on from this stuff / trying to sell it to us that lying to someone is 'the right thing to do'.

The Wild Card

At the end of S5, I thought it was clear that Lila had worked out Ladybug's identity. I assumed S6 would involve some vendetta against Marinette. This special demonstrated that would make things too easy, so they levelled the playing field. Lila doesn't know Ladybug's identity. But she does know Monarch was Gabriel. I think it's inevitable that at some point (probably not for ages, because the writers will want to string us along in suspense), she'll tell Adrien the truth about his father.

Cat Blanc

I think 'Cat Blanc', and Adrien's vision in the white room, were foreshadowing. In this special, we saw how angry Adrien was at Bug Noire when she told her story. He demanded to know why she couldn't save Gabriel. He seemed to have forgiven her by the end, but when he learns the truth, he's going to feel so betrayed. And when he breaks down...watch out, moon.

The Inevitable Break-Up

I think it's inevitable that Adrinette will break up...but only temporarily. When it all blows up, it could be the necessary turning point we've been waiting for, where they finally get on equal footing - where their relationship is based on honesty and total mutual respect.

Conclusion

Buckle up, guys. We're in for a bumpy ride - but I remain optimistic. After 15 crazy months, I'm finally no longer angry about the S5 finale.

[taesanrot]

[moved on] fwb!taesan x f!reader | 0.7k words shorter drabble inspired by the song moved on by laundry day!

my heart is saying things my mind just cannot speak ... i don't know what is wrong with me

taesan was an avoidant. he was good at ignoring things, pushing away the elephant in the room and pretending he doesn't care, that it couldn't bother him any less. he was good at ignoring the way your glances at him grew longer and fonder. he was even better at ignoring the way your doe eyes and soft hair made his heart race and stomach turn.

i'm clinging onto you just like i cannot breathe ... i don't know what is wrong with me

he knew it hurt you and he hated himself for it. you two had agreed to keep things between the two of you casual, seeking comfort in each others' touch in the late hours of the weekend and barely speaking the days in between. at the time it started, taesan's fleeting presence filled you up, bringing you out of the emotional trenches school had sent you into.

maybе I'm the problem saying this is alright ... am i coming on too strong?

that was your first mistake -- you should've known you were setting yourself up for failure right then and there. letting the raven haired boy light up your day with a simple stroke of his hand against your cheek; your heart never stood a chance against the curse of time.

please make sure you call, just to say it's alright ... am i waking you all night?

as the days passed, it was taesan who became the reason you ached on late nights. staring at your still unread message, you wondered why things were like this. the boy's actions twisted your mind in ways he'd never know. at times like this your mind flashed back to the way he was after the sun had set, when it was just the two of you in your own world.

we get together but things might just be better if we moved on

the way his warm lips felt against your neck, the way his fingers burned into your skin, it was all imprinted on your mind. the moments you two shared felt so intimate, and they replayed in your mind over and over like a broken record.

turning around under your heavy blanket for the tenth time that night, you screwed your eyes shut as more and more memories invaded your mind and dreams.

the two of you had been watching a movie, your head laying on his chest and his hand rubbing your shoulder softly. eyes trained on your laptop, you almost missed taesan’s face in your peripheral vision, peeking over at you. he had a habit of doing this — you always assumed he was simply checking if you were awake. you always stayed silent, just smiling and blinking delicately at him.

“i’m awake, san” you don’t know what made you blurt out defensively, but taesan shook his head softly at your words.

“i know, i was just looking at you.” your stomach still turns at the thought of the smile he was adorning as those words fell from his pretty lips.

his fond smile only looked wicked to you now, his words singing your skin and burning your resolve. how could he say all of that without feeling a single thing? you thought to yourself bitterly.

am i giving you up? ... changing seasons, can't believe it now i'm leaving you

sometimes taesan too thought he was insane. it stung to think about the sweet things he'd said or done to you -- it scared him how he meant it all completely. the boy didn't know what was wrong with him, why he couldn't just let the two of you be happy and togehter. he felt like a speed bump in the road, stubbornly and selfishly guarding his heart at the expense of your fragile mind.

hindsight is 20/20, and sitting alone in his cold and you-less bed, taesan knows what he should've done and said to you, what was staring him in the face this whole time. he was utterly in love with you and he didn't even realize.

bitterly, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and reads over your last text to him again.

[2:47 a.m]

y/n: i can't keep doing this anymore. i'm sorry, let's stop seeing each other.

you have been blocked by this number!

[azrielbrainrot]

I Laugh Like Me Again... She Laughs Like You - Part 3

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Description: When your own identity is challenged you're forced to find an ally in what you thought was the most unlikely place.

Warnings: Angst, Memory loss, mentions of death

Word Count: 5950

Notes: Sorry for the wait but I had to map things out to answer all the questions I started in the previous chapters (set myself up there) and lack of motivation was kicking my ass. Still, I hope you enjoy!

Part 2 ○ Part 4

You were picking at the food on your plate as Azriel stared at you, looking like he'd rather feed you himself. As hungry as you were, everything was hard to stomach. You tried to tell him as much but had only been met with a scolding, he seemed extremely interested in your health. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was content with watching you even if you never actually gave him anything. It seemed like the spymaster wasn't too preoccupied with the fact that he had caught you stealing from his High Lord.

Following your sudden breakdown, Azriel had managed to calm you down enough, insisting that you didn't talk about anything else until you ate and were ready for it. Your eyes still hurt and were probably puffy from the tears that had flowed not even an hour ago, and your head still ached, even if it didn't come anywhere close to the excruciating pain you felt before.

The same feeling as before still crawled under your skin, the same questions swirling around in your mind, but you managed to find your composure after the ache had transformed into something manageable and the tears had dried. Admittedly, you were a bit scared of prying into your mind and triggering the same reaction as before - it really had felt like your brain was trying to forcefully escape your skull.

You were still trying to make sense of everything, denying that you were missing important information wouldn't help you. There was no way Azriel was confusing you for someone else, not with the way your body reacted to him and the dreams you've had for far longer than you've been here. There was also the problem of you being a prisoner in this room, as nice and attentive as your prison guard has been there has to be a punishment waiting for you.

When your head felt like it was going to burst, you could swear someone else had barged into the room but you couldn't stay focused on it or hear what they were saying through your own desperate screams. You think you saw something red glinting, but didn't even make out anyone's form, your vision was too blurry. You're not even sure how many of them walked through the door. By the time you came to and calmed down it was only you and Azriel in the room again, and all you could feel was his arms around you, grounding you.

You bite down on another small piece of sausage, arranged as if they were meant to feed a child - you hadn't seen him cut them but you know it has to be his work - as you remembered how desperate he sounded in that moment. You're not sure if the soothing words he whispered in your ear were meant for you or for himself, he was just short of begging you to be okay. It was a little embarrassing to think about how fragile he had seen you in that moment but it was even worse remembering how intimately he held you.

Looking up at Azriel, you're not surprised to meet his eyes, they haven't left you for longer than a second, it's like he's scared you'll disappear if he looks away. You can still see the concern swirling in the beautiful hazel.

You had so many questions, knew he had even more, but you weren't sure where to even begin. Any hope of him starting to talk was evaporating faster with every second. He had told you he wouldn't bring anything up until you were ready but you thought he'd at least ask about the robbery, start off easy. You couldn't push your doubts aside any longer, it felt like you were both playing a part, ignoring the elephant in the room.

“Azriel?” His name triggers the same reaction every time you say it. You might have to go to a healer if you survive this, having your heart fluttering so often can't be healthy.

“Yes?” He leans closer letting his wings pull in closer to his body, ready to give you his undivided attention.

You've noticed how his wings move with him and can give you small clues on what he might be feeling sometimes, like a cat's ears, perking up or dropping with his emotions. The same happens with his shadows really, moving towards you when they're interested, like a tail you suppose.

“There's something wrong.” His eyes open wide and he's on his feet before you can even blink, standing over you and reaching out for your hand. That might not have been the best way to start.

“What's wrong?” He holds onto your wrist, feeling for your pulse. “Does it hurt again?”

“No, nothing hurts,” you try to calm him down, cheeks slightly flushed. “I mean this.” You gesture between the two of you, hoping he's aware of the terrified expression on his face. “You're worried about me.” He visibly relaxes at that, understanding you're not physically hurting again.

“Of course, I am.” He sits on the side of the bed, never letting go of your wrist but holding onto it a little softer, drawing circles with his thumb over your skin. You're not even sure if he's doing it on purpose, or if it simply comes naturally.

“Why would you be?” You have an idea of the answer, he's already made it more than clear that he knows you very well. “I thought you'd be guarding me to make sure I didn't escape but you've been taking care of me instead.”

His eyes roam over your desperate face, taking notice of every expression you make. He's probably scared of saying something that will send you into the same state as before, clawing at your head to stop, but you can see how much he wants to tell you, to stop pretending.

“You're my wife,” he admits, a small smile playing on his lips right after, like saying the word is enough to make him happy, and looks down at his hand still wrapped around your wrist, running his thumb down the veins to the palm of your hand, loosely holding it instead.

“I don't…” You thought there had to be some sort of romantic relationship between you and him, or the person he thinks you are, but you didn't expect him to say wife. “I've never been married.” You never even thought it would be a possibility with your job.

Him thinking you're his wife definitely answers a lot of questions, mostly the reason why you aren't in a dark dungeon after what you've done to them, but it just opens up a whole other box of chaos.

You set the plate aside, knowing you can't keep any more food down with the way the conversation has to go. You wish you could just crawl into your own bed, in your own home and wait until all of this mess passes. Running a hand down your face, you steel yourself, recognizing you need to get to the bottom of this, not only for your sake but his as well. Whatever was at play here was larger than you could have imagined.

“I don't remember you at all, Azriel,” you admit. He just nods, almost pouting, without looking away from your hand still clutched in his. “But I've dreamt about you.” He perks up at that, surprised eyes darting up to meet yours.

“I dream about you almost every night,” he admits softly, a reddish tint covering the tips of his ears.

“If I'm supposed to be your wife, should I be offended that it's not every night?” The lame joke does nothing to ease your nerves, as you intended, but the blinding smile he rewards you with certainly makes the next words easier to come out.

“What you called me before… that's not my name,” you continue slowly, “My name is Maya.”

“Maya,” he tries it out but the discomfort is obvious on his face. To your surprise, you don't like how it sounds coming from him either, while every other word he utters sounds like honey.

“I know that's my name. I know I'ver never been here or met you before,” you explain, “I know I never married you either. I can account for every year of my life, there are no gaps in my memories. You're not in any of them, neither is this house,” you look into his eyes the whole time, squeezing his hand slightly, wanting him to feel your sincerity, “but there's something wrong.”

He studies your face with an unreadable expression. If this whole situation is hard for you to wrap your head around, you can't imagine what it is like looking in from the outside. The only reason you believed him was because of your body's response to him, but all he can see is a female who looks just like his wife yet doesn't recognize him.

His hand leaves yours as he takes the ring he was wearing off slowly, taking your hand and depositing it on your palm gently.

“What's this?” It's a simple silver ring, worn out from what you assume is years of training and fighting while wearing it. Your heart palpitations come back the longer you study it, you know it.

“My wedding ring,” he almost whispers, “You had yours when…” You look up at him and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly, “I don't have it.”

You nod and let it fall on your finger, in place of where your own wedding ring would be. It's too big on you, it would likely be too loose even if you had put it on your thumb, but you almost don't want to take it off. Goosebumps spread all over your body, your heart rate picking up.

“Do you feel anything?”

“I'm not sure I can explain it,” you breathe, not fully understanding the reaction your body has to him.

“Try me,” he insisted.

“Ever since I heard about this mission and stepped foot into this city, it feels like my brain is screaming at me to remember something really important but I can't,” you say, watching the way the wedding band hangs around your finger, “and when I put this ring on just now.” You hold up your hand for him to see, the light catching on it.

You look up at him before continuing, “When I first saw you. When you told me your name. When I… When I stabbed you.” Your eyes travel to his stomach, where an open wound had been just a few hours ago. “I feel a pain in my chest.” It makes itself known again as you think of the way his blood had dripped down your hands. “Holding the ring feels right. Saying your name feels right. But hurting you… didn't.” You take a deep breath in, knowing there's no going back, “So, as insane as this whole situation is, I think I believe you, Azriel.”

The admission lingers in the air as both of you feel its weight. Acknowledging the particular situation you've found yourselves in is only the beginning. Now you must try to understand what happened and how to fix things, if you want that. Part of recognizing what Azriel told you as the truth comes with accepting that some of your life was a lie, and, at this moment, you have no tangible evidence for what is real or not aside from the goosebumps you get when the male in front of you touches you. You don't even know who you truly are.

“If you say I'm your wife then what made me leave?”

“You didn't,” the hesitation is almost tangible in his tone, “I thought you were dead.” Your hand immediately shoots up to your neck, feeling the softened scar under your fingertips. The movement seems to break the dam holding his emotions in check, making everything flow out at once.

“I don't know what happened,” he lets go of you and stands up, running a hand through his hair and pacing around as he explained with an anguished voice, “It was a simple mission. We never found out how exactly but it looked like you were taken by surprise and attacked by bandits. My shadows told me they couldn't sense you so I went to meet you but when I got there all I saw was blood. There was so much blood.”

When he meets your eyes again you can clearly see the tears gathering in them, the pain that still lingers from recalling that moment.

“I looked for you. We all did. We searched in every corner of the world, I sent spies everywhere. We found the bandits and made them talk but when they left your body was still there and your throat was cut.” His wings droop, the bottoms of it touching the floor. Azriel looks defeated. “We thought you were dead. I tried denying it for a while but it came to a point where I couldn't anymore. But now you're here and I- Fuck. I should have kept looking. I shouldn't have given up so easily.”

“Azriel,” you call for him, bringing his attention back to you. The desperation and raw pain in his voice were breaking your heart. “Whatever happened wasn't your fault.”

“I should have found you,” he whispers, completely contrasting with his tone mere moments before.

“You thought I was dead.” The words are hard to form, and you can't linger on them too long. You always knew the injury you suffered was severe, that it had been near miraculous that you survived but finding out there were people out there that truly believed you were dead was chilling. “This whole situation still feels impossible, there's no way you could have known I was still alive.”

He nods at you, but you can clearly see he can't let go of it. The attentiveness and overprotection he's been showing you makes much more sense now. Azriel sits on the chair he has barely left since you were brought to this room. He seems to try to regain his composure, combing back the hair he had tousled and bringing his wings up closer to his body again. But his eyes don't meet yours like before.

You fall back against the headboard, the impact softened by the pillows he fluffled out for you, picking at his wedding ring still on your finger. You feel like you're going insane. Maybe letting the guild find you wouldn't be so bad, at least they'd put you out of your misery. Though it's hard to ignore the fact that they seem to be the ones who put you in this situation, letting you live a lie for almost a century.

“It's been a century since then,” you repeated aloud, “And you still…” Love me? You wanted to say, but that wasn't really you, not for now at least. You don't remember anything of your time together, or about yourself. Maybe the only thing that survived was your body. There's a possibility that the female he loved had actually died, that he'll never fully get her back even if you regain your memories.

“I told you,” the smile you witnessed earlier comes back to his face, even if with only half the prior intensity, “I dream about you almost every night.”

“This doesn't make any sense.” You had moved to sit cross legged over the covers, tired of laying in bed when your body wasn't even hurting. Nibbling on a chocolate cookie the House, who Azriel told you is sort of sentient, gave you.

“I know.” He had calmed down since his outburst, going back to what you assume is closer to his usual demeanor, though he might not always act the same as when his dead wife is sitting across from him. His shadows seemed to have relaxed as well, most of them had left him in favor of swirling around the room like smoke. “When I saw you in the living room, I thought you came back.”

“But I came to rob you instead.”

He lets out a chuckle, “I couldn't have imagined that in my wildest dreams.” His gaze turns a bit more serious before he adds, “my High Lord and High Lady want to speak to you.”

“I figured as much.” You were actually surprised they hadn't shown up yet, the sun was already close to setting. “Did you tell them you think I'm your wife?”

“They know. You and Rhys were friends too.”

The thought that you could be friends with a High Lord is almost laughable, but so was being married to his shadowsinger and yet the fluttering of your heart every time he speaks to you in that deep, soft voice of his doesn't lie.

You think for a bit, remembering the information you had been granted before coming on your mission. Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court, the most powerful one in history and the bearer of one of the most sought-after and frightening abilities - daemati. It's said his mate, the recently turned fae, Feyre Archeron, shares the same talent.

“Is it true that he's a daemati?” He simply nods, knowing you're following his train of thought.

“You want him to look into my head.”

“He might be able to find out what happened to you,” he nods, “the reason you forgot me, forgot us.”

“And you're sure he'll want to help me after what I did? He looked pretty mad when I saw him last night,” you say as you chew on your lip.

Granting him passage into your mind might be more than a leap of faith. You've found it easy to talk to Azriel, to trust him, but you haven't met anyone else, and can't trust they won't want to hurt you. Azriel seemed to not care much about your initial reason for coming to the court or even what you did to him but you can't expect everyone to feel the same, even if they had been your friends a century ago. And a daemati could break you beyond repair, even just seeing their abilities in action has always left you unsettled.

“Rhys won't hurt you,” he tells you, his face showing he has no doubts about his words.

“It's not like I have much of a choice anyway,” you brush the crumbs off your nightgown, stretching your legs and moving until you are sitting at the edge of the mattress. It brought you closer to him, your knees brushing his, the feeling of the leather feeling oh so familiar against your bare skin, making your next words come out breathier than you wanted them to, “You can call them.”

Something flashes across his tantalizing eyes when he looks down at your bare legs, noting the change in your tone, but it disappears when he looks back at you, nodding softly and letting his eyelids shut as if to level himself. Some of his shadows come back to him and, as his silence prolongs, you realize he must be speaking to them in his mind, calling his High Lord just as you asked.

The pressure in the room changes as soon as he opens his eyes, the air getting harder to breathe. It's not as strong as what you'd felt the night before but the tamed magic is enough to have the hairs on the back of your neck stand, and a shiver to run down your spine. You truly hope Azriel is right about them.

Azriel stands just as the door opens to reveal his High Lord followed closely by his mate. His unreadable purple eyes study your stiff form, walking inside the room and letting Feyre close the door behind them. She seems more serene, not showing any obvious hostility towards you but you know not to underestimate the human who freed the fae of Prythian.

You stand when they stop in front of you, not letting fear make you appear weak. If they chose to hold you accountable for your actions you would accept their punishment head on.

The first word out of the High Lord's lips is the same name Azriel had called you before, and the same feeling of deja vu consumes you once more.

“Maya,” you correct. His head tilts to the side briefly, before looking over at Azriel who is watching the scene unfold warily.

“Well Maya,” his eyes meet yours again, “Are you going to explain why I've found you lurking around my house?” The venom was clear in his voice, but you expected as much.

“I was sent here on a mission,” you say as emotionlessly as you can, just like the guild taught you, “I was supposed to find an ancient book with a particular set of runes, it seems it belonged to your grandfather.” You hope the lack of information doesn't make you appear suspicious because it truly is the only thing the guild had deemed enough for you to be able to complete your mission. “Since I failed the mission, they've probably already sent assassins after me, in case I tell you or anyone about them.”

“No one is going to hurt you,” Azriel promises, anger rising at the mention of someone wanting to kill you.

“You were in the wrong place for that,” the High Lord responds after a moment, and watching Azriel's reaction. “The book is in the library under this House.”

“It doesn't matter now.”

“You're right, it doesn't. What I want to know is where you've been all these years and why you attacked my brother.”

The pressure in the room increased again but you could now see it was the result of him trying to hold his power down even though his temper was rising.

“Rhys,” his mate warns, but it falls on deaf ears, his striking eyes never leaving yours.

“I don't remember you or him,” you admit.

“So he's told me.” Rhysand didn't sound too convinced. “You won't mind if I check for myself right?” He barely made it sound like a question but you nod in answer all the same.

Black talons scrape along your mental walls as soon as you give him permission, you lower them for him, pushing everything the guild taught you aside, inviting the enemy straight into your mind. If they could see you now you would definitely be mocked and executed on the spot.

His presence is barely felt in your mind before a sharp pain takes your senses, similar to the one you'd felt before. You squeeze your eyes shut, hands moving to hold your head. Scarred hands are on you immediately, holding you up against a strong body before your knees meet the ground. As the talons retreat from your mind, the pressure lessens and you take a few deep breaths before opening your eyes.

When you manage to blink away the wetness making your vision blurry, you find the High Lord looking at you with wide eyes, remorse clear on his face and his mate holding onto his arm.

“What did you do to her?” Azriel's voice was rough with barely restrained anger.

The High Lord ignores him, looking into your eyes as he explains with a notably softer tone than earlier, “There is something blocking your memories. When I tried to bypass it… It hurt you.”

“What does that mean?” Your voice was scratchy, a dull ache lingering in your head. You lean away from Azriel and sit back on the mattress. No use trying to act tough, you're truly at their mercy.

“It means I can't access your memories for the time being,” the change in his demeanor would give you whiplash if the pain you were feeling gave way long enough for you to focus on anything else, “I've never seen anything like this, there's no way of knowing what it can do to you.”

“I think your memories aren't only being blocked,” he's still speaking directly at you but you can't really wrap your mind around anything at the moment, letting them discuss amongst themselves. “They're being overwritten at the same time.”

“That's why she forgot Azriel but remembers her life at the guild?”

“I've never heard of anything like that,” Azriel's voice sounds further away, you almost want to reach out and pull him back to you.

“Me neither,” the High Lord admits, watching your crouched form warily. “We'll have to ask Amren and research it in the library but it's the only explanation.” You find yourself nodding, even if you don't know Amren you understand the ancient creature might be able to help, if she wants to that is.

“At least your mental walls are still intact. They're the same ones I taught you to build.”

“No, I learned at the guild,” you finally look up at him, sweat still covering your forehead.

“There's still an open channel, like an open door for me to be able to talk to you.” So I can do this. You can't help but jump slightly at the sound of his voice in your mind, and the promise of a smile twitches on his lips. It doesn't go unnoticed that the talons moved a lot more carefully in your mind, almost tenderly.

“You're staying in this house until we can be sure you're not a threat.” His eyes move to Azriel's, an unimpressed look taking over his face at the scowl the shadowsinger sends him. “In the meantime you can fill Azriel in on everything you can about the guild. I want to know if there's a chance they'll try to attack us again.”

“We'll try to find any information on what is blocking your memories and keep you safe from the guild in exchange,” the High Lady adds, “It's a fair trade for both parties.”

You can't tell if she's saying it to convince you or her mate but appreciate the sentiment nonetheless. Also noticing how she omits the biggest reason for this mutual cooperation - the shadowsinger standing by your side.

⋆｡°✩°｡⋆

His hair was still wet when he started dressing himself, not wanting to leave you waiting for too long, as much as he hated to admit it he wasn't too happy about leaving you with Feyre either. He can tell everyone is still suspicious of you, even after Rhys tried to read into her memories to find nothing, stuck between their memories and stories they heard about you and the image of you stabbing a knife through his stomach.

Azriel knows his High Lady, his friend, wouldn't hurt you, but you're in a complicated situation at the moment and he doesn't want to find out what that guild has taught you to do in cases such as these, doesn't even want to think what Feyre would do to stop you. She didn't know you before, meaning she wouldn't have any reason to hold back if not for his sake - something he knows she wouldn't put above saving Velaris, he would never ask that of her either.

It's hard to accept he doesn't know how you'll react in certain situations, there was a time he knew you better than he knew himself. Now, he can't even begin to understand what you must have been through working for a world known assassin guild.

He'd obviously heard about them before, he wouldn't be a decent Spymaster if he hadn't. There wasn't much information on them, no one knew how large the group even was since there were rumors other groups were actually integrated in the guild. Names for it vary as well.

Even if you hadn't tried to steal from his High Lord, he knows he'll have to try getting as much information about them from you as he can, for his court's sake, and he can only pray you'll give it to him willingly or he'll have to let go of his position.

He doesn't know how you've been able to bear the guilt a job like this brings. As much as you've forgotten, your personality didn't seem to change a lot. You always reminded him of Cassian at times like these, gratuitous killing had never been for you. He hopes you don't have to deal with the torment he had been through in the first decades of working for the former High Lord, his soul had never recovered from everything he'd seen and done during that time.

Noticing his shadows reach up his shoulders, he physically shakes the dark thoughts out of his brain. Everything has been going better than expected, not only did you agree to cooperate but Rhys had given you the benefit of the doubt. You also agreed to have dinner with him so you could talk more.

He just told you he'd be joining you for dinner, omitting how excited, downright giddy, he felt at just the idea. It had been so long since you two shared a meal, talking for hours while enjoying the tasty food the House prepared for you.

He couldn't recall the last time he'd been this nervous for an outing, even if it wasn't exactly that - it was simply a trip to one of the House of Wind's guest rooms. Going as far as picking clothes in your favorite colors on him, letting the top buttons on his shirt undone because he knows how much you liked seeing the beginnings of his swirling bargain marks.

All of this could be for nothing, you don't remember him after all, but, he was almost certain your body did in some way and it gave him hope. You calmed down in his arms just as you did a century ago, said his name in the same sweet cadence and never shied away from his touch, from his hands. His shadows told him as much. Sang to him about the way goosebumps rose in your skin at his touch and attentiveness, how your thoughts and intuition warred in his favor. He refused to let his thoughts deter him.

When he gets to the room he sees you and Feyre standing by the dresser, almost wanting to apologize for winnowing in instead of knocking first, but he can't seem to find any words as he sees you've changed as well, ditching the nightgown in favor of a sleeveless dress that went down to your knees. The cobalt blue was as striking against your skin as he remembered, the garment in itself was simple enough yet in his eyes you had never looked so stunning.

Feyre must have been the one to give you the dress, he was only surprised it had taken her so long to meddle in your relationship. If there were any doubts, they were quickly answered when she threw him a knowing smile before excusing herself from the room.

“I'm guessing the blue is supposed to match those gems you wear.”

“Siphons,” he offers, entranced by the way you walk closer to him, the silky fabric moving with your body and giving you an ethereal glow.

“Did I used to do that a lot?”

“Yes.” He observes the way your eyes run over his body, lingering on the unbuttoned shirt. Seems like his old tricks still work. “I always loved seeing you in blue.”

You tilt your head to the side slightly, biting the inside of your lip the way you always did. He tries to stand as still as possible without appearing too awkward, making sure you knew it was alright to do with him anything that crossed your pretty brain. You seem to make up your mind as you walk closer to him.

“Can I see them?” You hold up your palm and he holds his hand over it without hesitation, letting you grab onto his hand to study the glowing siphon. The swirling light shone in your eyes and he can't help but be reminded of the first time you asked him to do the same exact thing shortly after meeting him.

“All Illyrian warriors have them,” he explains, “They're used to help us control our powers.”

“It's beautiful.” He tries not to let his wings twitch as you now hold his hand with both of yours. “I don't think I've seen anything like this before.”

“You have,” he can't help the somber smile that crosses his face. The reminder makes you look away from his hand to watch him, a conflicted expression falling over your pretty face. “You always liked them.”

The abrupt change in the atmosphere has him asking the house to get the room ready for your dinner. Not being able to hide the smile as he watches your amazed expression at the table that pops up beside you, full of delicious looking food and decorated with candlesticks, the faelights around the room dim in favor of the candlelight.

“I only asked for the food,” he admits with a bashful expression. He's glad you can't tell that, aside from the candles, the plates were also some of the fanciest ones. The House was going all out for the two of you.

He uses the grip you had on his hand to guide you to the chair and help you sit before making his way to his own seat, settling down and giving order for the House to serve both of you. Letting himself enjoy every little expression you made as you eat and listening to anything you felt like telling him, also answering all your questions about the House and the food.

He knows this doesn't have the same meaning to you as it does to him, knows that, as much as you don't seem to hate his company, you're more interested in finding out more about the version of you in his memories, trying to make sense of your own identity. It's hard to imagine how this whole thing must feel for you, finding out half of your life was made up and that you forgot such an important part of it. Still, this must be the best night he's had in a century.

You set your elbows on the table and rest your face on your hands, watching him with undivided attention as he tells you about his sparring match with Cassian. Your eyes don't leave his face after he finishes, appearing lost in thought. He lets you gather them, relishing in the comfortable silence. He'd be content with simply watching you for eternity.

You let out a soft sigh and lean back against the chair, closing your eyes for a few seconds before meeting his gaze again.

“What happens if I never remember you, Azriel?” Your voice barely above a whisper.

The question and the uncertainty in your voice as you asked it make him pause. He keeps trying to push back the thought that you won't regain your memories but it seems you were having the same doubts.

Just last week, he wouldn't have believed having you back was even a possibility, so getting your memories back can't be out of reach, it just can't. He was ready to give his life to make it so.

Still, he witnessed how painful it had been for you when Rhys simply tried to access your memories, he'd also told him trying harder, forcefully, could break your mind completely. If their research doesn't go well, if they can't find who did this to you, there might not be another way of bringing your memories back.

But he'd sooner die than live another day without you, whether your memories come back or not.

“I'll make you fall for me again.”

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[dcwildwestfest]

As soon as his brother, Gabriel, had learned of Castiel losing his job, he had immediately started working on probing Castiel to move into the ranch with him. Truthfully, though, it hadn’t taken much convincing. It hadn’t been hard to leave his life behind. After all, it wasn’t like he had that much to hold on to. Immediately after arriving at Rustic Haven Ranch, Gabriel had deemed it the perfect moment to throw a party in Castiel’s honor. So now here he was, feeling like an elephant in a room full of fragile, expensive dinnerware sets or something of the sort, all ready to shatter if Castiel moved the wrong way. Sighing, Castiel turned to the finger foods table to skim his eyes over the choices available, settling for a carbonara mini quiche. “Heya, cowboy,” came the rural Midwestern drawl, startling Castiel from his pitiful reverie. Spinning on his heels, Castiel found himself face to face with the most mesmerizing human specimen Castiel had ever laid his eyes upon. The man was young, younger than him. He had a cocky, lopsided grin that gave him a boyish appearance. It was rough around the edges, but still incredibly charming. Beautiful was the right word, Castiel thought — the man wasn’t dressed like most of the guests at the party, setting aside the cowboy hats and western attire in favor of a beige plaid shirt open over a solid black t-shirt, faded bootcut jeans, and logger style boots. His light-brown hair was styled in a slightly spiked hairdo. He had a straight nose, high cheekbones, and adorable freckles dotting his skin. But what Castiel found the most stunning were his eyes, and how they sparkled every time he caught a glimpse of the artificial light. “H—hello,” Castiel stuttered after he had spent much longer than socially acceptable staring at the man before him. “I'm Dean,” he said, his smile growing wider, probably realizing the peculiar effect he was having over Castiel. Clearing his throat and feeling his cheeks heating up at how embarrassingly obvious he was reacting to this stranger, Castiel forced himself to glance away as he said, “Hello, Dean. But I'm not really a cowboy.

- A Cowboy For Me

by @casblackfeathers , art by @szlez

Available Now On Ao3!

[gabipaleo]

South Island giant moa (Dinornis robustus) - the largest species of moa, weighing over 200 kg and capable of reaching 3.6 metres above the ground. As their name suggests, they were native to the South Island of New Zealand, primarily inhabiting lowland areas.

Dinornis robustus were the second largest birds ever found, surpassed in weight and size only by their distant cousin, the elephant bird. They became extinct +-600 years ago, due to the arrival of humans, like other moas.

A major factor in the extinction of moas, especially the giant ones, was egg theft by humans. These birds could lay 1-2 eggs at a time, investing heavily in a small number of hatchlings.

This breeding strategy resulted in a population consisting mainly of long-lived, slow-breeding adults. Interestingly, despite their enormous size, moas eggs were very thin and fragile, only 1.4mm thick.

This may have led to another interesting adaptation, a major sexual dimorphism; males were much smaller than females, so much so that they were once thought to be different species.

Similar to some modern ratites, it's thought that males took care of eggs and young alone, the smaller size made it easier not to damage eggs, although they probably didn't sit on them but wrapped their necks around them.

They nested in holes in the ground or even in hollow tree trunks, probably reused for many years, suggesting that they lived in isolation rather than in a colony.

It is likely that females competed for males with the largest territories, perhaps physically or just by vocalisation. After hatching from the egg, baby moa were already able to walk and feed, probably not only on ferns and grasses but also on smaller animals.

Moas could reach sexual maturity in a few years, but probably social behaviour would prevent them from breeding until much later; much like the cassowary, which doesn't breed until it has its own territory.

Moas were once thought to be closely related to another New Zealand bird - the kiwi - but DNA sequencing has shown that their closest relative is actually the tinamou, a small flying ratite/paleognath from South America.

The two diverged about 60 million years ago, making the moa another example of a paleognath that lost its ability to fly independently after reaching a region without many other large herbivores and predators.

[blackjackkent]

Occasionally I think about the fact that I probably have (most of) the technical skills to build a serviceable Tumblr alternative in the event of The Collapse, and have an investment in the culture and preservation/enabling of fandom creation, and I start wondering again about whether it would be a good idea to make an attempt.

And then I always run up against the elephant in the room which is cost. The cost of maintaining a site like this at scale must be astronomical. Vast numbers of servers for redundancy and global endpoints, processing power to handle millions of simultaneous requests, database storage for an exponentially growing amount of posts and reblog information, and then the image hosting requirements, my god... and the human non-automated moderation that people want...

I already spend a sizable chunk of change just keeping RPThreadTracker running and that thing is TINY.

This is why I get a little frustrated at the kneejerk aversion to any sort of monetary support by the Tumblr userbase; I think a lot of people just don't fathom that if you want a FREE site and community of this size and robustness, money still HAS to be involved somewhere. A LOT of money. Which means our options are:

A powerful corporate interest

Having our data sold to the highest bidder

User participation in donations and optional purchases

Tumblr has a combination of 1 and 3 which allows us to avoid 2, and yet people constantly spit in the face of 3 and then wonder why the whole situation is so fragile.

Anyway, all this to say that I need some extraordinarily rich person who is at home in the Tumblr ecosystem to come out of the woodwork. I just wanna talk.

[unhinged-jackles]

idk if we're gonna get Eddie sexuality realization or even consideration this season because I don't think he's really there yet. his whole arc this season has been about choosing joy and not denying himself, but I think in order for him to do that he needs to first choose himself and learn to prioritize his own needs, and I think that starts with his moving back to LA which will def happen

on the other hand, idk what the fuck the show is doing if we don't get Buck realizing he's in love with Eddie by the end of s8. they've been laying the groundwork for that since literally 7x04, when Buck just wants Eddie's attention and even Tommy is surprised that Buck said he wants his attention, not Eddie's. Eddie haunted the BuckTommy relationship to the point where that is canonically the reason Tommy dumped Buck. Now Eddie is gonna be back in town for the funeral, and Tommy for some reason is also there. We literally can't have Buck, Eddie, and Tommy in the same scene with no cage comment about the elephant in the room.

the finale is called "Seismic Shifts." ik that's subject to change or whatever but I really think something has to happen and Buck is gonna have an "oh shit moment" and his already fragile world is going to shake when he realizes what he feels for Eddie.

[xia0mi-c0m]

The proshipping problem in the twst fandom | A rant.

Very obvious trigger warning for things normal for proshippers like p3dophilia, incest, etc.

Though I do know proshippers will be in every single fandom, it's getting especially worse in the twst fandom, specifically the Japanese side of the fandom (with some discussions about some in the English side too).

Before any proshippers come into the comment section: Proshipping is NOT a healthy coping mechanism. If your therapist recommended it, they should be fired.

This post is not to dehumanize and degrade underage proshippers as they have been obviously groomed into believing that it was okay to ship this sort of stuff.

The actual elephant in the room we WILL be shunning is the adult proshippers who actively encourage children (either actually or under law) to proship.

Before getting fully deep in this subject, I would like to admit something that I've talked about before.

I was a proshipper when I was younger than what I am now. This was because, not getting into too much detail, I was groomed by a man online to the point that i thought it was okay.

Not only was I a proshipper but I was also a darkshipper, problematic comshipper, and also supported the things present in Dead Dove fanfics.

In fact, I had an account on some sort of forum page with other proshippers and I shared my nasty ships there. I believed it was a good way of desensitizing myself to my trauma that fucked me up heavily, but it wasn't and it was making me relive the same trauma which in return, made it worse.

This is why I say that I do not want anyone to shun underage proshippers, they were groomed into it half of the time.

Now that I'm 18 (About to turn 19 on February 14th), I finally understand that proshipping is an unhealthy way of approaching your trauma and pain.

It may feel like it does something, but it really doesn't. And I want to reassure you that you're not alone in your pain, please, find other ways to cope and process what has happened to you that doesn't include glorifying very nasty things.

Now with that out the way, I would like to say what the title says.

Proshippers in the twst fandom has sadly grown overtime, but my niece made a very good point; stating that since twst does have a slightly dark story, that people with dark and nasty thoughts and ideas will be attracted to it, much like a moth to a flame that damages it's already fragile body.

There have been adults in the twst proshipper area, and I think they're the main cause of fueling minors in the fandom to do the same thing. Maybe with or without knowing the eventual psychological consequences.

The adults who are aware sadly lure and prey on the gullible underage individuals of the fandom, and though that might seem like an overexaggeration; it sadly is true.

I am Japanese, well, half-Japanese. But even then, due to that fact, I'm more prevalent in the Japanese fandom than the English fandom though I am trying to balance out both.

Since I am more present in the Japanese side of the fandom than I am with the English side (because I'm basically like an absent dad that went off to get the milk and never came back until years), I have seen a lot of shit in here and it's very scary even to this day.

Though the English side of the fandom is as equally bad, the Japanese side is worse with the whole l0li and sh0ta thing. Sadly I have seen English twst accounts do those things too.

The most popular proshipper you may know is Ugigi or however the fuck you spell her name, whether one likes to admit it or not, her selfships were very much proshipping. This is mainly due to how her OC could've been her actual age which was in her 20s if I'm remembering correctly.

But let's say the OC wasn't, it would still be problematic (but not in the proship way) since the characters she drew NSFW of were mainly the minors (again, if I remember correctly). If her OC was her actual age then she would be a proshipper.

However, watever the age of the OC she always drew, it's obvious that it was still leaning more on proshipping because that indicates that she's attracted to the characters despite knowing they're minors (and not even aging them up by the way).

So, very nasty, I was thinking of putting her In the TWs 😭

All jokes aside, proshipping is disgusting.

In fact, must I bring up any other thing?

LEECHCEST.

WHAT.

Well, you heard that right, people ship Floyd and Jade. Seriously, what is wrong with you guys. And I think I know why this ship is so popular in the Japanese fandom; The fact incest is not necessarily illegal in Japan in a way.

Yeah. You heard me correctly. I'm horrified and scarred for life <3

"Surely there isn't anymore I shall talk about, right? Right?? RIGHT?!?" I exclaim, not expecting anything else to come from the sky and hit me.

Then boom..

SHROUDCEST.

OH FUCK NOT AGAIN.

So, apparently people ship a dead robotic little boy with his big brother.. yeah... FNAF fandom called, they're telling you not to steal their bit much like how Deejus is trying to tell Johnny RaZeR not to steal his "YOUTUBEEE" outro bit that.. he also stole.

It can't get any worse than this, right? This is definitely the last tier of the iceberg, surely? Perhaps??-

KINGSCHOLARCEST.

Okay, now we're pushing it, this bit is getting old but whatever.

Kingscholarcest can refer to three (disgusting) "ships": A nasty ship of Cheka x Leona, a nasty ship of Falena x Leona, or a nasty ship of Falena x Leona x Cheka.

Sweet home Alabama all around but more extreme..

I think we all know why these ships are not okay and are disgusting (ESPECIALLY CHEKA X LEONA SINCE CHEKA IS A GOO GOO GA GA BABY.)

Finally.. It's over.. I can go back to ranting!-

FELLOW X GIDEL.

JESUS CHRIST STOP.

This madness needs to stop because if not I'm going to pull my fucking hair out!-

LILMAL, SILVER X LILIA, S-

OKAY STOP IT RIGHT HERE,, THE BIT IS OLD NOW.

So, I think you get my point.

Borderline incestuous ships, the drake specialty, and straight up sweet home right to Alabama.

Now, let's put aside the jokes and get serious again.

With all the things I have stated, you can definitely see the absolute horror of some parts of the fandom.

There's accounts that are VERY hypocritical, saying "P3dos DNI" when they are a sh0ta/l0licon. This is the literal definition of hypocrisy at it's finest.

There are mfs who have unironically said that Cheka was hot and romantically cute.. HE'S 7 YEARS OLD. OR MAYBE YOUNGER. I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER BUT I DO KNOW HE IS A CHILD.

I have said this MANY times before and I'll say it again; if that characters looks like a child, THEY ARE A CHILD.

Even if you age up characters like Ortho, Cheka, etc. You are still self-reporting that you're attracted to a literal child.

Fiction DOES affect reality no matter if you try to plug your mickey mouse ears with your fingers (or paws, I don't know) to gaslight yourself into believing it doesn't truly affect it.

In fact, there have been cases where people have been arrested for having l0li/sh0ta on their devices, though, sadly, its not a long sentence despite how it should be lifelong.

But even without the lifelong sentence, the law still considers l0li/sh0ta CSAM. (I hate calling it CP now since that implies that kids can do that in their own will.)

A grown adult proshipper even told me when I criticized Kanna from dragon maid for being a little girl the author sexualizes to no end all because I said that she doesn't have a listed age that I was being "contradicting" and I think this proves that.. proshippers DON'T know what contradictions ACTUALLY are because they've gaslit so much into believing this disgusting behavior is normal and okay to do.

And don't get me started on Dead Dove cai, chai, etc. bots and fanfics.

Dead Dove, proshipping, problematic comshipping, darkshipping, doveshipping, etc. doesn't give out awareness to the horrors of such depraved acts.

Another very nasty thing I've seen in the TWST fandom is people shipping the staff with the students, mainly Crewel with Deuce.

Teacher x Student is disgusting no matter what. Teachers are always more grown than the students, so yeah, teachers aren't the anime boy or girl of your dreams or something, he or she's going to be old and otherwise not "attractive" and young.

The training to become a teacher and any profession in fact will take years, which means you'll grow and turn old.

I understand many say "Well, it's just fiction!" but these people seem to forget that young individuals, especially young girls, can see these teacher x student fiction and will probably, in the worst case scenario, get the wrong impression from it, ESPECIALLY if the media glamorizes and romanticize it, and sadly become a victim.

Crewel, If I'm not wrong, is 31 meanwhile Deuce and the other first years that [Crewel] mainly gets shipped with are 16 years old.

This is not only a disgusting, vomit-inducing age gap but huge maturity gap whether one likes to admit so or not.

Yanderes especially in the twst fandom get romanticized, and people seem to forget the reality of the abuse that yanderes put their "love interest(s)" through.

And I think this is why fandoms (not just twst) should stop romanticizing yanderes and student x teacher, and vice versa.

Besides, these two tropes are grooming even if the victim is not a minor, adults and the elderly alike can also be groomed especially if they're gullible and need to depend on someone (for either a disability or something).

People will probably invalidate my point but I don't budge from what I said.

Sorry if this posts looks rushed and/or maybe even incoherent to some, I just wanted to get this off my chest and stuff.

I should start ranting more, I like yapping so yeah, expect more whenever I'm bored :3

Anyways, BAIIII!!

YOUTUBEEEEEE flies away into the void to the right