#is my type of character. and this is my type of show

[pondhue]

4 years late to the party that is inside job, my bad ✋😔

[lesbianjohnlock]

not gonna personally comment on the s&c thoughts bc i don’t know how to articulate mine, but transcripts aren’t a patreon exclusive thing and you can definitely access them on their website. unless you mean patreon members get all the episodes and transcripts in one go then yes that’s true, but every week when an episode is released a transcript is also released to the public

Sherlock Holmes became an adaptation of an adaptation.

By watching several adaptations, it is possible to see how Holmes' personality begins to change over time, and how some adaptations are very similar to each other, not because they are based on the same book, but because they are based on each other instead of being based on the canon.

For example, the stereotype that Holmes is cold and emotionless, even though in the book Watson indeed says that Holmes is "a machine", Watson still describes him as sensitive, gentle, Holmes compassionate towards the clients who need it most. In addition to the explicit affection he has for Watson and how he respects Watson's feelings.

In older adaptations, Holmes has a personality and attitudes that are more faithful to the books, until the 2000s, Holmes' personality was consistent with the canon.

From the 2000s onwards, the adaptations became increasingly distant from the canon and began to be based on existing versions of the character instead of the canon, and thus a whole new perception of the character was created that did NOT match AT ALL with his original counterpart.

(very long post)

And it's not just Holmes' personality that is affected, but his dynamic with Watson and the history and personality of the other characters ends up being affected. For example, Irene Adler.

Although the interpretation of Irene as Holmes' romantic partner has existed for decades, since the 19th century, and even though she appeared in ONE short story, and was the only woman to beat the great detective, her relevance in having been a woman at that time and having been smarter than Holmes was transformed and reduced to her being Holmes' love interest, BUT even then, there isn't THAT many adaptations where Irene is portrayed this way how people think

First, there is Alice Faulkner, Holmes' romantic partner created by William Gillette, an original character inspired by Irene Adler, but very different from Irene. Holmes helps her and falls in love with her, kinda cute. (almost everyone knows) William Gillette is also responsible for the image of Holmes with the big pipe and the famous phrase never said by the canon Holmes "Elementary, my dear Watson". This is where the first influence on the other adaptations begins.

William Gillette's Holmes inspired the adaptations by Clive Brook and John Barrymore. Brook's version Holmes has a wife like Alice, and Barrymore's version is an adaptation of Gillette's film.

‼️This is all referring specifically to visual media such as movies and tv shows.

From decades before until the 1950s (not included), there is no Irene Adler. Of the more than 30 adaptations, four of them have an original female character as a romantic partner to Holmes. From the 50s to the 80s (not included), there are 30 other film and television adaptations. Where Irene only appears in 1976 in “Sherlock Holmes In New York” with Roger Moore as Holmes, and I believe that this is perhaps the FIRST version where Irene and Holmes really have a romance.

In this movie, half of the time, it is shown how Holmes loves Irene Adler and misses her, until a case ends up taking him to New York, to meet the woman he loves so much, BUT in the end, after he discovers that he has a son with Irene, he simply decides that he cannot stay with her and their son, because he has a whole life in London and cannot leave everything like that. Father of the year.

Before that, of course, there is “The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes” in 1970 by Billy Wilder, where he has the character of Gabrielle, which may have been the starting point for Irene Adler's transformation.

There were two adaptations in the 1970s where a man ends up in a type of psychosis that makes him believe he is Sherlock Holmes and a doctor named, by coincidence of course, Watson, and she is the one who helps him. In the first film, “They Might Be Giants,” Holmes and Dr. Watson fall in love.

At this time, it has the movie “The Seven Per-Cent Solution,” where Freud helps Holmes overcome his “aversion to women” and at the end of the movie, Holmes meets a potential female love interest.

Of all the 33 films from this period [50s-80s], there is ONE movie where Holmes is implicitly homosexual, ONE movie where H&W fall in love, ONE movie where Holmes has an original female romantic partner and ONE movie where Holmes and Irene Adler were a couple.

Irene only appears then in the “Soviet Holmes” series from (1979), where although it seems that Holmes may have feelings for her, she is not a love interest.

From the 80s to the 2000s (not included), of the almost 40 film and television adaptations, Irene Adler only appears THREE TIMES.

In 1984 in the film with Peter Cushing “The Mask of Death”, where Holmes seems grumpy with the mere presence of Irene and complains about how he lost to a woman. In the same year also Irene appears in “Granada Holmes” which is probably the most faithful adaptation of the tale of the Scandal in Bohemia.

Irene only appears AGAIN in 1991 in “The Leading Lady” with Christopher Lee, where Irene has no self-respect whatsoever and has only one mission in this movie, which is to marry Holmes. She literally says that she DOESN’T CARE IF HOLMES DOESN’T LOVE HER, she wants to marry him and ends baby trapping him.

In 1994, there was the pilot episode of the series that would be called “Baker Street: Sherlock Holmes Returns”, which is a remake of the 1987 pilot episode “The Return of Sherlock Holmes”. In the first version, Holmes wakes up from cryogenics and meets Watson’s granddaughter, Jane, and from her, he learns that it is okay to be gay in the 80s. In the second version, Holmes is found by a doctor named Winslow who falls in love with him, but Holmes shows no interest in her.

In the late 90s, there is “Shirley Holmes”, who is Holmes' great-great-granddaughter-niece (?), her father is a Holmes and her mother is a doctor named Joanne. There is also “My Dearly Beloved Detective” where H&W kiss, the movie is mainly about love.

From this period, of the three times that Irene appears, only once she is a love interest and other THREE adaptations that put H&W in a romantic position.

So until the 2000s, of the more than one hundred adaptations, Irene is Holmes' love interest ONLY TWICE.

Of about 61 film and series adaptations produced since the 2000s till this day, EIGHT adaptations have Irene Adler as Holmes' romantic partner and another EIGHT adaptations where Holmes has other originals female characters as romantic partners.

And hust because I'm a math teacher:

It's worth noting that the number of adaptations (movies and tv shows) in 25 years is almost equivalent to the number of adaptations (movies and tv shows) in ONE CENTURY.

From the first sample of adaptations (movies and tv shows) from the period 1900-1999, there were 104 adaptations.

Irene as a romantic partner: 2 (± 2%)

Original Female Character: 4 (± 3.8%)

H&W in a romantic situation (corresponding or not, explicit or not): 4 (± 3.8%)

From the second sample of adaptations (movies and tv shows) from the period 2000-2025, there were 61 adaptations.

Irene as a romantic partner: 8 (± 13%)

Original Female Character: 8 (± 13%)

H&W in a romantic situation (corresponding or not, explicit or not): 7 (± 11.5%)

Irene Adler as love interest from the 2000s onwards:

“The Royal Scandal” with Matt Frewer, their relationship is implicit, this movie sucks, but other Frewer movies are good, as is Clive Merrison, Frewer is one of the only actors who has a voice that most closely matches the description of Holmes' voice in the canon. Also in the television film “Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars”, where Irene spends most of the movie disguised as a man, because of course that the ONLY WOMAN Holmes could fall in love with, dresses as a man. And then we have the Robert Downey Jr. films where despite explicitly showing the romantic relationship between Holmes and Irene at the same time it implicitly shows the romantic feelings between Holmes and Watson. And then we have “Elementary” (2012-2019), “Шерлок Холмс” (2013), “Sherlock Gnomes” (2018) and the most recent “CBS Watson” (Holmes is dead but they still made sure to let us know that Irene and Holmes had an affair.)

So, it was here, in the 2000s that the adaptations really began to change and became adaptations of each other. Holmes lost his personality and became another character. The canon stories were replaced by “fanfics” of other adaptations. (Irene Adler case)

I consider that three adaptations are mainly responsible for the CURRENT image of Sherlock Holmes, and that it is from these three adaptations that the image that we have (in the contemporary era) of Sherlock Holmes was perpetuated and is the basis for the adaptations produced more recently.

The first is House M.D. (2004-2012). Although the general public does not know that it is based on Sherlock Holmes, House influenced other adaptations, especially the personality that Holmes has today. The cliché of the super-intelligent, cold, calculating, emotionless male character begins here. Even though House is not exactly that trope. The image of Holmes being insensitive to clients/patients, his arrogance and being an ASSHOLE starts in House. Including the way he treats or mistreats Watson/Wilson.

The second adaptation is the Robert Downey Jr. films as Holmes (2009-2011). He turns Holmes into an action hero, which Holmes is not, his personality does not match the canon at all (in these movies, this is not a problem). But the main influence of RDJ Holmes is Holmes as an action hero, and being SLOPPY. He dresses badly and does not keep a clean appearance. It looks like he has not showered in months. I know he STINKS.

And then we have the third adaptation, which is where the adaptations of other adaptations begin: BBC Sherlock (2010-2017). BBC Sherlock could almost be an adaptation of “The Private of Sherlock Holmes” considering the amount of similarities and references to Billy Wilder's film and the number of times Moffat and Gatiss said that this was their favorite film and INSPIRATION. BBC Sherlock is set in the modern era as Basil Rathbone's film series was then, it also makes references to the 1965 BBC series with a background appearance by Douglas Wilmer, they made reference to “Granada Holmes” in “The Abominable Bride”. And considering that RDJ Holmes is (I believe) the FIRST adaptation that decided to have Irene Adler working for Moriarty, it can be considered that Irene Adler from BBCSH, besides being an adaptation of Gabrielle from “Private Life of Sherlock Holmes”, is also inspired by Irene from the movie.

Still, controversy, but BBC Sherlock also suffers from the influence of House, mainly in Sherlock’s PERSONALITY. He has a personality quite similar to House’s.

So we have BBC Sherlock that is inspired by other adaptations and other adaptations that are inspired by BBC Sherlock. They are adaptations based on others adaptations, where the original Holmes gets lost and it is no longer possible to recognize him.

House influenced BBC Sherlock, Elementary and CBS Watson. Although Elementary suffered from the obvious comparisons to BBC Sherlock, it clearly follows a House approach style, including the opening of the show is inspired by the 1965 BBC series. And even with the influences of other adaptations, Elementary managed to maintain a personality more in keeping with Holmes, despite the sexual appeal that Elementary Holmes has (I believe it's House's fault). This Holmes has character development and takes a more serious approach to being neurodivergent and queer, and to his addiction. Unlike both House and BBCSH, which do not fully address Holmes' autistic, or his sexuality, and in the case of BBCSH at no point does it seriously address Sherlock's addiction problem.

And again, possibly influenced by Irene from the Warner Bros. films, we have an Irene Adler who works with Moriarty, and spoiler alert, not only does she work with Moriarty but is actually Moriarty herself. In addition to having a romantic involvement with Holmes, and Moriarty (her own counterpart) being an obstacle in their relationship (as in the film).

CBS Watson series has a big problem, being from the same producers as Elementary, even though Elementary managed to maintain consistency and a certain fidelity to Holmes' personality, CBS Watson ends up having almost no personality, being similar to House, and with a Watson that seems trying to be Holmes at all times. In a way, CBS Watson is an adaptation of another adaptation: House, which is inspired by Sherlock Holmes.

RDJ Holmes has influenced two Russian adaptations, “Sherlock Holmes” from 2013, where despite expectations that it was inspired by the Soviet series from 1979, the new Russian Holmes is very similar to the ways of RDJ Holmes, sloppy and careless. The series plot is that Watson narrates the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, but the Holmes he writes about is not the same as the real Holmes he lives with. Even though in this context, fidelity to the canon somehow does not need to exist. It still shows the influence of RDJ's films. And again, Irene Adler here is Holmes' romantic partner.

As for the NEW Russian series “Sherlock in Russia” (2020), despite its originality and very well produced, we have an almost sloppy Holmes, long hair and a goatee, that yes, is RDJ's fault.

Being the most influential of the post-2000s adaptations, BBC Sherlock influenced several other adaptations, such as: “Miss Sherlock” (2018) which is not only inspired by BBC Sherlock, but clearly an adaptation of BBC Sherlock in a modern Tokyo setting where Sherlock and John are women. (An adaptation of another adaptation that was inspired by other adaptations). “Sherlock Untold Stories” (2019-2022) which is also heavily inspired by BBC Sherlock visually, but unlike Miss Sherlock it manages to be more original.

Moriarty the Patriot's Sherlock. Both the manga and the anime are, in my opinion, the best adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, both in the original plot and in how they adapted Moriarty and the canon to the context of the manga universe. However, Sherlock is clearly inspired by BBCSH's Sherlock. Some parts of the manga are also very similar to the events of BBC Sherlock.

And the most controversial one: Sherlock and Co. And I say this not as if they deliberately decided this. It's undeniable the impact that BBC Sherlock had on the general public's perception of WHO SHERLOCK HOLMES IS. Considering that the producer himself said that they had three audiences that they had to balance when making this adaptation, one of them being the "Johnlocker Community". Evidencing the HUGE impact that BBC Sherlock has even on the general Sherlock Holmes fandom, and yet, the producer said that he didn't know about queerbaiting when the allegations started that SH&Co. could be queerbaiting, remembering that no adaptation is obligated to make H&W a couple. This fact happened precisely because of the public's perception of how SH&Co. is similar to BBCSH and not just because it is set in the modern era. Observing the fandom, especially in the beginning, it was perceptive that SH&Co. was being treated as an extension of BBC Sherlock. So by EXTERNAL CONSEQUENCES, I will consider that SH&Co. Whether willingly or not, he suffers from the direct influence of BBCSH (and its fandom).

And then there's the Netflix problem. I haven't read the Enola books (yet), and I have no idea how Holmes is adapted in her books. But Henry Cavill Holmes is a consequence of BBCSH and RDJ. It's as if they had a son, but he clearly pulled Sherlock's hair more (BBCSH).

And Irregulars, only Netflix know where they got their inspiration from to do that. And Holmes is sloppy again, it's RDJ's fault. And taking inspiration from Sherlock in New York, Netflix's Holmes also abandons his daughter even though he says he loves the child's mother more than anything. Eleven worse, Irregulars Holmes neglects his daughter for FIFTEEN YEARS, but her mother is the love of his life and could let the world end if they could be together. And for some reason Watson loves that jerk.

(also is like benedict and jonny lee miller had a child)

And the light at the end of the tunnel came, unexpectedly, from the CW. Finally an adaptation that is not based on another adaptation, that despite the original approach, it is still noticeable that it is in fact based on the canon and does not suffer from the influence of other adaptations.

This is based on a twitter discussion, but mostly on a comment from an oomf.

English is not my first language, I am smarter in Brazilian Portuguese

[ao3commentoftheday]

I don’t seem to know how to write fic without being mean to the characters. There was a time when I could write fluff, non-angsty slice-of-life, and so on, but now I don’t seem to be able to tell a story without SOMETHING that hurts them.

I’ve had a lot of mental health issues in the intervening years, which I’m sure is related to the why, but doesn’t answer the what or how. It’s a problem because it’s led to me no longer being able to show my partners hardly any of my writing (a lot of dead doves hanging about, which isn’t something they can really stomach). It bothers me that I can’t share my creativity with people I care about.

Do you have any tips for lightening up, or where to find nice wholesome ideas that might spark some joy?

I don’t want to stop writing fucked-up stuff entirely, I just want to find my “nice voice” again.

*hugs* I get it, anon. Sometimes the things that we want to write aren't things we want to share - or at least, not with certain people.

I think a good first step to branching out from your current writing focus is considering what it is about this type of story that's appealing to you right now.

Do you want to make someone else experience a kind of pain or suffering that you've suffered? Pain is a lot easier to manage when you aren't doing it alone.

Do you want to feel a sense of control over someone else's fate? This can be a big comfort when you either didn't have control of your own or you feel as if control is currently slipping out of your grasp.

Do you want the catharsis of seeing someone survive the impossible? It can be extremely satisfying to watch someone claw their way out of the worst situation you can imagine. They get to be the hero in the end. They get to survive.

Do you want to feel a different kind of catharsis? Like the release of emotion that comes with a character's death? Whether they find peace in that moment or whether it's also a torment, it's still a release in the end.

These are just a handful of reasons why you might be writing these kinds of stories right now, and I'm glad you don't want to stop. They are important to you, and even if your partners don't have the same interest that's okay.

You might still be able to share your existing stories if you give your partners a version with the particularly dead doves removed and replaced with a summary, like [Character is tortured until they reveal the secret location. They are left beaten and barely alive.] Then they can pick the story back up after that point.

Of course, if you're writing shorter works then that might not be possible. One way to get back to "nicer" stories that are also on the shorter side could be to write hurt/comfort. You could still get some of what you need by hurting the characters, but then your partners would get the wholesomeness you're looking for when another character takes care of the one you've hurt.

I'll leave it here for now and open it up to ideas from the blog. I know how tough it can be when you want to share something you love with someone you love, and I hope we can get you back to being able to do that.

[venusbyline]

Out of Love (1/4)

— summary: Everyone talks about how Aegon the Conqueror married one sister out of duty and the other one out of desire. Unlike his ancestor, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon wants to marry both his aunt and his cousin out of love.

— pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x Targtower!reader x Baela Targaryen

— type: smut

— chapter's warnings: female!reader, Targcest (nephew/aunt & cousin/cousin), threesome FFM (female/female/male), throuple, corruption kink, vaginal sex, doggy style position, oral sex (female receiving), cunnilingus, fingering, scissoring/tribadism, creampie, overstimulation, secret relationship, cuddling & snuggling, aftercare, dom!Jacaerys, sub!reader, dom!Baela, reader is Alicent's second daughter, mild hurt/comfort, kinda fluff too, canon divergence (No The Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n, english is not my first language.

— author's notes¹: I'm not a Jacela shipper, but I had the idea for this shortfic yesterday. So... I'm writing for them hahaah btw, don't worry cuz this story wouldn't be a love triangle, the characters are a throuple, the three of them love each other equally, they just have different dynamics between them.

— author's notes²: Out of Love is a mini series involving Targcest, throuple and forbidden love.

— author's notes³: Each chapter will contain its own trigger warnings.

— author's notes⁴: If you want to be tagged for the next chapters, tell me!!! <3 <3

❥ Jacaerys masterlist • HOTD masterlist

❥ about me • main masterlist

You were on Jacaerys' bed for the third time that week, enjoying the carnal pleasures that he and his betrothed were willing to teach you.

Ever since Rhaenyra succeeded to the Iron Throne and the entire family was forced to get closer, you had become almost inseparable from your nephews and cousins — which had deeply irritated your mother and your brother Aemond, although you did not mind so much, because at least you could have some true friends.

Surprisingly, both the crown prince and Baela showed an intense interest in you, something that was wrong — at least in the eyes of the Seven —. You tried to resist at first, denying their advances and saying that you were saving yourself for a future marriage.

All that resistance fell apart when you caught them having sex during a random afternoon. The sight of Baela riding on Jacaerys' cock, her breasts bouncing right in front of his face as he grabbed her hips to help her move even faster... It was too much for you, and you did not even try to hide your accidental presence there.

After that day, the couple dedicated themselves to showing you a lot of sexual things that could be pleasurable for you and would not take your maidenhead — since you were afraid that you would not get a propitious betrothal if you were not a virgin anymore.

On that night in question, Baela was eating you out and Jacaerys was fucking her from behind at the same time.

"Mmm, that feels so good..." Baela moaned when Jacaerys fucked hard inside her, hitting that most sensitive spot.

"So fucking good..." Jacaerys grabbed her hips for more intense thrusts, growling when she shook her ass to tease him. His attention turned to you as he saw you squeezing your own breasts and enjoying Baela's full lips sucking on your clit. "Is Baela making you feel good, sweetheart?"

You opened the eyes and stared at Jacaerys behind his betrothed, who was between your spread legs. "Yeah, baby... It feels so good." The sweet, trembling praise made Baela chuckle, sending a tingle through your bundle of nerves.

Speeding up his movements, Jacaerys slapped Baela's ass once, tilting his body down so he could grab her curly, white hair and push her a little further against your cunt.

Baela gasped in pleasure, because of the rough thrusts and the sweet taste of your juices soaking her face. Sensing that Jacaerys was close to the high, she wiggled her ass again against his groin and increased the stimulation on his cock.

"B-Baela... Shit, love, I am going to cum," Jacaerys' moan sounded like a whimper and he almost felt ashamed of himself. However, despite his desire to cum on your breasts or your face, he remembered about the same fetish shared by the three of you. Then he grabbed both of Baela's buttocks one last time before spilling his seed inside her tight cunt.

The princess hummed at the delightful feeling of Jacaerys' cock throbbing and filling her insides with dense, warm spurts.

The poor boy barely had time to recover, pulling himself out and lying on the other side of the bed, his head aching a little bit from the pleasure. He looked at his seed dripping from Baela's entrance, giving a weak smile and taking a deep breath at the sight of her purplish inner lips.

Lying there, Jacaerys rested while Baela sat up, only to fit her legs over yours right away. A whine escaped your lips at the sticky sensation of Baela's cunt on you, Jacaerys' cum making everything slippery.

She held one of your legs to keep them wide open, lips parted and brow furrowed, a clear demonstration of how aroused you were making her feel. One of your hands went up to her breast, the soft weight in your palm sending shivers down both of yours.

"Baela..."

"I am close too, darling..." She whispered, biting the lower lip as she heard your needy whimper. Rolling her hips back and forth, Baela arched her head back, moaning loudly when your two clits rubbed against each other.

The chambers filled with the wet sounds of your cunts and the ones of pleasure as you both reached the climax. The pace of Baela's hips stuttered, but she kept moving them so she could prolong her high, stopping only when she heard your whimper and realized that you were already too overstimulated.

"She will have to go back to her private chambers in a few hours..." Baela whispered, stroking your silver hair while you slept snuggled against Jacaerys' sweaty chest.

The crown prince clenched his jaw, looking at your sleepy form. You seemed so serene like that, together with them, resting after experiencing one more hint of the pleasure they were capable of giving you. It was not fair that you had to sneak out of there and leave them so soon.

It was not fair that you had to leave them.

Noticing the silence of her cousin, Baela gossiped with a tense tone: "Rumors are running through King's Landing. You know... They are about the fact Alicent is probably considering a betrothal between her and Daeron."

There was no surprise on Jacaerys's face, but rather anger. He knew about the rumors and he also knew that you had plenty of suitors from other Houses, all of them interested in a political alliance. You were beautiful, young, fertile and with your maidenhead intact, besides being a Targaryen princess. Any single lord in his right mind would try to have a chance.

That did not make the situation any easier to overcome. "I do not want this to happen. And I know very well that you do not want that either."

Baela remained quiet for a few moments, her heart warming seeing you and Jacaerys cuddling in his bed, the after-sex smell making her aroused for the second time in that night — though she was not going to say anything about it, considering everyone was exhausted and Jacaerys were quite tense, just like herself.

The last thing Baela and Jacaerys wanted was to have to end whatever was going on between the three of you someday. The idea of you marrying someone, really falling in love with your future husband, or at least being forced to be faithful to him panicked them...

They wanted you. They needed you. They loved you too much to let you move on any time soon.

“I could try to convince my mother and then marry both of you,” Baela raised an eyebrow at Jacaerys’ words, clearly not shocked by the prince’s impulsive decision. He seemed to realize that too, because he immediately frowned, all frustrated. "Do not give me that look, love. I would not be the first Targaryen man to do something like that. Aegon the Conqueror married both of his sisters. Maegor the Cruel had six wives."

"Well, that is the problem. One of them was a conqueror and the other one was a tyrant. It's not like the people of Westeros would accept something like that these days," She did not add the fact that he being considered a bastard by the Realm was already enough of an obstacle that his legitimacy as heir might be challenged at some point. He understood what she thought without her even having to say it, though he did not want to admit that she was right. "Being the next king and queen does not give us the freedom to have our every wish granted, Jace."

Jacaerys sighed, too tense for his own good, closing his eyes and trying hard to keep the mind free of melancholy or angry thoughts. Just as he was about to fall asleep, Baela drew his attention back. "However, we can at least try."

[mortish-writes]

Here is a comprehensive look at the dynamics system across all story routes. If you already read it on Patreon yesterday nothing has changed, don't torture yourself reading it twice. Also I'll post that Kerach sneak peek tonight, promise!

These are the finalized dynamics, they may look somewhat different from the previous ones although they're largely the same.

It's quite long but I have done my best to format it for readability with icons and styling. I personally struggle reading big walls of text and I imagine you do, too.

Character Key: 🌕 Valdricht | 🌗 Serax | 🌑 Kerach Dynamic Key: ◉ What this looks like | ◎ How to build it | ◈ The appeal/thrill Group Dynamic Key: ▣ Overview | ▢ Intimacy | ▲ Pitfalls Range Key: ⬆️ High values | ↔️ Middle range | ⬇️ Low values Content Key: ※ Important notes

Introduction

In Bride of Shadows, romance isn’t one-size-fits-all. Your choices shape how each love interest treats you. Each path teaches your companions how to respond, be it with dominance, gentleness, restraint, or something in between. The same love interest can become a completely different type of partner depending on who you are.

Think of it like so: Will Valdricht see you as his partner who shrewdly challenges him, or as his precious treasure to protect and cherish? Will Serax find himself drawn to fiery verbal sparring matches with you, or will your gentle nature bring out his softer side? Will Kerach be your midnight lover, or a platonic protector? Your choices create these dynamics organically.

Note that I've removed the traits. I feel like a lot of players were getting hung up on that, particularly trying to figure out how they could play enemies-to-lovers Serax while still be Valdricht's doormat. I see you. Play how you want to play and don't stress about the personality that will resolve itself as the prelude progresses.

Classic Route - Overview

Perfect for: Readers who love balanced polyamorous relationships and want to explore connections with all three love interests. This is the route you play on the public build.

※Special Note: You can mix and match these dynamics freely, there are no constraints. Kerach romance is optional. Serax & Valdricht are mandatory. No Kerach pregnancy.

🌕 Valdricht | Classic | Anointed Dynamic 🌕

◉ What this looks like: You earn Valdricht's respect through your intellect and careful judgment, becoming his trusted confidant. Your relationship is built on mutual admiration, intellectual stimulation, and the slow burn of proving your worth. You respect his authority as leader, but he values your input enough that you don't fear questioning him or (privately) challenging his decisions.

◎ How to build it: Question his authority (respectfully), show intellectual curiosity, maintain your independence even while accepting his protection.

◈ The appeal: Power couple energy. Respect as foreplay. The satisfaction of earning his regard after 2,000+ years of existence.

🌕 Valdricht | Classic | Devotee Dynamic 🌕

◉ What this looks like: You see Valdricht as your divine protector and guide, finding strength through trust and surrender. Your faith in him awakens his most protective instincts. When you look to him for guidance, something tender stirs within him. He becomes your shelter from the storm, and you become his reason to be gentle...only with you.

◎ How to build it: Accept his guidance gracefully, express gratitude for his protection, seek his wisdom, let him care for you.

◈ The appeal: Worship dynamics. Protective devotion. Submission kink.

⬆️ Anointed Dynamic: 75-100%

Trusted confidant who earns the right to question and challenge him, but still respects his superior experience and authority

↔️Balanced Partnership: 25-74%

Sometimes defers to his wisdom, sometimes asserts own perspective

⬇️ Devotee Dynamic: 0-24%

Sees him as her master, seeks his guidance, grateful for protection

🌗 Serax | Classic | Combustive Dynamic 🌗

◉ What this looks like: You and Serax are ice and fire, creating steam wherever you touch. Your relationship thrives on intelligent verbal sparring and the electric tension of two strong personalities who can't quite stay away from each other. Every argument is foreplay, every debate a dance.

◎ How to build it: Match his sarcasm with wit, challenge his cynical worldview, refuse to be intimidated, give as good as you get in verbal exchanges.

◈ The appeal: Enemies-to-lovers energy. Intellectual dueling. The thrill of taming each other.

🌗 Serax | Classic | Kindling Dynamic 🌗

◉ What this looks like: Your gentle nature melts Serax's rough edges, revealing the wounded man beneath the warrior's exterior. He finds himself speaking more softly around you, his touches becoming reverent. You don't fight his fire--you warm yourself by it.

◎ How to build it: Show vulnerability, respond to his pain with compassion, let him protect you, be the calm to his storm.

◈ The appeal: Healing love. Hurt/comfort. Watching a hard man go soft for the right person (metaphorically speaking).

⬆️ Combustive Dynamic: 75-100%

Ice and fire creating steam, thriving on intelligent verbal sparring and electric tension between strong personalities

↔️ Balanced Tension: 25-74%

Mix of challenging banter and moments of gentleness, sometimes sparring and sometimes soothing

⬇️ Kindling Dynamic: 0-24%

Your gentle nature melts his rough edges, drawing out his protective instincts and softer touches

🌑 Kerach | Classic | Entwined Hearts 🌑

◉ What this looks like: You see past Kerach's wolf nature to the man beneath, and he sees past your fragility to the strength within. Your connection is deep, emotional, and surprisingly passionate. You communicate on a level that transcends words.

◎ How to build it: Show tenderness toward his wolf nature, treat him as an equal, recognize his intelligence and nobility.

◈ The appeal: Forbidden love. Slow burn.

🌑 Kerach | Classic | Pack Mate 🌑

◉ What this looks like: Kerach becomes your most loyal companion and protector. Your bond is built on mutual respect, shared survival, and absolute trust. While not romantic, this friendship runs deeper than blood and will last lifetimes.

◎ How to build it: Accept his protection, treat him as a trusted ally, respect his strength without needing more.

◈ The appeal: Ride-or-die friendship. Platonic devotion.

⬆️ Entwined Hearts: 75-100%

Deep emotional and passionate connection that transcends words, seeing past his wolf nature to the man beneath [sexual relationship threshold]

↔️ Loyal Companionship: 25-74%

Strong bond built on mutual respect and trust, with moments of deeper connection hinting at something more [light intimacy, no sexual relationship]

⬇️ Pack Mate: 0-24%

Devoted platonic partnership based on protection and survival, respecting his strength without romantic desire [purely platonic relationship]

Classic Route - Potential Group Dynamics

Here are a few of the potential dynamics I've mapped out to give you a better idea of what your relationship could look like in Act I. This is NOT an exhaustive list but a short overview based on some of my notes.

The Power Trio Anointed Valdricht + Combustive Serax + Entwined Hearts Kerach

▣ Overview: Everyone brings something vital to the table, and decisions get made through passionate debate rather than simple hierarchy.

▢ Intimacy: Even intimate moments involve playful power struggles over positions, timing, and control.

▲ Pitfalls: All three compete for MC's attention through their different strengths, and protection disputes turn into ego battles over who knows best.

The Sanctuary Devotee Valdricht + Kindling Serax + Pack Mate Kerach

▣ Overview: MC becomes the treasured center where three different protective instincts create a cocoon of safety and adoration.

▢ Intimacy: Tender competition over who can care for MC best, with layers of gentle touches and reverent attention.

▲ Pitfalls: Smothering protectiveness that limits MC's freedom, and jealousy when she craves different types of comfort from each partner.

The Volatile Triangle Devotee Valdricht + Combustive Serax + Entwined Hearts Kerach

▣ Overview: MC's bond with Valdricht puts her at the top of the hierarchy. Serax resents MC's favored position even as he craves her, creating volatile undercurrents. Kerach operates outside this power structure entirely, challenging anyone when his instincts demand it.

▢ Intimacy: MC surrenders completely to Valdricht, clashes passionately with Serax before yielding, and matches Kerach's intense desire with equal hunger.

▲ Pitfalls: Serax's frustration at being outranked by MC in Valdricht's affections, and Kerach's willingness to challenge Valdricht creating friction.

Dark Maiden Route - Overview

Perfect for: Readers seeking intense psychological dynamics, Stockholm syndrome themes, and breeding-focused romance.

※ Content Note: This route explores psychological dependency, limited agency, and intense submission themes. All three love interests are mandatory romantic/sexual partners. MMFM. Kerach pregnancy.

※ Special Note: The dynamics are linked. Why? Because this is a linear route. Each decoupling is more writing.

Veiled Mate + Wild Beauty / Bound Mate + Tamed Heart are completely linked. You cannot mix and match them within the current narrative. Pick a lane.

Kerach's Fallen Vestal is loosely linked to Veiled Mate + Wild Beauty but can be decoupled.

🌕 Valdricht | Dark Maiden | Veiled Mate 🌕

◉ What this looks like: Your resistance engages Valdricht rather than frustrates him. Every hesitation becomes a puzzle to solve, every moment of internal conflict proof of your authenticity. He doesn't want mindless compliance--he wants to earn your surrender piece by piece.

◎ How to build it: Show internal struggle with desire, demonstrate reluctance to submission, hide your sexual desire from him.

◈ The thrill: Corruption kink. Earned submission. Watching innocence wrestle with desire.

🌕 Valdricht | Dark Maiden | Bound Mate 🌕

◉ What this looks like: You discover freedom through complete surrender to Valdricht's guidance. He becomes your anchor in the new world you've woken into, and you find peace in letting him carry the weight of decisions. Your trust awakens his most protective instincts.

◎ How to build it: Seek his guidance willingly, express gratitude for his protection, find comfort in his control, let him shoulder your burdens.

◈ The thrill: Total power exchange. Stockholm syndrome. That nightmare you sometimes have after waking at 7am so you can get into work by 9am and then spend the next four hours watching the clock for your lunch break with growing realization that you're a corporate slave and this will be your entire life and you just want to scream and then suddenly a hot guy shows up and drags you from your cubical and declares that you're his mate and he's never going to allow you to work again or do anything that doesn't involve having his babies and reading books in his giant library. Gross.

⬆️ Veiled Mate: 50-100%

Your quiet rebellion engages him and every act of defiance is a game he delights in playing

⬇️ Bound Mate: 0-49%

You find deep satisfaction in complete surrender to his control, discovering freedom through giving up all resistance

※ No middle grounds. Your choices in the prelude will put you on one path or the other, however your unique personality will determine how you react within each dynamic. For example, a Bound Mate with a stoic nature might quietly seek his embrace in the night, whereas one with a tender nature will openly display her affection for him.

🌗 Serax | Dark Maiden | Wild Beauty 🌗

◉ What this looks like: Your internal struggle feeds Serax's predatory instincts. He's drawn to the contradiction of your desire warring with your resistance. The more you fight what you want, the more determined he becomes to draw it out of you.

◎ How to build it: Show conflicted responses to his advances, demonstrate that you want him despite yourself, let your internal battle show through your reactions.

◈ The thrill: Predator/prey dynamics. Corruption through pleasure. Drawing out hidden desire.

🌗 Serax | Dark Maiden | Tamed Heart 🌗

◉ What this looks like: Your willingness to be claimed and sheltered brings out Serax's most possessive instincts. You become his creature to protect and cherish, and he finds satisfaction in being your refuge.

◎ How to build it: Seek comfort in his presence, let him soothe your conflicts, accept his protection, show how his attention calms your struggles.

◈ The thrill: Hurt/comfort. Protective possession. Being someone's safe harbor.

⬆️ Wild Beauty: 50-100%

Your resistance feeds his predatory instincts and he never wants the chase to end

⬇️ Tamed Heart: 0-49%

Your willingness to be claimed brings out his most possessive, caring instincts

※ No middle grounds. Your choices in the prelude will put you on one path or the other, however your unique personality will determine how you react within each dynamic. For example, a Tamed Heart with a provocative nature might boldly seek his attention, whereas one with a demure nature will blush and lower her eyes when he approaches.

🌑 Kerach | Dark Maiden | Fallen Vestal 🌑

◉ What this looks like: Each encounter with Kerach becomes a battle between moral conditioning and growing desire. You know accepting him violates everything you were taught, yet you find yourself unable to resist. The guilt only intensifies the forbidden pleasure.

◎ How to build it: Express internal conflict about intimacy, show shame warring with desire, demonstrate how your moral upbringing clashes with your body's responses.

◈ The thrill: Forbidden desire. Corruption through pleasure. Moral conflict as aphrodisiac.

🌑 Kerach | Dark Maiden | Willing Vessel 🌑

◉ What this looks like: You find empowerment in accepting Kerach's nocturnal visits. Rather than fighting your desires, you embrace them. Your willingness turns encounters into mutual connection rather than mere claiming.

◎ How to build it: Welcome his attention without shame, show curiosity about his nature, demonstrate comfort with intimacy.

◈ The thrill: Empowered submission. Breeding kink. Strength through surrender.

⬆️ Willing Vessel: 50-100%

You welcome him, finding power in acceptance

⬇️ Fallen Vestal: 0-49%

Your faith wars with growing desire as accepting him feels like a bridge too far

※ No middle grounds. Your choices in the prelude will put you on one path or the other, however your unique personality will determine how you react within each dynamic. For example, a Fallen Vestal with a demure nature might hide her face during intimacy to mask her pleasure, whereas one with a provocative nature will be intensely engaged, only to reflect on her shame post-intimacy.

Dark Maiden Route - Potential Group Dynamics

The Emotional Anchor Veiled Mate Valdricht + Wild Beauty Serax + Willing Vessel Kerach

▣ Overview: MC struggles with overwhelming desire and internal conflict around Valdricht and Serax, while finding refuge in Kerach's presence. He becomes her safe harbor during the storm of transformation.

▢ Intimacy: Passionate but conflicted encounters with V&S where pleasure wars with resistance, contrasted by comfort with Kerach who offers solace without judgment.

▲ Pitfalls: Valdricht and Serax may grow jealous of MC's easy intimacy with Kerach, while MC risks using Kerach as an emotional crutch rather than working through her internal conflicts.

The Conflicted Haven Bound Mate Valdricht + Tamed Heart Serax + Fallen Vestal Kerach

▣ Overview: MC finds peace through surrender to Valdricht and Serax, embracing her transformation and leaning on them for comfort. With Kerach, however, her moral conditioning creates internal warfare between duty and desire.

▢ Intimacy: Total submission with V&S, while encounters with Kerach are shadowed by moral conflict.

▲ Pitfalls: MC may struggle with the emotional whiplash of moving between complete surrender with Valdricht and Serax, and her guilt-tinged encounters with Kerach.

Fated Mates Route - Overview

Perfect for: Readers who prefer monogamous romance and don't mind a deliciously problematic love interest.

※ Note: Only Valdricht is a romantic option. You will be able to make him jealous, at the peril of Serax and Kerach.

🌕 Valdricht | Fated Mates | Anchored Maiden 🌕

◉ What this looks like: Despite the mate bond's pull, you refuse to let Valdricht's experience and age intimidate you into blind compliance. You recognize his attempts to guide and shape your responses, meeting them with shrewd observation rather than naive acceptance. Your careful resistance forces him to earn what he wants rather than simply taking it through manipulation.

◎ How to build it: Question his motives, assert your independence, maintain your independence despite attraction.

◈ The thrill: Age gap. Earned submission. Cat and mouse.

🌕 Valdricht | Fated Mates | Drowning Maiden 🌕

◉ What this looks like: The mate bond leaves you vulnerable to Valdricht's centuries of experience. He knows exactly how to guide your responses, using your inexperience and overwhelming attraction to shape your choices. You're drowning in feelings you don't understand, but survival means learning to use your submission as a strength.

◎ How to build it: Accept his guidance without question, show overwhelm at new sensations, demonstrate your inexperience.

◈ The thrill: Worldly/innocent. Power imbalance. Lost little lamb.

⬆️ Anchored Maiden: 50-100%

You refuse to let his experience intimidate you into blind compliance, meeting his manipulation with shrewd observation

⬇️ Drowning Maiden: 0-49%

The mate bond leaves you vulnerable to his centuries of experience as he uses your innocence against you

※ No middle grounds. Your choices in the prelude will put you on one path or the other, however your unique personality will determine how you react within each dynamic. For example, a Drowning Maiden with an idealistic nature might see his guidance as romantic destiny, whereas one with a cynical nature may recognize the manipulations even while being unable to resist his allure.

※ No group dynamics. Too many spoilers, play and find out.

Tips for Players

Building Your Ideal Dynamic

Be consistent: Your early choices set the tone, even in the prelude.

Play your truth: Choose options that feel authentic to how you want your character to respond.

Don't min-max: There are no "wrong" dynamics, only different love stories (and kinks).

Dynamics lock: After the prelude your dynamics are fixed, at least for Act I...

Dynamics evolve: Your dynamic will evolve with each act. More on that later.

Understanding the percentages

Numbers aren't everything: A 30% Devotee dynamic is just as valid and complete as an 80% Anointed dynamic. Once the prelude ends the percentages will disappear and you will be left with a detailed description of your dynamic.

Classic extremes are optional: You can absolutely stay in the middle ranges for more balanced relationships.

DMR & FMR have no middle ground: Your dynamic will be based on your final percentages in the prelude, with some choices (i.e. sleeping with Valdricht pre-Meyrrvik in Fated Mates or eager/reluctant first time with Kerach in Dark Maiden) carrying much steeper weight. Once your dynamic is fixed, your personality determines how your MC operates within the dynamic. No escape, only evolution through acts.

[copperstar1]

I have always considered forcefield or a shield one of my favorite powers or abilities for someone to have in any anime and it definitely makes sense for Gohan, one of the most kindest and fairest of any character in the show to have that type of ability as it does symbolize the will of protecting the people that mean a lot to you.

He protecc 🥹☂️

I think it's totally canon that Gohan has the ability to make shields. He does it in the Garlic Jr. Saga, and in the DBS manga. It totally fits his whole "I need to protect those I love" shtick, and I think it makes sense as an independent skill he develops out of necessity outside of Piccolo's training:

The proof is in the pudding 😏

[shelovesosa]

CTRL + ALT + LOVE

paring: Fictional!Satoru X F!Reader

art credits to scarlettismm on X!

sum!! After staying up late reading an emotional fanfic, a college student wakes to find the fictional love interest—Satoru Gojo—somehow real and lying beside her. Confused and out of place in the real world, Satoru begins to unravel. As they grow closer, they share laughter, secrets, and something deeper… even as time threatens to take him away. But sometimes, endings aren’t what they seem.

CW: MDNI, Romance,Contemporary Fantasy, Soft Sci-Fi, Magical Realism, Bittersweet, Angst with comfort, Temporary Love, Borrowed Time, Soft Smut, First Time Together, nerdjo cameo, soft dom, Memory Loss / Fading Reality Unexpected Second Chance. WC: 10.9k

It’s 1:41 a.m., your eyes are puffy, your nose is running, and you’ve just finished sobbing over a fictional man named Satoru who doesn’t even exist. And yet, somehow, he broke your heart like he did.

You’re curled up on your side in bed, blanket cocooned around you, the glow of your laptop screen still burning into your tired, emotional retinas. You knew what kind of fic it was going in—CEO AU, enemies-to-lovers, workplace drama. Classic. But nowhere in the tags did it say “character death.”

You sniffle loudly and scroll back to reread the last paragraph, as if torturing yourself again will somehow dull the pain.

“I should’ve said it sooner,” he whispered, blood soaking into the snow, eyes never leaving hers. “It was always you.”

The lights from the city faded behind him. And he didn’t blink again.

[End.]

You slam your hands on the keyboard.

“You’re kidding me,” you mutter out loud, nose stuffy and voice cracking. “You killed him? Seriously?! You made me sit through twenty chapters of slow-burn sexual tension, one shared bed trope, three almost-kisses and a forehead touch—just for this?”

You groan, throwing your arm over your face dramatically.

“God, I hate you, Satoru,” you whisper into your pillow. “I hate your stupid perfect face, and your ice-cold business demeanor, and your secretly soft heart, and the way you just died before you even got to live.”

You roll over, flinging a crumpled tissue at your desk.You sniff, dragging your fingers cross the keyboard to angrily type into the comments.

You:

@shelovesosa HOW DARE YOU.
Fix it. Fix it right now or I’ll manifest this man into my bed myself.

“Stupid author,” you add bitterly. “Oh Sosa. May your coffee always be lukewarm and your favorite show get canceled on a cliffhanger.”

You slam the laptop shut and toss it aside.

With a final sniff, you curl deeper into your sheets. Your brain is spinning in post-fanfic grief. You mumble one last thing, more out of sleep-deprived delirium than real intent:

“…I wish he were real.” You fall asleep with the ache of unfinished stories in your chest.

The morning comes too fast. You’re groggy, head foggy from too many dreams and too little sleep. Your alarm bleats somewhere in the background as you reach to turn it off.

Except your hand doesn’t land on your phone.

It lands on something warm. And solid. And breathing. You freeze. Your eyes fly open.

There’s a shape beside you in bed. A weight. The blankets are shifted, your mattress slightly dipped like someone else is laying there. Slowly, you turn your head.

And the world tilts. There’s a man in your bed. White hair. Pale skin. Shirtless. Lean muscle. His face is turned toward the window, but even from this angle— It’s him. Your heart lurches.

Satoru. Not cosplay. Not a dream. Not just similar. It’s Satoru, exactly as he was in the fanfic. Down to the small scar above his brow the author described in chapter six.

Your lips part, no sound coming out. You're frozen. Shaking.

He stirs. Brows knit. Eyes flutter. And slowly, his lashes lift. Blue eyes. He sees you. And everything happens at once.

He jolts upright, sheets sliding off his bare chest. You scream. He flinches.

“Wh—what the hell?!” he chokes, eyes wild. “Where—what is this?! Who are you?!”

You scramble back, nearly falling out of bed. “Me?! Who are YOU?! This is my room!”

He stares at you, chest heaving. “No. No, this isn’t… This isn’t right.”

He looks around, dazed. Confused. His voice is raspy, like it hurts to speak.

“I was in Tokyo,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “It was snowing. I was bleeding. I was with—” He swallows, eyes darting toward you again. “Where is she?”

You blink. “Who?”

He stares. His voice breaks.

“…You’re not her.”

Something cold seeps into your spine. Because you know who he means. The her from the fanfic. The girl he loved before he died.

“But you’re not real,” you whisper. “You’re fictional. You died. I read it last night—I read your death—”

“I remember dying,” he snaps, voice shaking. “I felt it. I saw her crying. And then I woke up here.”

You both sit in stunned silence.

He presses a palm to his forehead. “This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Or— Or I was rewritten. Or this is some kind of punishment—”

You crawl slowly to the edge of the bed, still watching him like he might vanish.

“I think I summoned you,” you say weakly. “I cursed the author. As a joke. I said I wished you were real.”

He glares at you like you’re insane. But underneath it all—his trembling fingers, the way he keeps glancing around the room, the panic in his breathing—you see it:

He’s terrified. And it makes your heart hurt.

“…I want to go back,” he finally says.

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know how.”

He stares at you like it’s your fault. Maybe it is.

You clutch your sheets and whisper, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

His voice is flat.

“You’re not supposed to be her.”

You’ve never wanted to faint so badly in your life. He’s still sitting in your bed—your stupid college dorm twin XL bed—with your blush-pink blanket slung over his lap like that’s the most offensive part of all this.

His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths, and he’s still staring at the wall like it might open up and take him back to wherever he came from. Fiction. Paper. Imagination.

But now he's here. And he’s not pixelated or made of words. He’s real.

“I need to go back,” he mutters again. “She’s waiting.”

You chew your lip. “She’s not real.”

He flinches like you slapped him.

“I mean, she was real to you,” you add quickly. “But… she’s just words. I read her. She’s a reader-insert. She’s a blank space.”

“No,” he says, voice firm. “She was real. I loved her.”

You fall quiet. What are you supposed to say? Sorry, she was just me with better confidence and no student loans?

You sit down slowly on the edge of the bed. Satoru tenses, but doesn’t move.

“This is going to sound absolutely insane,” you start carefully, “but I think I pulled you out of your story. I was mad at the ending, I said I wished you were real, and then… this happened.”

He scoffs. “So I’m a pity project. Great.”

You frown. “No! You weren’t supposed to actually show up! I thought maybe I’d dream about you or something, not… wake up with you in my bed, very shirtless and very confused.”

You realize you’re staring at his chest. You immediately look away.

“This is a glitch,” he mutters. “Some kind of cruel rewrite. I shouldn’t be here.”

You glance at him. “Do you… remember everything?”

He nods. “Every scene. Every chapter. I remember dying.”

There’s a long pause.

“God,” you whisper. “That’s so messed up.”

He finally laughs—but it’s not a happy sound. It’s dry. Hollow. “Tell me about it.”

You rub your eyes. “Okay. Look. We have two problems.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Only two?”

“One,” you hold up a finger, “we don’t know how you got here. Two… you’re glitching.”

He stiffens. “What do you mean?”

“You were flickering,” you say, voice soft. “Just for a second. Like… your edges blurred. Like a dream.”

He doesn’t respond. His jaw clenches, like he felt it, too.

“…So I’m not stable.”

You say nothing. After a moment, he exhales and slumps back slightly.

“God, this is pathetic,” he mutters. “I was the most powerful man in the city. I could ruin a company with one phone call. I had private jets. Now I don’t even have pants.”

You try—try—not to laugh.

“I can get you pants,” you offer.

His eyes narrow. “Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you,” you lie. “I just don’t think walking around shirtless in a college dorm is going to help your situation.”

He mutters something under his breath but doesn’t argue.

You grab a pair of sweatpants from your drawer and toss them at him. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You’re gonna have to sneak.”

He catches them with ease and stands, still moving like he owns a twenty-story skyscraper. You try not to stare at his back as he walks to the door.

He turns the knob, then pauses.

“…What’s your name?” he asks, glancing back at you.

You blink. “Y/N.”

He stares for a beat.

Then says, quietly, “I don’t remember that being in the story.”

You smile a little. “That’s because I wasn’t in it.”

He hesitates. Then opens the door and vanishes into the hallway.

You spend the next fifteen minutes pacing your room like it’s about to burst into flames. There’s a fictional man in your dorm bathroom.

You summoned him. You broke something. Maybe the universe. Maybe yourself.

He’s glitching. You don’t know how long he has. And he’s desperate to get back to a girl who doesn’t exist. But for some reason, he’s still here. Still real. And you don’t know what that means yet.

You’re sitting on the edge of your twin bed, clutching a lukewarm cup of instant coffee and trying not to spiral. Because this is real.

It’s not a dream. Not some grief hallucination brought on by staying up too late reading slow-burn fanfiction and eating sour gummies. There’s no typo, no delete button, no author’s note to reverse what’s happened.

Satoru is here.

The fictional man you loved and mourned and cursed the night before is now somewhere in your dorm’s communal bathroom, wearing your ex’s old sweatpants and the expression of someone who’s been yanked out of death and dumped into a college campus like a tossed USB file.

You stare at the door until it creaks open.

He steps inside cautiously, drying his hands on the front of his hoodie. His white hair is still damp, falling slightly in his eyes. He looks softer like this, like less of the towering CEO you met through carefully crafted prose and more like a very lost man who’s trying not to shatter.

You clear your throat. “Everything okay?”

He looks at you, nods stiffly, then glances around the room again like he still can’t quite believe where he is.

“I counted six women brushing their teeth in one bathroom,” he says, sitting on the desk chair like it offends him. “One of them offered me dry shampoo. I don’t know what that is.”

You snort into your cup. “Welcome to dorm life.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just studies you with unreadable eyes. Sharp and searching. Like you’re an answer he doesn’t want to need.

“This place…” he murmurs, gesturing vaguely to your walls cluttered with sticky notes and fairy lights, “this isn’t… scripted.”

You raise a brow. “No. That’s kind of how real life works.”

He leans back, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

“You said I’m not supposed to exist here. So what does that mean? Am I… fading? Am I going to just—stop?”

Your throat tightens. You’ve been wondering the same thing.

“I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “But you’re still here now. That has to mean something.”

He exhales, head tilting back to stare at the ceiling.

You watch him in silence. His hands are resting on his thighs, long fingers twitching slightly like he’s resisting the urge to reach for something. A phone. A pen. Her. You put your coffee down.

“Look,” you say softly, “I know I’m not her. And I didn’t mean for this to happen. But until we figure out what’s going on, maybe you should just… stay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Here?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “Just for now. You clearly have nowhere else to go. And I don’t think you're ready to navigate student housing or explain why you don’t have ID.”

Satoru stares at you like the concept of help is foreign. Which, based on the version of him you read about, it probably is.

Finally, he murmurs, “I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” you say gently. “It’s a blanket and some time to breathe.”

He looks at you, expression unreadable. But he nods once.

You set up a sleeping bag on the floor that night. It’s the best you can offer in a room barely large enough to fit two people standing up. He lies stiffly on top of it, arms crossed, staring at the ceiling like sleep is a stranger.

You lie in bed, eyes open.bYou think about how he held the love of his life while he died. And now he’s here. Not holding anyone.

“Do you miss her?” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is soft.

“I think I miss the way she made me feel. Like I wasn’t just a weapon in a suit.”

You’re quiet.

He adds, a beat later, “But maybe that feeling wasn’t even mine. Maybe I only loved her because someone wrote me that way.”

You turn to look at him. But he’s already looking at you. Neither of you says anything after that.

You wake up to the smell of something burning. Your eyes shoot open, heart already sprinting.

You stumble out of bed, nearly tripping on the sleeping bag where Satoru isn’t anymore. You hear the clatter of pans, the groan of the microwave, and a very muffled, very confused “Why is this machine yelling at me?”

You rush into the kitchenette area down the hall, still barefoot, to find Satoru standing in front of the microwave, poking at the buttons like they insulted his mother.

“What are you doing?” you hiss, half-laughing, half-panicked.

He points at the microwave indignantly. “It said ‘popcorn’ but there were sparks! Sparks, Y/N!”

You grab the bag—oh god, the foil kind—and toss it in the trash before it sets off the building alarm.

He stares at you, wide-eyed, hair slightly messy, wearing your oversized hoodie and sweatpants like he’s a very lost, very pretty houseguest.

“Have you never used a microwave?”

“Why would I?” he asks, completely serious. “I had a private chef in Tokyo.”

You stare at him. He stares back. And then, maybe for the first time since he showed up… you both laugh.

Real laughter. Yours high-pitched and breathless, his deeper, more surprised. It crackles in the small space between you. And for just a second, he doesn't look like a man unraveling.

He looks like a boy. New. Unwritten.

Later, you’re sitting on the floor together, eating cereal straight from the box. His hair keeps falling in his eyes. You reach out without thinking and brush it back.

He freezes. So do you. His eyes meet yours. And for a second—just a second—there’s something like electricity in the air. Not sparks from microwaves. Not glitchy fiction magic.

Something real. You pull your hand back quickly. But he doesn’t stop looking at you.

“…I didn’t feel this way in the story,” he says quietly. “Not like this.”

You glance at him, heart thudding. “Feel what way?”

He doesn’t answer. But his knee brushes yours, and neither of you moves.

That night, he glitches. You're the first to notice. It’s small, at first. You're talking about breakfast cereal—how you mix Frosted Flakes and granola together like a heathen—and he tilts his head, eyes clouding slightly.

“I’ve never had cereal,” he says.

You blink.

“Yes, you did. This morning. You ate like half the box.”

He frowns. “No, I didn’t. We went to that place. With the… tiny pancakes.”

“…Satoru,” you say softly, “that was from Chapter 11. Of the fanfic. The Paris trip.”

His expression blanks. And then something in his face glitches. Like static behind his eyes. It only lasts a moment—but it’s long enough.

He exhales, hand pressed to his forehead. “It’s happening, isn’t it?”

You don’t know what to say.

He looks at you, voice quieter now. “I’m not built for this world. I’m already forgetting.”

You kneel in front of him, gently placing your hand on his. “Then we don’t waste time.”

His breath catches. You hold his hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him here. And maybe it is.

You don’t go to class the next day. You don’t even pretend to.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re “monitoring the anomaly” or “preserving the fabric of reality.” But really, it’s because Satoru wakes up on the floor with the most lost look on his face and whispers, “Where am I again?” and it breaks your heart clean in half.

You sit with him until he remembers. Your name. The coffee spill. The dorm microwave. He laughs about the popcorn again, a little shakier this time. But it still counts. After that, you don’t leave his side.

The two of you walk the campus late at night when no one’s around. He keeps staring at trees like they’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t have these,” he murmurs. “Not like this. The ones in the fic were always perfectly sculpted. Background props.”

You smile softly. “These ones grow crooked. They drop leaves. Sometimes birds poop on you.”

He tilts his head. “I like them better.”

You take him to the library next. He walks the rows of books with reverent hands, trailing fingers across every spine like he’s scared they’ll vanish.

“I thought I knew words,” he says, voice low. “But this is different. These were made by people. Not an author playing God. Just… people.”

You nod. “People with lives. Mistakes. Ugly handwriting and messy endings.”

Satoru turns to you.

You don’t know what he sees in your face, but it’s enough to make him pause.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Expected from what? Fanfiction?”

He shakes his head. “No. From reality.”

You teach him how to use your phone. He FaceTimes the pizza place by accident and panics when someone picks up.

You try to explain memes, which leads to you both scrolling through TikToks on your bed for an hour straight. He becomes obsessed with cooking videos.

At one point, your head drops onto his shoulder. He doesn’t move. His breathing slows, steadies, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Neither of you says anything about it.

You stay up one night talking. Really talking. You're lying side by side on your bed, not touching, but so close your arms are brushing.

“I used to think I was in love with her,” he says.

You stare at the ceiling. “The version of me from the story.”

He nods. “But she didn’t challenge me. She didn’t argue. She was soft in all the ways the author needed her to be.”

You don’t say anything. You’re not sure how to feel.

He turns his head to look at you. “You’re not soft.”

You blink. “Gee, thanks.”

“I don’t mean it like that,” he murmurs. “You’re… messy. Complicated. Real. You snore.”

You shove his arm lightly, and he grins.

But then his smile fades.

“I’m scared I won’t remember this,” he whispers.

You turn your head slowly. He’s staring at you like he’s memorizing you.

“I’m scared I’ll forget you.”

Your chest tightens.

You whisper, “Then I’ll remember for both of us.”

Something shifts in the space between you. Like gravity pulling tighter.

You don’t kiss. Not yet. But his hand inches closer to yours. And this time, when your fingers touch— You hold it tighter.

It starts small again. A pause mid-conversation.

A moment where Satoru tilts his head and says, “Remind me what this is again?” while pointing at something he’s already asked about twice.

You want to pretend it’s nothing. That he’s just distracted. But then you catch him standing by the window later that evening, staring out at the streetlight like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“Do you remember this morning?” you ask quietly, stepping beside him.

He turns slowly. “…Was there cereal?”

You nod.

He gives you a sad smile. “I forgot the flavor.”

You don’t know what to say. So you walk over, wrap your arms around his torso, and press your cheek to his chest.

His breath catches. You feel his arms come up, slowly, hesitantly. Like he’s afraid he’ll crush you. Like if he holds you too tightly, he might disappear completely.

His chin rests on top of your head. His heartbeat is loud beneath your ear. Neither of you moves for a long time.

That night, he doesn’t want to sleep on the floor.

“I know I said I would,” he mutters, eyes flicking toward the sleeping bag. “But I just… I don’t want to feel far from you right now.”

You nod. You move over. He climbs in beside you. He stays on his side at first. Doesn’t touch you. But eventually, in the dark, his fingers find yours beneath the covers.

He holds your hand like it’s the last thread connecting him to the world. And maybe it is.

You dream of water. A soft tide pulling you away. Something fading. When you wake, he’s already looking at you. His hand is on your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye.

“I had a dream,” he whispers.

You hum sleepily, not opening your eyes. “What about?”

“I was back,” he says. “In the story. She was there. The office. The desk. The skyline.”

You open your eyes. He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “But I didn’t feel anything.”

You turn to face him. “What do you mean?”

“I saw her. But she didn’t look like you. She looked like a blank space. Like a fill-in. She smiled at me, but it wasn’t you.”

He reaches for your face again.

“This world is loud. Messy. Exhausting. And I still want to stay in it.”

Your throat burns. “You might not get that choice.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I know.”

Silence. Just your breath and his. Then he whispers:

“But if I’m going to vanish, I want to remember you.”

It’s quiet in the room. The kind of quiet that hangs between words never spoken. Between goodbyes that haven’t happened yet.

You lie beside him, breath soft, chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. His hand is still resting over yours beneath the blanket, fingers loosely entwined like a tether to reality. His thumb brushes gently along your knuckles.

“Satoru,” you whisper, your voice nearly lost in the hush of the room. “Are you okay?”

His eyes are already on you. He doesn’t answer for a long time. Then: “No.”

Your heart twists.

“I feel like I’m slipping,” he says, voice low, a little raw. “Like parts of me are coming undone. I try to remember the story, the office, the people... it’s all fog. But you—” His hand tightens around yours. “You’re the only thing I still feel.”

You swallow, throat thick. “Then hold on to me.”

His gaze drops to your lips.

“Can I?” he whispers. “Really hold you? Just once. Before I forget?”

You nod. The moment stretches. And then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Uncertain at first, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish too. But when you sigh against his mouth, it deepens—his hand sliding to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head so he can kiss you fully. Thoroughly.

He kisses you like he wants to taste your memory. Like he’s carving the shape of you into whatever part of him still exists beyond the glitch.

You shift closer, and his hand slips beneath your shirt, splaying across your waist. His palm is warm. Steady. You shiver at the contact.

“Tell me what you want,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You,” he says. “Slow. Real. I want to make it count.”

You sit up slightly, letting him pull your shirt over your head. His eyes trail over you, and something in them breaks. Reverence. Hunger. Grief.

“You’re so beautiful,” he breathes. “I can’t believe I almost didn’t get to see you like this.”

You press your hands to his chest, feeling his heartbeat thudding beneath your palm. His hoodie comes off next, followed by his shirt, and you press your lips to his skin—his collarbone, his sternum, the small scar just under his ribs like the one described in the story. But it’s different seeing it here. Seeing him here. Alive. Real. Yours, even if only for tonight.

He lies back and pulls you with him, hands exploring your body like you’re something precious—trailing down your sides, across your back, fingers gripping your thighs with quiet desperation.

When you grind against him slowly, feeling the thick press of him through his boxers, his breath catches hard in your ear.

“You’re killing me,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “You’re so soft—so warm—I didn’t know this part of the world could feel so… good.”

You roll your hips again, and he groans deep in his throat, hands locking tight on your waist.

“Need to feel you,” he whispers. “All of you.”

You shift your weight and reach down, guiding him free from his boxers, his cock hard and hot in your palm. His breath hitches as your fingers wrap around him gently, stroking once—slow and curious.

His voice is ragged. “Please.”

You press a kiss to his lips, then rise just enough to line yourself up.

And when you sink down onto him, he gasps—eyes fluttering shut, head falling back against the pillow.

“Oh god—”

You’re both breathing heavy now.

You pause, adjusting to the stretch of him, the tightness between you. His hands slide up your thighs, then settle at your hips, holding you still as he tries not to lose control too soon.

“You feel… perfect,” he chokes. “Better than anything I’ve ever known.”

You begin to move, slow and careful, your bodies rocking together in a rhythm that feels older than either of you. His hands roam—palming your breasts, sliding up your spine, gripping your hips as you roll against him with aching tenderness.

“Satoru,” you whisper, leaning over him, your forehead pressed to his.

He opens his eyes. And in them—desperation. Need. Love.

“I don’t want to forget this,” he says again, voice breaking.

“Then remember me like this,” you whisper. “Remember the way I feel. The way I look at you. The way you make me feel so full, like I was meant to hold you.”

He groans at your words, thrusting up into you with more force. You gasp, clinging to his shoulders, meeting him with matching urgency.

It builds between you—need turning sharp, trembling, sacred.

You come first—tightening around him, breath catching as you moan his name through clenched teeth, nails digging into his back.

He follows you seconds later, holding you tight to him as he spills inside you, your names tangled in breathless gasps.

Afterward, you lie on his chest, both of you still shaking. His hand runs gently down your spine. You feel him press a kiss to your temple.

“You’re the best thing I never got written for,” he whispers.

You don’t answer. You just hold him. Because you know what’s coming next. And he’s slipping again.

you lie with him for a long time. His body is warm, tangled with yours beneath the blanket, his breath steady against your shoulder. One hand rests lazily over your stomach, like he’s anchoring himself to your skin.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that—wrapped in the kind of silence that only comes after something true.

But eventually, you feel his fingers twitch. Then still. Then again.

“Satoru?” you whisper.

He blinks slowly, then furrows his brows like something's wrong.

“…What was your name again?”

Your heart drops.

You sit up, brushing hair out of his face. “Don’t joke.”

“I’m not,” he says, voice quiet. Distant. “I know you. I feel like I know you. But it’s slipping. Like I’m trying to hold water in my hands.”

You press your palm to his cheek. “You’re still here. You’re still with me.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced. That’s when you realize—This is it. He won’t last much longer. Whatever brought him here—whatever magic, glitch, miracle—it’s running out.

And if he goes like this, half-glitched, half-lost, it’ll break both of you. So you do the only thing you can.

You get out of bed. Pull on a hoodie. And sit at your desk. The words don’t come easy at first. But then your fingers move. Not on your phone. Not in a fanfic comment thread. On paper.

With a real pen, real ink, real hands. You write him an ending. A soft one.

Where he’s not a CEO haunted by guilt. Not a tragic man doomed to die before he can fall in love. You write him waking up in a quiet home, sunlight through curtains, coffee in a chipped mug, a cat that curls on his lap. You write him laughing. You write him safe. You write him at peace.

And you write that he gets to say goodbye. When it’s done, you read it aloud to him. Your voice shakes.

He listens, seated on the edge of your bed, blanket wrapped around his hips, eyes full of something that doesn’t feel like a glitch anymore. It feels like gratitude.

When you finish, you look up. He’s smiling softly.

“You did it,” he whispers.

“I gave you an ending,” you say. “You deserved one.”

He stands. Walks to you. And kisses you again. This one is slower. Full of something final.

“Thank you for writing me something better,” he says against your lips.

Tears well in your eyes. “Thank you for being real. Even just for a little while.” His fingers linger on your cheek.

He vanishes in the morning. Not with fanfare. Not with light or thunder or spark.

Just… A flicker.

You’d gone to brush your teeth. You’d left him tangled in your sheets, watching you from the bed with sleep-soft eyes and a crooked smile.

You came back— And the sheets were cold. You say his name once. Then again, louder. But there’s no answer. No trace. No indent in the pillow. No warmth in the blankets.

Just a silence so sharp it cuts. You don’t cry at first.

You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers curled around the hem of your shirt, blinking at the place he had been just hours ago. You try to replay his voice in your head, his laugh, the things he whispered against your skin. You press your face into your pillow and breathe deep, desperate to find even a trace of him.

But all you smell is fabric softener and loss. He’s gone. Like he never belonged here at all.

You grieve quietly. You carry his memory in the scribbled pages of your notebook, worn at the edges from being opened again and again. But you don’t write for him anymore. You write for yourself.

You don’t talk about it. How could you? You go back to class. You go back to microwaving leftovers. You scroll past fanfiction tags and never click again.

Some nights you still whisper his name in the dark, just in case he hears it. But he never answers. You begin to believe maybe he was just a dream after all. A beautiful, impossible dream.

Three months later, on the first warm day of spring, you’re sitting outside the library, notebook open, headphones in, sunlight catching in your lashes.

You almost don’t hear it.

“Excuse me—,” someone says.

You look up. And your heart stops.

A young man stands hesitantly before you, holding a crumpled campus map. His glasses slip slightly down his nose, his hair tousled from the breeze.

He looks unfamiliar yet somehow familiar.

“Could you help me? I’m completely lost,” he says, voice gentle but uncertain.

“Do you know where the science building is?” he asks, sheepish. “I’ve been walking in a circle for like twenty minutes.”

You stare. He’s different. No polished arrogance. No CEO swagger. No tailored suit. But it’s still him. That face. Those eyes. That voice.

You slowly take out your earbuds.

“…What’s your name?” you manage, breath shallow.

He smiles at you—confused, but kind.

“Satoru,” he says. “Satoru Gojo.”

Your lips part. His gaze lingers on your face for a moment too long. Then—

“Have we met before?” he asks, tilting his head.

“No, we haven’t met,” you whisper.

He chuckles, eyes bright.

“Maybe it’s a good thing. A new story.”

And as the sunlight pools around you both, you realize some endings are just beginnings in disguise.

[whimdora]

⠀⠀⠀⠀ 𝑊𝐻𝐼𝑀𝐷𝑂𝑅𝐴⠀ ❋⠀ my own selective portrayal of ⠀𝑃𝐴𝑁𝐷𝑂𝑅𝐴 𝐿𝑂𝑉𝐸𝐺𝑂𝑂𝐷

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⊱⠀ The world hums with things unseen.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀You only have to listen sideways. ⠀⊰

Pandora Lovegood is a quietly brilliant witch with a curious spirit and a deep love for the wonders that hide just beyond the edges of everyday magic. With a thoughtful gaze and a mind always reaching for the unusual, she brings a spark of mystery to Hogsmeade, where she is known for being both extraordinary and deeply kind. Her shop “ Glimmerroot & Whisperleaf ” sits on a side street kind of distant from the main hustle of the village. Inside, time seems to slow. Shelves bend under the weight of rare herbs, odd trinkets, hand-bound journals and softly glowing magical devices of her own invention. Some visitors come for ingredients. Others for advice but many return simply for the atmosphere she creates. Pandora is the type of person who listens closely, speaks softly and somehow always notices what others miss. Her robes are as colorful as her imagination and her laughter fills the room like light through stained glass. She never forces her beliefs on anyone but if you're open to it, she'll show you a world you've never imagined.

As I mentioned: This is my own interpretation of Pandora Lovegood from the Harry Potter universe. I'll be portaying her in a way that feels true to me. If you have any concerns, don't hesitate to reach out to me. Communication is the key! I'm playing a character from the Harry Potter universe, yes. However, that does not mean I support the views or statements of the author. Everyone is loved and welcome here. ♡ My blog runs on semi to low activity, so longer replies may take some time. Please keep that in mind if you want to get in touch. Crossover friendly and currently open for plotting: I mostly write in novel-style but I'm happy to adjust to suit my writing partners.

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

i think you’re gonna cook with this one 🙏🏼

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

Thank you for your sweetness and patience — this one’s been a journey, a fully on fluff journey, with regrets and tears,

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

• Prompt: Drunk marriage in Vegas, accidental pregnancy, emotional confrontation

• Word Count: ~2.1k

• Type: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

🛼✨🧁🍒

Las Vegas was supposed to be a quick getaway. A fun escape from your routines, a wild weekend with friends, some bad decisions and blurry photos. You never expected to wake up in a luxury suite at The Cosmopolitan, your mouth dry, your head pounding, and Quinn Hughes sleeping next to you — shirtless, tangled in the hotel sheets.

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

You sat up too fast, blinking at the ring on your own finger. Your heart thudded, first with confusion, then with a growing pit in your stomach. The echo of last night’s chaos slowly filtered in — the shots, the dance floor, the neon lights, Quinn’s laughter, his arm around your waist. You remembered a chapel. Pink. Elvis impersonator. The words “I do.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

A low groan came from the other side of the bed. Quinn.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt: messy curls sticking up in every direction, red-rimmed eyes, shirtless. And when he sat up, he mirrored your horror as you both stared at your left hands.

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

You both lunged for your phones. Sure enough, your camera rolls confirmed it: a chapel, a very happy officiant, and you and Quinn grinning like idiots with glitter in your hair and rings on your fingers.

Quinn Hughes, your very complicated friend-with-benefits, your maybe-something-more-but-never-defined, had married you. In Vegas. While drunk.

You remembered the sex too. Vaguely. It had been good—scratch that, amazing. But also messy and unexpected and clearly not thought through.

Quinn freaked out.

He stood, muttering about mistakes and how this couldn’t be real, how he had to leave. You tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down, but he was already pulling on his jeans, grabbing his phone.

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

Three days later, you stared at the two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

You weren’t sure how you got there. How from a half-joking night in Vegas, a half-relationship with Quinn Hughes, you ended up alone, with a baby on the way. You hadn’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a call.

And that’s when you saw it. A story. A post. A girl — tall, blonde, draped over him like she belonged there. And the caption: “My whole heart.”

Your throat closed. He hadn’t ghosted you because he panicked. He hadn’t vanished because he was scared. He was with someone else.

You were just the detour. The accident.

So you did what you had to: you called your brother.

He showed up twenty minutes later, no questions asked, and held you while you sobbed. Then, slowly, piece by piece, you began to rebuild.

The months passed. The bump grew. Your brother went to every appointment with you, holding your hand while you heard the heartbeat for the first time, while you picked names, while you decorated a nursery in your new apartment.

And you tried—really tried—not to look at Quinn’s Instagram.

But you saw it anyway.

The James Norris Trophy. A clean suit, his proud smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”

Then, a month later, an Instagram story from Porsche Centre Vancouver: “Thrilled to welcome Quinn Hughes as our newest brand ambassador.”

Each announcement was a dagger. Because he was out there, living his best life, achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of—and you were in the quiet of your small apartment, folding newborn onesies and wondering if he ever thought about you. About that night. About what you were now carrying.

You didn’t want him back. Not after he ran. But part of you, some deep, aching part, wished he would at least ask.

Because even if your heart was fractured, your body swollen and tired and aching, you were growing something beautiful.

And he didn’t even know.

—

The hospital lights were harsh, too white, too real for the blur of pain and panic you were in. Your fingers clenched around the side of the bed as another contraction hit, tearing through your spine. You were alone, but not lonely — not anymore. Because you weren’t doing this just for yourself.

You were about to meet the only constant that had stayed with you since that night in Vegas. And she was coming fast.

You screamed, you pushed — and suddenly, everything fell away.

The nurse’s voice filtered in through the haze. “It’s a girl.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled as they placed her on your chest, slick and warm and alive. The world narrowed to a heartbeat and the softest cry.

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

Deep blue a touch lighter than yours, with some green in it. Familiar. Exactly the same shade as his.

Quinn.

You’d spent the past nine months trying not to think of him. Trying to erase the weight of the Instagram post that shattered your heart — his smile beside her, captioned “Heart”

But now, here she was. With his eyes. The proof that Vegas wasn’t just a mistake. It had left you with someone permanent.

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

Vancouver in early spring was always wet and green. You’d found peace in its stillness, a small rented flat near the sea, and a part-time job at a bookstore that let you be home by three.

Olympia ran ahead on chubby legs, clutching her red balloon and squealing as the ducks in the park scrambled. Her hair curled in soft brown waves. Her laugh was infectious. She was everything.

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

You knew Jack had moved closer. That his family still spoke well of you.

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

Two figures coming down the paved path, side by side. Quinn and Jack. Laughing about something. You froze mid-step, your heart doing a strange, sharp twist.

You hadn’t seen him in person since that morning in Vegas.

Quinn stopped first.

His eyes scanned you, then softened in surprise. His lips parted slightly, like a question was sitting on his tongue but hadn’t formed yet.

Jack said something, but you didn’t hear it.

“Hey…” Quinn’s voice was quiet, unsure. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, tensing your jaw. You were about to reply when you heard her.

“Mama!”

Olly’s voice rang out, bright and high, and she came toddling over, arms outstretched.

You bent to scoop her up, hugging her to your hip like muscle memory. You didn’t look at him yet. Not yet.

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

His expression folded inward, shock overtaking confusion. Because there, in your arms, was a little girl with his exact same eyes. The same curl in her hair. The same shape to her mouth.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “She’s yours?”

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

You saw it in his eyes before you heard it in his voice — the slow-burning panic blooming behind his irises, the sharp, silent question written in the twitch of his jaw: She looks like me. How is that possible?

Quinn stared at your daughter like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask himself in three years. You adjusted her on your hip, her tiny hand curled around your necklace as she blinked up at the stranger. Stranger to her, anyway.

“She yours?” he asked, voice raw, cautious.

“She’s mine,” you answered carefully, but your voice cracked under the weight of truth, and you saw it land.

That hurt that bloomed over his face—it was real.

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You nodded once. “Yes. She’s yours, Quinn.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t relief—it was devastation, thick and swallowing. He stepped back a little, like the truth physically hit him. Jack said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant. This was Quinn’s storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him. “Because you left me. You ran out of that hotel room like I was a mistake, and a few days later, you were posting pictures with your girlfriend on Instagram. I found out I was pregnant the same week.”

Quinn was silent.

“You didn’t even check if I was okay,” you continued, words trembling now. “You never texted. Never called. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to beg someone to be a father who didn’t want to be there.”

Quinn’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I panicked. I was scared—”

“You were selfish, Quinn,” you snapped, more pain than anger. “I was terrified. I went through pregnancy alone. I gave birth alone. I’ve raised her—every scraped knee, every nightmare, every milestone. Alone.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

“I never wanted you to be alone,” he whispered. ��I was a coward. I thought if I ignored it, it would disappear. But it didn’t. You didn’t. And now she’s here and she looks at me like she knows me and I—”

He stopped himself, choking on the weight of it all.

“I want to know her,” he said finally. “Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

—

It started small. A text asking how she was doing. A message asking what kind of books she liked. A FaceTime where she shyly showed him her dinosaur pajamas. And slowly—like thawing ice—he melted into her life.

He came to the playground and pushed her on the swing. She reached for his hand without hesitation.

He showed up at your door with her favorite muffins and left with marker drawings all over his forearms.

The first time she called him “Dad,” he cried. Quietly. You saw it, though. And your heart cracked open.

Then came the big things.

Introducing her to Ellen and Jim. Watching Jack fall in love with her in five minutes flat. Quinn holding her on the bench of a Canucks pre-game warmup, helmet on her head three sizes too big.

And one day, he stood in front of you, nerves in his fingers, and said, “I left her. A while ago. The girlfriend. I should’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t want to show up like a white knight.”

“You’re not a white knight,” you replied. “But you’re trying. That means something.”

He took your hand. Carefully. “Can we try too?”

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

Your daughter ran between you both just then, laughing with her pigtails bouncing, and without thinking, you reached out together—one hand each, steadying her between you.

You looked at her. Then at him.

And for the first time in three years, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe… things weren’t broken.

Just unfinished.

——

It started with a question, whispered one quiet evening in your daughter’s room.

Quinn had come to tuck her in like he did now every night he was in Vancouver. She’d taken to calling him “Q” at first, unsure of what else to call him. Now it was “Daddy.” Sometimes “Daddy Q,” when she was being silly.

That night, as he settled the stuffed unicorn into her arms and brushed her dark hair behind her ear, she blinked up at him with those same eyes. His eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. “Are you and mommy married?”

Quinn blinked. He glanced over his shoulder at you. You smiled softly, already knowing this day would come.

“Kind of,” he said, trying to be gentle. “A long time ago. But not… not properly.”

She frowned. “I want it to be properly.”

It stayed in his head all night.

And three days later, as the two of you stood on your balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the Vancouver skyline glow like it was holding your secret, he turned to you.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be my almost-wife. I want you to be my real wife.”

You turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t go down on one knee. He just took your hand, kissed the ring that never left it — the one from Vegas you never dared to take off — and added softly, “Let’s do it right this time.”

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

Held in Vancouver, at a garden you’d always loved as a child. Your daughter wore a white dress with tulle wings sewn onto the back. She walked down the aisle holding a little velvet box, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Jack — proudly grinning — waited at Quinn’s side as best man.

Your dress wasn’t flashy. It was soft, elegant. Your bouquet was wildflowers. And as you reached the end of the aisle, your daughter took your hand and placed it into Quinn’s, the whole garden holding its breath.

Quinn looked at you like it was the first time. Even after everything — the mistake, the heartbreak, the rediscovery — he still looked at you like you were the beginning and end of his world.

“I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t stop the tears as you said it back.

⸻

The reception was simple — a long table under strings of lights, family and friends all gathered. Jack toasted to “the only couple I’ve ever known who got married in reverse order.” Your daughter climbed into Quinn’s lap halfway through the cake. He fed her the icing off his finger, kissing her temple like he’d never lost a single day.

Later, you danced to no music under the stars, her asleep in her flower girl dress in your mother’s arms.

“I always meant it,” he whispered in your ear. “Even back then. Even when I was scared. I’ve loved you every damn second.”

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

And in the warm hush of the garden, his lips met yours.

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻

[rhube]

Dude, (prev, not OP) you are just telling on yourself by who you follow. I have never seen a single post on this webbed site that was anything but derogatory about him.

No one in my feed even mentioned him before about 5 years ago when his toxicity became obvious.

The first time I became aware of him I was watching a TV show with friends and they described one character as an 'Elon Musk' type as though that was meant to make him sound cool. At my blank expression they explained him in a way that made him sound like a rich tosspot, and I was like, 'But you get how that's bad, right?' After that he wasn't a blip on my radar until he started loudly asshatting on Twitter.

Your experience is not universal. Your feed reflects YOU, not all of Tumblr.

Do you know what this site thought of Elon Musk before he started supporting Trump and gave that Nazi Salute?

Going how far back? Ten years ago, we didn't talk about him and nobody cared. He was not in the wider public consciousness. Those who knew who he was mostly thought "oh yeah he's that rich guy who wants to look smart" and nothing much else was said. I think his first bump in popularity was when he married Grimes, and then he was just the weird rich dude Grimes married. I did not know who Grimes was and still kinda don't. She had a Tumblr blog and then made some music and had a baby with a weird name and then vanished kinda post-divorce afaik.

Then I think maybe five years ago ish he sort of started showing up more as a sort of weaboo man-baby deal? Pictures of him in Les Mis cosplay, dressed as a furby, and showing off empty Diet Coke cans and a fake replica gun on his nightstand circulated.

My impression was that he was just like. If that creepy awkward guy in class who unironically does the Naruto run and thinks katanas are magic was spawned out of the ether with infinite money.

And then I think maybe after that was how stupid he is? That became public knowledge shortly after-like how the safety vests in some of his factories are in washed-out neutral colours cause he doesn't like neons. Or like... how he seemed to be giving off the impression that he was a genius inventor, despite not actually making anything or having any kind of education se can speak of? All I know is like. He was an owner with PayPal and then bought Tesla?

And simultaneously if I remember correctly he was kind of always about "if we don't let the nazis talk on twitter then we're basically á dictatorship" or whatever, banging on the free speech drum and going on about how jokes used to be funny, then bluffed about buying twitter and somehow got legally shoehorned into ponying up and actually doing it for WAY more than it was worth, almost immediately making it worse and tanking its value.

Now it seems kind of like an Emporer's clothes situation where everyone knows the Emporer is naked, but instead of getting embarrassed and covering up, the emperor just keeps doubling down harder. Meanwhile his whole entire ass is just. Out

[koveragewithkiera]

“Let Me In” Pt. 1

Modern AU: Smoke x Annie

This wasn’t supposed to turn into an actual mini-story, but it did lmaaooo. Will be following my idea for the song “Let Me In” by. Tanerelle, but I learned shortly after crafting this idea that I must always include plot with my porn so here we are. This will be part 1 before the good stuff comes, but I hope y’all still enjoy it and that it gets everyone excited for the next part :). I will be uploading the second part of Witchy before that though because I need to get more coordinated with my stories lol.

WC: 3.2k

Characters: Smoke (29), Annie (29), Stack (29), and Dee (OC; 25)

Enjoy! :)

————————

He was back.

After four years, two months, and eleven days, Elijah “Smoke” Moore finally returned home. Home not simply being Mississippi, not simply Clarksdale, but home.

When he’d showed up to his home (or what he believed would still be home) for the first time in half a decade, he was met face to face with the barrel of a wooden Ruger Nine the second the front door opened. It was far from the first time Smoke was placed in such a predicament, but he couldn’t remember the last time it caused him to freeze up. His eyes quickly shifted to meet the holder of the firearm, seeing her eyes piercing into his with a searing glare. He’d been blessed in his youth to witness the many emotions those beautiful eyes could hold, but never had he seen such resentment held in them.

Smoke hadn’t thought to put his hands up, some part of him didn’t feel to be in true danger, but his voice shook slightly as he’d finally spoken after a small stare-off between the two. “How you be?”

As her eyes hardened even further and her finger brushed up against the trigger daringly, he realized those words were clearly not what she wanted to hear. This time, his hands did raise a bit. “Come on now, Annie.”

“Figured you had to be a haint.” His heart stuttered over the sound of her voice, he’d yearned for it so even with the bitter tone of it. She dropped the barrel, but her grip remained the same. “And I don’t take kindly to trespassers.”

Smoke didn’t exactly relax, but he did sigh as she continued to guard the door. He shoved his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. “I’m guessin’ you not gone let me in?”

Annie raised a lethal eyebrow his way, not a single ounce of her softening under his gaze. “You should consider yourself lucky I’m lettin’ you leave this property unscathed.”

She took one calm step back, placing the rifle into one hand as her other promptly slammed the door right in his face. Smoke didn’t flinch at the action, just dropped his head with a dry chuckle before walking from the porch and towards his truck. He hadn’t known how he’d expected the interaction to go, but he at the very least hoped for them to speak more than a couple of sentences. And at the very very least, he hoped she’d let him into her home. Their home. A home they’d built with one another, cherished with one another.

This was the first of a long line of rejections he would face in the coming weeks.

———————————————————————

Clarksdale was a small town, and it was absolutely impossible to avoid running into one another, no matter how hard Annie definitely tried. But things didn’t become any easier with how intentional Smoke became about entering her life once more. During the second week of his return, he dined in the very front booth of her restaurant, Mama Lucille’s, for four nights straight with the hope she would eventually cave into even a sliver of an interaction. On the fifth night, he had only just parked his truck when his phone lit up with a notification from his brother.

Stack: So… apparently you just got banned lmao. Dee just told me

Smoke’s lip curls up as his fingers type furiously.

Smoke: How the fuck she know that?

Three little dots pop up and disappear just as quickly.

Stack: Annie texted her. You def ain’t gettin that no time soon 💀

Smoke’s head falls back with an annoyed groan as he tosses his phone to the side. He has half a mind to walk in anyway, maybe pretend to be his twin just to at least make her speak with him. He decides against it, Annie could tell the difference between the two with all five of her senses blocked away. He pulls out of the parking lot with a sigh, already thinking of his next potential plan.

———————————————————————

Stack gets a mysterious allergic reaction about a week later after the siblings have brunch at the diner. It’s nothing dire, but it hits him when they’re on the way home and he realizes his tongue is feeling a bit bigger than normal.

He’s in the middle of blabbing about something neither his sister or brother are paying true attention to when he realizes what’s happening. “The fuck? What the fuck they put in my food?!”

Dee startles a little in the back seat, her eyes rising up from her phone at the clear panic in Stack’s voice. “What you mean? You only had pancakes, bacon, and grits.”

Stack snaps his seatbelt off and starts shuffling around the truck to look for his EpiPen. His panic increases tenfold when he realizes it’s not in there. “My tongue is swelling up, I think they slipped me something!” His words start to get a little muffled as he feels around the swollen muscle. “Them niggas tryna take me out!”

“Relax, aight.” Smoke’s voice isn’t unusually calm, but it’s clear he’s not as shocked as the other two. “We just need to get you that stuff from Annie.”

Stack’s too busy trying to dramatically draw his breaths in (it reminds them of him as a kid) to notice Smoke’s behavior, but Dee clocks it immediately with a howling laugh. “Elijah, you did not!”

Smoke’s eyes remain forward on the road, already en route to Annie’s house. Their house, but he ignores that thought at the moment. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

This draws Stack’s attention as his memory finally clicks the last time he had a reaction without his EpiPen. Smoke was usually the responsible one of the two, but there were two things Stack absolutely never left the house: his blade and his fucking pen. His head whips towards his brother with a shout. “Di’ ‘ou do som’in to my ‘ood?!”

Smoke rolls his eyes defensively. “Nigga, why would I do something to your food?”

Dee checks around the backseat area just in case, her head shaking in amused disappointment. “Cause the last time his EpiPen went missing was when Annie kicked you out the house for a week.”

“‘ou mo’da’fucka’!” Stack’s hands twitch to wring around his brother’s neck. His face just drops into his hands with a distressed groan.

Dee rubs a soothing hand over Stack’s shoulders, trying her damndest to not laugh in his face. Her eyes find Smoke in the rear view mirror. “You're going straight to hell, you know? This won’t kill him, but this gotta be something only the Devil would accept.”

Smoke meets her eyes with a shrug before returning to the road. “I ain’t do shit to his food. They could’ve gave him the wrong order.”

And he wasn’t lying. He didn’t touch a thing on Stack’s plate.

But if he accidentally slipped a bit of his grapefruit juice into Stack’s glass of orange juice, then sue him.

By the time they make it to Annie’s home, Smoke has semi-figured out what exactly he plans to say, with no help from either of his siblings. As he approaches the door, he wonders the possibility of being met with a rifle yet again. But this time, the door opens to an even more devastating sight.

The last time he’d come to her house, he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate the sight of her for long before the door had been shut in his face. This time, he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but.

His eyes first land on the dark jeans that accentuate the curves of her thighs and the long length of her legs. They scroll up slowly to her waist, where a pretty brown belt cinches around it, before reaching the tucked ends of her knitted, sleeveless, cream turtleneck. The entire outfit glues to every slant of her figure, and what a figure she’d grown into over the last few years. Smoke would’ve felt like a voyeur of sorts if he weren’t so familiar with what laid beneath the tight layers.

Her hair was slicked back nicely into a ponytail with a bump at the end, and it swayed as she opened the door. Her tone is clipped and expectant, and if he had to bet, she’d likely seen the exact moment the truck pulled into the driveway. “Yes?”

Smoke sets his shoulders, keeping his eyes on hers with a quieter tone. “Stack’s having a reaction.”

Annie’s gaze only grows more agitated before she dips her head with a heavy scoff. She bites her lip in a necessary attempt of restraint before maneuvering herself to gain full view of the truck. She makes eye contact with the younger twin as he sulks in the passenger’s seat. “Stack!”

Stack shoots up at the sound of her yell, immediately rolling down his window. Dee rolls her own down as well, waving to the other woman with a bright smile. It almost breaks through Annie’s reserve, but she responds to Dee with a polite nod before gesturing her head to Stack. “Come on!”

Stack exits the truck quickly to ensure Annie doesn’t change her mind. Smoke feels a small twinge of hope, but it is swiftly swiped away as Annie blocks the side of the door he attempts to slip through.

Her eyes harden in warning. “Just him.”

Stack freezes up as he balances between the outside and inside of the doorframe. He shrivels as the two stand in a bit of a stare off, but his decision is made as the throbbing of his tongue only worsens. “‘orry ‘moke, ‘ou ‘ook my pen.”

Smoke would feel betrayed if he wasn’t so focused on the way Annie’s eyes dangerously gleamed into his. He was trying his damndest to find something, anything, that would help him break through to her. He doesn’t even fully register that Stack has entered the household, instead finding it increasingly harder to voice his thoughts. To voice anything really.

His lips move before his mind is able to catch up, but it's already too late. “You look beaui-”

She shuts the door before he can even finish the sentence. His jaw tightens, his teeth threatening to crack his golden grills, as he slowly saunters to the truck with an air of defeat. When he gets in the driver’s seat, Dee doesn’t give him her usual shit this time, but she does advise him to take his foot off the metaphorical gas pedal.

“That’s one thing she could never stand about you. You always gotta make something happen as soon as possible. Sometimes, things just gotta come along on their own.”

Smoke shakes his head with sigh, resting back on the headrest. “I don’t want her thinking I gave up.”

Dee shoves his shoulder softly, shutting down that reservation instantly. “She knows you too well for that. Trust me, this isn’t the type of thing you can force ‘Lijah.”

———————————————————————

Though Smoke doesn’t say as much, he does in fact take Dee’s words into consideration. When they get home that evening, he makes the final decision to step back from his scheming. It’s an agonizing effort, and as time wears on, it only places his mind even further from being productive at work. Stack takes notice of it first, but only bust his balls over it, throwing quips at his chivalrous act of celibacy and how stupid of a commitment it was to make in the first place. As for Dee, she wouldn’t care too much about his muddled focus if not for how downright pitiful he becomes in the face of business.

Now Dee loves her brothers more than anything on this earth, but even that has its potential limits.

It’s on the fifth week of their return that she bustles into Smoke’s room with a barely-spilling bucket of water in hand. “Get up, Smoke.”

Her older brother grumbles something under his breath about it being too early, pulling the comforter further along his body. It’s enough of an answer for her. She empties the bucket in one swoop, and Smoke’s limbs flail about in an image comparable to that of a cat escaping a bathtub. A loud thud echoes around the room as he falls from the bed in a tangle of soaked sheets, coughing and heaving from his sister’s sick attempt of practical water-boarding.

His head finally manages to submerge from the sheets, his words fighting to escape through his shaken demeanor. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

It doesn't deter his little sister in the slightest, her hand placed on a pointed hip. “We’re going to the supermarket.”

Smoke reaches for his phone, his eyes widening in the face of Dee’s audacity. “It ain’t even 9 am yet!”

Dee’s voice remains steady as she explains the plan. “Annie goes to the supermarket on Broughton St. at 9:15 every Saturday morning before the rush comes at 10:30. We need to leave here at 8:45, you have 30 minutes to get ready.” She turns to walk out of the room with that, but he stops her just as she reaches the door.

“Wait, wait.”

She turns back to him with an unfazed expression. He’s still gaining his own bearings due to the last fifteen minutes, but he has to ask this first. “Why are you doing this? I thought you said not to scheme.”

Dee scoffs. “That was before I remembered something I can’t stand about either of y’all.”

Smoke’s face scrunches in confusion. “What?”

Dee’s eyes squint in annoyance. “Y’all are fucking miserable without one another, and you make everybody else just as miserable instead of just talking or fucking it out like normal people.”

They make it to the market a little earlier than Annie but go ahead and start shopping around. Dee takes advantage of the new delivery of fresh produce and sends Smoke off to look through that section while she moves through the other items of her grocery list. He tries his best not to, but every thirty seconds or so, he finds himself glancing at the time on his phone. Annie would’ve gotten there about ten minutes ago, and he knew his woman to be the punctual type when it came to her routine. Ten more minutes go by of him appearing to look through the ripeness of the seasonal peaches before he almost caves into just searching around for her. Then a laugh, that laugh that hadn’t graced his ears in a torturous amount of time, sounds just to the far right of him.

Smoke’s head whips towards the direction, his eyes landing on their target the second he looks her way. And there she is, standing in the middle of the bread section adorned in a white, patterned sundress that falls just to her knees. She’s speaking animatedly with an older, shorter woman, and it’s the most expressive Smoke has seen of her since coming home. It makes him freeze in place, simply wanting to watch her like this during the chance he has to do so. The way her eyes scrunch up when her lips curl into that radiant smile… it will never fail to take his very breath away. He looks at her as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at her period, and he’s hit with a sudden moment of deja vu.

At 15, Smoke had choked and stepped into the nearest alleyway when she began walking his way.

At 29, Smoke stands still as his mind and soul scream for her to turn his way.

When she finally does so, his heart cracks at the way her smile diminishes in recognition. But it can’t help but beat a little harder when she doesn’t immediately look away.

The older woman in front of her takes notice of Annie’s change in attention, and when she turns to the direction of Annie’s eyes, Smoke is barely able to register the sound of a squeal.

“Why is that my favorite math student?!” The older lady screams just loud enough to be heard, but not enough to disturb the other shoppers.

Her exclamation pulls the two of them from their momentary daze, and Smoke can’t help but give the older woman a small grin once he recognizes her voice. He walks towards the two women with a polite nod. “Ms. Ruby.”

“Oh, it is you!” Ms. Ruby pulls him into a tight embrace, and he has to bend down a good bit to comfortably adjust to her. She pulls away with a squeeze on his biceps. “I was afraid I was mistaking you and your brother for a second, it's been years!”

“Yes ma’am, it has.” Smoke masks his strained tone, trying not to keep straying his gaze Annie’s way.

Ms. Ruby looks between the two with clear joy, the underlying tension in the air falling straight over her head. “This is just the biggest coincidence! Running into my two star students in the same morning!”

Annie’s smile isn’t as genuine now, and Smoke picks up the sarcasm easily. “Yes ma’am, it is.”

Ms. Ruby clearly doesn’t notice as she brings her attention to Smoke. “Well, what is it you’ve got going on now? I feel like I heard about you being engaged at some point.”

This causes Smoke to stutter uncharacteristically, and he can’t help the way his gaze wanders between the two women. “Oh, well yes I-”

Annie cuts him off with a strict tone. “It broke off a few years ago.”

Smoke crumbles under the weight of the statement paired with the hidden glare behind her eyes. He knew her too well.

Ms. Ruby sends him a look of pity, giving his arm another squeeze. “Oh. Well, I am so sorry to hear that Elijah.”

Annie clears her throat abruptly, smiling warmly towards Ms. Ruby. “If y’all will excuse me, I’ve got some more errands to run. It was wonderful seeing you, Ms. Ruby.” Her smile twitches downwards as she gives Smoke a onceover. “Smoke.”

But before she can make her escape, Ms. Ruby grabs hold of Annie’s hand. “Oh well wait, I would just love to have brunch with you two! I leave town tomorrow evening, but maybe we could try in the afternoon?”

Smoke clasps his hands together as Annie’s grip tightens on her basket handle. The two silently communicate for a little before Annie finally takes the leap.

“Actually, I think Smoke might be b-”

Smoke cuts her off before his mind can fully catch up to speed. “I’ll be free.”

Annie’s head whips to him in shock, but before she can reprimand him, Ms. Ruby is already more than excited. “Amazing! Annie? It’ll give me a chance to try that food of yours since I wasn't able to visit your restaurant.”

Smoke watches as she softly bites her tongue, a tendency of hers whenever she’d been holding a few choice words from spilling. She grins harshly, her lips puckering as she responds. “I would love to, Ms. Ruby.”

Ms. Ruby laughs gleefully. “Excellent! Alright, I won’t hold y’all no longer!” She gives them both two quick hugs, waving as she walks away towards the produce section. “I’ll see y’all then!”

They each hold their breath, remaining quiet as she walks away. Once she’s out of ear shot, Smoke turns to Annie with an apology on his tongue. “Annie, we don’t-”

Annie doesn’t give him the chance to say more. “Be there at 1.” She struts off a few aisles away without another word. Smoke takes a self-encouraging deep breath, just barely hiding his excited grin as he walks with a small pep in his step to find his sister.

————————

Hope y’all liked it! The next part is going to be very very fun to write hehe. But wish me luck because I’m deadass nervous lmao. 🫶🏾

Til next time!

Taglist:

@thelifeoflagab , @omgffs , @bigjh , @championshipshade , @mindyouthisismyaccount , @brownskincheyenne , @lizbehave , @hdfen2474 , @sweetarchivistsiege , @strawberrylemonades-stuff , @whysoceerious , @chknnwffls , @thefutureemmywinner , and @partylikemajima

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

🕯️ i write best at 2am, in silence, with a candle burning and the ghost of my plot breathing down my neck 🕯️

not to be dramatic but… if the vibes aren’t unhinged and slightly haunted, i literally cannot write.

give me total darkness. the kind that makes your laptop glow like an ancient relic. give me a half-melted candle and a beverage i’ve already forgotten to drink. give me dead silence except for one creaky pipe somewhere deep in the walls. is the house alive? maybe. am i alive? unclear.

at 2am, everything hits different. suddenly the dialogue sounds profound. suddenly i care about the shape of every sentence. suddenly the side character with one line is spiraling about the moral consequences of violence and i’m like. yeah okay go off.

this is when the plot shows up like a sleep paralysis demon. not helpful. just looming. like “are you actually going to resolve that foreshadowing you dropped 40k words ago or should i start whispering again.”

normal brain hours? useless. my daytime brain wants snacks and pinterest and unrelated side quests. my 2am brain? feral. focused. haunted. she’s got blood under her fingernails and thirty tabs open about victorian funeral rites.

writing is a ritual. i’m not even kidding. if you’ve never lit a candle and whispered “please just let me get through this scene” like you’re bargaining with something ancient and unknowable, are you even a writer.

anyway. if you see me online at 2:17am, no you didn’t. i’m communing with my blorbos. i’m making plot decisions i won’t remember in the morning. i’m typing like a woman possessed. and i’m vibing.

here's a little excerpt from my WIP i'm working on. yes it's a romantasy, no it's not cheesy like fourth wing.

🕯️

[peasack]

I love your work!!! I was wondering if you'd write a teen!reader headcanon for them struggling with mental health, needing help with homework, coming out or getting bullied please? I especially love how you write Ava (she's my favourite character) and you manage to nail the Alexis voice

Absolutely adore this request.

I chose to write about the mental health, since I all of them (obviously) know how to deal with that. But I'll definitely put the other suggestions on my list!

Thunderbolts x Gn!Teen!Reader

✦ Thunderbolts Mental Health Support Headcanons ✦

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

✦ Ava Starr

The quiet protector. Ava’s not the type to talk circles around you or push you to open up. Instead, she watches. She notices the changes in your behaviorthe silence, the distance, the fake smiles and instead of asking a million questions, she simply shows up. She’ll quietly sit next to you, maybe reading or scrolling on her phone, just so you know she’s there without overwhelming you.

Understands isolation deeply. After everything with her phasing, Ava knows what it’s like to feel broken, like you're a burden, like no one could possibly understand. So when you isolate, she doesn’t take it personally. She just leaves a small trail for you to follow when you’re ready a text, a post-it note, a granola bar on your desk. Tiny signs that say you’re not forgotten.

Soft but firm boundaries. If you try to shut her out completely or brush her off with a fake “I’m fine,” Ava will tilt her head at you with this deadpan look and go, “Try again.” Not mean, not angry. Just “I see through you. You’re not fine. But I’ll wait for you to be ready.” She never lets you disappear completely.

Takes you on quiet, low-pressure ‘missions.’ She’ll invite you on drives, walks, or errands that sound boring but feel safe. “Come with me to pick up supplies. No talking necessary.” It’s her way of offering you company without forcing conversation. These small moments help you reconnect to the world without overwhelming you.

Gentle about scars and history. When she finds out about your past or your scars, she doesn’t freak out. She doesn’t lecture. She just softly says, “You’ve survived a lot. You don’t have to survive it alone anymore.” And that’s it. She holds it like a secret you entrusted her with.

Fiercely protective in her own silent way. If anyone triggers you, bullies you, or drags you down—Ava will quietly, ruthlessly remove that threat from your life. No one knows how, but that person suddenly just leaves you alone. Ava doesn’t need credit or thanks. She just protects you. Always.

✦ Alexei Shostakov

Not the best with words, but man does he show up. Alexei might not always know what to say, but he makes sure you know you’re not alone. He’ll randomly sit with you, bring you snacks, or drag you into the living room to watch terrible old Soviet movies with him, just to keep you company.

Overcompensates with physical comfort. He’s big on hugs and ruffling your hair, and you get the sense he’s constantly making sure you’re still there, still safe. He’s the kind of guy who will pat your back so hard you almost fall over—but you feel a little better afterward.

Terrible at hiding his concern. He’ll blurt out things like, "You are not allowed to disappear, okay? I will find you. I will find whoever made you sad. I will crush them like beetle."

Secretly keeps an eye on your routines. He notices if you’re skipping meals, missing sleep, or isolating. He’s not subtle—he’ll straight up drag you out of bed and be like, “We are going for silly little walk. It is non-negotiable.”

Panics when you cry. He immediately calls for backup (usually Yelena) like he’s reporting a code red. But he stays. Always. Even when he’s unsure what to do, he refuses to leave your side.

✦ Yelena Belova

The calm-in-a-storm type. When you’re spiraling, Yelena doesn’t flinch. She sits next to you, quietly, like, "Okay. We are sad now. I will be sad with you." She doesn’t try to fix you. She just holds space.

Violently protective of your mental space. If someone at school or even in the team says something that hurts you, she’s on it like a hawk. “Tell me who. I just want to talk.” (She does not just want to talk.)

Talks about her own issues openly. She’ll casually drop lines like, "Yeah, I have bad days too. I usually throw knives to feel better." She tries to normalize it so you never feel broken.

Pulls you into little missions or tasks when you isolate. "Come help me spy on Alexei. It will be fun." It’s her way of reconnecting you with the world.

Terrible with cheesy comfort phrases. Instead, you get blunt affection. "You are not allowed to give up. You are my family. You do not get to leave me. I will be annoying forever, so you must stay to suffer me."

✦ Bucky Barnes

The king of quiet understanding. He never pushes. Never demands you explain. Just sits next to you, offers a cup of tea, and sometimes just says, "I’ve been there. You don’t have to talk, but I get it."

Not great with open emotional convos but will listen all night if you need. He doesn’t always know what advice to give, but he will nod along, let you ramble, and toss in dry little jokes to keep you grounded.

Gives you space but always checks in. Leaves little notes on your door like "I’m making food. You better eat." Or sends you a text: "Still breathing? Cool. Come hang when you’re ready."

Gets quietly, intensely protective if anyone makes you feel worse. He won’t make a scene but will 100% have a quiet, terrifying “chat” with the person responsible.

Teaches you small things to help. Like how to box when you’re angry, or how to breathe when you’re spiraling. He’s the type to hand you coping tools instead of empty comfort.

✦ Bob Reynolds

So, so soft about it. Bob is super emotionally tuned in and probably notices you’re struggling before you say anything. He gets this gentle, concerned tone like, "Hey, kid… you doing okay?"

Overthinks and worries a lot. He’s scared of saying the wrong thing or making you worse, but he wants to help. He’ll sit with you, make you tea, or put on your favorite show just to be near you.

Big on distraction days. He’ll offer to play games, watch movies, even sit and listen to music together, anything to help you breathe and not be stuck in your head.

Sassy comfort. Once you’re closer, he’ll throw in playful sass to make you smile when you’re down. "Look, you’re stuck with me now. Can’t get rid of me. I’m like emotional gum on your shoe."

If you cry in front of him, he crumbles. He holds you so carefully like you might break, and his voice drops to the softest whisper like, "Hey… hey, you’re safe. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

✦ John Walker

Awkward but fiercely loyal. John’s not super in touch with his own emotions, but the moment he sees you’re struggling, he’s locked in. He just… doesn’t always know how to handle it. "You, uh, wanna… I dunno. Wanna hit something? Or get ice cream? Or whatever helps?"

Overprepares. Starts reading up on mental health resources, making checklists in his phone like "Things To Help The Kid When They're Sad" because he genuinely wants to be good at this.

Dad-mode activated. He’ll randomly show up with snacks, your favorite drink, or movie nights without making a big deal out of it. If you try to thank him, he waves it off like, "Don’t worry about it, kid. It’s what I’m here for."

Gets super angry at anyone who hurts you. Like, full-on clenched fists, ready-to-throw-down angry. But he channels it quietly—he just gets very, very protective from a distance.

Awkward comfort, but real. Might pat your back stiffly and mutter, "Look… I might not always get it. But I care about you, okay? You’re family. You’re my kid now. Deal with it."

∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗∗ ࣪ ˖༺ ♡ ༻˖ ࣪ ∗

Hope this was alright, it's a little more detailed on Ava’s part since, of course, the request was for her.

If you guys have more requests please leave them in my inbox! <3

[ffishstickks]

I love you. I love all your games. Please show us some June art and interesting facts. Pleasseeee

June is... complicated. I haven't drawn her a ton since LT came out, and It's mainly because other than LT she's still stuck in "work concept" limbo.

I find that unless the project I'm working on includes a character, they tend to be somewhat abandoned doodle wise. BUT! I managed to sift through the June folder on my pc, and find some goodies for you!

Since June is a loner who tends to keep to herself, it means I havent exactly got to explore her personality much when it comes to socially ineracting with other characters. I did create an odd crack ship with Mason from TPOF when that game came out, because the idea of a terrible "husband and wife" hunting scenario was very funny in concept to me.

She's a quiet brooding type, the kind where you really wouldn't be aware that you pissed her off until much too late. She tends to overplan stuff, including her missions to "hunt" for her own victims. In her mind, it makes her better than Jak, who she looks down on for the lovey dovey nature of his own interests.

June is the kind of person who is always trying to make a point, and if feeling affectionate towards you, would only make that aspect about her worse. When she plans to release her inner demons (as she would call it), she looks for victims that won't be remembered. Although, she is more partial to prettier victims. She'd make fun of them for their looks, but secretly she'd enjoy it.

Bones and I had planned a game with her after LT, but it never came to fruition. Annika is the small woman pictured next to June in that one sprite concept photo, and she belongs to @xbonecandyx.

[yoomiwrites]

Your colors

Summary: (fem) Reader sucks at makeup but luckily, Izou helps her to see her beauty.

Note: He is UNDERRATED. And I am so happy to write for so many underrated characters. It is mostly g/n but not fully, as a female reader was in mind for this.

A comfort one, so, remember my friends, YOU ARE PERFECT.

✦═════✦═════✦

You were never the type for delicate things.

Nail polish, lipstick, eyeliner — all those graceful, fine touches that seemed to come so easily to others, especially someone like Izou, always left you feeling clumsy and out of place. Smudges, crooked lines, shaky hands. You’d long accepted you weren’t “that” kind of woman.

But today... well, today you’d decided to try.

A little crush had bloomed in your chest, whether you liked it or not. One you were sure would never notice you unless you stood out a bit more — looked more polished, more... elegant.

Your attempt had gone about as well as expected: lipstick too uneven, your nails blotchy and full of streaks, your eyeliner an accidental battle scar more than a charming wing.

You were mid-frustrated sigh, perched on a crate, cotton pad smudging away another failed attempt, when a shadow fell across you.

“Having trouble, darling?”

That smooth, silk-soft voice could only belong to one man.

Izou.

You stiffened a little, caught like a child with her hand in the cookie jar. He stood there, poised as ever — perfectly applied makeup, the scent of something sweet and expensive lingering around him. A man made for grace.

You offered a halfhearted shrug, chewing your lip. “I wanted to... try something different.” You waved vaguely at your mess of beauty supplies. “But I’m no good at it.”

Izou tilted his head, a small smile curving his lips, both knowing and fond.

“Different?” he echoed, stepping closer, folding gracefully to sit beside you. “For who?”

Your throat tightened. “Just... wanted to look nice, that’s all.”

His eyes softened, though the teasing lilt never left his voice.

“Y/N, you’ve always been ‘nice’ to look at. But if you want a little help...” His fingers reached out, featherlight against your chin, tilting your face ever so slightly. “I’d be honored to assist.”

You hesitated, cheeks already warming. Letting him see you like this — vulnerable — felt far more intimate than you expected.

But Izou, as always, was gentle. His hands were steady, the soft brush of makeup over your skin like silk. He worked in comfortable silence, smoothing away imperfections without judgment, highlighting features you’d never thought much of.

When he finally leaned back, inspecting you with a slow, approving nod, you blinked at your reflection in the small hand mirror.

You looked... beautiful. Not like anyone else. Not like someone pretending to be graceful. Just you. Polished, but still you.

“See?” Izou murmured, voice like velvet. “It wasn’t about changing yourself. Just learning to show off what was already worth admiring.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flutter, but before you could thank him, you noticed the smallest flicker of something in his expression. Something quiet.

Like maybe you weren’t trying to impress the right person at all.

You swallowed, lowering the mirror. “You’re good at this.”

His fingers brushed a stray hair from your face, lingering a little longer than necessary.

It wasn’t a confession. Not quite. But it was enough to leave your stomach in soft knots, and your lips a little too aware of how close he still sat.

“I’ve had practice,” he replied, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “And... I happen to like the subject.”

Neither of you spoke the words — but they lingered there, painted between you like the softest brushstroke.

But you couldn’t sleep.

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, painting the sea in deep indigos and violet shadows. The crew had scattered for the night, the world around you gone quiet except for the soft lap of waves against the ship’s hull.

Not after earlier. Not after the way Izou had touched you — so gentle, so steady — or the way he’d said those words, lingering on the edges of a confession.

You found him on the upper deck, as expected, perched in his usual spot, tending to a small tray of nail polish bottles. His sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, hair pinned back just enough to avoid falling into his eyes.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment before softly calling his name.

He glanced over, always poised, but his expression immediately softened when his gaze landed on you. “Can’t sleep, darling?”

You wandered closer, sitting beside him, curling your knees up to your chest. “Not really.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you, broken only by the sound of the tiny glass bottle clicking softly against the tray as he capped it.

You picked at the hem of your shirt, voice quieter now. “Earlier... when you said you liked the subject... did you mean me?”

His hands stilled. Just for a second. The only crack in that polished, graceful armor he wore so well.

His eyes slid sideways, studying you in the dim light, and his lips tugged into a slow, quiet smile. One of those rare, real ones — the kind that stripped away all the performative charm.

“I did.”

Simple. Honest. Heavy.

Your throat felt dry, but your heart fluttered like the sails catching wind. You looked away, flustered, but his fingers gently curled around yours, steady and warm.

“You never needed to change a thing, you know,” he added softly, brushing his thumb along the back of your hand. “I noticed you long before you ever thought to impress anyone.”

Your chest tightened, a laugh bubbling up unbidden — light, shaky, but genuine.

“You’ve always been better at hiding your feelings than me,” you mumbled, squeezing his hand.

Izou tilted his head, voice low and teasing, but there was a softness beneath it:

“Well, you’ve got a way of making me want to stop hiding.”

And before you could gather the nerve to say another word, his free hand lifted to your cheek, guiding you forward — his lips brushing against yours in the kind of kiss that was as careful as it was deliberate. Nothing rushed. Nothing messy. Just right.

When he pulled back, his smile returned, easy and a little smug, as if your flustered expression was exactly what he’d expected.

“See?” he whispered. “You were already perfect.”

[proshippers-against-censorship]

Something I noticed is that Antis accuse nudity or showing a little bit of skin of being sexual (or even pedophilic). They scream, "That's a minor" or "stop sexualizing this character!" Meanwhile, the character they're crying about is just wearing shorts or a croptop. I've often seen these types of comments on posts that have characters wearing swimsuits that show no sexual context or suggestive themes at all. Even when the character just looks younger and fully clothed, Antis will call it "jailbait" and accuse the artist of being a predator.

The fact that the first thing they immediately think is sexualization when showing skin tells me way more about them than anything else. According to their own logic, they're the ones who are "sexualizing and fetishizing" everything.

I even use nudity (and straight up naked) in some of my artwork to show the beauty in different body types and had nothing to do with erotica in any way. I've even been accused of fetishizing different body types and told to stop making those types of art.

Another instance is when Antis called my work "material used for grooming and preying on children" and "inherently pedophilic." By the way, one of the drawings they did this to was a naked woman holding her newborn baby in her arms.

It's at a point where they're telling people (who could also be victims) that their bodies are inherently sexual, but that's nothing new. I'm AFAB (Assigned female at birth) and this reminds me of how I was told to cover up my legs and shoulders in school by teachers because I would be "distracting" boys in my class.

Antis would go feral over the fact that there's a photo out there of me that has one multiple awards. It features me as an infant, sitting on the beach, butt ass naked in the tide. It's taken from behind, and in fact is a VERY common framing for a photo - or was, at the time it was taken and in the area which I had lived in. There is no intent in this image for there to be sexual allure, and I doubt anybody has used it in such a way.

Sometimes a body is just a body. A body can exist in any form, in any state. Nudity does not equal sexual. Minimal clothing does not equal sexual. People need to shake off the puritanical values they've picked up and comprehend that.