#keep forgetting to post this here but i moved!

[slut4kwon]

if you were anyone else

pairing: kwon jiyong x fem! reader

synopsis: you’re his best friend’s little sister. it was never supposed to mean anything, but now he can’t forget the way she looked at him like it did. and that’s the problem. because wanting her was already a mistake, but letting her go might be worse.

warnings: 18+, implied sexual content, swearing, angst, secret relationship, brother’s best friend trope, emotionally repressed men™, jealousy, regret, unresolved feelings, possessive behavior, emotionally charged spirals, mentions of anxiety/panic attacks, slight praise kink, yearning so intense it physically hurts.

authors note: this is my first time posting on here, so… go easy on me. or don’t. i probably won’t sleep either way. also this is long as fuck i am so sorry. if you read it, thank you. if you liked it, even better. if you’re here just for the angst, me too.

you should’ve known it would get messy the first time he kissed you.

it wasn’t sweet. it wasn’t slow.

it happened behind the wardrobe rack in one of the yg dressing rooms, thirty minutes before a run-through while the crew scrambled to fix a lighting issue.

you were in a sports bra and sweatpants, makeup half-finished, second-day curls falling effortlessly down your back.

he was in his usual all-black rehearsal outfit, a silver chain at his collarbone, and something unreadable behind his eyes.

“you’re not supposed to look at me like that,” he muttered, jaw tense, gaze fixed on yours.

you crossed your arms. “i’m not looking at you like anything.”

he stepped in closer. “you keep doing those little moves. the ones you know drive me fucking crazy.”

“you mean the choreography?” you shot back, lifting a brow. “i’m literally just doing my job.”

“that thing in the second chorus,” he said, his voice lower now. “when you drop low and bite your lip. you do that for me. don’t lie, beautiful.”

you rolled your eyes, but your breath caught when he moved again. closer, slower, deliberate.

“you want me to lose it, don’t you?”

you didn’t answer. couldn’t.

because the way he looked at you was hungry. frustrated. like he’d been holding something back for far too long. it lit something dangerous inside you.

before you could even speak, his mouth was on yours.

hot. desperate. possessive.

your back hit the wall. his hands gripped your waist.

your fingers curled into his shirt like it was an instinct.

his tongue, his hands, the way he groaned when you tugged his hair. everything about it was messy.

and it didn’t stop there.

the backstage hookups became a pattern. between rehearsals. after fittings. corners of the studio with fogged mirrors and locked doors.

always hidden. always rushed. always too much but somehow never enough.

you gave him your first time on the studio couch, the same one you always collapsed on after long nights.

not out of romance, but something heavier. needier.

your legs wrapped around his waist. your fingers in his hair like you were clinging to gravity.

and he let you.

let you take. let you tremble.

let you come undone in his lap while his mouth traced your collarbone like a promise he’d never speak out loud.

no one knew about this.

not the stylists. not the other dancers. not even his own bandmates.

and especially not seunghyun.

your older brother would’ve lost his mind. maybe even burned the whole building down if he ever found out.

because of course, out of all the people in the world, it had to be him.

kwon jiyong.

his best friend. his closest friend.

the one person who had no business even looking at you like that; let alone touching you, wanting you, needing you.

and yet somehow, he was always there.

for months, you told yourself it didn’t mean anything.

that the way he touched you like he needed you — like breathing wasn’t enough unless you were under him, around him, full of him — was just part of the act.

that the way he lingered after, brushing hair from your face like it mattered, wasn’t real either.

you told yourself you could handle it.

that you were strong enough to keep it casual. quiet. hidden.

but it got harder to lie every time he pulled you in and didn’t let go.

every time he stayed a little longer.

every time he looked at you like maybe, just maybe, you were more than a secret.

still, you never asked for more. how could you?

he was your brother’s best friend. this was never supposed to happen.

but it did.

over and over again. like a bad habit neither of you could quit.

you didn’t plan to fall for him. didn’t mean to hope he’d stay the night, or kiss you like it meant something.

but you did. god, of course you did.

i mean, how could you not?

he touched you like you were fragile, but fucked you like you were the only thing that’s ever made him come undone.

he zipped up your jacket for you like it was just an excuse to touch you again.

he continuously found your eyes across any room like they were the only ones that existed.

for a while, you let yourself believe he felt it too.

until about a month ago, when he decided that pretending it meant nothing became easier than admitting it ever meant anything at all.

it happened in your dressing room. you’d just touched up your lip gloss, and casually asked him if he was coming over that night.

same routine. same rhythm.

he didn’t answer right away though. he just stood there, still and silent.

you turned, confused, watching the way his jaw clenched and how he couldn’t quite meet your eyes.

“jiyong?” you spoke up quietly.

he finally looked at you.

and you knew. before he even opened his mouth, you felt it.

“we can’t keep doing this.”

your stomach still dropped. “what?”

“this… whatever it is… it needs to stop.”

“don’t do that. don’t act like this wasn’t real.”

his jaw tightened as he looked away. “it was a mistake.”

“say it and mean it,” you snapped.

he didn’t hesitate this time. “it was a mistake.”

your laugh came out sharp, bitter. “tell yourself whatever you need to sleep at night, but don’t stand there and pretend that i didn’t mean a damn thing to you.”

“y/n—” he started, but you cut him off.

“fuck you, jiyong.”

he met your eyes again, his throat tight.

almost like he wanted to say something else. like it was stuck somewhere between his ribs and his pride.

but he didn’t answer. he just let the silence grow between you.

let it choke everything that hadn’t been said. let it mean more than the truth would’ve.

“i’m sorry.” he finally said.

not a reason. not an explanation.

just that. two words. and then he walked out.

no goodbye. no chance to respond. no space to fall apart.

just the door clicking shut behind him like none of it had ever meant anything. like you had never meant anything.

the worst part wasn’t even the way it ended.

it was how nothing else did.

rehearsals still ran long. the mirrors still fogged with sweat. the playlist still cycled through the same tracks you used to hum when you thought no one could hear you.

he was always there. of course he was.

not in the way that mattered though. not in the way you needed. just in the way that somehow made it worse.

that same smirk. same swagger. same easy charm that made everyone else feel like nothing had changed.

like he hadn’t ruined you with nothing but his mouth and a handful of whispered promises he never intended to keep.

he still showed up to rehearsals like none of it ever happened.

he still carried his favourite hoodie. the one he never left home without.

everyone thought it was a comfort thing; a habit, maybe. something worn-in and familiar. assumed he just loved it.

and maybe he did. but it wasn't because it was warm, or soft, or broken in just right.

it was because it was yours.

he never carried it for himself. he carried it for you.

you never brought your own.

you hated feeling cold, and hated asking for help even more.

but with jiyong, you never had to ask. he paid attention to the way you’d rub slow circles into your arm, tuck your hands under your thighs, sometimes even press your tongue to the roof of your mouth just to stay quiet.

tiny things. things no one else could ever pick up on.

and yet somehow, he always did.

you never had to ask. he’d just offer it. sometimes with just a glance, sometimes with a soft, “here.”

and if you ever hesitated, he’d pull it over your head himself. like he was allowed to. like it meant something.

the other boys never questioned it. of course they didn’t. they would’ve done the same. they had before, on the rare days jiyong wasn’t around. but when he was, they never got the chance.

but now, he wears it again like it doesn't hold your scent. your shape. every version of you he ever pulled close. like it's just a hoodie.

however, this didn't stop you from showing up to rehearsals every day too.

because that’s what professionals do, right?

they show up, even when it hurts.

even when the person they can’t stop dreaming about is stretching ten feet away.

still laughing with everyone like he wasn’t one secret away from getting his jaw broken by your older brother.

there was no wreckage. no huge fall-out. just absence.

no one knew what had been taken because nothing, on the surface, was missing.

but you felt it. in every glance he didn’t give you. every touch that didn’t happen, but almost did.

and you were angry.

angry that he ended it without warning. angry that he made that decision for the both of you. angry that he could walk away without looking back.

you were angry at yourself for still caring.

you hated that your eyes searched for him when you entered the room. that your skin remembered him better than your brain wanted it to. how some part of you still wished he’d turn around and take it all back.

but he never did. not once.

rehearsal had run longer than usual today. the sun had dipped somewhere behind the city skyline without you noticing. shadows were now stretching across the floor as the studio emptied, one by one.

you stayed behind, stretching in silence, letting the burn in your muscles distract from the burn in your chest.

you suddenly heard your brother’s loud voice, which snapped you out of whatever trance you were in. “dinner. let’s go.”

you didn’t even blink. still stretched out on the floor, one leg bent and arms braced behind you. “pass.”

seunghyun frowned. “you didn’t even ask where.”

“don’t need to,” you said coolly. “you’re painfully predictable.”

daesung raised a brow. “she’s got you there.”

“actually, i’m switching it up tonight,” seunghyun insisted. “new place. no kimchi stew.”

you finally looked up, unimpressed. “who’s paying you to try their new restaurant?”

he crossed his arms. “no one. i just think you need some real food in you. something with protein. maybe even a vegetable.”

“tempting,” you said, standing up and stretching your arms over your head. “but i can’t. i’ve got plans.”

“plans?” seunghyun’s voice cracked like he’d just heard you say you were moving out and never coming back.

you grabbed your water. “yep.”

“what kind of plans?”

“the kind that don’t include you,” you said, smiling sweetly.

youngbae’s head popped up from behind his duffel. “wait. are we talking… plans plans?”

you just sipped your water like it was nothing, which, naturally, made it something.

daesung narrowed his eyes. “that look. that’s a ‘plans with a boy’ look if i’ve ever seen one.”

you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. it was more entertaining to watch them spiral on their own.

youngbae gasped. “you’re going on a date.”

“jesus christ,” seunghyun muttered. “no you’re not.”

“i didn’t say that,” you replied, smoothing your hair down.

“but you didn’t not say it.”

you gave the smallest shrug, which, unfortunately, said everything, once again.

youngbae gasped like he’d been betrayed. “you’re seeing someone? since when?”

“relax,” you said, throwing your towel over your shoulder. “you’re acting like i announced an engagement.”

“it’s hard to relax when you’re acting suspiciously vague,” daesung countered.

“which means it’s serious,” youngbae added while nodding. “you’re protecting him.”

you raised a brow. “or i’m protecting you idiots from a full-blown meltdown.”

seunghyun squinted. “who is it?”

“none of your business.”

“it is absolutely my business if some dude is out here making googly eyes at my baby sister behind my back!”

“googly eyes?” you echoed, half-laughing. “what are we, twelve?”

“i’m being serious, y/n.”

“i can tell, oppa. very intimidating.”

“is it someone we know?” daesung asked. “because i feel like it’s someone we know.”

“you don’t know him.” you replied, which wasn’t technically a lie.

there was no him. but they didn’t need to know that.

especially not the one sitting on the bench near the mirror, completely silent.

jiyong hadn’t said a word. hadn’t even moved.

just sat there with his towel around his neck, and his eyes on the floor.

but you saw the tension in his hands. the way his jaw was set so tightly, it looked like it hurt.

and it gave you just enough fuel to keep going.

seunghyun was still spiraling. “i don’t like this. what if he’s some asshole? what if he’s just trying to—”

“then i’ll deal with it,” you replied calmly. “i’m perfectly capable of throwing hands.”

“still don’t like it.”

“you’re not supposed to, oppa.”

and that’s when jiyong spoke. low. dismissive. deadly.

“just let her go.”

everyone turned.

seunghyun blinked. “huh?”

“if she’s got plans, she’s got plans,” jiyong said. not looking at you. not looking at anyone. “it’s not our business.”

“oh, wow,” daesung muttered. “traitor.”

“you’re not even gonna try to talk her out of it?” seunghyun asked, almost sounding dumbfounded.

“she’s allowed to do whatever she wants,” jiyong replied, tossing the towel aside like the whole conversation bored him. “if it’s a date, then…let her have fun.”

you said nothing. you just stared at him.

and after a long second, he finally looked up, just for a heartbeat. just long enough to meet your eyes.

and there it was. buried under all of it; jealousy. regret. hurt.

only things that you could see.

the things he couldn’t say. the ones you never needed him to.

so you smiled, small and sweet.

“thanks for your support, jiji.” you said sweetly, using the nickname you rarely used for him anymore.

he didn’t answer, but you didn’t wait for one either.

you grabbed your bag and threw it over your shoulder.

“anyways, don’t wait up!” you shouted, turning and blowing a kiss towards the boys as you walked towards the door.

youngbae clutched his chest. “she’s so going to make out with him.”

“i’m gonna vomit,” seunghyun muttered.

you walked out giggling without looking back.

jiong didn’t move. didn’t even blink. just stared at the door like it might swing back open and undo all of it.

it didn’t.

he noticed the tremble in your hands as you reached for your bag. it was faint, almost invisible. the kind of shake that came when your body had given too much.

he always noticed.

it was a curse. a reflex. a silent devotion to you that he never meant to make a habit.

you were clearly overstimulated, vibrating underneath your skin. and no one else seemed to care.

but he did. he always did.

the boys were still talking. still laughing, but their voices echoed as if they were underwater.

daesung was teasing seunghyun about running a background check. youngbae was already trying to guess the date’s name. one of them joked about texting you the restaurant address ‘in case lover boy stands you up.’

jiyong didn’t laugh. he couldn’t.

because the silence left in your absence was louder than anything. and beneath it, something ugly twisted in his chest.

he knew you weren’t dressed for a date. your hair was wild, your face was bare, still glowing with sweat and adrenaline.

you didn’t look like someone trying to impress a man, not that you needed to. you just looked like you. the version jiyong had memorized in the low light of his apartment, curled into his sheets, still trembling from his mouth on your skin.

and somehow, that made it worse.

because what if this new guy didn’t care enough to notice the small things jiyong had?

what if he didn’t realize how you go quiet when you’re overwhelmed, not out of moodiness, but because your brain shuts down under too much noise?

what if he didn’t know how sometimes you can’t ask for help, because you don’t even know what you need?

what about that you chew the inside of your cheek when you’re anxious? or that you tap your thumb against your middle finger three times when you’re trying not to cry?

would he know that you hated the sound of ticking clocks? that certain words made your skin crawl? that sometimes, dancing was the only thing that kept your thoughts from devouring you whole?

jiyong did. he knew all of it.

he knew how to sit behind you on the studio floor when everything got to be too much; legs stretched out on either side of you, chest pressed against your back.

he knew not to ask what was wrong. he knew that you didn’t always know, and that asking only made it worse.

just to let you press your ear over his heart and listen to the rhythm of his heartbeat until your lungs remembered how to breathe properly on their own again.

he knew the hoodie he always carried for you was your lifeline when you needed comfort. which songs made you cry even if you didn’t quite know why.

he knew you couldn’t sit in the backseat of a car because it always made you nauseous. which corners of your body held tension so tightly, you didn’t even realize they hurt until he pressed his fingers there.

he learned you like a prayer. a warning. a song that never stopped playing in the back of his head.

and now, someone else might get to touch you. might get to pretend they know you. run their hands down a body they hadn’t earned. kiss a mouth that didn’t belong to them.

and jiyong fucking hated that.

because yeah, it started as just sex.

reckless. rushed. hidden in between rehearsals and outfit changes. in cars, stairwells and hotel rooms too quiet for what the two of you were doing.

but it stopped being just sex a long time ago.

he didn’t know when exactly it shifted. maybe it was the first night you told him not to ask, but to just take. when you grabbed his wrist and pulled it to your throat. when you told him to ruin you.

or maybe it was the one night he didn’t.

the night he slowed down.

held your jaw in both hands like you were made of glass and kissed you like he had something to lose.

told you how fucking perfect you were. how you take him so well. how you were made for him.

you came apart for him like you believed it. like you needed it.

surely that’s when he realized it wasn’t just sex. at least, not anymore.

because you didn’t just let him have your body, you gave it to him. not with words. not directly.

in the way you trembled under his touch. in the way you arched into his hands. in the way you moaned his name like it meant something.

and fuck, it did. it meant everything.

he memorized you. not just the way your thighs shook when you were close or the spot beneath your ribs that made you gasp when he kissed it for the first time.

he knew your body better than he knew his own.

he memorized the curve of your spine. the pitch of your moans. the shape of your mouth when you were too fucked-out to speak.

he knew exactly where to touch to make you fall apart, but also exactly how to hold you when you couldn’t put yourself back together.

he hated himself for it.

for needing you. for learning you. for turning every sound you made into a song he couldn’t stop humming in his own head.

because the more he gave, the more he wanted. and the more he wanted, the more it hurt.

he told himself that ending it was the right call, and maybe it was.

maybe it was smart. you were seunghyun’s little sister, after all. this was doomed from the moment it started.

but god, he missed you.

you were the only one he ever let see him for who he really was, and now you were gone. and he has no one else to blame for that but himself.

his thumb pressed into the palm of his opposite hand; hard. a grounding technique, one that you taught him. one that never worked unless it was your voice talking him through it.

he barely felt the pain.

he just sat there, spine tense, gaze still locked on the scuffed floor where you’d been standing just a few moments ago.

the room still buzzed with conversation. low laughter, the rustle of jackets, someone still talking about dinner plans.

but it all felt far away. almost like he was watching it through a sheet of glass that was thick and smudged with fingerprints.

he didn’t hear what they said. he didn’t care either.

because all he could think about was the look on your face before you walked out.

not happy. not angry. not sad either.

he honestly wasn’t quite sure, and that scared him a little.

he remembers how you used to look at him. like you saw through everything; the ego, the performance, the chaos.

that was because you did, and yet, you still chose him.

every. single. time.

but now, you didn’t even look back.

“hyung?” daesung said cautiously, tone lighter than his expression. “you good?”

jiyong blinked like he was waking up from a dream. “what?”

“you’ve been kinda weird lately,” youngbae said from behind him. “and not just today either.”

“yeah,” daesung added. “like the last few weeks.”

jiyong exhaled through his nose, forcing a shrug. “just tired.”

seunghyun looked up from where he was zipping his bag. “ji.”

jiyong flinched like his name stung.

“talk to us,” seunghyun said, voice low, less like a demand and more like a plea. “we’ve been worried. you don’t laugh the same anymore. you barely show up.”

“i’m fine,” he said, sharper this time. like if he said it hard enough, they’d believe it.

“we’re not trying to push,” youngbae said gently. “we just miss you, man.”

jiyong’s throat was tight. he couldn’t look any of them in the eye.

“i’ll see you guys later,” he spoke suddenly, already halfway to the door.

“what?” daesung called after him. “you’re not coming to eat?”

“not hungry.”

seunghyun took a step forward. “jiyong—wait.”

but the door was already closing behind him.

and just like that, he was gone. his feet moved without thinking.

down the hallway, out of the building, and into the night.

but on the inside, he was somewhere else entirely.

back in the dressing room. back in your bed.

back in that goddamn moment where you looked up at him like you were his, even though you both knew you weren’t.

he can still feel it.

the weight of your body curled under his. your nails in his skin. his name on your tongue.

the breath you let out when he called you sweetheart like it meant something.

the quietness afterwards that felt like a promise, even though neither of you ever made one.

it should’ve faded by now.

but it hasn’t. it’s still there.

in the way his chest tightens when someone says your name.

in the way his hands curl into fists when he pictures you laughing with someone else.

in the way the silence feels heavier when you’re not around to fill it.

and now, he has to act like it didn’t happen. like it didn’t mean anything. like you didn’t mean everything.

he hates himself for how much he still cares.

hates that he let it get this far. that he let you in. that he let it mean something.

but more than anything, he hates that he can’t stop hoping it meant something to you, too.

because no matter how far he lets you go, he will always believe that no one else will ever have you in the way that he did.

and maybe that makes him selfish.

but it also makes him right.

[mongoosemagazine]

Friends (Anti social medic reader x Smitten Ghost)

I am so honored by the support for this little one-shot, I only started recently with posting… I am so glad to be part of such a supportive community <3

part 2 of antisocialmedic reader & Smug ghost

Ghost stomped down the hallways towards the medbay holding a tray of meat and potatoes, he had purposely mashed up the potatoes more so there would not have been any lumps of potatoes left and grabbed the little salt packets for her, he turned a corner. Opening the door with his elbow and slipping into the room “Goodmorning, Mouse”

“Why are you here-” she slowly rotated in her chair to face him as he put food on her desk from the improvised med bay. He turned off her monitors as she moved to try to stop his hand from messing up her setup, he held her by the wrists and made her sit down“why? Why? Stop it i need-” he placed down the tray of food.

“You need to eat, doc.” he sat on the cot closest to her desk, “and you’re welcome…” he grumbled as he crossed his arms leaning back against the wall. 

“I need to work” he just glared at her, his eyes flickering between the food and her.

“Try again…”

She narrowed her gaze towards him and huffed crossing her arms, they two were locked in a staring match before being rudely broken off by the sound of her stomach rumbling at an atrocious volume. A gruff chuckle escaped him as he straightened his posture.

“Shut up” she mumbled as she picked up the fork and started feeding herself. He could see the little upturn in her brow as she found how smooth the mashed potatoes were. 

“So-”

“Be happy i’m letting you sit there, I don’t like small talk” she turned away from him as she ate, he smiled under his mask at her, he couldn't help but find her adorable.

“Trust me princess I am” he smirked at the new reaction as she went completely stiff in her chair. “Don't call me that” he spoke in unison to her reply. “See I know you so well already, no need for small talk.” 

“You don’t know me.” they spoke in unison again and she let out a look so deadly he almost swooned for her. “You like annoying me?” she grumbled as she dusted off half her plate. She went to reach for her water but he passed it to her quickly. “...thank you” her eyes lingered on him and his hand.

“What’s wrong?” she furrowed her brows as he posed the question rocking herself in her chair slightly. “Why do you keep coming back? Talking to me, I mean. I’m not a good conversationalist, I don't like people and I don't want you here.” she finally faced him again and he sat there with a stupid look on his face which she didn’t understand.

“Because I like hanging out with you.” she finished eating and stared at him with a very confused stare. “And frankly you need some more socialising.” 

“I-” she sat up straight, she didn’t like being read at all. “I am perfectly happy on my own.”

“You aren't, Mouse.” he leaned forward speaking in a low tone, he noticed how she shied back slightly and readjusted himself accordingly. “You lock yourself away all day, you forget to eat and sleep too little.”

“This is none of your business.” She cleaned up her plate and fork, putting them all back on the tray. “I don't need you. I am smart- independent-”

“I’m not saying you aren’t” he pinched his nose bridge and sighed. He sat up and ran through how to explain this to someone who was so antisocial and socially unaware. “It is good…for you..” she tilted her head. “You’re a doctor, you should know what loneliness can do to someone long term. You need friends to survive, mouse”

“So…you want to be my friend?”

“Yes mouse, I want to be your friend.”

“Does that mean I have to do small talk with you?”

“No mouse, we’ll be just fine without it.” he smiled fondly under the mask.

[milk-is-stable]

A Beautiful Thing

Summary: Based on this post by @unbelenting; Three times that someone calls Annabelle a beautiful thing.

Word Count: 1,577

Read on AO3: HERE

AN: As soon as I saw those three quotes next to each other, I was possessed by the idea for this story until I managed to excise it from my brain, I hope you all enjoy <3

— — —

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my life." 

Annabelle froze, staring down at the man on the floor in disbelief. Usually when she threatened men, they looked at her with fear, or avoided looking at her at all, which suited her just fine. There was something about the rush of holding up an entire room full of people that made her feel invincible, and the way it made men cower away from her was such a refreshing change from the moon-eyed, overly polite treatment she was used to from the boys in town. 

Sweet Miss Annabelle Parker, isn't it such a shame about her mama, but golly if she isn't the prettiest thing you ever saw! 

Annabelle was perfectly happy to leave that behind for a few hours every time she and Butch rode out together. It was the one time that men didn't care that she was small and "delicate," didn't care that she was beautiful, didn't care that she was a She at all. When she wore a mask over her face and held a pistol in her hands, men who looked at her didn't see a woman to fawn over, they saw a nefarious robber to be feared and respected.

But this man, he was different. He saw the mask and saw the gun, and yet he stared at her as though he was dying of thirst and she was an oasis in the desert. Something about his gaze made her skin crawl, and she felt what was surely an irrational urge to shoot him in the face, if it would just stop him looking at her like that. 

"Hey partner, we need to get outta here!" Butch called, her voice shaking Annabelle free from her stupor. 

"You're the girl with the gun," the man on the floor said. 

He shifted, as though to get to his feet, and Annabelle moved on instinct. She sent a kick flying towards him, and he let out a howl of pain as the heel of her boot connected with his groin. She turned and ran, stumbling a bit as somehow the man grabbed hold of her shoe, but she shook it off and kept moving, grabbing Butch's hand as the two of them fled the scene and mounted their horses. 

"What were you doing, flirting with– I mean, talking with the hostages?" Butch asked, and Annabelle shook her head. 

"I don't know! That man, he said he'd seen me before, and called me the girl with the gun."

"There they are! Stop them!" a voice shouted, and Butch dug her spurs into her horse's sides. 

"GO, GO, GO, GO, GO!" she shouted as they took off in a gallop.

"It was so weird, what he was sayin'!" Annabelle called over the wind. "It just made me freeze, alright? I'm sorry!"

"It's fine, that don't matter now!" Butch said. "Just keep goin', and don't slow down for no one!" 

They rode as hard as they could, but when Annabelle glanced behind them she saw a pair of horses off in the distance, slowly gaining on them. 

"Shit, they're still following!" she exclaimed, doing her best to spur her horse forward with only one boot on. "They'll catch us at this rate!" 

"Split up!" Butch suggested. "You head east and take the long road home to your daddy's, I'll keep heading south and try to lose them in the hills!" 

"Alright..." Annabelle agreed. "Butch, I-"

"No time to talk now, GO!" Butch shouted, and Annabelle reluctantly steered her horse away.

As she rode, she tried to focus on the feeling of the wind in her face, the rhythm of her horse's gallop beneath her, the warmth of the late afternoon sun on her neck, anything to forget the look on the man from the bank's face.

It doesn't matter, she told herself. I won't ever go back to that city, and I won't ever see him again. It's fine.

But no matter what she told herself and no matter how fast she rode, the feeling of his gaze clung to her like sweat in the August heat, and she couldn't help but shudder.

— — — 

"You are the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen in this world." 

Annabelle rolled her eyes and looked down, picking at her fingernails. 

"Oh, every daddy has to say that to his daughter, it's like the fucking law or somethin'," she said.

"That may be true," her daddy said, and he reached out, placing a hand on her shoulder. "That may be true. But it doesn't mean I don't mean it, sweetheart."

Annabelle looked up to see him smiling at her, his eyes soft and fond. She was struck suddenly with a memory, from nearly ten years ago now. She had tried to play with a group of boys in the schoolyard, but they'd refused to let her join unless she agreed to be a princess in a tower for them to rescue. She'd run home crying, and her daddy had swept her up in his arms and planted a kiss on her forehead, and told her that she could be anything she wanted to be and that any boy who didn't let her wasn't worth the mud on the bottom of her boots. 

Her daddy reached out and cupped her face, pulling her back to the present. 

"If Butch doesn't look at you and see how wonderful you are, if she hears your words and doesn't feel the same way? The rejection is hard...but at the end of the day, that does not have to define you. You are still my daughter, and I will always love you no matter what, but even that doesn't make you who you are. You decide that, always." 

Annabelle swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. 

"But I...I love her so much, Daddy. If she doesn't accept my feelings, then what am I supposed to do?" 

Her daddy sighed, and ran a hand through his hair. 

"I know, sweetheart, I know. When your mother left, I did not take it well at first. But eventually I realized that things change, you know? And change is okay. It's just another opportunity to find out more of who you are. But you'll never know that if you never open up to her." 

"You're right, Daddy," Annabelle said. She took a deep breath, and gave him a shaky smile. "I need to tell Butch how I feel." 

"Yes you do," her daddy said, and he raised an eyebrow. "And then you need to stop robbing banks, young lady!"

"Alright, alright!" Annabelle said, holding up her hands. "I'll go and tell her right now." 

"Good," her daddy said, and he smiled. "And remember, no matter what she says, I'll always be here for you."

"Thanks, Daddy," said Annabelle, and she couldn't help but smile back. 

— — — 

"You are the most beautiful thing in the entire world." 

Annabelle's breath caught in her throat, and a blush rose to her cheeks. 

"Butch, I-"

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to say that," Butch continued, her voice quivering slightly. "I don't know how I kept it inside for so long." 

"Me either," Annabelle whispered. "I tried to tell you how I felt so many times, but every time I just ended up saying let's rob a bank instead." 

Butch laughed, and reached down to tuck a curl behind Annabelle's ear. 

"I mean it, you know," she said, her voice softer. She stared into Annabelle's eyes, something akin to awe on her face. "You're so beautiful."

It was not the first time Annabelle had been told that she was lovely to look at. People had been saying some variation of "you're so pretty!" since she was thirteen years old, and she had learned to accept the words with a demure smile and a nod, carefully sidestepping any and all men who attempted to use the compliments as the start of something more. If she was honest with herself, she'd slowly come to dread any time someone drew attention to her appearance, even before today's horrible encounter with the deputy who'd tried to make her his...prize.  

But hearing those words come out of Butch's mouth was different. For the first time, Annabelle found herself wanting to hear them again. 

"Really?" she asked, smiling coyly. "What's so beautiful about me?"

"Everything," Butch said immediately. "Your eyes are bluer than the sky, your hair looks like it was spun from gold, your voice is like a choir of angels, when you smile it lights up the whole damn world, and every time I look at you I think I must have died and gone to heaven because I can't believe that I'm lucky enough to be alive in a world where I get to look at you whenever I want." 

Annabelle stared at Butch, her mouth open in shock, and Butch smirked at her. 

“Do ya want me to go on, darlin’?” she asked. “Like I said, I’ve wanted to say it for a long time. You are the most beautiful, most perfect woman in the world.” 

“Now hang on, that can’t be true,” Annabelle said, and Butch frowned. 

“Why not?” 

Annabelle smiled, and reached up, fiddling with the tie around Butch’s neck. 

“Because you’re the most perfect woman in the world,” she said. 

Butch’s face went bright red, and Annabelle couldn’t help but pull her down into a long, lingering kiss. 

[novaursa]

GRRM gives you free reign to make whatever changes you want to the books

What do you do?

Alright, gloves off. If GRRM handed me the keys to A Song of Ice and Fire, and told me to do whatever I wanted—no canon restrictions, no fan expectations, just raw narrative freedom—here's exactly what I'd do:

1. Daenerys Gets a Spine (and a Brain) Back

Her ADWD arc is a dragging mess. She goes from a fierce conqueror with moral ambiguity and raw ambition to a mopey, dithering queen playing house with slavers and whining about prophecy and dragons like they're misbehaving pets. No. I’d gut that entire Meereenese knot.

She embraces being a dragon. No more pretending to be Mhysa the goat herder. She burns Astapor, sacks Yunkai, and crucifies more slavers when they resist.

She leans harder into her Targaryen side, but not in the cartoon "madness" way. Cold, brilliant, and terrifying. Think Cleopatra meets Alexander the Great with actual dragons.

Her dragons are weapons. Not metaphors. Not unruly children. Weapons.

And yes���she flies west before the end of the book, either to Westeros or to Valyria to find something that actually matters.

2. Trim the Fat — Cut the Dead Weight POVs

GRRM’s biggest crime is not writing too much, but writing too much that doesn’t matter. We don’t need:

Areo Hotah: His POV is like being stuck in a silent film with color commentary from a bored eunuch.

Quentyn Martell: Killed off to prove a point that was made five chapters earlier. Waste of ink.

Arys Oakheart: I’d keep Arianne, but his chapters go in the fire.

Instead, consolidate that narrative real estate into making sure we have consistent arcs for Jon, Dany, Arya, and Tyrion. Or give it to overlooked characters with actual stakes—like Sandor, who could carry at least one book-worthy POV.

3. Let Aerys Burn It All Down (Alternate Timeline)

I’d absolutely write a full-blown AU where Rhaegar doesn’t "kidnap" Lyanna—he fails to stop his father. Aerys torches King’s Landing. The wildfire caches erupt. The Red Keep collapses. Tywin doesn’t betray him in time. The capital becomes a cursed ruin—Harrenhal 2.0.

The Targaryen dynasty ends on dragonfire, not with a whimper but a cataclysm.

Make that the starting point for a darker, post-apocalyptic Westeros where the Starks, Martells, and Greyjoys pick through the ashes for power, and Dorne rises through fire and smoke.

You want a mad king? Let him be mad. Not just whisper about it—show it, full nuclear.

4. Bring Back the Supernatural with Real Purpose

The Others: Give us a hard magic system behind their resurrection powers. Less vague “winter is coming” and more “here’s the blueprint for undead conquest.”

Bran: No more magical wheelchair Jesus. Make him a morally ambiguous, terrifying greenseer who may or may not be responsible for the Long Night returning. Think less Druid, more Lovecraft.

The Wall: Tear it down. That’s your end-of-Book-6 climax.

5. Endgame: The Final Four

By the last book, only four characters matter in the Song of Ice and Fire:

Jon Snow: The Song itself—fire and ice in one man. But he doesn’t get the crown. He sacrifices himself to stop the Others permanently.

Daenerys: She becomes Queen. Not of Westeros, but of a new order. She reshapes the political map.

Tyrion: He survives, bitter, broken, and the last witness to everything that died with the age of dragons.

Bran: Not king. God. A broken, root-bound oracle at the center of the weirwood network. Neither man nor boy anymore. Something else.

Everyone else—food for crows.

6. Cersei Dies in the Pettiest, Most Ironic Way Possible

Forget getting crushed by rubble. She dies locked in a room with wildfire she ordered to be moved, trying to light it and screaming “I am the queen!” as Jaime slams the door shut.

7. Theme Fix: No More Moral Shrugging

The series started out with a strong theme: actions have consequences. But it loses that bite by Book 5. I’d bring it back hard. Every lie, every murder, every betrayal—you pay the price. Maybe not today. But someone does.

Bottom line: I’d make it tighter, darker, and more mythic. No rambling travelogues, no food porn, no filler chapters of people describing other people who are off-screen doing something maybe interesting. Less talking about dragons. More dragons. Less hinting at the end. Deliver it.

Let the old gods bleed, let the throne rot, and let the last page be written in fire and shadow.

[abirddogmoment]

there's this woman in my condo complex with two chihuahuas and they look like nice dogs but she walks one without a leash and this thing has run snarling at rory five times now, crossing streets and parking lots to come at us, and I won't stop walking and let rory greet it because it's maaaaybe 2lbs total and she could crush it by accident with one paw and also shouldn't have to interact with dogs who are barking and snarling at her even if they're tiny, so we keep walking and this dog chases us snarling and this lady is talking shit about me to the other dog owners in the complex but like??? a leash costs $1 at the dollarama down the road

[deoidesign]

Just a reminder, I have a patreon!!!

I've been working on actually making stuff to post more often for the lower tiers, and have been consistently doing so!

I post at least a few sketches and drawings every month for the $1 and up patrons

and I've been working on episodes and sharing some updates with my $5 and up patrons

And I have a merch club for $15 a month, but there's still some $10 slots left! I design and send usually a postcard and some stickers to my patrons every month, but sometimes I'll do some experimental stuff; last month I did foil prints, for instance, and a few months before I made magnets!

It also gets you access to private channels in my discord server, where I ask for patron input on things like the merch or drawings, and where I sometimes stream while working :)

Buuuut also, even if you don't want any of this stuff, it's a great way to support me directly if you like my work! I'm still on hiatus so I'm not making any money from work at the moment, but I'm working hard and my patreon enables me at least to buy my groceries!

Here's the link one more time, no pressure of course but I need to promote my patreon more so people actually know it exists haha

[that1notetaker]

Hijacking your post momentarily to talk once again about the way Near interacts with his toys/cards/etc tends to be a metaphor for what he's feeling or the way a case is being planned out.

(Because that's how he thinks. Personally, I think Near is a visual thinker. He needs to have something to metaphorically express what's going on in his head. It doesn't need to be with words, it just needs to translate)

Which makes me think...can we mention how fragile these towers are?

Card towers like these can only be properly maintained in closed spaces with little movement, no people...in isolation. But you make one wrong move and it all comes down.

That's what 'L' means here. That's who Near is trying to be, sustained in self-contained captivity. But Near isn't L, only a copy. He's been trying so hard to be L's shadow, but that's all it is...a copy. And he knows this. He forgets that technically, he IS L now. In title, at least.

Speaking of copies, how many L-towers you see here? A lot, a lot of towers that keep going into the background. Copies of the same thing, again and again. ANd just how LONG has he been building these? How long has he been trying to be L, trying to erase who 'Near' is? Because in truth, who WANTS Near? The world doesn't, the world only needs L. Without L, Near Is a nobody. That's why Near needs to be L. Because maybe he wouldn't know what else to do with himself without L's shadow pressing down his shoulders.

Near might not be happy or content, but Near is SAFE. Like this place, like these towers. And that's always something he's been known to prioritise, most of the time.

It's so cool, because all these, these cool towers, theyre visually explaining Nears situation without saying a word. But no one, in the story that is, ever mentions it. No one tries to interact, or break, or understand what Near is doing, WHY he is doing. And those people that might have understood are already dead.

APPRECIATION POST:

Near's creations

Near peeking has got to be one of my favorite things ever!

I've just recently noticed these being shaped like an L, and I thought their size alone was a thing to be impressed about.

[revenantghost]

Tfw you have a week so insane that you have NO idea what day it is. You've left time and space entirely. Liminal week.

[sleepy-stitches]

your weak little label maker vs my powerful masking tape and a sharpie

[mechahero]

//Looking at the doc of Motor City info and small plot beats I have written down over the years and I think it's kind of funny how far Steve has come so far. He went from being just the weird eldritch monster that moves platforms between the top and bottom layers of Motor City like an elevator while being the nicest person ever to the creature to go to for good life advice.

He kind of deserves that tbh.

[peliginspeaks]

Hey gang I just realized that I don't think Null can pass the mirror test? Which in the context of their past profession and Flondon in general is. Hilarious

Context: the mirror test is a test of intelligence for animals (and development for small children) to see if they realize that the person in the mirror is Them and not another baby/cat/whatever. I'm pretty sure it tests the intelligence needed to realize how reflections work, but it also needs a sense of self, and since Null straight up Doesn't Have One I just... don't think they would pass. Which is hilarious because by sheer luck their assumption that the reflection is a whole other person is in fact kind of right in the Neath.

[arealcrow]

painted my new apt over the weekend

[zend-pixie]

even made a “daily emmet brickowski” account on twitter (might add doodles there some day but for now its just screenshots) and i find it very funny that the only supporters are me myself and i (and @cheeki-tails)

[obbiwonk]

what the fuck is this and how do i make it go away without clicking it?

[choco-reblogs-stuff-aaaa]

THISSS I ACTUALLY LOVE THOSE THEMES SO MUCH!!!

The final TF2 issue really got to me. Spoilers, but it’s the reveal that all of this suffering and murder and war over gravel and shitty land was for nothing but senseless, bottomless hatred. That the administrator can’t even remember where this revenge plot started as she flashes through different false memories of her parents’ deaths. There was never a tragic backstory or justification, only terrible people doing despicable things. And despite how crass and stupid and unserious TF2 is, the story subverts every expectation by showing the survivors and inheritors willingly breaking the cycle. Ms. Pauling lies to the administrator and chooses not to save her, and finally lets her die. (Hurts even more if you read into the subtext that Ms. Pauling is in love with the administrator.) She lets the final cache of Australium go and walks away from the burden and legacy of a century-old bloodfeud. Hale lets Gray’s daughter go and live her life freely. Spy is the first to arrive at Scout’s house and meet his big family, finally takes off his mask, and helps with the kids. Even Merasmus exhaustedly makes peace with himself and Soldier and chooses not to curse him or something. There’s nothing to finish, no promises to keep, and no one to avenge. The only thing to do is break the cycle and walk away.

It feels odd how happy and warm everything is, but it feels so right and earned. These bloodthirsty, awful, violent men were expendable cogs in a machine of endless violence, and they found a way out. It’s a genuinely great message about letting go the past that burdens you and finding the will and a way to hit the bricks, change, and be happy. Maybe they don’t technically deserve happiness, but they’ve got it nonetheless, and they’re not gonna let it go to waste. They’re still all crazy and violent, but on their own terms now and with people who love them! Smiles.

[radrobotz]

i was planning to finally move dc stuff to a sideblog but i keep posting abt it here 😭