#time to start from the beginning again i guess

[yan-randomfandom]

Heyyy! I was wondering if you could do yandere saja boys x reader where the reader hangs out with a guy and they get very jealous

Yandere!Saja Boys x GN!Reader

a/n; the day im satisfied with writing a yan!saja boys and/or yan!huntrix one shot is the day i'll retire because this is still lacking 💔

warnings; uncomfortable, stalking, possessive behavior, more spotlight on Abby! no Jinu here, sry!

— 🌇

That's weird.

You're not anywhere in your house. You haven't responded to their messages yet.

"Think they finally had enough of us?" Baby mutters, looking through your snack drawer—nothing of interest—before closing it harsher than intended. The loud bang echoes in the empty kitchen.

Abby narrows his eyes as he looks through the window. The sun is going to set soon. "That can't be right. Maybe they went to buy something."

"Without telling us?" Mystery growls, his fingers fidgeting together. Well, it's not like you need to tell them every action you'll do. He's not even sure himself why he's so irritated.

After all, they were already planning to take your soul after the whole thing is over. But now that he's thinking of it again, the idea doesn't feel so good anymore...

The front door suddenly squeals open. All of them turn, expecting you, but instead meet Romance's face.

"Don't look so disappointed," Romance scoffs with an eyebrow raise. "I found the human. Come on."

— 🫧

First, they felt relief, then anger, then sadness, then nothing.

They found you alone, as Romance said you were, but then you started laughing. Your gentle laughter stopped them from getting any closer. A smile curls on your lips as your eyes consistently follow something.

"What?" Romance mutters, confusion scrunching his face. They can't see well from this angle—but they can't move either without being seen.

"I told you it's slippery," you snicker, walking over and extending your hand. Ah. So you weren't alone. "Come on. I'll help you up, I guess."

"Thanks," a voice replies, matching your energy, causing all of the boys to glance at each other. They watch as a hand takes yours. "I guess."

The person gets up—a man. Not a demon, but a human. Standing too close to you and still holding your hand. Or maybe it was just a normal distance, and time felt like forever watching you touch that thing—but, oh, Gwi-Ma. They feel like boiling their human forms.

You finally let go of him, using your hand to fish your phone out of your pocket. A frown snakes across your lips after a while. "Oh, no."

"Oh no?" your friend asks, tilting his head. "Is something wrong?"

You begin chewing your bottom lip, looking around. "No, uh, not really. But I have to go now. Nice catching up with you, man!"

"Aw, really?" he says, glancing at his phone. "Oh. It is pretty late. Isn't your apartment like right over there? I can—"

"There you are!"

You and your friend turn your heads, both of your eyes widening for entirely different reasons.

Abby approaches you with a charming smile, settling an arm over your shoulders. He hums as he takes a good, innocent look at your companion. "Who's this?"

"Saja— Abs—Abby? From Saja Boys?! Uh, I mean— Hi! So nice to meet you!" An unexpected blush blooms over your friend's face. He glances at you with nervousness and fascination before bowing his head.

Your friend shows off a crooked grin. He's a big fan already; he told you moments ago how he had Soda Pop on loop. You huff and remove Abby's arm from your shoulder, barely able to hold your flinch at the way he looked offended.

You gaze at Abby in anticipation.

Abby immediately gets the hint and masks himself. "Oh, a fan! Thank you for your support!"

They took a picture, Abby did his autograph, all the while giving him fanservice with his abs. Your friend giggles cheerfully as they shake their hands goodbye. You didn't miss the way Abby wiped his hand on his shirt when your friend wasn't looking.

"Take care!" you call to him, waving a hand before turning to a blank-faced Abby.

He stares at you humorlessly.

You blink, avoiding his eyes. "Uh, hey. Sorry about... not replying. I ran out of—"

Abby chuckles, smiles like he wasn't just judging your entire being, and shakes his head. He returns to draping his arm around your shoulder protectively. "No need to explain. We're glad you're safe. Let's go home."

Your brows furrow as Abby guides your walk. We're? We?

It's an obvious thing that once a member is involved, all of them are. Just... where are the others? Abby is the only one here.

You stray your eyes, landing on a window.

In the dim reflection, three pairs of glowing, golden eyes point at you in the distance. Ah. There they are. Watching, waiting.

Ugh. You look away. Jinu's never this level of creepy. He's not present again, as always.

You don't notice Abby nodding his head curtly next to you.

— need .. need to include more horrors..... ngl I'm stuck between funny or horrific yan!saja boys ,,

— also if you're wondering why Jinu isn't here, I just prefer not to include him in general! yeah my bad, in my other fics he's just kinda hanging around

— why's it so hard for me to write yandere (says the yandere blog)

[imnotjustreadingg]

Taste like home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (y/n)

Genre: Slow-burn romance, hurt/comfort (a little), fluff

Word count: 1855

Summary: Bucky slowly began to open up to Y/N, the only one who treated him right since the beginning

It was late autumn when Bucky Barnes first walked into the Avenger's communal kitchen and found you dancing barefoot on the tile floor, humming a tune too old for someone your age to know. He stopped in the doorway. You didn’t hear him at first, too focused on stirring something in a pot that filled the air with the scent of garlic, onions, and roasted tomatoes. The sleeves of your sweater were pushed up to your elbows, and your hair was pulled back in a loose, hurried bun. Music played faintly from your phone, Billie Holiday's voice filling the room. Bucky hadn’t heard her voice in decades. It stopped him cold.

You turned when you finally noticed him and offered a warm smile, like he wasn’t the former Winter Soldier, like he wasn’t the man who still woke up screaming at 3 a.m.

“Hey,” you said casually, as if you'd been expecting him all along. “You hungry?”

He hadn’t meant to stay, he only came down for some water. Something about the scent of real food, not just protein bars and green sludge Steve always pushed at him, had drawn him like a memory he couldn’t quite place.

“…I guess,” Bucky replied, voice cautious.

You smiled wider, reaching for another spoon. “Come here. Try this.”

He hesitated before stepping forward slowly. He looked down at the steaming red sauce you’d been tending. You lifted the spoon and gestured for him to lean down. He did, reluctantly. The moment the flavor hit his tongue—sweet tomatoes, basil, a hint of wine—it was like a small explosion of warmth in his chest. He blinked.

“You okay?” you asked softly.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just… tastes like Sunday.” Your brow furrowed, confused but not pressing. “Well, sit. You’ll love the rest of it. I made fresh pasta too.” He sat.

Two weeks later the kitchen became your shared space. No one really commented when Bucky started lingering near the stove when you cooked. Or when you started making extra portions without asking. The others were too busy with missions or tinkering in labs. You and Bucky found peace in something simple: food, and the quiet moments that came with it. He learned you were a telekinetic, but still preferred to use your hands when chopping vegetables. That your mother was Italian, and your grandmother had taught you to cook by feel, not recipe.

“You’re the first person I’ve met who uses touch as much as I do,” Bucky said one night, holding up his metal hand after you accidentally brushed it while handing him a fork. “Most people… they flinch.”

“I don’t flinch from people I trust,” you replied easily, your gaze soft but steady.

He looked down at the pasta. “You shouldn’t trust me.”

“I think I should be the judge of that.”

The others began to notice how close you were getting. Natasha, the first one to notice, raised a brow the first time she saw you slide a plate toward Bucky before sitting down yourself. Then Steve gave a small smile one morning when Bucky accepted a homemade croissant from you, still warm, and mumbled a quiet, “Thanks, doll.” Even Tony—who’d taken the longest to accept Bucky after everything—commented dryly, “Barnes smiles now? Must be the apocalypse.”

But no one said anything more, because it was clear Bucky was healing. Slowly, but meaningfully. And you were a part of that.

One night, in the quiet of the kitchen, it was past midnight and Bucky found you sitting on the counter, knees drawn to your chest, eating leftover risotto straight from the container. You looked up at him sheepishly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you said, covering your mouth.

He nodded, understanding. “Me neither.”

You held out the spoon. “Want some?”

“Do you ever wonder if you’ll feel normal again?” he asked after a while with hoarse voice, accepting the spoon.

“No. I don’t think I will. But I’ve found things that make the pain quieter. This place… the people. You.”

Bucky’s eyes met yours, shadowed but open in a way they never were before. “You make it quieter for me too.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

When the winter turned into spring by March, Bucky knew the names of every spice in your cabinet. He could make your grandmother’s marinara by memory, though he never did unless you were in the room. He said it didn’t taste right without your voice in the background, humming old jazz songs. One afternoon, he asked if you wanted help making gnocchi. You raised a brow in surprise.

“I thought you hated the dough part,” you said.

He smirked. “You said it was about the feel, right?”

So you taught him. Your hands brushed often his cold vibranium fingers, surprisingly gentle as he pressed and rolled the soft potato dough.

“I like cooking with you,” he said quietly.

“I like everything with you,” you replied, not even trying to hide it.

His smile was small, but real. And that night, for the first time, he kissed you. It was hesitant, reverent, as though he couldn’t believe he was allowed this kind of softness.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The kitchen smelled like espresso and warm pastry when you walked in, rubbing sleep from your eyes and wearing one of those oversized sweaters Bucky always secretly stared at. Steve and Sam were already seated at the counter, each with a massive mug of cappuccino in hand and chocolate croissants on their plates, flaking golden crumbs onto the marble surface as they laughed about something you couldn’t quite catch. And then there was Bucky. He sat stiffly, a spoon resting in a bowl of sad, pale porridge that looked like it had been steamed directly from a 1943 army ration pack. No butter, no sugar, no fruit—just bland, flavorless mush. You blinked, baffled.

“Bucky,” you said cautiously, stepping closer. “What… what is that?”

He glanced up, caught off guard by your question. Sam froze with a croissant halfway to his mouth, and Steve went suddenly still, eyes flicking to Bucky with quiet concern. Bucky gave a sheepish shrug, avoiding your gaze. “Oatmeal.”

“That’s not oatmeal,” you said, inspecting it like a suspicious lab sample. “That’s punishment.”

He chuckled humorlessly. “It’s healthy.”

You crossed your arms, not buying it. “And?”

Steve opened his mouth, but Sam subtly nudged him, eyes warning. They both fell silent, watching their friend closely. Bucky sighed. “My—uh, this girl I used to see… she said I was getting soft. Around the edges.” You froze, the words sinking in like stones in water. “She got on me about my diet. Said I needed to cut sugar, carbs, everything. So… I did.” He stirred the sad porridge absently. “She’s not around anymore, but I guess the habit stuck.” The silence that followed was heavy. Steve looked down at his cappuccino like it had betrayed him. Sam grimaced, muttering, “That’s rough, man.”

But you?

You didn’t say a word.

You turned, calm as ever, and reached for the salt shaker. Without hesitation, you sprinkled a few generous shakes into the porridge—too many to be accidental.

Bucky stared. “Y/n—?”

“Oh no, how careless” you said pretending to be sorry.

“This,” you gestured vaguely at the bowl like it had personally offended you. “This is self-inflicted oatmeal prison.”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

“I know you didn’t,” you said gently, already pulling out ingredients. “But I want to.”

“But—”

You raised one hand without turning around, a subtle shhh gesture that shut him up faster than Hydra trigger words. He watched as you moved with confident ease—whipping together flour, eggs, cocoa, and melted chocolate like you were born doing it.

The griddle hissed. The room filled with the warm, intoxicating scent of chocolate chip pancakes—real ones, thick and buttery, the kind meant to heal.

Steve and Sam exchanged a look behind you. It was unspoken, but clear: She’s the one.

Sam smiled into his mug. “You know, I suddenly feel spiritually connected to this pancake intervention.”

Steve chuckled softly. “She’s got good instincts.”

When the first stack was done, you slid the plate in front of Bucky, topped with a pat of butter and a drizzle of maple syrup. You said nothing. Just nudged it toward him and went back to the stove to flip the next batch.

Bucky stared at it for a long moment.

“I don’t deserve this,” he muttered.

You glanced back at him, soft but firm. “Maybe not. But you need it.”

His chest tightened.

He took a bite.

It was warm. Sweet. Comforting. Real.

And in that moment, Bucky didn’t know whether it was the food or the fact that someone cared enough to fight for his breakfast, but something in him cracked open. He looked at you, standing barefoot at the stove, hair messy, humming off-key, and he smiled for the first time that morning. Steve caught it and nudged Sam with his elbow. Sam grinned, eyes twinkling. “He’s so gone.” And Bucky? He didn’t even deny it.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tower's rooftop garden bloomed in july, and Bucky surprised you by waking you at sunrise.

“Come on,” he said, a mischievous light in his eyes you hadn’t seen before. “We’re cooking outside today.”

You blinked sleepily. “What?”

He handed you a basket. “I found tomatoes. Real ones. They’re perfect.”

So you went together, you made bruschetta, grilled vegetables, and the simplest pasta dish he could find.

You sat on a blanket under the morning sun, eating and laughing when Bucky got olive oil on his nose.

“You’re different now,” you said, watching him.

“I feel different,” he admitted, watching you back. “Like I can breathe. Like I deserve to.”

You leaned in and kissed him again. “You do. You always did.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

You were soaked from a mission gone wrong. Bucky helped you strip out of your wet gear, wrapped you in a towel, and pulled you into the kitchen. The power was flickering, and you were shivering. Without a word, he made you soup. Just like you’d shown him. It was clumsy, slightly too much salty but you ate every bite, heart aching with something tender and strong. He sat beside you, his hand on your back, his eyes dark and full of something fierce.

“I love you,” he said, like a vow. “Not just for the food. But because you made me want to live again.” You cupped his cheek, tears warm on your face. “I love you too, Bucky. You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to stay.”

“I will,” he whispered. “As long as you’ll have me.”

They would say Bucky Barnes, the man who once lived as a ghost, found his way back to life through you.

And he’d say it started with a spoonful of tomato sauce.

But you knew better.

It wasn’t the food, not really. It was the way you saw him—broken and whole, lost and found. And how you loved him, quietly, patiently, until he learned to love himself, bite by bite, day by day.

Blaze

0 notes

[girllblogging777]

IN WHICH you force spencer to help you with the only thing he doesn’t know about. makeup.

the video of your makeup routine pops up on your phone, and you press the mic to record the voiceover, a smile on your face “go ahead baby…”

spencer braces himself, rolling his eyes “remind me why i agreed to do this again ?”

“because you love me, obviously” you answered with a shrug, and a tilt of your head.

“right. i do”

you gesture your hand towards your phone, signalling him to finally start talking. internally, you’re giggling, because you once again got him to indulge in your weird little activities he doesn’t know the first thing about.

“ahem, so… hi, hello everyone, whoever’s watching this video of my beautiful girlfriend making herself even more beautiful. i’m spencer… spencer reid - the boyfriend, and i’m supposed to explain what exactly she’s doing in this clip.”

you grin and give him a thumbs up, motivating him to keep going.

“so, she begins by washing her face with some fancy cleanser, which is very important because it maintains hydration, prevents breakouts, exfoliates and removes dead skin, - too many details ? right, sorry.”

he purses his lips when you glare at him, amused.

“then, she proceeds to use some serum, as well as eye cream and moisturiser, which surprisingly works wonders - don’t ask why i know, just… i know. and she also uses sunscreen, as all of you should because, well… it prevents aging and skin cancer.”

but then, the clip shows you opening your makeup bag, and his eyes widen a bit.

“uh, now’s the part where my IQ slashes to 60… this is uh… foundation ? oh no, that’s concealer to conceal blemishes and eye bags she doesn’t have - damn babe, i could use some of that too. now this is foundation ! she puts it on her hand for… some reason, and applies it with a brush… so, that’s kinda like painting-“

you facepalm yourself. painting ? really ?

“wait, why is this so dark ? oh, she’s drawing shadows with a stick… to try to make it look like her nose is tiny and her cheekbones are sharp… baby, you really don’t need that-“

okay, this was really getting amusing to watch, especially because he was analysing the video so carefully, his brows furrowed as he stared at the phone.

“glitter ! liquid glitter… on her cheeks. wait, that’s why you always look so glowy… gives her that ethereal look, you know ? i very much approve of the glitter. oh, and that’s blush. i know that too. but my favourite blush is the one she gets when i kiss her. or the one she’s got right now because i’m very much embarrassing her-“

he’s looking up at you, smiling like an idiot before you point back at the phone.

“right, sorry. i got distracted. baby, who’s even gonna watch that, seriously ? this is some fancy powder… i don’t exactly know what it’s for, but it originates from ancient egypt !”

“spence, come on”

“this is mascara, i know that too… woah, is that some kind of torture device ? hey, what are you doing to your lashes !”

you giggle, covering your mouth as he goes on about the lash curler.

“this is a pencil. for her lips. she uses it like twenty times a day, but i don’t know why. it tastes bad too. oh, and the lipgloss of course, couldn’t forget the lipgloss.”

his words are slowed down, because he’s too busy staring at your lips on the screen.

“uhm… and now she’s spraying something all over her face ? i’m guessing that means we’re done, damn, that was something. thank you for listening, i hope you enjoyed this video because i sure did - enjoy the video, not voiceovering it”

and with that, you take the phone from his hand, pressing the stop button. he lets out a relieved sigh, looking at you with puppy eyes. “how did i do ?”

“not bad at all, spence. but glitter, really ?”

of course, over the next few weeks, the girls at the BAU never stopped teasing him about it. jj kept calling him a “lovefool” and when emily asked penelope for her lash curler, they both warned him “careful, genius, we’ve got a torture device in the room”

okay, makeup may not have been the subject he mastered the most. but he was still glad he had complied and made the stupid video with you, because the smile that had formed on your face back then might have been the most precious thing he’d ever witnessed.

no makeup needed.

[timeslipcamp]

luca wedding card!! he looks so sweet, what a cutie. there's not a lot of flowers in these but i've done most of the other wedding cards so eh why not

i bet he got those blue roses in his warding card from jin. frostheim sponsored wedding

luca is such a sweetheart man. so in his lil boutienniere (still refusing to learn how to spell that) he's got a white flower and a purple flower! this white one was driving me crazy i just spent an hour at work trying to figure this out.

my best guess is a pink rainlily. typically they're either all white or all pink, HOWEVER. there are a few crossbreeds that get the pink tips.

i'll be real though i'm not sold lmao these ssr's with flowers are starting to annoy me. i think the artists are specifically like "what will piss chimi off today?" or the ai is like yeah that looks real close enough

white rainlilies reflect a lot of the same meanings as other white flowers we've seen: hope, new beginnings, and like other white lillies (because of their use in weddings and easter celebrations), resurrection and purity.

and then super funny, i'm pretty sure that's monkshood right next to it lmaoo

it was hard to find a pic that showed the yellow inside too, and i did look at bluebells, but the shape matches monkshood more, which is SO funny.

monkshood is a highly poisonous flower that was used to keep wolves away from herds, also called aconite or wolfsbane--that's what towa calls ren! it has a couple different meanings across different cultures, usually symbolizing warnings, caution, and death. in victorian flower language specifically, it was given as a threat or a warning.

so similar to his tarot card he has both like, life and death in a pocket. all about that balance again, that's so funny i hope that was intentional

blue roses sponsored by frostheim

his warding card is so cute but DO YOU SEE THAT FLOWER

luca HELLO

this is green hellebore and boy howdy does it have some crazy meanings

so first of all, we've got the dual nature again. it was used in medicine in ancient greece but it's also a super toxic plant. the name itself in greek means both food and harm from the root words. fantastic

and then meaning wise, it varies depending on time period. in ancient greece, there were myths that it could cure madness. victorian flower language said it represented delirium. now in modern times, it represents peace and serenity. however, there are still some other sites that say they symbolize a scandal

absolutely wild pick of flowers for luca lmao i love this so much. anyways if he proposed to me i'd say yes just because i know he'd treat me right

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: a little nsfw smut but it's quick. that's it.

a/n: last chapter got so much love my heart is exploding so much rn. here's my appreciation: an extra long chapter five days before it was supposed to drop. lol thanks again.

“What?!” Becca’s voice shrieks through your phone speaker, nearly making you drop the blouse in your hand. You’re halfway through unpacking your suitcase- this time, for good.

“I just don’t see any point in going back to the OBX,” you say, folding the blouse and placing it into the drawer like it’s the final brick in a new chapter. “I mean… besides you. But even then, you’re about to start your whole family-business journey. I’d just be a distraction.”

“No, you wouldn’t! Stop saying that,” she argues. “And what about my birthday? You promised you’d help me set up.”

You sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be back this week to grab the rest of my stuff. And obviously I’ll be there for your birthday. But after that… it just doesn’t make sense to move back. My future’s here. You know it is.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before she groans. “You’re the worst. But I love you, so I’m letting it slide.”

A small laugh slips from you. “Fair enough.”

“You’re gone. Marie’s going back to Charleston once summer’s over…”

“She lives in Charleston,” you tease. “Did you forget?”

“I know,” she says defensively. “But now I won’t have any real friends around.”

“Since when are you and Marie so close?” Your brows lift in amusement, even though she can’t see you.

“We’ve… gotten to know each other,” Becca answers carefully, her tone softer, layered.

There’s a pause -just a second too long- but you let it go.

“Well, at least thank you for finally taking my advice,” you say, flipping through the hangers in your closet. “Anyway, I gotta go. Celeste and I are heading to the spa.”

“Ohhh, remember when we used to go to the spa together?” Becca replies in a playfully jealous voice. There’s still a hint of something real beneath the teasing.

“Bye, Becca,” you say with a smile, shaking your head.

“Bye, Y/N. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and sit back for a moment, looking around the room. Your new room. For the first time, the thought of not going back doesn’t make your stomach drop. It just feels… like the beginning.

-

Fashion shows. Board meetings. Watching designers drape, pin, and sketch. It all flies by in a blur of espresso, stilettos, and showroom lighting. Before you know it, it’s Thursday evening, and your driver is pulling up in front of your parents’ house.

You step out of the car, instinctively glancing at Tannyhill across the lawn. Same wraparound porch. Same house you used to sneak out of just to crawl into his bed.Now it just feels… far away. Like it belonged to a different version of you.

“Thank you,” you murmur as the chauffeur shuts the car door behind you.

The house is quiet when you enter. Too quiet. The type of silence that tells you no one’s home- and for once, you’re grateful.

You don’t have the patience for your mother’s smug “I told you so” about how much you enjoyed your New York experience.

You head upstairs and start packing two more suitcases. and when you go to look for your sewing kit, you remember exactly where it’s at and your heart sinks. You’re folding dresses when the sound of raucous laughter and revving engines cuts through the calm.

You pause. Walk to the balcony.

The street is packed. People line the sidewalk with their phones out, filming and laughing. A car crawls in reverse down the road, someone splayed dramatically across the hood, exhaling a bong rip toward the sky like it’s a music video.

You don’t need to guess whose party it is. Typical Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grab your hoodie, slip into your shoes, and snatch your keys. You’re not doing this for him. You just need your sewing kit. Nothing more.

You drive the short distance. Park a few houses down, out of sight. The place is chaos. Drunken twenty-somethings everywhere- red cups in hand, bass shaking the ground.

Children, you think to yourself, and you’re caught off guard by the word. Just a couple months ago, you were them.

Now? You feel different. Older, somehow. Maybe not wiser- but definitely not the girl who used to show up at these parties.

You slip through the front lawn, head down, hoodie up. You move like muscle memory through the crowd, avoiding faces, avoiding his face.

You know exactly where your kit is. In the sitting room. The one where you told each other you loved one another for the first time.

The memory stings, but you keep moving.

You round a hallway corner—and pause. There he is.

Rafe.

He’s laughing with some guy, drink in hand, head thrown back. Effortlessly magnetic. You duck your head and detour down another hallway, heart hammering.

In the sitting room, your kit is still there. Tucked in the corner behind the couch. Moved, definitely. He didn’t throw it out, though. He kept it. You spot the mannequin with the fabric still pinned in place. Part of you considers taking the whole thing, but it’s too bulky, too obvious. You rip the fabric off, fold it quickly-

“Hey, don’t touch my shit-”

You freeze. You know that voice. You turn slowly. There he is.

Rafe Cameron.

Arm draped casually around Sofia’s shoulder. Her expression shifts the moment she sees you.  She steps slightly out of his hold, discomfort flashing across her face.

His entire demeanor changes. The laughter’s gone. His eyes soften, like he didn’t expect to see you again, especially here.

You feel your throat tighten, but you won’t let yourself cry. Not in front of him.

You hold up the sewing kit wordlessly, forcing out a quiet explanation.

“I left this.” You don’t meet his eyes.

He blinks. Swallows. “Oh.” It’s all he says.

The weight of the summer sits heavy between you. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“I’m gonna-” you start, voice barely above a whisper.

But then you stop. There’s nothing left to say.

You push past him before he can see you fall apart, the sewing kit clutched tight in your arms like it might hold you together.

You move through the crowd. Down the porch stairs. Out of the noise.

You toss your things in the back seat, climb behind the wheel, and slam the door shut. You don’t know where you’re going. Just that it’s anywhere but here.

Somehow, you end up at the marsh- the one Rafe brought you to that first night. The place where everything started, when the both of you stopped pretending and actually saw each other for the first time.

Now, your knees are pressed tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them, staring blankly at the dark water stretching in front of you. The marsh is quiet, save for the occasional chirp or rustle in the trees, but all you hear is static in your own head. A buzzing from the weight of it all crashing down on you.

Life is moving too fast. Too much.

And you’ve been trying to outrun it since the second you landed in New York.

That phone call. Her voice answering his phone. You shoved it so far down in your brain it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Probably some sort of trauma response. But seeing him tonight -really seeing him- with her?

His arm draped so effortlessly around Sofia, like it belonged there. Like the last two and a half months never happened. Like you didn’t say “I love you” in that exact same room where he stood tonight, letting another girl anchor herself to him like she knew him better than you ever could. It burns.

Your chest aches as the tears start to come. Slow at first, and then all at once. The memories, the pain, the humiliation. It feels like mourning a life that barely even had time to exist.

And then—

“You’re here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. It slices through the silence, warm and familiar, even now.

But still- you do. You turn. And there he is.

Buzzed hair damp, probably from the humidity or maybe the beginnings of rain. Eyes glassy. Breath uneven. His party-boy sheen is gone. It’s just him, stripped down in the moonlight.

You look away quickly, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater, praying the darkness hides the wreckage on your face.

“Yeah… I am,” you say, trying to sound indifferent. You fail.

He steps closer. “Mind if I sit?” he asks, nodding toward the spot beside you.

You barely respond, just shift slightly to make room.

A flash of lightning splits the sky above, casting everything in sharp silver for half a second. A warning, maybe. Or a sign.

He settles beside you. The space between you is small, but it feels like miles.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on the water like it’s safer to look at something else.

You let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not really back. Just picking up some more stuff.” You pause. “So… yeah. I guess I made up my mind.”

He turns to say something, but before he can-

“You moved on pretty fast,” you say, finally meeting his gaze.

He blinks. “I’m not moved on.” His voice sharpens. Defensive. “You think I wanted this?”

“You didn’t not want it,” you fire back. “You gave up, Rafe. You didn’t fight for me, you didn’t call, you didn’t even text. You let Sofia answer your phone like nothing between us even mattered.”

He stands now, breathing harder. “You think that’s what this is? Me moving on? I was drunk. She picked up my phone because I was too messed up to know where it even was.”

“Don’t,” you say, standing too. “Don’t blame the alcohol or the party or anything else. You ended things. You pushed me away. You told me if I left, we were done. So I left.”

“And that was a mistake,” he mutters.

“Yeah, no shit.”

The thunder rumbles in the distance. Rain starts. Light at first. Barely more than a drizzle.

“You said you loved me,” you say quietly, eyes on his. “If you did -really, truly did- you wouldn’t have ended things the way you did.”

His eyes shimmer, but he doesn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“I wanted you.” Your voice cracks. “I would’ve fought for us. You were just… too scared to fight with me.”

Silence. The kind that feels loud. And then it starts pouring. A heavy, curtain-like rain that soaks your hoodie and your short and makes the whole world blur around the edges. You’re crying again. But you don’t care.

You step closer. “You say you love me, Rafe, but when it mattered- you shut down. You ran. You always run. So no. I don’t believe you ever loved me. I don’t think you ever could.”

He’s silent. Frozen. Staring at you like he wants to say everything but can’t find the words.

You scoff through your tears. “That’s what I thought.”

You turn, soaked, heartbroken, shaking..but then-

His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Certain.

“Wait,” he breathes, spinning you around so fast your chest bumps his.

Your breath catches.

His voice drops, rough and shaking. “What do you think about this?”

And then- He kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet.

It’s everything. Angry. Desperate. Like he’s trying to prove every word he couldn’t say. And for a moment, the rain, the hurt, the heartbreak- It all stops.

You’re soaked- and not just from the rain.

The moment your back hits the leather seat of Rafe’s car, it’s clear where this is going. His mouth crashes against yours, urgent and unrelenting. There are no words. None needed. You’ve both already said too much, and yet not nearly enough.

His hands roam under your soaked hoodie, gripping your waist, peeling the fabric off like he’s starving for you. Your tank top follows, tossed somewhere into the front seat. And then it’s him- his shirt, his jeans, every barrier between you stripped away until all that’s left is skin and heat and rain-slicked desperation.

You don’t even remember climbing into the back seat. Maybe he pulled you. Maybe you pulled him. But it doesn’t matter now. His body is between your legs, his glistening tip sliding slowly along your entrance, teasing you, taunting you. Your hands brush against in his damp hair as he trails kisses down your neck, grazing your collarbone, biting gently at the shell of your ear.

And then-

He thrusts into you.

A broken moan escapes you both, loud and raw. He holds you closer than he ever has during sex- like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like he’s trying to stay. His thrusts are deep, slow, and intentional, hips grinding against yours with every movement. It’s not just sex- it’s something else entirely. Something heavier. More dangerous. More real.

Your lips find his again, mouths moving in sync, tasting each other through moans and shallow breaths.

Rain drums hard against the roof of the car, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sounds between you. The wet slap of skin, the soft gasps, the cries of pleasure. Steam fogs the windows, wrapping you both in this cocoon of lust and love and unspoken heartbreak.

“Rafe,” you whimper, breath shaky.

He hears you this time. “I’m here, baby,” he breathes against your lips, biting gently on your lower one, then trailing kisses along your jawline.

Your head falls back. Eyes roll. One hand braces against the fogged window, streaking down with condensation. The car rocks beneath you.

“I’m so close,” you cry out, voice trembling. You pull him closer, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Cum for me,” he growls, holding your face in one hand. “Cum all over my dick, pretty girl. Show me how much you missed me.”

He laces his fingers through yours, grounding you, anchoring you.

“That’s it -right there-” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m cumming-”

Your thighs clamp around his hips, and your body goes rigid- completely still as the orgasm rips through you. White-hot. Paralyzing. Perfect.

“Oh, baby,” he moans into your neck. His thrusts grow sloppier, more frantic. He’s close. So close.

And then he stills. A soft curse under his breath, followed by a deep, guttural moan as he spills inside you, hands gripping you like he never wants to let go.

The only sound now is your breathing. Heavy. Labored. Quiet.

You both move slowly, silently, gathering your clothes in the dim light, pulling them back on like armor. No words exchanged. Not yet.

You clear your throat, adjusting your hoodie. “I should get going,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, not on him.

He nods and opens the car door, stepping into the wet gravel. He reaches a hand out to help you down, knowing your knees are shot. You take it. His touch still lingers when you let go.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, walking with you to your car parked nearby. The rain has lightened, but the world still feels heavy.

Thank God you’d put the top up on the convertible earlier.

He opens the door for you. You slip in. He doesn’t close it right away. Instead, he leans against the window frame, chin resting on crossed arms, staring at you like he’s memorizing your face.

“I love you,” he says softly.

It almost breaks you. You want to melt into him. You want to say take me with you or come with me. You want the whole fairy tale. But this isn’t a story with a perfect ending. Not tonight. So instead, you give him a small, pained nod.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He steps back as you start the engine. But just before you shift into gear-

“Hey,” he says again, and you look up. His eyes are pleading. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch.”

You pause. The words claw at your throat. You wish you could say yes. God, you want to say yes. But you know better.

“I can’t,” you say truthfully.

And then you’re pulling away.

You drive off into the night, the sound of gravel crunching beneath your tires. Tears blur your vision, but you don’t stop.

Not this time.

- 

The familiar weight of landing in New York hits your chest the second the plane touches down- though this time, it doesn’t feel like a trip. It feels like a turning point. You stare blankly out the window as the chauffeur navigates through the familiar rush of yellow cabs and honking horns, the skyline rising in front of you like it’s daring you to start over.

When you arrive at Celeste’s building, the doorman greets you by name this time. The little things -like that- make it feel real. Permanent.

You step into the penthouse, expecting to feel overwhelmed, but instead, it’s like the city has exhaled just for you. Celeste is, as always, dressed like she’s about to be photographed for Vogue- today in tailored wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse, sorting through a stack of mail with a glass of green juice in hand. She glances up as the door clicks shut behind you and offers you that signature smirk of hers. Knowing. Effortless.

“Hey, you,” she says, setting the mail aside, fully turning her attention to you. “Back in the city for good?”

You try to sound upbeat. Normal. Like your heart isn’t still bruised. “Hey. Yeah, looks like it.”

You nod once, tight and unsure, like saying it out loud might make it more real. Celeste reads you like a book but doesn’t push. Instead, she lights up like she’s been waiting for this moment.

“I actually have a little something for you,” she says, opening a drawer and pulling out a small black box.

Your brows lift. “What’s this for?”

“Just open it,” she insists with a twinkle in her eye.

You walk over, the heels of your boots clicking against the marble, and open the box. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a gleaming silver key.

You blink. “A… key?”

“To your own apartment!” she grins, practically bouncing.

You blink again, this time slower. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

You laugh, stunned. “Is this your really polite way of kicking me out?”

She gasps playfully. “Never! I just figured you’d feel more creatively free in your own space. You’re building something. You deserve to do it in your own place.”

You look at the key again. It shines like a new beginning. “When do I move in?”

“Well, I’ve got to get to the studio for a shoot, but this weekend for sure. Oh! And we are definitely going furniture shopping.”

-

The weekend blurs into a frenzy of shopping for fabrics and furniture, installing bookshelves, choosing wall art, and figuring out if you’re a “scented candle girl” or not (you decide you are). The apartment is high above the chaos of the city- quiet, sunlit, and breathtaking. A place that feels like yours. You barely have time to think about Rafe. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about you.

Chelsea texts to say Rafe stopped by. Brought flowers. A little box. A note. You promise to respond. But you don’t. You tell yourself you’re busy. The truth is, you’re scared of what answering him might do to the carefully built walls around your new world.

Nights are harder. You unpack your OBX things alone, piece by piece, item by item. A hoodie. A half-full sketchbook. The sewing kit. The mannequin.

You sit on the edge of your bed at 1:03 a.m., phone in hand, his contact open. You think of calling.

But instead, you imagine him asleep. At Tannyhill. Or not asleep at all. Maybe with someone else. Either way, you lock your phone and press it to your chest.

-

The weeks slip by like water- fashion meetings, showroom launches, networking brunches. You’re productive. Pulled together. Floating between espresso machines and editorial boards like you’ve been doing it your whole life. There are flashes where you feel like yourself again. Then there are moments where you wonder if you’ve just gotten really good at pretending.

You’re wandering the halls of the Met one late afternoon, alone, trying to trigger some spark of inspiration for your next collection. You linger in front of a massive piece that feels too abstract to be brilliant but too deliberate to be random.

“This is stupid, right?” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You glance to your side. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, tousled dark hair and that New York City jawline. He’s beautiful. Effortlessly so.

You raise a brow. “Stupid’s a strong word for a piece that’s hanging in the Met.”

He grins. “Alright, pretentious, then.”

You cross your arms, turning slightly toward him. “It’s commentary on chaos versus intention. Maybe it’s not meant to be pretty. Maybe it’s just honest.”

His smile deepens. “Okay, art school. I stand corrected.”

You laugh -actually laugh- and it surprises you. The tension in your chest loosens a little.

“I’m Owen,” he says, offering a hand. “Photographer. Born and raised here. Are you one of those impossibly cool transplants?”

You take his hand. “Y/N. Designer. Recently relocated. And yes, impossibly cool.”

He tilts his head toward the museum café. “Can I buy you a coffee to make up for calling your art stupid?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your phone. “I actually have to be somewhere in a few. But… I wouldn’t mind keeping the debate going sometime.”

He grins again, slower this time. “You’re smooth.”

You shrug. “I’ve been told.”

He pulls out his phone and opens a new contact. “Then let’s make it official. Number?”

You trade phones and type in your info. A moment later, your phone buzzes with a text.

[Unknown]: I owe you a latte and a second opinion on pretentious modern art.

You glance up at him with a soft smile. “Looking forward to it.”

You smile softly as you step back out into the golden hush of early evening. The sidewalk is bustling. The city smells like roasted peanuts and ambition. But as you make your way through the crowd, your mind drifts.

You think of Rafe.

You shake your head and try to focus on the present- the sound of car horns, the art still swimming in your head, Owen’s text lighting up your phone.

But the ache? It lingers anyway. Like a bruise in a place only you can feel.

-

The city glows below, windows lit like stars scattered across the skyline. You’re tucked up at your desk by the window, sketchpad in front of you, a soft pencil dragging across the paper as you bring a new design to life. Your Mac is on in front of you, FaceTime connected to Becca, who’s lying across her massive bed back in the OBX.

“I swear to God,” she says, mid-rant, “if my mother tries to set me up with another guy who ‘owns his own landscaping business,’ I’m committing to girls only. I’m done.”

You grin without looking up. “So girls only now?”

“Girls only,” she confirms, sighing dramatically and rolling onto her back. “Men are exhausting.”

At that moment, both your phone and Mac ding. Instinctively, your eyes lift to your Mac screen.

Unknown Number: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You pause, blinking. You don’t recognize the number, but you already know. A smirk tugs at 

your lips as you pick up your phone and type back:

You: I’m sorry… who is this?

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Becca’s voice cuts in, amused.

Your eyes flick back to the screen just as the reply comes in.

Unknown: You’ve gotta be kidding me. Camera guy? Bad at reading art? Does any of that ring a bell? You schooled me earlier today on it.

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head.

“Y/N!” Becca’s calling again, waving a hand in front of her camera.

You type quickly:

You: Ohhh. Yeah, you were pretty bad at reading art.

“Okay, spill,” Becca says, sitting up and propping her phone on her bed. “Who is he?”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Just this guy I met earlier today at the Met. I was looking at one of the new installations and he came up and started talking trash about it. I couldn’t not correct him.”

Becca gasps. “You schooled a stranger?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” You grin as another message pops up:

Unknown (now saved as Owen): So???

You: ‘So’ what?

“What’s his name?” Becca asks, practically bouncing.

“Owen,” you say, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Not on purpose- just instinct.

“Owennn,” Becca drawls teasingly. “I like that. Is he cute?”

“He’s actually really cute,” you admit. “And a photographer.”

“Oooh, artsy. That’s very New York of you.”

Owen: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You: Most likely not doing anything. What’s up?

Owen: A friend of mine is hosting an art exhibition. You should come.

You raise an eyebrow at your phone.

Becca watches you with narrowed eyes. “So is Rafe just… gone? Like, totally out of the picture now?”

You pause, your pencil hovering above the sketchpad. “I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. “I mean… what picture is there to be in? He ended it.”

Becca makes a face, then hesitates.

“What?” you ask.

“Speaking of him,” she says slowly, “he won’t stop harassing me about you.”

Your heart dips unexpectedly. “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you or if you wanted to hear it. But he keeps texting, asking how you’re doing, if I’ve heard from you. He’s… kind of a wreck.”

You don’t know what to say. Your chest tightens but you quickly sit up straighter, clearing your throat. “I don’t know what he expects,” you say. “He made his choice. And I made mine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I just thought you should know,” Becca says gently. “I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

You nod, eyes flicking back to your phone. Owen’s message is still glowing.

Owen: It’s in SoHo. Chill crowd, I promise. Come have fun.

You press your lips together, then type:

You: Okay. I’m in.

Becca catches the subtle shift in your mood but doesn’t press.

“Owen better be worth it,” she teases instead.

You smirk and shake your head, looking back down at your sketchpad. “I’m just trying to make friends.”

-

You step into the warehouse, the scent of paint and champagne mingling in the air. The space is dimly lit with warm amber bulbs that hang loosely from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the exposed brick walls and concrete floors. Occasional bursts of flash from both professional cameras and iPhones flicker through the room like fireflies.

Clusters of people sip from slender champagne flutes and laugh in that low, throaty way that only people born into wealth seem to perfect. At a glance, you could almost believe they’re just normal twenty-somethings living the starving artist dream. But it only takes a few seconds to tell- these aren’t broke New Yorkers chasing artistry. These are the children of CEOs and hedge fund managers, reveling in the aesthetic of struggle like it’s performance art.

You shift slightly in your powder blue backless halter top and tailored black capris that kiss just below your knees. The outfit is simple, elevated, and perfect for the fading end-of-summer warmth. And yet, you feel entirely out of place. You can feel the stares, subtle but unmistakable, trailing you like perfume as you walk further into the gallery.

You pull out your phone.

You: I’m here. Where are you?

As you lower your phone, your eyes scan the artwork- colorful, chaotic, interesting in a raw kind of way. You pause in front of one, arms crossed as you tilt your head thoughtfully.

Then you hear it- an enthusiastic voice floating across the room.

“Thank you! Thank you so much for coming! You guys are amazing!”

You glance toward the source and spot her. She’s moving from group to group like sunlight, radiating ease. She’s got blonde hair styled in a messy ponytail tied with a vintage scarf, a pale pink off-the-shoulder t-shirt tucked into white bloomer shorts, and beat-up, hand-drawn Converse covered in doodles and signatures. She looks like Gigi Hadid if Gigi had a passion for art school critiques and lavender incense.

She sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and makes direct eye contact with you, her bright smile catching you a little off guard.

“Well, I know I haven’t seen you before,” she says, walking right up to you.

You offer a polite smile and extend your hand. “Hi, I’m-”

“Oh, sorry- I’ve got this germ thing.” Still, she takes your index finger between hers in a loose little shake that somehow feels more genuine than any firm handshake you’ve had. You laugh.

“-Y/N,” you finish.

“Noel,” she replies, her cheekbones practically casting shadows in the moody lighting. “Thanks for coming to my exhibit. I seriously appreciate it.”

“Y/N!” a voice calls from behind you.

You turn and spot Owen, striding over in a white long-sleeve layered under a black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and his camera slung around his neck. He looks like he just walked off a ‘cool guy at an indie film festival’ Pinterest board.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Noel,” he says.

“I have,” you smile, glancing between them.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Noel asks, pointing between the two of you with a curious look.

“Barely,” you tease.

Owen clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s bestie to you.”

You laugh -really laugh- and feel some of your nerves melt away.

“We met at the Met yesterday,” you explain.

“She schooled me on art,” Owen adds with a shrug.

“I like you already.” Noel loops her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You’re surprised- but not unwelcome to it.

“Wait, wait- Noel, are you cheating on me already?” another voice rings out.

You turn to see a tall, stunning girl walk over. She looks like a young Kimora Lee Simmons- statuesque, glam without trying, dressed in sleek trousers and a cropped blazer with a diamond tennis bracelet that sparkles every time she moves. Her presence is commanding in that effortless New York way.

“Don’t pay her any mind,” Noel says with a grin, squeezing your arm lightly.

“Hi,” the girl says to you with a slow smile, already assessing your vibe with ease.

“Y/N, this is Allegra, my roommate. Allegra, Y/N, Owen’s friend,” Noel says. 

Allegra narrows her eyes at you, then points a manicured finger in your direction. “Wait a second… you’re the girl who moved in at Lucent apartments, aren’t you?”

You blink. “Um- yeah, I guess I am.”

“I knew you looked familiar. I saw you coming in with Celeste the other day. She’s basically Manhattan royalty, by the way.” Allegra smirks. “Nice to finally meet our mystery neighbor.”

You nod with a nervous smile, but she’s already waving it off like she’s claimed you as one of her own.

The rest of the night becomes a blur of laughter, art debates, and light gossip. You find yourself trailing after the trio like a lost puppy- Noel’s bright warmth, Owen’s quiet charm, and Allegra’s bold confidence make it easy to fall into step. Somewhere between sips of rosé and Noel dragging you to see her favorite piece (“it was inspired by a dream I had after eating expired cheese”), you realize something surprising.

You could really see yourself being friends with them. Allegra reminded you so much of Becca’s attitude and Noel had that same sweetness of Marie.

-

“Do you ladies need me to walk you up?” Owen asks as the four of you step out of the cab in front of your building. The city hums quietly around you, late-night traffic whispering in the distance. He’d been sweet enough to cover the ride, despite Allegra’s half-hearted protests.

Noel raises an eyebrow, a few stray paintbrushes and a folded sketch in her hand. “What, to like… protect us?”

Owen shrugs. “Well… yeah.”

Noel bursts out laughing. “What are you gonna do? Blind someone with the flash of your camera?”

Allegra tosses her hair over one shoulder, smirking. “Or maybe hit them with an aggressively artistic critique?”

The two of them crack up and you stifle your own laugh, trying not to completely gang up on him- though the image was funny. Still, there’s something endearing about his concern.

“We got it,” Allegra says with a wink as she slips her arm through yours, leading you and Noel toward the front entrance.

“Bye,” Owen calls, one hand in his pocket and the other lifting into a lazy wave.

“Byeeee!” Noel chimes back, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet street. You glance over your shoulder and smile, waving with the hand not tangled up in Allegra’s.

The elevator ride up is slow and golden-lit. Allegra leans casually against the mirrored wall, like she’s in a Vogue street-style spread without even trying.

“So,” she starts, eyeing you with genuine interest, “where are you from?”

“Outer Banks. North Carolina,” you reply, shifting your weight slightly.

Noel perks up. “Is that like… beachy?”

You smile at her phrasing. “Yeah, it’s a string of barrier islands off the coast. Small town. Lots of boats. Lots of gossip.”

Allegra hums. “Sounds like an Instagram dream but also my personal nightmare.”

The elevator dings softly and the doors glide open.

“You guys from here?” you ask, stepping out into the hallway.

“Born and raised,” Noel says proudly, tucking her brushes into her tote. “Well, technically Westchester, but still. Close enough.”

“I’m from L.A. Originally,” Allegra says. “Moved here at eighteen to kickstart my modeling career. Got bored of having palm trees in every picture.”

You knew it -her bone structure, that effortless confidence- she had to be a model.

As you approach your door, Noel strides across the hallway and grabs the handle of the one directly across from yours. She stops suddenly and gasps.

“No way!” Her voice is way too loud for nearly two in the morning.

Allegra quickly shushes her with a finger to her lips. “Noel,” she hisses. “It’s 1:47 AM.”

Noel ignores her, spinning back to face you. “You live here?”

You nod, slightly amused. “Moved in a few weeks ago.”

Allegra’s eyes widen slightly. “Small world.”

“Astoundingly small,” Noel says in a much more hushed tone. Without warning, she wraps you in a tight, excited hug. “We’re literally neighbors!”

Allegra raises an eyebrow and gives you a more reserved, almost too cool hug- the kind where her arms barely touch you but still somehow feel polite.

“Well,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “welcome to the building. And thanks for showing up for the art show. That meant a lot to her.”

“Of course. Thanks for kind of adopting me for the night.” You grin, unlocking your front door.

The three of you exchange quiet goodbyes before you slip inside and click the door shut behind you.

The heels come off first.

You lean against the wall for a second, the silence of your apartment washing over you like a long exhale. Then you smile -genuinely, softly- as you realize that for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like an outsider.

You feel… home.

-

It’s officially one week before the first day of fall- and just two weeks before you’ll have to head back to the Outer Banks. You’re trying not to think about that too hard. For now, you’re tucked inside a thrift store in the East Village with Allegra and Noel, weaving through tightly packed racks of vintage coats and worn-in leather jackets.

You tug on a long camel trench and examine yourself in the dusty mirror near the corner.

“You’re giving cool-mom-at-school-dropoff,” Noel comments, deadpan as ever, while she flips through a rack of oversized corduroy blazers.

“She needs something edgier,” Allegra declares, sweeping over with a ridiculous faux-fur bucket hat that looks like it crawled out of a 90s music video. She plops it on your head without warning. The three of you burst into laughter as you turn to face the mirror, your reflection looking like someone who accidentally time-traveled from a Beastie Boys tour.

Then your phone starts ringing. Becca. She’s FaceTiming you.

You quickly swipe to answer, tugging the bucket hat off your head. “Hey, Becs!”

“Hey,” she replies, slightly breathless. Her phone is propped up on a treadmill at the gym- she’s mid incline walk, cheeks pink, hair up. “Where are you?”

“Thrift store. Jacket shopping. It’s about to get cold and I’m wildly unprepared,” you say, brushing a lint-covered sleeve off your shoulder as Noel places another tragic-looking hat on your head, sending both girls into another fit of giggles.

Becca squints. “A thrift store? In New York?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I mean, I get the ones in Kildare. They’re basically curated. But New York City thrift stores? That’s… bold.”

Allegra immediately grabs your wrist and flips the camera so it faces her.

“It’s a New York thing,” she says smoothly, flashing Becca a perfectly casual smirk. “You wouldn’t understand.”

There’s no venom in her tone, but it still makes your stomach twist slightly.

Becca presses her lips together, raising her eyebrows like she’s biting back an opinion. You know her well enough to read her thoughts before she says them. So before any passive-aggressive digs can happen, you swipe the camera back to your face.

“Anyway,” Becca says, changing the subject. “Just calling to remind you my birthday is in exactly two weeks.”

“I know, Becca,” you say with a smile, balancing your phone on top of the shelf of racks as you flick through a rack of quilted jackets. “I don’t need reminders for things I’d never forget. I already bought my ticket- I’ll be there two days early to help set up.”

“Okay, well… that’s the other thing,” she says, tone dropping. Her pace on the treadmill slows.

You freeze a little, glancing up at Allegra and Noel, now throwing what they’ve dubbed “ugly hats” at each other across the aisle. One lands on the floor and earns them a death glare from the teenage employee behind the counter.

“What ��other thing’?” you ask cautiously.

“Rafe is also helping.”

You blink. “I’m sorry… in what world is Rafe Cameron helping set up for your party? And why?”

Becca exhales. “Apparently, he and Beau are friends again. I don’t know all the details. But if you ask me? He’s using Beau to get to me to get to you. Classic Rafe move.”

You sigh deeply, head tilting back slightly as you stare at the ugly fluorescent lights above.

“Anything else I should know before I book a hotel instead of staying with you?”

Becca hesitates. “Yeah… but I’ll save it for when you get here.”

“Great,” you mutter, sarcasm clear. You say your goodbyes, and after the call ends, you slip your phone into your pocket, shoulders heavy.

“So…” Noel starts, her voice light and curious. “Who’s Rafe?”

“And seriously, what kind of name is that?” Allegra adds, tossing a vintage wool beret back onto the hat rack.

You exhale slowly, stepping toward the exit. “He’s my ex. And I honestly don’t know.”

Allegra and Noel exchange a look as the three of you step back out onto the sidewalk, empty-handed.

“He’s gonna be at your friend’s birthday?” Noel asks, already adjusting her oversized denim jacket.

“Apparently,” you say with a tight, exhausted smile. Just the thought of seeing Rafe again has your stomach in knots. Not because you miss him -though you do, in ways you haven’t admitted- but because you’re not ready to answer the question of why you haven’t responded to him. Why you’ve left all his texts unread. Why you’ve made it so easy for him to believe you’ve moved on.

“You need a pick-me-up,” Allegra says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Sushi? I know a place in SoHo. It’s low-key but their spicy tuna rolls are transcendent.”

You nod quickly, grateful for the change of topic. “Yes. God, yes.”

The three of you link arms, laughter trailing behind you as you disappear into the golden hour glow of the Lower East Side, pretending -for now- that your past wasn’t about to catch up with you in two weeks.

-

Your stomach twists as you turn into the long, curved driveway of Becca’s house, the gravel crunching beneath your tires like it’s warning you to turn back. Familiarity should bring comfort, but today it just heightens your nerves.

You don’t see Rafe’s black SUV anywhere- your eyes scan the area twice just to be sure. But there is a new, sleek Porsche parked off to the side. You can’t tell if it’s his or Beau’s. It could belong to either of them, and honestly, that uncertainty only makes your anxiety worse.

You kill the engine and sit for a second, hands still on the wheel. Just breathe.

Grabbing your duffle bag from the back seat, you walk up to the house. You don’t bother ringing the doorbell. Her parents are out of town, conveniently avoiding the chaos of their daughter’s birthday weekend. Classic. Still, even after all these years of friendship, they never quite warmed up to the idea of you letting yourself in like this was your second home. Maybe it was a wealth thing- boundaries and status, even among best friends.

The front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sounds of muffled music and distant voices. You head straight down the hall, past the grand staircase, through the foyer lined with glossy family portraits, and toward Becca’s favorite part of the house- the theater room. Well, favorite aside from her bedroom, which was more like a curated showroom of mood boards and mid-century modern dreams.

As you round the corner, you collide -hard- with a firm, familiar chest. The contact knocks the breath out of you, and your fingers tighten reflexively around your bag strap. You look up. Rafe.

His hair is more buzzed than you remember, and he smells like expensive cologne and laundry detergent and summer. Your throat tightens. For a second, neither of you moves.

“…Hey,” he says, voice low and uncertain. He doesn’t sound surprised you’re here- more like caught off guard by how early.

“Hi,” you say, stepping back quickly like distance will give you composure.

He stares at you, jaw clenching slightly, like he’s holding back words that have been sitting on his tongue for weeks.

“Rafe! Can you grab more waters for the cooler?” Becca calls from inside the theater room, her voice cheerful and oblivious to the sudden tension in the hallway.

You take the moment to sidestep around him, not looking up again until you’re safely inside the room. And when you do glance back -just for a second- he’s still standing there. Still watching you. Like he hasn’t seen you in months. Like he’s afraid to blink. And just like that, your heartbeat kicks up again.

You hate how much it still affects you.

“Becs!” you shout, dropping your duffle bag to the floor as you step into the theater room.

Becca is halfway up a ladder, taping a curly string of party décor to the ceiling. She looks down at you and beams.

“Y/N!”

She doesn’t even think- she jumps from the ladder without a second thought and launches herself at you. You yelp as the two of you tumble backwards, collapsing onto the plush theater chairs in a heap of limbs and laughter.

“Ow!” you cry through a laugh, clinging to her. “Are you trying to kill me before the party even starts?”

“She’s trying to kill herself,” Beau calls from the other side of the room, where he’s fiddling with some laser lights near the stage setup.

“Hush, Botox,” you tease without looking at him.

Becca gasps dramatically but doesn’t snap back- she’s too giddy. She’s hugging you like you’ve been gone for years, not weeks, and you hug her back just as tightly.

Once you’re both upright again, she brushes glitter off her leggings while you catch your breath- only to glance up and freeze.

Rafe’s just walked in, a heavy case of water bottles balanced in his arms. The moment your eyes meet, something sharp twists in your stomach. You drop your gaze just as quickly.

“Over here,” Beau calls, gesturing to the snack bar setup.

Rafe silently detours, dropping to one knee as he begins loading the bottles into the mini fridge. His shoulders are tense, but his gaze flicks up to you more than once as he works.

Beau comes over and throws a one-armed hug around your shoulders. “Glad you made it, trouble.”

You smile, distracted, and glance back toward Rafe before turning your attention to Becca, who’s unplugging the vacuum and wrapping the cord in her arms.

“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter under your breath, lips barely moving as you smile in that painfully fake, we’re-in-front-of-other-people kind of way.

Becca glances at you and mimics the exact same forced smile. “You knew he’d be here.”

“Not this early!” you hiss, still smiling, both of you locked in this weirdly telepathic girl-code exchange of facial expressions and fake grins before you break into real laughter.

“We’re going up to my room,” Becca announces to the guys as she tosses the vacuum cord over her shoulder.

Beau nods. “Cool. We’re ordering pizza- what do you want?”

“Pepperoni, please,” Becca calls back.

“Pi-” you start to say, but Rafe cuts in from behind the counter, not even looking up.

“Pineapple,” he mutters.

Your eyes snap to him.

Beau looks between the two of you, eyebrow raised, clearly clocking the tension.

“Yeahhhh,” Becca says quickly, clapping her hands. “We’re going upstairs now.”

She grabs your wrist and guides you toward the hallway. “Call us when the pizza gets here!” she tosses over her shoulder as you both leave the room, her voice a little too bright, a little too fast.

As soon as the door swings shut behind you, you exhale.

She doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Then: “Well, that wasn’t as awkward as it could’ve been.”

You groan. “It’s barely been two minutes.”

“And look at us- already surviving.”

You bump her shoulder lightly with yours. “We’ll see.”

You and Becca are sitting cross-legged on her bed, knees almost touching, her hands gripping yours like she’s about to deliver life-altering news. She’s got that look on her face- eyebrows pinched, lips pursed, eyes dancing like she’s fighting the urge to burst.

“Becca, you’re scaring me,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“Just… don’t freak out, okay?” she pleads, squeezing your hands once before pulling hers back to brace herself. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Marie and I slept together,” she blurts, then immediately shoves her fist into her mouth, eyes wide and panicked like she just confessed to murder.

There’s a full five-second delay in your brain. Like a loading sign. Spinning. Spinning.

“Like… slept slept together?” you ask slowly. “Or just… same bed, passed out after a movie…?”

Becca groans. “Slept slept together,” she repeats, cracking her eyes open, waiting for your judgment.

You blink at her. Then again. “Wow,” you finally breathe. “I have so many questions.”

She exhales sharply, half laughing, half still bracing. “Remember when you and Rafe went to breakfast that one morning? And you told us to hang out?”

You nod slowly. “Oh, trust me, I now know exactly what kind of ‘hanging out’ went down. Ew.”

“I was gonna tell you,” she insists, flopping back onto the bed. “That night we were on your balcony? When you were crying and I told you to go after him instead? I had the perfect opening!”

You lean back on your palms, eyes wide. “Wait… is that why you said you were done with guys?”

She blushes instantly. And then bursts into laughter, covering her face with her hands.

You laugh with her, shaking your head. “Oh my god, Becca.”

“I mean… girls are still men, in some ways,” she groans into her hands. “But like, at least this one moisturizes and smells like lavender.”

“I need a minute to recover,” you say, pretending to fan yourself.

The two of you fall into light chatter, laughter trailing into comfort. Eventually, Becca groans and hops off the bed.

“I think I have an eyelash stabbing my retina,” she says dramatically, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom to investigate in the mirror.

Just as she closes the door behind her, there’s a soft knock at Becca’s bedroom door.

“Y/N!” she calls from the bathroom, voice muffled. “Can you grab that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting it,” you mutter, rolling off the bed. You open the door- and freeze.

Rafe is standing there, a plate in each hand and two bottles of water awkwardly tucked beneath his arm. His eyes unreadable, flicking from your face to somewhere over your shoulder and back again.

You’re surprised. But not really.

“I brought these up… for you guys,” he says, his voice low, like he’s not sure if this is going to earn him a thank you or a door slammed in his face.

Your mouth opens a second before your brain catches up. “Thanks,” you say dryly, reaching for the plates.

He nods, then grabs the water bottles from under his arm and reaches past you to set them down on the dresser near the door. You notice the way his arm brushes yours- probably not by accident.

As you start to close the door, he hesitates. “I, uh-” he points to one of the plates, the one clearly meant for you. “I picked the ham off the pineapple. I know you don’t like it.”

You glance down at the plate. Then back at him. Your walls threaten to slip. “Thanks… again.”

He shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like it’s the only way to stop himself from saying more.

And then -because of course he can’t help himself- he leans a little closer, that smug half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always get that look when you’re about to close the door on me,” he murmurs. “Just like you did that night in the rain- right after you let me fuck you in the back of my car.”

Your breath catches. Heat shoots to your cheeks.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, scandalized.

Rafe raises both eyebrows innocently, clearly smug.

Without another word, you slam the door in his face- not hard, but not gently either.

From the bathroom, Becca calls, “What was that?!”

You walk back to the bed with the plates and water, cheeks burning. “Rafe being Rafe,” you mutter, flopping down and groaning into the pillows.

Becca pokes her head out from the bathroom, eye red and watery. “Was he shirtless? I feel like that is something he’d do.”

You throw a pillow at her, laughing.

-

You’re in the kitchen flipping pancakes, the warm scent of butter and syrup wafting through the air. You’re dressed in a black bikini, a semi-sheer white sarong tied low on your hips. Your hair is out, natural and untamed, curls soft and framing your face. You hadn’t bothered to style it today- and somehow, that made you feel more like yourself. More like home.

Behind you, Becca dances barefoot around the island, her playlist blasting through the portable speaker as she chops a medley of strawberries, kiwi, and mango into a giant fruit bowl.

“With how loud your music is and how good those pancakes smell, you better be making some for us too,” Beau’s groggy voice cuts through the beat. You turn your head and laugh as he steps into the kitchen, shirtless and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I’m making damn near the entire box,” you say with a grin. “Trust me, Becs and I aren’t about to eat a dozen pancakes on our own.”

“Speak for yourself,” Becca calls from across the kitchen.

You flip the final batch onto a plate and start assembling them into four neat servings, layering fruit for yourself and Becca and leaving two plates plain.

That’s when Rafe walks in. He’s in a white ribbed tank and low-slung shorts,he clearly just rolled out of bed. Your eyes meet for a brief moment- just long enough to make your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

You quickly pass a plate to Becca. “This one’s for him,” you say under your breath.

She raises an eyebrow but takes it anyway, walking it over to Rafe without a word. Still, when you turn around, you nearly crash into him.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping back.

He steadies the plate in one hand. “Thanks… for the pancakes.”

You nod once. “Yeah… No fruit?”

“Not today,” he says with a shrug, then glances at your plate and back to your face. “You think I should get some?”

The question is simple, but something in the way he asks it makes your stomach tighten. You raise an eyebrow and smile, unsure why it feels like middle school-level flirting all over again.

“You should probably get some,” you say softly.

His grin creeps in slowly. “Do you want me to?”

You bite your lip, trying not to look too amused. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeats, that teasing lilt in his voice now, like he’s enjoying this more than he’ll admit.

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I’ll get some just for you.” He’s already reaching for the fruit bowl, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he scoops a generous helping into a smaller bowl. You catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

You take the bowl from him and set it on his plate, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. His gaze lingers for a second longer than it should.

“You look really pretty,” he says suddenly, looking down as he adjusts the bowl next to his pancakes like he’s trying to hide the heat rising to his face.

You freeze for half a second. The compliment lands heavier than you expected.

“Thank you, Rafe,” you say quietly, warmth spreading through your chest and up your neck.

“Y/N!” Becca calls through the sliding door, already stepping out toward the patio with her plate and a drink in hand.

You grab your own plate and cup, your pulse still dancing from the interaction.

“Yeah! I’m coming,” you call back, but your eyes flick back to Rafe one last time before you follow her out. He’s watching you walk away.

And for a moment, it feels like everything -the tension, the history, the attraction- is suspended in that charged space between pancakes and fruit.

You push the door open, the summer air hitting your skin as you step outside, trying to shake the feeling that you’re still carrying Rafe with you. Even out here.

“Tell me you weren’t just in there flirting with him,” Becca says flatly, popping a strawberry into her mouth as she reclines back on the lounge chair beside you.

You roll your eyes, chewing on a bite of pancake. “We were having a normal conversation, like functioning adults. Shocking, I know.”

“Reminder: he broke up with you. Over the phone.” Her tone is calm but edged with just enough sass to land the blow.

You wince and narrow your eyes. “Jesus, Bec. You don’t have to remind me like that.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “Don’t let him sweet-talk his way back into your life. You’ve come too far for that.”

“I ignored him for weeks after the breakup,” you say, your voice tight. “And that was after we slept together.”

Becca’s head snaps toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly slide off. “Wait… what?”

You freeze, a half-chewed bite of pancake turning to dust in your mouth. “Oh.”

Her brows shoot up. “Did you just say you had sex with him after you broke up?”

You swallow hard and glance away. “Technically, yes.”

She spins on the lounge chair to fully face you, abandoning her plate altogether. “Y/N.”

“Okay, fine,” you groan, pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head. “We did.”

Her mouth drops open in pure betrayal. “When? When the hell did this happen?”

“Shhh!” You reach over and swat her arm, scanning the patio door nervously. “Keep your voice down.”

“Well maybe don’t drop breakup bombshells like that poolside and I wouldn’t have to yell.”

You sigh and tuck your legs underneath you. “It was when I came back to grab more stuff. I wasn’t planning on seeing him- swear. But I went to the marsh to clear my head and… somehow he showed up too.”

Becca raises a brow. “You’re telling me this was a coincidence?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” You shrug, embarrassed. “One minute we’re arguing, the next it’s pouring rain, and we’re in the back of his SUV and he’s-” You pause, waving a hand vaguely. “-doing things.”

Becca blinks. “Okay. First of all? Public, post-breakup sex in a rainstorm? Iconic. That’s some Titanic level drama. Love that for you.”

You smirk in spite of yourself.

“But second of all,” she continues, “how did you not tell me this? I’m your best friend. This is the kind of stuff we live for.”

You groan and sink deeper into your chair. “Because I’ve been trying to forget it happened myself, that’s why.”

“Forget what?” Beau’s voice interrupts as he and Rafe push through the patio door, both holding plates stacked with pancakes.

Your eyes widen. You glance at Becca like please say nothing.

“None of your business,” she says breezily, standing up as she spots the massive wheelbarrow full of bright pool floaties behind them. “What are you two doing?”

Beau sets his plate down on the nearest table. “Blowing up floaties. We got dolphins, flamingos, one of those ridiculous oversized pizza slices-”

“Wanna help?” Rafe asks, looking mostly at you.

Becca doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.”

You take a long sip from your iced coffee and look away, pretending to suddenly find the trees in Becca’s backyard fascinating. Because if you look at him again, even for a second, you might not be able to keep pretending last time wasn’t unforgettable.

-

You and Becca are waist-deep in the pool, rotating through floaties under the guise of “testing” them. In reality, the boys are doing all the heavy lifting -Beau manning the electric pump, Rafe handling the ones that need manual inflation- while you and Becca lazily drift around, swapping floaters every now and then.

You’re currently slung over a giant yellow banana float like a sleepy panda on a tree branch, arms and legs draped dramatically, your sunglasses hiding the fact that you’re shamefully watching Rafe.

Why did he have to take off his shirt? And why does he look so hot blowing up pool floats? You’re pretty sure no one’s ever had that thought before, but here you are.

The sun reflects off the water, and you feel yourself slowly drifting toward the pool’s edge, still clinging to the banana float and trying not to stare too hard as Rafe finishes with a donut-shaped one.

He walks over to the edge where you’ve floated, shirtless, tan, and looking maddeningly unbothered. His hand wraps around the front tip of the banana float, halting your journey. The water ripples against you.

“Heyyyy,” you whine, startled from your daydream. “I was floating.”

He laughs, low and amused, and plops the donut float into the pool beside you. “Time to switch out,” he says with a smirk, like he’s talking to a child refusing to get off the swing.

“I don’t feel like switching.” The protest barely leaves your mouth before he’s stepping into the pool with zero hesitation, water sloshing around him. In one smooth motion, his arms are around your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You let out a small yelp as he gently drops you into the donut float.

“I would’ve gotten up,” you grumble, adjusting your position. “This is just… a lot. All these float switches? I think my fingers are officially prunes.” You lift a hand for dramatic effect and flop your head back.

“Oh yeah,” Rafe says, climbing out of the water again, his shorts clinging to his legs. He shoots you a playful look over his shoulder. “You’ve definitely got the hardest job here. Lounging in the pool while we blow up thirty inflatables.”

“You forgot the part where I also have to rotate every five minutes so my tan doesn’t get uneven,” you add.

“Tragic,” he calls back, grabbing another deflated float from the pile.

Becca, across the pool on a flamingo float, calls out, “If she complains one more time, throw her 

on the pizza slice and spin her around.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Rafe says with a teasing glance your way, his lips tugging into a familiar smirk- the kind that makes your heart beat faster than you’d like to admit.

You sink a little deeper into the donut float, willing your pulse to chill out.

Because God help you… he’s still got it.

[blackened-angel]

Recently I came across interviews with Adi Shankar and guess what, he's still a liar and a narcissist.

Some time ago he said in a podcast (source: AEW’s Kenny Omega & Adi Shankar Breakdown “Devil May Cry” on Netflix) that he was unhappy that Capcom were making DMC5 because he wouldn't be the one to revive the "dead" franchise.

Recently, he bragged, because, after all that's what he's known for, that its because of him that DMC5 reached 10 mil copies.

While it is true that people bought games because they saw the shitty cartoon (not gonna call it anime, even he said that it's not anime in one of the interviews), it doesn't change the fact that he is a fucking loser who wants you to think that he achieved something grand for Devil May Cry and that you should be grateful and praise him. Unfortunately, he will not be getting that for me, because I don't don't stand for narcissists like him, especially making a mockery of a franchise I like. He can keep saying dumb shit and we have the right to call out his stupidity.

Also, he got community noted, like DMC5 was close to 10 million units before the show came out, if only they counted the sales for Special Edition according to what it says.

It still doesn't change the fact that he's pathetic because I checked his Twitter and oh my God, he had quite a few posts where he was congratulating himself. He wants you to believe that he's now some authority figure that has made a massive contribution to DMC and wants to be credited as if he took part in the creation of the series and whatever happens for DMC, like I dunno, collaborations or merchandise or you have to thank him because he made them happen T_T

Look, I know he's a dumbfuck who only does rage bait and wants attention. It still doesn't change the fact that not everyone will consider it cute and that we should cut him slack. Him saying idiotic stuff isn't a good strategy.

Shankar wasn't happy that he couldn't be the savior of Devil May Cry when he heard about DMC5, that he took the opportunity of that announcements regarding the units sold to tell people that you must be grateful for him.

Like I mentioned in the beginning, some interviews have been made and I've pointed a contradictions that I've made before.

I will only use his own statements and you are free to contradict me. I wouldn't have made this post without having receipts. You can verify the websites I mentioned and if you have seen other interviews, you can mention them because I'm not that crazy to read stuff about him. I just saw some excerpts on Twitter and I looked into them.

Okay, so there are 2 recent interview, one from Deadline and Esquire.

What I noticed is that he changes his story about how he got the rights for Devil May Cry. I wrote about this before but I'm mentioning again here. It has been established that Shankar only brags and wants us to regard him as a savior and when I read what he said in the Forbes interview, it fitted with his behavior.

A long time ago he said in this Twitter post that he wanted to make an adaptation for Dino Crisis but it was Capcom who suggested Devil May Cry and Shankar didn't even knew that DMC was on the table, as he said.

But in the interview on the Forbes website he claimed:

Again, wanting to present himself as some kind of warrior, that he fought for us...

Moving on, there are other statements that I found weird about this story regarding how apparently his mission was to get rights ONLY for Dino Crisis but in other interviews he claims that it was always about Devil May Cry.

It was Capcom who came with the suggestion to offer DMC, not that he asked from the start. That's what I gathered from the interviews.

You may think it's unimportant, but I still find it weird why the story is changed.

Now, I want to move on to comment on his fucked up statement that should convince you-although there have been many signs where he proved to be unprofessional and come off as a douchebag who didn't want to produce something out of love for the series.

This is from the Esquire website interview.

Why the fuck is he comparing the shitty cartoon with Arcane? There shouldn't be any comparison with another IP!

It's obvious what were his intentions. This is why I don't have any respect for him.

So many must have coddled him only to be repaid with lies and a product that I can't say it was made for the fans.

I think what I posted on twitter when is relevant. I made this when I heard what he said in that podcast.

To those who got introduced to DMC through the adaptation, while you may enjoy it, just know that you got an inferior product that wasn't made with respect to the series and its fans.

As a final note, can we stop calling it anime? Shankar said it himself.

You may not like the only anime from 2007, but I prefer it to the product made by a narcissist that wanted to make something to surpass another product unrelated to the series and told lies.

At least the anime had Bingo Morihashi, the scenario writer for the games (3-5).

So yeah, let me know your opinions.

[thebroccolination]

THEORY TIME WITH DETECTIVE KEY!!!

Okay, so. Potential spoilers for "The Ex-Morning," so proceed with caution, oui?

We're finding out in episode seven why Tam left, so!

TIME TO SPECULATE BEFORE WE GET TOLD!!!

First things first, they've got the same outfits in these two scenes:

So it's the same day, just different times of day. I'm gonna guess that since Phi sounds like he's on the verge of crying when he says, "I know why you left me that day," the top image is the scene where he and Tam finally talk about it. He certainly looks the appropriate level of distressed and traumatized.

The bottom image is likely later that same day, and Phi's clearly come to terms with whatever it is, enough that he's not angry with Tam. The whole vibe of that kiss seems fairly composed, so I imagine they're on more even footing by then.

And I mean, even in the top image, Phi's crying, but he's also hugging Tam pretty tightly while Tam strokes his hair, so….

Obviously there's no excusing how he left, but I've been banking on the reason being a mix of external and internal from the beginning.

'Cos here's the thing: I'm pretty sure there was some kind of threat behind it.

The series literally began with Phi and Tam investigating illegal activity as students with Phi talking on camera about how this local drug business could be connected to a member of government. They made this video for a competition, so I doubt their footage was ever made public, but they did get multiple people arrested, so it probably made the news news. The actual news.

And in the trailer, we have Phi saying, "Sorry for putting you through all this."

That, to me, seems like he could be apologizing in general: if he hadn't blown up at Tae, Tam wouldn't have come back, and maybe if they hadn't been so clumsy about their first major investigation together, whatever theoretically happened to make Tam leave wouldn't have happened, either.

I think Yong knows, and I think Paul found out through him.

And I think Paul told Phi.

I actually suspected Tam wouldn't be the one to tell Phi in the end. It seems like he's struggled with open communication all along, but also:

If the reason he left was that the award that landed Phi his job also endangered them, I can see Tam not wanting to tell Phi that it was technically his own fault in the midst of Phi trying to rebuild his career - a career he only got because he broke down crying during an interview after Tam broke up with him.

Then I can see why he's reluctant to tell Phi. If it's also Phi's fault, he doesn't want to kick him when he's down.

Like, "Okay, so not only was your career breakthrough ruined by my leaving, I'm also going to ruin one of your happiest memories by telling you the thing we won an award for also ended up fucking up everything."

It's also super possible that if this theory is true, then Tam doesn't blame Phi at all. After all, they were a team, and Tam did the research side of things. He might entirely blame himself.

Anyway, I think that's what that scene with Paul is: telling Phi the reason why Tam left because it's urgent enough that Paul feels okay with going over Tam's head.

Like, Yong definitely knows. There's this shot of a flashback scene from the behind-the-scenes special of Tam going in to talk to Yong, and he's

Same outfit from the flashback that starts episode 3 in which Phi gets the interview he'll fall apart doing because of Tam's breakup text.

Interestingly, we also get these flashback shots of Yong presumably back when he and Gaogie were dating/engaged:

So we might find out some stuff about him too.

Still many missing pieces, but I'm delighted with this week's episode. Went in a total curveball that made me go, "Ooooh," as a writer because it's not the direction I would have gone, but it's also really good. I would've been a little sad if they only got together at the very end, and I like that Phi took that leap of faith.

Time to rewatch again byeeee!

[yamada-ryo]

GQuuuuuuX Ep 12 Notes:

Machu calls Char "Char-san" instead of just Char (Amuro) or Lt. Char (Kamille)

She said the thing!

Gquuuuuux has kept the tradition of a new UC installment reusing old animation from a previous part as 'historical footage' instead of reanimating it

GELGOOG REAL

HE SAID THE THING

THEY'RE REANIMATING THE WHOLE THING. ITS LIKE EP 2 ALL OVER AGAIN

Okay a red gouf I can get behind that- what the hell are those.

"Beginning" is playing in the back...

KYCILIA DROPPING THE MOTHER LINE INSTEAD OF CHAR THIS TIME

HE DOES THE THING!!!

I've never been so glad to see someone get vapourised at point blank before

How the hell is gramps holding up against the gquuuuuux

Is this as close as we're going to get...

Nyaan's been alone this whole time + Machu wants to fulfil her promise

They pulled off a jet stream attack on the rx-78

Doomed yaoi...

Almost like he's fated to pull off a Char's counterattack

It has teeth!

Char's red gundam loses it's head and does the final upwards shot like the end of 0079...

AMURO?????????

Bold of Machu to call Lalah, arguably the very first newtype, not a real newtype

(We're never going to hear the end of Shuji discourse are we)

Mr Bull really went "well that just happened" and then started chatting up Char immediately

Red Gundam's core fighter (it has one!) has similar thrusters to the original rx-78-2

Is he telling him to become the second coming of Quattro Bajeena

They STILL have this evil and intimidating ass building in this timeline

Zeonic mentioned!! wait.

Bro.

He puts the shades on now????

THE ZOCK?????????? (kit confirmed)

He got his ears back (spares from an orange [ad stella?] haro)

Robot mollusk meets real mollusk. Also I guess ^ that's a different Haro. Haros in this universe are just built earless I guess.

Royalty free Nivea

Cute...

Well I guess they're hanging out now. Maybe an Artesia manga continuation in this AU will get published

The OG CVs were really cool to have been brought back but also. You really could tell the age in their voices...

[forgottenroderick]

OOC | The Imperial Nursery/ies

ok, so once again i went to answer the guin/arthur thread and realized that, tho we'd talked abt their later years, we hadn't really worked out the early ones! so i am once again asking you to all to help brainstorm how we want that to work!! sldkfjaksldjf so you know me, i immediately consulted history so ive got some potential thoughts! we don't need to go w these but hopefully they'll get the discussion started, at least!!

ok so we abt [ here ] abt their later lives and, armed w that knowledge, i wade in here hahaha

smth we didn't really talk abt much is the set up of the ~imperial nursery~ prior to the heirs being separated out into their own households, and i kinda have two thoughts on that...and we should maybe have a freewheeling discussion abt this? @forgottenmarian @forgottenguinevere @forgottenedmund bc obv the kid players should def get a say, but also the wives would have had one bc, for example, i don't think someone as sus as @forgottenamira would be chill w her baby being left where elaine (who she was probs more worried abt than marian at the time, since she could pull rank etc if she wanted to plus probs had a bigger grudge against amira at that time, all things considered, etc) or marian could get at him!!!!

but anyway, there're usually kinda two/two point five/three structures, more or less, for royal nurseries

COLLECTIVE

ok so in one structure there's a collective nursery where ~all royal kids are attended by their maids and nurses etc, and obv their mamas can come in and carry them off, boss ppl around, etc, but yeah kinda like the maternity ward at a hospital, the kiddos are all quartered in, cared for, and educated, etc in their own ~children's wing, essentially, which is separate from the queen's wing, tho the kids can be brought to them there etc etc

@forgottensebastian and @forgottencassandra probs would've remained there even after ot3: succession got their own households, but what happens after they are deemed old enough/achieve their majorities can differ -- and, given they were being shuffled across countries and castles, might've differed depending on the physical limitations of the current palace, itself?

in some situations, esp harem situations, there would be slightly more independent quarters in the ~children's wing for older children who aren't heirs (aka sebastian, cassandra) where they would basically remain until married/titled and can go to their own home

alternately, they would only remain in the children's quarters so long -- usually at least until such time as they achieved their majority/were deemed old enough to begin their adult life and thus move on. in sebastian's case, he probs would've been off to join roderick, marian, or @forgottenarthur 's household (or potentially edmund's, but im guessing? marian would object and arthur ~def would since that gesture would seem to say he supports ~edmund's claim lakjsdfkljsdf). cassandra to join likely marian or guinevere's household (which im guessing? marian would've objected to, since itd, again, be an implicit support of ~guin's ascendancy coming from arthur's full sister, but arthur, himself, would probs view it as harmless bc hes like 'idk they're just girls being girls let them be girls father will never countenance a female heir anyway' lakjsdfkjdsf) -- or cassandra ~could amira's, technically, but i really cannoT recommend it on a loT of levels lkajsdfkjlsdf tho i ~can def see amira tryna lure her there to implicitly support edmund lakjsdfjsdf but im just guessing marian would not be having ~that lakjsdfkjlsdf

financially, this is probs a better set up for the queens, bc it basically means that paying for all the kids' needs comes out of the king's household reveue, and keeping up royal kids, clothing them, feeding them, educating them, etc, is a huuuuugely expensive affair, ~esp heirs!!!!!!

alternately, financially, the collective nursery would sometimes be set up as its own household ~within the king's household, essentially, under a chosen governor -- probs bartholomew or potentially later on @forgottenalaric -- tho as im thinking abt this, he was probs ~living there himself, since he's sm younger, and would have had a similar trajectory to sebastian's own, choosing between his brother's household, his uncle's, or one of his nephew's, or else in his case, roderick might've formed alaric his own ducal household as soon as he was considered old enough/came of age/whatever.

@forgottenciara and eoin could also have been in this nursery, too, after their mom died and esp since their dad was off at war (tho that'd be bart's call if he wanted that or not), another thing that'd make it beneficial in roderick's eyes to have a single collective nursery for all the varmont kids!

given all that, this collective nursery is probs the set up roderick would've preferred but he does think women get a say in marriages and childrearing (but not much else lakjdsflksdf) so, in this, anyway, he def would've listened to what they wanted.

QUEENLY

an alternate structure is that each queen has her own nursery for her own kids as part of her own household

can def say that @forgottenamira defffff would've pushed for this!!!!! doesn't mean she would've won, but its def what she would've wanted!!! she aint abt trusting anyone w ~her kid!! lkajsdkjf

in this set up, @forgottentristan probs would've been part of of this, or else sent into alaric's, godfrey's, or (ultimately) edmund's household. even in the collective nursery set up, tho, he's probs in amira's or godfrey's (but probs amira's bc...godfrey's off at war and tristans like 6, a lil young for war even by varmont standards lkasjdfsjdf) household in the above set up, tho, since, unlike alaric, he's not a varmont (which is probs another reason amira was for the queenly set up -- i got a kid here already anyway!!)

in this case, cassandra likely more or less stays put even when she is deemed old enough, simply being appointed as a lady-in-waiting of the queen when she's old enough (tho she certainly could ~request transfer to another female household if she wished, once she hit her majority! tho itd be up to marian whether or not to honor that request), but sebastian probs has the same situation as the other one, having to formally join a household, since he's a boy

in this situation, alaric was probs either in the empress' nursery, or else his ducal household was probs set up in his minority w a governor (likely bart or potentially even someone like @forgottenalistair or aleksander royce if bart already had too much on his plate as hand) to oversee it till he was old enough to do so, himself. if he was initially under the empress, his ducal household was probs formed after her death, and if ciara and eoin were in the royal nursery, eoin was probs admitted to alaric's household atp (tho i can def see amira and marian potentially tryna get him placed in edmund and arthur's households respectively).

ciara would've been a source of some consternation, bc she'd need to be in a female household but there's no longer an obv place to put her, and again itd be a tacit support for her to be in any household. roderick would probs think she should go to guin's since that's effectively the empress household, still, in his mind anyway; amira would def push for ciara in her own as roderick's next-ranking queen; i imagine marian would also want to take her? bart might've just taken her home tho atp? idk lkajdsfjkdsf if either of his kids were even there to begin with...

financially, this means that paying for the kids comes out of the individual queen's own household revenue and yeah!! huge expense!! (might be another reason amira was like 'nah, one kid at a time' till edmund got his own household and had to pay for ~himself if we go w this option alkdsjfkljdsf)

COMBINATION

so in this situation, you kinda get both the above!! and would potentially make a good compromise if there was a lot of tension re the other options? so in this system, raising, feeding, clothing, and caring for the kiddos is the queen's responsibility, but they all come together to be trained/educated in the various lessons they'll need to learn, and ~that's the king's responsibility

the household situations in this one probs work out as they would more or less in the queenly nursery option

so yeah!! idk what everyone's thoughts are but!! that's a thing! also, if you guys have other ideas/suggestions pls def add those! these're just structures im aware of, but im confident there are others irl -- and lbr we can also completely make up our own thing, too so!! def don't want us to feel limited by this, but hopefully it'll get the ball rolling on talking that all out! <3

[thetrialsandtribulationsofeb]

i’m in the mood to rank buck’s and eddie’s love interests throughout the show from the “best” (ish) to the worst, ‘cause why not:

1) ali - we didn’t see a lot of their relationship, and maybe that’s what saved her, lol. but, like, overall, i actually liked her personality, and she and buck looked good together. i also understand her reason for breaking up with him - not everyone can handle buck’s lifestyle. and she at least waited till he recovered a little bit before breaking up with him, so bonus points for politeness, i guess. (though i understand tatiana’s perspective on her breakup with chimney too.) also, the way she was gently stroking buck’s cheek as he was crying is living in my head rent-free

2) shannon - she wasn’t the perfect mum and she wasn’t the perfect wife, but i liked her personality. she was cute and kind and tried to make it work for so many years until she finally broke down. and i still think it’s mostly eddie’s fault, ‘cause he actually didn’t have her back. he wasn’t there for her when she needed him the most. and he still didn’t put himself fully into their relationship when they reconnected, even though she wanted to give them a chance again. so, yeah, i think she had the potential to be a good partner - not her fault she got caught up in this mess. they both were young and stupid and didn’t know any better until reality caught up (eddie not being able to love her the way he wanted to love her, and she wanted to be loved)

3) taylor - i kind of hated her in the beginning because of wanting to reveal bobby’s personal life in her video about the 118, but i started to like her in season 4. she actually had a fleshed-out and complex personality - one that didn’t match with buck’s, in a romantic sense at least. but they made a great team as friends and partners-in-crime. i also think she should’ve broken up with buck after he cheated on her. but, yeah, another case of two people falling in love with each other and ignoring all the ways they’re incompatible until it finally blows up in their face. i’d say at least buck learned what he doesn’t want in a relationship while being with her - but then he dated natalia and tommy, so yeah…

4) abby - look, i think she was actually pretty okay during their relationship. and i also don’t see the age gap as an issue, ‘cause buck was 26 at the time and already had a lot of life experience. like, it doesn’t count as grooming imo, so who cares that she was older. and it’s nice that buck decided to take things slow and learn how to be in a serious relationship, and she gave him that chance. ‘cause, yes, she maybe saw him as a boytoy, but she still also took time to learn about his personality. but obviously, they were never meant to last, ‘cause she was at a very different stage in her life. buck just built a castle on sand with the way he got so involved in their relationship. BUT, i will consider her a bitch for not breaking up with him properly and stringing him along for several months. like, i get your reasons, girl, but how about communicating them and letting the other person know instead of giving them false hope?

5) ana - she had more chemistry with ravi in that one scene than with eddie in all their time together… also, i can’t tell much about her personality. their relationship was just boring. but she is gorgeous

6) marisol - again, such a beautiful woman. eddie couldn’t care less though. he likes them blue-eyed. i don’t know whether i should respect her for her amount of patience or, on the contrary, feel pity for her. i’m putting her below ana ‘cause she managed to have even less chemistry with eddie than her

7) natalia - it took a long time to decide whether to put her in last place or not. but my dislike for tommy turned out to be stronger. her biggest problem was just her obsession with death. which is a weird reason to date someone

8) tommy - first of all, i’m still holding a grudge about hen and chim and how he didn’t do anything to stand up for them or at least let them know privately that he’s on their side, like chim did with hen when she first got into the 118. i don’t like people with sheep minds. secondly, he was definitely the one who saw buck as some hot prize/himbo and didn’t care the least about his personality. and at first i thought “oh, thank god for seeing that buck is into men and kissing him to finally let him know that,” but then he turned out to be the shittiest boyfriend in the world, and i was like, “oh, here we go, another meaningless relationship for buck that didn’t work out, because the person he’s dating doesn’t fit him at all”

also, this confirmed again that both buck and eddie’s problems in their relationships stem from them not really thinking about their actual wants and needs, and just doing it out of some internal pressure they put on themselves - which they call “going with their gut”

when in reality, it’s more like: buck tries to fill the hole inside of him with any relationship he can find, even if they’re bad for him, ‘cause he doesn’t like to be alone, and he thinks he needs to be of service to someone (he’s a helper and a fixer, after all - the unconscious trauma that was implanted in him basically since his birth)

and eddie tries to have that “ready-made” family he had with shannon (i’m actually obsessed with how he romanticizes his relationship with her by calling it “magic” when their marriage was ready-made too, because she got pregnant and they were pretty much forced to marry without figuring out first whether they even wanted it or not)

meanwhile, they choose each other over and over again because they actually want to

they have shared values, they understand each other like no one else. and even when it all goes wrong, they fix the problem and still choose each other instead of giving up on their relationship

and it’s mutual. that’s the key - they both want the same thing. each other, and the family they built with chris

so yeah

buddie canon when?

[ahbogman]

help him

[regular-gnome]

What's Anatomist up to lately? (I miss my bae)

They are mainly working, occasionally getting annoyed at how evolution makes things more difficult for them to work on

it's reference to the recurrent laryngeal nerve. The fun thing about it is that it's the nerve that innervates the muscles in the larynx, but it detours around the aorta on its way from the brain to the voice box. This is especially noticeable in larger animals where the heart and the voice box are far apart. For example, in giraffes, the structures are only a few centimeters apart, but the nerve can get 5 meters long because it travels all the way down to the chest and then loops back up. This is a result of how structures evolved from fish (with no necks) to large animals (with large necks). Evolution can't just "unplug" the nerve and optimize it, so next best thing is to gradually adjust over time

animation of the process | bit more info about it

[july-19th-club]

one thing about being in too much pain to uphold social niceties (period and it's a bad one) is that i did spend all day at work not only doubled over and moving at a pace the ninety year old library ladies were lapping but i was even worse than usual at tasks like Looking At People Who Are Chewing Gum and "not edging away bugeyed when a coworker stands close next to me" and of course the perennial favorite "keeping track of more than three words spoken to me in a row and responding to that" and we'll let me merely say. it is just me and that murderbot. nobody else in this whole damn library understands

[cybertron-smash-or-pass]

Beast Wars Cheetor

[rainbowpufflez]

Fine, I’ll admit that I like Lysandre 😔

[sunn-mechanic]

FINALLY FINISHED HORIZON ZERO DAWN OUGH

after like 5 years gjkdjkdljskd