#0 state -> static

[ceausescue]

i feel like this is at least partly a result of the comfortable unified environment provided by a full framework. cooperation between the frontend and backend for shit like multipart forms or validation is silly. but like, ideally there would be a better choice than react for a lot of stuff. there are a lot of interesting pushes in this direction though- i used to be really into liveview and alpine, and it seems like people like svelte and vue

Feel like the ultimate question of web deployment is "does this even need to be an application" and part of the reason everyone hates web developers is that the answer *would* be no in most cases if not for a whole bunch of dynamic content that no one who visits the website actually wants.

if you didnt have ads and trackers and banners and email signup popups and comments sections full of spam and trolls, you'd just be serving some text with images 99.999% of the time and none of the webdev gack would be necessary. You only gamble on the added bloat paying for itself despite the massive added bandwidth cost because otherwise the amount you're getting paid is "zero"

[monkeyssalad-blog]

Lockheed F-104D Starfighter 0-71323 USAF 57-1323 by Chris Murkin Via Flickr: Lockheed F104D Starfighter 0-71323 USAF 57-1323 Photo taken at Pima Air & Space Museum Tucson Arizona USA May 2025 HAA_5406

[memetic-trigger-hazard]

Trope blender strikes again!

Since the formation of the Justice League Dark to deal with supernatural threats, Diana had been acting as the team's 'Superman' for lack of a better term.

It was, however, not a position she was entirely suited to, as ironically enough when engaging supernatural threats she was better suited to the same role that Batman played in the Justice League, engaging with superior training, tactics and specialised tools while also acting as battlefield tactical command.

With the lack of any other candidates however, she made do. But not for long.

Thanks to a wandering little girl, Diana had gained a new cousin and uncle who were refreshingly free of the hubris of the Greek pantheon, as well as an unexpected (and terrifying) meeting with her Grandfather who was far different from the stories, she supposed death and a few millennia would calm someone down. She was pleased however to add some paternal family members she could enjoy calm moments with.

Her Uncle was willing to help, however his backlog from the previous King in addition to the repairs and ongoing negotiations for reparations with the United States government made her feel guilt for placing further demands on him.

Her younger cousin however was more than happy to "get out of the house", her Father's comments about the expansiveness of a TARDIS castle completely ignored.

Ellie was already training with her old friend Pandora (So many happy reunions) so Diana was more than willing to take her to Themascerya for an initiation to the Sisterhood of Amazon's. Danny was ecstatic that his daughter was making friends.

Now Ellie as Banshee is JLD's front line fighter and Diana is the tactician, a dynamic duo of their own. Diana is so proud of her little cousin.

Which is why today was very..... Strange.

~

Basically the JLD have to head to the Watchtower for some threat, Ellie is super pumped because SPACE and Diana is excited to take her smol bean cousin to the Watchtower for the first time.

Batman and Co arrive and Drama TM occurs because "Holy shit that little girl looks like a Talia with blue eyes", Damian starts accusing and mouthing off, Ellie freaks because her Dad has warned her about the League of Assassins, so she freaks and bails.

Diana is explaining who Ellie is, how they're related when Uncanny Valley Danny in human form comes out of a portal in his "Royal Casual" work attire. Loose jeans,button up with vest, fluffy slippers with a coffee mug in hand. He's facing Diana, paying 0 attention to who else is there beyond "cool space station".

"Hey niece, why is my daughter running through my castle screaming about killer birds?"

"Ah, I believe she is referring to Robin being a former member of the League of Assassins." Diana replies.

Batman and the rest of the Justice League are tense, assessing this possible ally who RADIATES power and death. Anyone affected by death can feel it like static in their teeth during a lightning storm. Those who have been into the Lazarus Pits feel safe yet the overwhelming urge to KNEEL BEFORE YOUR KING.

"Well shit, someone actually escaped from the Fruit Loop Supreme? Anyone who gets away from my asshole grandfather is alright by me." Danny replies as he turns to look at the various heros, taking a sip from his mug.

"Danyal?" A faint hopeful whisper as Damian takes his mask off to look at his Brother (HOW, HOW? HE LOST HIM HE'S HERE HOW?) His dead twin somehow here and changed so much.

*Slurp*

"Well shit, didn't expect this."

This entire time Bruce's brain is making crunching noises.

It's not the extra son that's apparently God of the Afterlives. It's not the granddaughter.

Diana is his son's niece. Bruce had sex with his grand niece. Barbara is right, he needs therapy.

[dakusan]

F I R S T R U I N

Vampire!Lee Minho x Reader | thigh-biting blood high, dumb on his cock, ruined slow then cleaned softer

🔞synopsis: A nurse with a sharp tongue. A vampire with silk gloves and fangs made for worship. One locked door. Three bites. Too much cum. Not enough mercy. You didn’t mean to fall for him—didn’t mean to offer your vein, your body, your fucking soul. But Lee Minho is cold-handed precision and velvet-tongued sin, and when he says “mine,” your knees forget how to say no. Welcome to your first ruin. There is no second. Only his name, carved into your pulse.

💌a/n: I HAVE PLANS FOR VAMPIRE!SKZ OKAY. This is just the beginning. My goal is to write one solo smut fic for each of the boys first. and then I’ll start alternating between full OT8 blood-fueled chaos and more solo entries. Also yes—this one was long as hell, but you already KNOW me. I can’t drop you into the filth without a little plot first. I want you to ache for the sex. I want the bite to land. You get character. You get dynamic. And then? THEN YOU GET RUINED. This is Lee Know’s world and we’re all just kneeling in it 🥀. p.s. if this had you lightheaded, wet, and twitching—reblog it. don’t just lurk. reblogs = forehead kiss by minho 💋 p.p.s. this fic is brought to you by one brain cell and a gallon of unholy thirst p.p.p.s. honestly? i think we all need to go lie down in a cool, dark cave. bring fruit. and holy water p.p.p.p.s. click to listen to the song or don't... or pls do~ 👀

⚠️ warnings: 18+ / MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | Bloodplay, vampirism, biting/feeding during sex | Overstimulation | Oral (f receiving), unprotected sex | Possessive dom!Minho | Breeding kink language, cocky filthy talk, praise & degradation | Orgasm control, light choking (hand on neck) | Marking, light blood loss, lightheaded reader | Lap aftercare, worship-adjacent behaviour | Minho being pussy drunk & dangerous about it | Blood-drunk reader | Dark romantic obsession themes | Fang kink | Ruined sheets, ruined reader, ruined life (you’re his now) | Soft dom aftercare

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Bleed pretty. Stretch.

🎧 » Lace and Chains — VX « 0:58 ─〇───── 2:52 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

You didn’t come to Luxe Health to be anyone’s pet.

You were hired on skill—clinical excellence, trauma specialization, and a disposition cool enough to treat feral-blooded vampires without flinching. You were sharp, steady, and frighteningly efficient. The kind of nurse who could stitch flesh while quoting surgical texts and still have enough clarity left to write up a six-page incident report with zero typos.

You didn’t smile often. You didn’t gossip. You didn’t freeze, even when a patient went bloodlusted and tried to lunge through a restraint field. You just tapped the tranquilizer dose higher. Watched his eyes roll back. Logged the vitals. Moved on.

You were quiet. Obsessively neat. And Minho noticed you immediately.

It started on your second month—night shift.

You were managing a containment patient who’d snapped his bond under duress. His mate had died on the operating table. Rage-state induced. Full-fanged. Venom glands wide open.

Most staff cleared the corridor when he arrived. But you stayed behind the seal line, prepping medical-grade hemo-gauze and a bite inhibitor in case he came loose.

And that’s when he appeared. Minho.

At the time, you didn’t know who he was. Just that he wore black gloves. Didn’t blink. Didn’t announce himself. Just stood there—still and elegant, watching you through the glass.

Your pulse stayed steady.

He tilted his head when he noticed that. He smiled—just once, barely. And then he disappeared.

You figured it was a fluke.

Maybe he just happened to be in the corridor that night. Maybe he had business with the rage-state unit. Maybe you were just a warm body in a cold room, nothing more than background static.

You told yourself that four times. Even as the elevators kept stopping on your floor. Even when you spotted him standing in radiology at 3:06AM, leaning against the wall like he belonged there, watching you roll a supply cart into ICU-3 without blinking.

You ignored it. Like a professional. Like someone who had bills.

Because in your mind, vampires—especially ones in silk and sin—were strictly not part of your survival plan.

You didn’t care that his cheekbones could slice air. You didn’t care that his voice could unmake a fever. You didn’t care that he moved like the concept of threat, dressed like elegance incarnate, and tracked you with the hungry precision of someone who never once heard the word no and believed it.

You had a job. You had shift notes. You had a patient who vomited blood down your front not ten minutes ago. You did not have time for whatever this vampire thought he was doing.

What you didn't know...was that the entire empire noticed.

“Did you see Minho?”

“Which time?”

“The way he was hovering outside Ward D.”

“Bro was waiting like a cat outside a bathroom door.”

Jisung, resident panic-button genius and accidental vampire, nearly chokes on his imported coconut milk as he reenacts the stare. “He does this thing with his head, y’know? The Tilt. The ‘I want to dissect you like an emotion’ tilt.”

Across the table, Felix just sips his tea with a knowing look. “He’s doing it again today,” he says softly.

“How do you know?”

“Because I dreamed it. And the dream smelled like disinfectant and longing.”

“Gross,” Jisung mutters, still slurping.

“Sexy,” Hyunjin corrects with a flick of his brush, painting onto the corner of a trauma-suppression mural.

“Illegal,” Seungmin deadpans from a nearby bench, flipping through a blood-law violation report without looking up.

“Classic Minho,” Changbin grunts with a shrug.

“He’s gonna snap eventually,” Jeongin adds with a laugh. “Just walk in mid-shift and bite her in front of everyone.”

“He won’t,” Seungmin says without emotion. “He’s too controlled for that.”

“He wants to,” Felix hums.

“Yeah,” Jisung agrees. “Like… you know that cartoon wolf whose heart punches out his chest?”

“That’s Minho.”

Meanwhile: You, at Scrub Station 3B, completely unaware of whatever chaos is happening around you. But, you also aren't stupid.

You’d noticed the strange tension in the staff lounge lately.

The glances. The weird silences. The way people stopped talking when you walked in and then started whispering louder the moment you left. The way the vending machine suddenly stopped accepting your ID code, only to be mysteriously fixed every time someone from Security walked by.

You assumed it was vampire politics. Some weird internal chain-of-command shit. Nothing to do with you.

You weren’t stupid. You’d heard the whispers.

“That’s Minho’s nurse.” “The one he keeps watching?” “The one who doesn’t react?” “He likes that.” “Of course he does. She’s got no fear in her scent signature.”

Which, frankly, was bullshit. You did have fear. You just filed it. Indexed it. Labelled it under to be dealt with later, and moved on.

And that was the difference.

Most humans trembled around vampires. Especially Abnormals. Especially ones like Minho, who came from a bloodline so ancient it dripped with ritual and violence.

But you?

You wore triple-layer gloves. Carried three pens. Could recite every anti-glamour clause in the hospital contract by section. You called in extra restrainers before anyone else did. You wore your surgical mask even when no one was around.

You didn’t resist vampires. You ignored them.

And Minho found that… unforgivable.

4AM, ICU Corridor, Luxe Health

"Nurse."

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even turn around. Still holding the IV bag one-handed, you pressed the auto-temp check with your elbow and answered flatly: “If you’re here to loiter, you need a visitor badge.”

Behind you, a soft inhale. Expensive. The kind of breath you learn to identify after three months of pretending you don’t have an ancient Abnormal vampire tailing your every night shift like a very pretty, very persistent ghost.

“I’m here to supervise containment compliance.”

“Of course you are,” you muttered, adjusting the hemo tubing. “Just like last Thursday. And the one before that. And the day you appeared in the stairwell holding a blood sample you weren’t authorized to have.”

He didn’t respond. Just stepped closer—barely an inch into your personal space—and leaned in until you could feel the glamour heat tickling the back of your neck.

“You smelled like regret that day,” Minho said conversationally.

“That’s funny,” you replied. “I smelled like bleach and burnt coffee.”

“Same thing, in my experience.”

You turned.

Finally.

His face was unfair. Always had been. The kind of bone structure that made people suspicious of mirrors. Jaw locked in its usual lazy precision. And that infuriating glint in his eye—like he was permanently two seconds away from saying something profoundly inappropriate in the most polite tone imaginable.

“You’re blocking the supply cabinet,” you said.

“You’re blocking my peace of mind,” he replied without missing a beat.

“Tragic. Move.”

Minho didn’t.

He reached past you instead, plucking a gauze packet off the shelf like this was his ICU, his routine, and you were just lucky to be breathing in his curated aesthetic.

“You know,” he added casually, “I’ve handled rogue bond-breakers with less edge than you.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t one.”

You took the gauze from his hand. Your fingers touched—briefly—and you definitely didn’t imagine the jolt that followed.

He tilted his head. Studied you. Like you were a patient. A riddle. A puzzle with too many locked doors and no polite way to pick them. “What do you want, Lee?” you asked. “Genuinely. Because if it’s blood, I’m sure the cafeteria’s serving warmed AB right now with a side of desperate interns.”

“I don’t feed at work,” he said. Then, after a pause: “Usually.”

You blinked once. “You think you’re charming.”

“I know I’m charming. You’re just unnaturally resistant.”

“You know what’s charming? Finishing your compliance report. On time. Without watching me file inventory like it’s a strip show.”

That earned you a soft laugh. Low and dangerous. The kind of sound that curled in your stomach like heat and refused to leave.

“One day,” he murmured, leaning back with all the smug grace of a man who’d never once been told no in a meaningful tone, “you’re going to ask me to bite you.”

You looked at him—deadpan.

“One day, I’m going to replace your blood suppressant with saline and see how smug you are mid-withdrawal.”

He blinked. Paused. And then—grinned.

“Marry me.”

“File your fucking report.”

6AM, CEO Office, Luxe Health HQ

“You’re not listening to me.”

Chan didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Correct.”

Minho narrowed his eyes. Pacing now. Elegant. Dangerous. Agitated.

“She threatened to saline-patch my suppressant dose.”

“That’s... honestly kind of funny.”

“That’s medical warfare.”

Chan blinked. “She’s a nurse, Minho. That’s literally her job.”

“It was flirtation.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

That got Chan’s attention. He sighed. Set the tablet down. Folded his hands. Fixed Minho with that stare. The one that made most bloodlines fall to their knees and apologize.

“Minho.”

“What.”

“You’ve led covert missions into rogue blood auction rings.”

“Correct.”

“You interrogated a traitor using a smile and three syllables.”

“She cried blood. It was poetic.”

“And yet you are losing your mind because a trauma nurse won’t flirt back?”

“She does flirt back!”

“Minho.”

“She does it with medical threats and latex gloves. It’s delicious.”

Chan pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Have you fed from her?”

“No.”

“Touched her?”

“Only by accident. Once. I handed her gauze. Our fingers brushed. I almost blacked out.”

“Okay, you need therapy.”

“I need her,” Minho said with a straight face.

Chan's eye twitched as he stared at Minho's deadpan straight face. You are a grown immortal man. You are on payroll. You cannot keep stalking the human nurse who organizes IVs like she’s angry at gravity, he thought while staring at the other vampire.

“She’s not like anyone else,” Minho muttered, now half-draped over Chan’s glass desk like an ancient drama queen. “She never flinches. Never looks impressed. I called her beautiful and she said I needed better lighting.”

“You do.”

“I told her I dreamed about her last night.”

“Minho.”

“She said, and I quote: ‘Sounds like a skill issue.’”

Chan paused. He blinked slowly. Then—smirked. “Okay, I kind of love her.”

Minho just scowled. “She told me to file a report. A report! After I pulled three rogue fangs from a rage-state hybrid!”

“Were you supposed to file a report?”

“…Yes.”

Chan sipped his blood-coffee substitute. Calm. God-tier composed.

“You’re obsessed.”

“No.”

“You’re hovering.”

“Incorrect.”

“You’re one bad shift away from dragging her into a storage room and—”

“—glamouring her against the wall and biting her inner thigh until she screams my name?”

“…Wow.”

“That was hypothetical.”

“That was a cry for help.”

You were running out of places to put the damn flowers.

The first bouquet arrived in silence—no card, no warning—just there, waiting at your station between vitals reports and an empty coffee cup.

You threw them out.

The next bouquet came two nights later. Bigger. Lilies and peonies, dipped in glamour to keep them fresh past death. You gave those to a patient. He cried. Called you an angel. You told him to lower his morphine dose.

By week three, it was becoming a problem.

The entire nurse’s station looked like a cursed wedding prep site. Vases tucked between blood pressure monitors. Hydrangeas in the staff fridge. Roses blooming next to the printer. Even the vampire patients were impressed. One growled, “Marry him,” as you passed.

You tried ignoring it. You tried passive-aggressive post-it notes. You even tried filing a complaint to HR, which mysteriously got “lost” after reaching Seungmin’s desk. (You knew it was him. You saw the post-it note on his computer: "Let her suffer. It's romantic.")

Then came the coffee.

Minho learned your order. Not from you. You never told him. But somehow, every shift, it appeared. Hot. Correct. Exactly the temperature you liked, even on the days you changed it.

“Witchcraft,” you muttered once, taking a sip.

A deep voice behind you: “No. Attention to detail.” You almost threw the cup at him. He looked delighted.

There was even a turning point! I know, shocker. The reports? He started submitting them. On time. Flawless. With footnotes. Proper headers. Spell-checked. PDF format. You were horrified.

“You’re mocking me,” you said, scrolling through one of them in the breakroom. “I’m impressing you,” Minho corrected smoothly. “By finally doing your job?” “By doing it in Helvetica Neue and proper pagination.”

You hated how smug he looked. You hated how your stomach twisted when he lingered in the hallway a moment too long. You hated that you were starting to like the flowers.

You really hated the night he didn’t show up—because you noticed.

And then came the first date. You didn’t mean to say yes. It had been a long shift. You were tired. He looked less smug than usual, like he was waiting for something he didn’t want to admit he wanted. He didn’t flirt. He just said:

“Dinner. No blood. No pressure. Just me. You. One night where you don’t have to wipe down an exam table.”

And… for some godforsaken reason…

You said yes.

What followed next wasn't normal.

You expected seduction. Or feeding. Or some slow-burn game that ended with his mouth on your thigh and your name erased from memory.

Instead? He took you to a rooftop garden. No blood in sight. Let you pick the food. Let you eat first. Talked. Really talked. About life. About dreams. About you.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t bite you. He held your hand.

That was it.

And from that date? More came after. Walks at night, warded alleys where no one interrupted. Quiet dinners in places that didn’t exist on Yelp. Enchanted rooms with ceilings full of stars. Reading medical journals together in eerie silence and arguing about footnote formatting like it was foreplay.

Still—not a single drop of blood. Not one kiss. Not even a single press of fangs to skin.

You asked him once, bluntly: “Do you want me? Or do you want to feed?”

He’d gone still. Then:

“Both. Eventually. But I’m not going to take either until you ask.”

You stared at him.

He just smiled. Leaned back in the booth. And said: “Besides. You’re more fun when you’re confused.”

Two Months Later

You. Still working. Still unbitten. Still unsure if you’re dating the vampire or the delusion of dating him.

The gifts have escalated. You’re no longer getting flowers—you’re getting enchanted orchids that bloom based on your circadian rhythm. The coffee? Comes in porcelain mugs from centuries-old European houses. You started Googling the logos. One of them sells for more than your monthly salary. There’s a cashmere-lined stethoscope case on your desk with your initials embroidered. You didn’t ask for it.

And Minho? Still hasn’t kissed you. Still hasn’t bitten you. Still calls you “mine” like it’s a joke—except it’s really, really not.

Tonight, you are once again on a date, at a rooftop garden. With Him. You have lost count. You have lost track.

You’re dressed in black. Simple. Clean. Your makeup’s a little heavier than usual. Just enough to look like you didn’t try but very clearly did.

He notices. Of course he does. He notices everything.

He brings nothing this time. No box. No coffee. No flowers.

Just a folder. Black. Embossed. Marked with the Luxe Health seal and one single word:

“CONTRACT.”

You raise a brow. “Romantic.”

“This is romantic,” he says, deadly calm. “I’m being respectful.”

“This is paperwork.”

“This is possession.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

He slides it toward you. You don’t touch it yet. He waits. He always waits. But tonight, his restraint is fraying.

“You know what this is.”

“A blood doll contract.”

“Your blood doll contract.”

“Wow. That’s forward.”

“It’s overdue.”

You hesitate, eyes scanning over the cover of the folder. “I thought we were… taking our time.”

“I gave you flowers. I gave you space. I gave you silence.”

“And?”

“And you’re still not mine.” He leans forward. Voice lowering. “You wear my gifts. You drink my coffee. You let me walk you home like you’re already mine.”

“But I’m not.”

“That’s the problem.”

You sigh and finally open the folder. The paper wasn’t paper. It shimmered—some enchanted blend of vellum and soul-signed parchment, threaded with runic script and Luxe Health clearance glyphs. It smelled faintly of rosewood, blood-sugar, and vampire venom—like it had been scented specifically to disarm you.

The first page read:

LUXE HEALTH EXCLUSIVE BLOOD BOND CONTRACT (Private Tier 7A) Client: Lee Minho, Executive Director of Containment & High-Risk Retrieval Proposed Bond: [REDACTED — WAITING FOR BLOOD SIGIL INPUT] Terms: Eternal unless dissolved by death, betrayal, or mutual trauma unbinding.

You flipped the page, reading over each clause carefully.

Clause 1 – Exclusivity: The bonded human shall agree to become the sole blood source and feeding recipient of Director Lee Minho. No other vampire may feed, bond, glamour, or scent-imprint the bonded party. Attempts will result in instant retaliation. Clause 3 – Feeding Access: Director Lee may initiate feeding only with verbal consent or spontaneous offering. Emergency feeds require biometric confirmation of bond stability. No bedside biting without prior scheduling unless medically justified. Clause 5 – Physical Proximity & Personal Belonging Rights: You will wear his hoodie at least once. No, this is not legally required, but emotionally, it’s essential. (Note: This clause is in Jisung’s handwriting. You recognize the chaos.) Clause 6 – Bed Sharing Addendum: Should the bonded choose to cohabitate, Minho will relinquish 60% of bed space. He will not snore. He reserves the right to spoon. Denial of spooning must be justified in writing. (Also Jisung.) Clause 7 – Feeding Response Clause: Feeding may commence only upon verbal consent or spontaneous offering. Ritual biting optional. Orgasm not required—but statistically probable. (Jisung has circled “statistically probable” in gold ink and drawn a smiley face.)

You stared at the pages for a long time. Then up at him. He looked almost calm. But you knew better.

His fingers were clenched too tightly around the stem of his wine glass. His pupils were too wide, even for vampire night vision. His throat bobbed once, and you swore—for the first time since you met him—Minho looked nervous.

“Did you… write this yourself?” you asked carefully.

“I dictated it,” he said. “Jisung formatted it.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He added the spooning clause. I told him it was unnecessary.”

“…It’s not.”

“You say that now,” he muttered, “but just wait.”

You were quiet for a while. Reading. Rereading. Trying to breathe evenly, even though your pulse was definitely spiking—because this wasn’t a tease. This wasn’t a joke. This wasn’t a seductive detour.

This was real.

“And if I don’t sign it?” you asked quietly.

Minho met your gaze—serious. Grounded. “Then I’ll keep dating you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t feed?”

“Not unless you ask.”

“You won’t claim me?”

“Not unless you beg.”

You swallowed. “So you’re going to… wait?”

“I’m going to hope,” he said softly. “That’s worse.”

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking.

You hadn’t been kissed. You hadn’t been bitten. You hadn’t been touched below the waist. And still—you had never felt more utterly, completely owned in your entire fucking life.

Not by force. Not by glamour. Just… by choice. By his. And now—by yours.

“If I sign this,” you said, voice low. “It changes everything.”

Minho’s eyes glinted. “No,” he said. “It confirms everything.”

You look back down at the contract, narrowing your eyes. Finally, you grab the pen tucked inside the folder—heavy, gold-tipped, and faintly warm from being enchanted—and bring it to the line marked BLOOD SIGIL SIGNATURE.

“Do I have to…?”

“Just a pinprick,” he says. “No pain.”

You prick the pad of your thumb with the pen’s hidden fang. It beads. Red. Bright. Glimmering like garnet under the moonlight. The paper absorbs it greedily, drinking your drop like it’s starving.

Your name blooms in glowing script across the page—signed in blood. Bound by will.

Minho exhales. Like he hasn’t breathed in weeks.

“It’s done,” you whisper.

He closes the folder gently, reverently, fingers grazing yours and you sit there for a moment, staring at the sealed folder between you like it might start glowing again. Your thumb still tingles. Your chest does too.

Minho doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He’s just… looking at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face now that you’re his. Like he’s been holding back for months—and now the lock finally clicked open.

You open your mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to tease—but then: “Your entrees,” the waiter announces, stepping into the charged silence like he doesn’t feel the psychic possession radiating from your table.

He sets down two crystal plates with some absurdly tiny, artfully stacked thing in the center. There’s foam. There’s edible gold leaf. There’s a single black truffle shaving doing absolutely nothing.

You blink down at the plate. Then at him.

“Is that... caviar on a flower petal?”

“Imported,” Minho says, without looking. “It only blooms under moonlight and silence.”

You raise an eyebrow. “So it’s just like you then.”

That gets him. He finally smiles, a real smile. "May or may not have had it imported for you, talked to the restaurant, the chef."

Your eye twitches.

"Minho!"

"What?"

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose, but, a laugh escapes you. "Okay, fine. I'll try it. If it's bad, I am blaming you."

"I'll take the blame, but it won't disappoint." Minho grinned confident.

And honestly? As tiny as it was, with it's edible gold leaf, and stupid foam. That shit was actually tasty. Did you admit it? No. Did you two bicker about food for the next 20 minutes? Definitely.

But, it wouldn't be a date between you two without a little bit of bickering.

Luxe Health, 11PM

You’re exhausted.

The kind of exhausted that sits between your shoulder blades and tightens behind your eyes. Three emergency transfusions. One patient in soulbond withdrawal. A shattered glass IV, a glamour malfunction, and a trauma intern who spilled blood on his own shoes and nearly passed out.

You’ve been on your feet for fourteen hours, your bun is slipping, and your gloves have already gone through three layers.

The elevator doors open. You expect an empty hallway.

Instead: Minho.

Leaning against the far wall, dressed in black like he’s auditioning for a secret society that meets only under eclipses. No coat. Just silk and shadow and the same look he’s been giving you since the night you signed the contract.

Possession. Soft. Absolute. Undeniable.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand. A coffee in the other. “You’re late,” he says.

“I almost murdered an intern.”

“Ah. Romantic.”

You walk past him, snag the coffee from his hand.

“Is this from that little place near the river?”

“Only the best for my favorite nurse.”

“You say that like you have others.”

“I don’t. You signed the contract. You’re the only one I’m allowed to ruin.”

You roll your eyes.

“What’s in the bag?”

“Your favorite—cold soba, pickled radish, and that weird dessert you pretend not to like.”

“Mochi?”

“You love mochi.”

“I never said that.”

“You never have to.”

He leads to his car, where he is driving you both to his place. The ride is quiet, comfortable, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. You’ve been to his place before—so many times now it smells like you. Your shampoo in the bathroom. Your hoodie on the back of the couch.

But tonight feels different. There’s something thicker in the air. Not tension. Not fear.

Readiness.

He opens the door, lets you step in first. Always. And then follows right after you and off to the kitchen, plating the food like some domestic vampire fantasy. You toe off your shoes, drop your bag by the armchair and follow into the kitchen. Standing there and watching him.

“You don’t have to feed me,” you murmur.

“I want to.”

“You don’t have to wait either.”

“I still want to.”

You stare at him and he is watching you again. Not hungrily. Not like prey. Like a man who built his entire patience around you. Like someone who chooses to wait—because when he finally takes, he wants you begging.

The two of you eat together. Relax. Laugh. Talk about how your shift went and he listens like your every word is sacred. He brushes your wrist when he hands you a drink and your skin sparks. He smiles when you groan over the mochi, satisfied, and tells you you’re cute with your mouth full.

You almost choke.

And with dinner gone, now completely full and satisfied, you don't get up. You stay curled in his lap on the couch, head against his chest, his arms loose but locked around you.

His fingers skim slow patterns along your spine. One hand settles low on your hip—possessive. Barely moving. Right over the place he’ll someday bite.

“Minho.”

“Mmm?”

“You still haven’t fed.”

“I know.”

“It’s been days.”

“It’s been perfect.”

You pull back, just enough to look at him. “Are you… trying to drive me insane?”

“No,” he whispers. “I’m trying to make sure when I finally touch you like that—you don’t want me to stop.”

Your breath hitches. Minho always has a way with words and yet every time, he manages to catch you off-guard. Every. Single. Time. Without missing a beat.

He studies you for a long moment. His eyes glow a shade darker than before. His glamour hums under his skin. Not fully active—but close. Feral held in silk. You reach for him. Not to kiss. Not to provoke. Just… to touch.

You cup his face. Slide your thumb across his bottom lip. Whisper: “I’m ready.”

He closes his eyes. Breathes in. The muscles in his jaw shift.

“No,” he says, voice low. Wrecked. “Not yet.”

“Why?”

“Because when I do it—I’m going to take my time. And I want you rested. Fed. Touched. I want your thighs shaking before I even put my mouth on you.”

You go still.

He leans in, presses his lips to your temple. Light. Reverent. “Go shower,” he murmurs. “I’ll make tea.”

“You’re evil.”

“I’m in love.”

You towel off in the bathroom. Steam still curls along the mirror edges. Your skin is flushed, glowing. Damp hair clings to the slope of your neck, and water trails down your thighs like the final straw in a slow-burning war.

You think about asking him where he put your change of clothes.

You step out barefoot, towel wrapped around you—and he’s in the kitchen, back turned, pouring tea like this is just another night.

But then—

He sees you.

And he stops moving. Like the air went static. Like the glamour around him cracked.

You don’t say anything. Just… exist. Wet hair. Bare skin. Towel slipping slightly.

He’s across the room in seconds.

Minho doesn’t speak. Doesn’t blink. Just stands there, every line of his body taut—controlled, but barely. That glimmer in his eyes isn’t patience anymore.

It’s possession.

His voice drops low. “You’re testing me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I showered. You said tea.”

“I lied.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve wanted to kiss you since the minute you got off your shift.”

You smile. Tilt your head. Let the towel slip a fraction lower. “So kiss me.”

And oh baby, those words? That simple, so kiss me? It unravels him. His hands move to your waist, gripping and pulling you in. Hard. Not reckless, but firm—like he needs you right now or he might detonate.

The next thing is his lips. They crash into yours—hot, deep, starving.

Just teeth and tongue and a low growl vibrating in his chest as your hands fist in his shirt and you press against him like you’ve been waiting for this exact fire.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth.

“That bad?”

“That perfect.”

His hands slide down your back, over the curve of your ass, fingers digging in like he’s memorizing the shape. The towel loosens—he catches it with one hand, pulling it tighter, just to keep you on edge.

You gasp against his mouth as he presses you back against the hallway wall, hips pinning you.

You can feel him. Hard. Huge. Throbbing. And still—he doesn’t rush. His lips trail down your jaw. Your neck. The skin over your collarbone.

“I want to taste you,” he whispers, teeth brushing the place he’ll bite eventually.

“You can.”

“Not like that. Not yet.”

“Then what do you want?”

“Everything else.”

He kisses your shoulder. Then the hollow of your throat. Towel snatched off of you, leaving you bare for his eyes only. His mouth is everywhere—hungry, reverent, wet. You gasp when he bites—not the bite, but a sharp nibble on the inside of your thigh when he drops to his knees.

“Minho—”

“You don’t know how good you smell,” he growls.

“Then bite me.” you almost start begging for it, pleading for him to bite you.

“Not yet.”

He kisses your hip.

Looks up.

Eyes blown. Lips parted, fangs peeking. A line of your arousal slides down your leg and he watches it like it’s blood.

Then smirks. “But I’m going to eat you now.”

The hallway light glows gold behind his silhouette, but all you can see is the dark fire in his eyes as he stares at your cunt like it’s something holy. No—worse. Like it’s his.

One sharp inhale through his nose and dives in, mouth to your wet cunt instantly, placing an open-mouthed kiss. “Fuck,” he moans, tongue flattening against your folds.

Your knees buckle—you gasp, grabbing his hair, and he just groans like that turned him on more.

“Minho—”

“Hold still.”

He slides one hand up to brace your thigh over his shoulder—you’re open, exposed, wet—and he fucking devours you. Not polite. Not careful. Messy, slow, deep.

Purposeful.

His tongue runs flat and slow from your entrance to your clit—then circles, then sucks, then presses in again like he’s mapping your body in real time.

You’re gasping. Arching. Shaking.

He doesn’t stop.

Minho's fully gone. Pussy-drunk. You can feel it. From the way he is licking you. Like your taste is his fucking drug and he’s addicted with no rehab in sight. “You taste like a fucking spell,” he pants, tongue lapping, lips slick.

“You're drooling,” you gasp.

“You’re dripping.”

He licks it all up like you’re wasting it. Your fingers dig into his hair. Your head hits the wall. You're moaning—half-begging, half-cursing—and he’s obsessed with it. Obsessed with you.

He moans into your pussy. Louder. Vibrating.

“Say my name.”

“Minho—”

“Again.”

“Minho, fuck, I—”

“That’s it.”

His tongue flicks your clit mercilessly now, fast, deliberate, perfectly timed with how he rocks you against his face.

But then, fuck. You feel it. The slow, slick push of one finger—just one—but so thick, so deep, curling like it’s written in his fucking nature. A single knuckle, testing. Then further. Then all the way in.

“Oh my god—”

“You can take it,” he rasps against your cunt. “You were made to take it.”

He fucks you with his finger, slow at first—press, curl, retreat. All while his tongue keeps flicking your clit in brutal, precise circles.

Obscene. Filthy. Perfect.

You’re moaning—loudly now. You don’t care if the neighbours hear. You don’t care about anything except the stretch of his finger, the swirl of his tongue, the rhythmic suck that sends you lurching into the wall.

“Fucking—Minho—”

“Look at me.”

You look. You shouldn’t have looked.

His eyes are blown wide. Hair a mess. Mouth glistening. His lips shine with your slick. He’s looking up at you like you’re holy—like he’ll ruin you just to worship you better.

He then pushes another finger in. Stretching you wider. He groans when your walls clench down. “So tight,” he breathes. “You gonna cum for me like this?”

“I—fuck—I can’t—”

“You will.”

He speeds up—fingers curling inside you, tongue relentless on your clit.

Your knees are gone. Your moans are wrecked. Your hands are gripping his hair so hard he growls—and then moans again like he likes it.

You're drenched. You’re drooling. You're going to cum.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice soaked in sin. “Cum for me. Let me taste it all.”

And you do. You fall apart. Walls pulsing. Toes curling. Breath shattered. He stays on you the whole time—lapping up every drop of your juices like they're his final fucking meal. He rides you through the orgasm, through the high with soft licks and soft thrusts of his fingers before slowly easing them out of your wet cunt.

Minho pulls back and stands, hands moving to the back of your thighs and picking you up almost instantly. Lips on your own, kissing you hungrily with his soaked mouth, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re mine now,” he says against your lips, soft and wrecked and dark.

“Already were.”

Minho doesn’t speak after that. He just breathes—heavy, dark, hungry. His eyes never leave yours as he carries you to the bedroom, steps slow, like he’s walking you to your fate.

And maybe he is.

He sets you down like you’re made of silk and sin, but the look on his face? Anything but soft. His jaw clenches. His eyes burn. He takes a moment to take you in. Devours you without touching. Like he’s trying to memorize every inch before he ruins it.

Then—finally—he moves.

He pulls off his shirt. Slow. Controlled. You see every shift of muscle, every flex of restraint. Then his pants. Then he’s standing in just his briefs.

And he’s hard. So fucking hard it hurts to look at. His cock strains against the fabric, thick, leaking, twitching.

He's onto you in less than a second.

Crawling over you on the bed, pressing kisses along your thighs. One, then two, then higher—then your inner thigh—and his breath shakes.

“Let me,” he whispers.

And you nod. Because fuck, you’d let him do anything.

He traces his fangs across your inner thigh. And you feel it. See it. That tiny shift in him—like a predator finally letting instinct take the reins.

“You’re sure?”

“Minho, bite me.”

His hand grips your thigh. He moans—moans—from the sound of that. And finally, sinks his fangs in. Teeth in flesh.

It’s sharp, yes—but it’s also ecstasy. Blood spills, warm and hot, down your thigh as he drinks, sucking, groaning, grinding against the bed like your taste alone is enough to make him come.

“Fuck—fuck—you taste—” he can’t even finish the sentence. He’s lost.

He’s pussy-drunk and blood-drunk now. Gone feral. Gone beautiful.

Your back arches. Your moans blend with his groans. It’s messy. Bloody. His mouth is stained, his chin dripping, and he looks so fucking good like this. Eyes glowing. Lips parted. Still licking, still lapping—like you’re a feast he never wants to end.

He pulls back slowly, tongue dragging over the wound.

“Mine,” he says again. Lower now. Possessive. Reverent.

“Yours,” you pant. “I’m yours.”

Minho crawls back up and crashes his lips on your own. Kissing you deeply. Lustfully.

Blood on both your lips. Lust in both your mouths. His hips grind into yours—still clothed, still desperate.

Your body is still trembling from the bite—thighs slick, nerves sparking, lips swollen from the way he kissed you after drinking your blood like wine. But he hasn’t fucked you yet. Hasn’t even taken off his briefs. And yet—he already owns you.

He’s above you, braced on his hands. Eyes dark. Lust layered over hunger, layered over obsession.

You reach for him. He catches your wrist. Kisses your pulse. Smirks when your breath stutters.

“You don’t even know how long I’ve waited to ruin you.”

And then those last threads of restraint snap.

His briefs come off, cock springing free—thick, hard, leaking, the head flushed dark and furious. You moan at the sight of it. He just raises a brow.

“Use your words.”

You swallow, lips parting. “Please.”

His hand moves to your jaw, tilting your face up, fingers firm. His thumb presses against your lower lip, slipping inside when you gasp.

“Open wider.”

You do. He slides his thumb deeper.

“That’s it. My perfect little kitten. So obedient now.”

But you roll your eyes. Wrong move. His smirk turns sharp. “There she is.” And then you’re flipped. Face down. Ass up. A hand on the back of your neck, one gripping your hips like handles.

His palm cracks across your ass—once. Twice. Again. The sting is addicting. The growl in his throat even more so. “You roll those eyes again and I’ll fuck you with my fingers until you cry and beg like a good girl.”

You whimper. You’re soaked.

His fingers find your soaked cunt, and he groans again, louder this time. Soaked. Dripping before retreating his fingers and replacing with his cock, sliding it along your slit—just once. Just enough to make you cry out. And then?

He stops.

“Beg.”

You arch. You squirm. You groan. “Please—fuck, please, Minho, I need it, I want it—”

“Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I’m fucking yours.”

And then he thrusts in—deep. Hard. Endless. You moan loudly. Your back arches. His hand wraps around your throat from behind, pulling you up against his chest, his fangs grazing your neck—not biting, not yet, just letting you feel the threat.

“You feel that baby?” he snarls into your ear. “That’s mine now. Your pussy. Your blood. Your fucking soul.”

He slams in again.

Your moans are wrecked. Your body’s trembling.

"You're not gonna cum baby. No no, you're going to cry for it, beg for it, am I clear?"

You only manage to whimper, a quick nod.

Minho grins, a soft chuckle escaping him. "That's right." His hips roll once—just once—and your eyes flutter shut. Too deep. Too good. Too perfect. “Look at you,” he growls, dragging his cock out slowly, making you feel every inch. “Fucking melting already and I’ve barely started.”

You whimper. His hand tightens on your throat, firm. “Stay right there, pretty thing,” he murmurs into your hair. “Back arched. Thighs wide. Let me ruin what’s already mine.”

And then he slams in—again. And again. And again. Rhythm unrelenting, brutal, delicious.

Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out. Just wrecked gasps, breathless sobs of pleasure as he fucks into you like his life depends on it. Like your cunt was carved out just for his cock. Because it is. It was. It always will be.

“So warm,” he groans. “So fucking tight."

His hands roam—possessive, greedy—fingers dragging over your waist, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Then lower. To your thighs.

Then? He leans down. And bites. Right into the slope of your shoulder.

You scream.

Blood spills. And he moans. “Fuck—yes—baby, you taste like a fucking prayer.”

Your body trembles violently, caught in the overwhelming rush of pain and pleasure. His cock still pistons into you while his fangs stay buried in your shoulder—drinking, devouring, claiming.

You go limp. Floaty. Brain white-noise dizzy from the high of it. But Minho? He doesn’t stop. If anything, it makes him wilder.

“Mine,” he growls into your skin, pulling back just enough to let blood drip down your shoulder and onto the sheets. “All fucking mine.”

His hips snap harder. Your slick squelches. His cock slides in perfectly, perfectly, perfectly—

You’re dripping. Slick and blood and spit and ruin.

And he’s drunk on it.

“My nurse,” he pants. “My good girl. My blood doll. My fucking kitten.”

You nod, voice gone. Mouth parted. Completely wrecked.

He grins.

“You wanna cum now, sweetheart?”

You sob. “Yes. Please. Please, Minho—”

“Then say it.”

“I’m yours. I’m your good girl. I’m your fucking good girl, please—”

“Good,” he whispers. “Then fucking cum on my cock, pretty. Make it messy.”

And you do. You fall apart—ripped open, raw, shaking. Your pussy clamps down so hard he groans, hips stuttering.

“That’s it, that’s my girl, give it to me, give it all—fuck, fuck—”

He chases his own high with a savage growl, cock twitching, pulsing as he cums deep inside you, heat flooding your soaked cunt. But he doesn’t stop. His hips keep grinding, slow now, as if milking every drop of your orgasm—of his own.

And then? His lips are on your neck again. Not gentle this time. Not teasing.

Feral.

“Still mine,” he pants. “Still hungry.”

You barely have time to gasp before he bites. Hard. Deep. Again. Your scream chokes into a moan, your body spasming around his cock still buried inside you.

“M-Minho—fuck—!”

Your hands claw at the sheets. You’re trembling, eyes fluttering, body jerking as your orgasm is prolonged by the blood loss, by the dizzying pull of him sucking at your vein like it’s salvation.

It’s the third time he’s fed from you tonight. And you feel it. The way the world tilts. The heat behind your eyes. The ache in your neck. But fuck—it feels so good.

“You’re not stopping,” you gasp, voice raw. “You’re still feeding—”

“You taste better when you’re fucked out,” he murmurs against your neck, voice wrecked. “Better when you’re mine.”

His thrusts are much slower now, but deeper, grinding and rubbing every oversensitive nerve in your swollen, soaked pussy. “You gonna pass out, kitten?” he hums, licking at your neck now. “You gonna fall asleep with my cum dripping out of you and my marks on your skin?”

You nod. Or maybe you try to. The room spins, but your body won’t stop clenching around him, pulsing with overstimulation and ecstasy and heat.

Minho finally slows. Still inside you. Still wrapped around you. His breath hitches. His fangs retreat from your neck and kisses the spot so softly, so gently. Licks the wound.

“You did so well, baby,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “So fucking perfect for me.”

You hum sleepily, completely spent.

Minho slowly pulls out of you with a hiss—his cock wet and still hard but twitching with the aftershocks of overstimulation. Your soft whimper at the loss has him pausing, thumb grazing your thigh where he bit you earlier, eyes dragging over the blood smears like a collector admiring his masterpiece.

“Shh,” he murmurs. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

You’re boneless beneath him. Shaky. Light-headed. Completely wrecked.

He eases you onto your back with surgical care, brushing damp strands from your face, trailing kisses along your jaw and collarbone to soothe the tremble in your limbs.

Minho stands up, grabs his briefs and puts them on before disappearing for only a few seconds. By the time you blink, he's back. Hands carrying a basin of warm water, fresh cloths, and that damn precision he always keeps tucked behind his smile.

He doesn’t speak.

Just starts with your thighs. Careful. Gentle. Attentive.

The cloth drags through the mess he made—his cum, your slick, blood from the bite. You flinch once, and he hushes you immediately. “Hush. I know it’s sore. Just breathe.” He wipes you down in slow strokes, cleaning between your thighs like he’s winding you down after open-heart surgery. There’s no rush. No sound but the soft splashes of water and your shallow breaths.

Once clean, he moves to your neck—licking again where he bit, sealing the puncture gently. There’s a cloth on your chest. A warm one on your belly. You think you might be floating.

And then he dresses you.

His oversized shirt. Sliding it over your head, smoothing it down your arms, fingers brushing your wrists like you’re made of glass. Tucks the hem under your thighs. Fixes the collar.

When he’s sure you’re safe—covered—he lifts you and onto his lap. Minho grabs the blanket and places it around your shoulders. One arm around your waist, the other in your hair, brushing it back from your forehead with all the care in the world.

“Look at you now,” he whispers. “Fucked dumb. Blood-drunk. My perfect little nurse.”

He holds you like that for a long while. Letting your heartbeat slow. Letting the fog clear from your mind. You think you hear him hum something low under his breath—familiar, maybe a lullaby.

And when he feels you melt entirely? He whispers, “Drink this,” and presses a glass of water to your lips. “Small sips.”

Your lips part automatically, letting him tilt the glass for you—his fingers cradling your jaw with reverence, like you’re the holy thing here. You sip slow. Let it trickle down your throat. You don’t even taste it, not really. Just feel the temperature. Feel him.

“Mm,” you rasp, lips curling lazily. “You always this bossy after turning me into roadkill?”

Minho snorts—actually snorts—and it’s so rare you blink up at him like it’s a miracle. He sets the glass down, eyes crinkling faintly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone.

“Roadkill still moaning like a bitch in heat?”

You gasp, scandalized and amused, trying to swat at him, but you barely land a tap. Your limbs are noodles. Useless.

“You’re such a menace.”

“You’re the one who let a vampire fuck you raw and bleed you dry in the same hour,” he murmurs, smiling faintly as he adjusts you in his arms. “You knew what I was.”

“Didn’t know you were gonna ruin me.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “That—” his voice is low, feral, tender, “—was the point.”

He settles you both onto the bed, moving with precision and silence. You don’t even notice how efficiently he tucks you in until you’re under soft sheets and two blankets—his hoodie still on you, his body heat curling around you like a second layer of bedding.

He presses behind you. One arm snakes around your waist. His leg hooks over yours.

His nose nestles into your hair, voice barely audible now.

“You let me bite you three times tonight,” he murmurs. “Let me fuck you stupid. Let me drink until you went all soft in my arms like a little doll. Your first ruin. Let me ruin you."

You hum sleepily. “Told you… I’m your nurse��”

He chuckles, lips at your temple. “Not just my nurse.”

"No?"

"My everything." he whispers.

And between those soft spoken words, you drift somewhere between dream and delirium, his heartbeat (stolen or not) pulsing steady behind your spine.

His breath stays even against your nape. And for a moment—just a moment—you wonder if this is what peace feels like.

Until—

“Minho…” you mumble, half-asleep. “If you bite me a fourth time tonight I swear to God I’m suing.”

He hums innocently. “Mmm. Thought you liked being lightheaded and full of me.”

“I like having a functioning central nervous system.”

“Don’t worry,” he mutters. “You don’t need a brain to be mine.”

You whimper and smack his thigh. Weakly. He just laughs, low and smug, and nuzzles deeper into your hair.

The next morning? You wake up drooling on his pillow with vampire hickeys in three different anatomical regions, but at least there's a glass of water waiting on the nightstand.

There’s also a sticky note.

In Minho’s criminally neat handwriting:

Don’t move. I’m making breakfast. Don’t pass out in the shower or I will sedate you. Also: stop moaning my name in your sleep, the neighbours are starting to ask questions. — Yours, eternally. 🖤

And that’s how life goes for you now. Fucked to ruin; Bitten thrice a week (minimum); Kept hydrated by the world's most sadistic vampire boyfriend; In love; Definitely doomed.

But hey.

You’re still breathing. Still bruised. Still his. Still fucked. Still spoiled. Still taken care of and loved.

And you wouldn’t change a fucking thing.

[other-lxxahazel]

could you do smth with y/n being oblivious to Alastor trying to court them but oddly enough y/n becomes fascinated with his shadows and he uses it to impress them 0^0 if not its okay ignore this, make sure to stay healthy!

✎ I'll take this request as part two of Oblivion because it's like it can be connected to it 😭 many are already asking for part two that's why I'm so FREAKING thankful to this anon for giving me an idea! (I want to add friend you so freaking bad Anon 😭😭)

╰┈➤ Oblivion (2)

The apple tarts, once baked, vanished with alarming speed, a testament to your baking prowess and the hotel residents' enduring sweet tooth. Alastor, to his internal chagrin, had even taken a bite, his smile fixed and unwavering as he offered a polite, if strained, compliment on its "fascinating texture." He'd endured it, savored the proximity you’d offered, yet the fundamental problem remained: your utterly impenetrable obliviousness. He’d orchestrated an entire baking charade, suffered the cloying scent of sugar, and still, you saw him merely as an enthusiastic, if clumsy, culinary student. The thought was enough to make his static crackle with a frustrated snarl.

He was Alastor, the Radio Demon, a being whose will was absolute, yet here he was, reduced to elaborate theatricals for the sole purpose of making a single, delightful soul realize he harbored an unprecedented, maddening affection for her. It was… undignified. It was infuriating. He found himself pacing his radio tower, the air thick with his mounting annoyance, the usual jazz music occasionally interrupted by sharp bursts of feedback. He knew, intellectually, that he was becoming desperate. A sliver of his rational mind screamed at him to simply state his intentions, to assert his claim as he would with any other territory or soul. But then, there was the matter of Pride.

His pride, sharp and unyielding as a freshly honed blade, forbade such a direct confession. To admit weakness, to lay bare such a vulnerable emotion, was anathema to his very being. He was the one who controlled, who manipulated, who held all the cards. To confess would be to surrender a piece of that control, to expose a facet of himself he’d spent eons burying. And then there was the dreadful, horrifying possibility of… rejection. The thought sent a jolt of ice through him, quickly masked by a furious burst of static. No, directness was out of the question. He had to maintain the illusion of casual interest, of detached amusement, even as his internal world churned with unfamiliar longing.

He observed you constantly, a silent, ever-present specter. He’d watch you reading, sketching, even simply tidying up the hotel’s often-chaotic common areas. He noted the way your eyes would light up when you spoke of your hobbies, the gentle curve of your smile when you were lost in thought. And it was during one such observation that he noticed something else, something peculiar and, to his surprise, potentially useful.

You were sitting by a sunbeam filtering through a grimy window, sketching in a worn notebook. His own shadow, always hovering near him, stretched across the floor, partially obscuring the light from your paper. Instead of being annoyed, you simply paused, tilting your head. Then, with a slow, almost curious movement, you reached out and gently, tentatively, petted the amorphous mass of his shadow. You stroked it like one might stroke a particularly docile pet, your fingers ghosting over the darkness. His shadow, a sentient extension of his will, rippled in response, a silent hum of surprise echoing in Alastor’s mind. You smiled, a soft, content expression, and then went back to your drawing, occasionally reaching out to absentmindedly stroke the shadow again.

A nefarious, yet brilliant, idea sparked in Alastor’s mind. He couldn't express vulnerability, or perform overtly affectionate gestures himself. It went against every fiber of his being, every carefully constructed façade of the ruthless Radio Demon. But his shadow… his shadow was another matter entirely. His shadow was an extension, yes, but also a separate entity, something he could command to do things he would never deign to do. It was the perfect scapegoat, the ideal intermediary. He could project his desires, his desperate yearning for affection, onto his shadow, and should you ever question it, he could simply blame the erratic nature of the demonic entity. Brilliant.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The next day, Alastor put his plan into action. He found you in the dining room, attempting to untangle a particularly stubborn knot in a long piece of decorative ribbon for some hotel event. You muttered under your breath, utterly absorbed. Alastor stepped into the room, his form casting a long, distinct shadow. He commanded it, silently, mentally: Engage.

His shadow rippled, detaching slightly from his feet, and flowed across the floor towards you like dark ink. You looked up, startled, but then your eyes widened in fascination as the shadow, instead of merely resting, began to shift. It lengthened, then narrowed into a slender, almost finger-like appendage. It reached out, hovered over the ribbon, and with surprising gentleness, began to prod and manipulate the knot. Its movements were fluid, almost delicate, a stark contrast to Alastor’s usual forceful precision. You watched, captivated, as the shadow patiently worked, subtly pulling here, nudging there, until with a final, almost imperceptible flick, the knot loosened and unraveled.

"Oh, wow!" you breathed, eyes wide. "Thank you, Alastor's shadow! That was amazing!" You leaned down, your fingers reaching out to lightly tap the shadow's 'surface' in appreciation.

Alastor felt a strange, almost physical thrum in his chest as you praised his shadow. He stood stiffly, a detached smile on his face, but internally, he was preening. He offered a noncommittal chuckle. "Ah, yes, my shadow can be… quite resourceful when it wishes to be. Always surprising me, that one." He infused his voice with a feigned annoyance, as if the shadow's helpfulness was an unexpected burden.

Over the next few days, the shadow became his primary instrument of "covert" affection. You had a messy strand of hair falling into your eyes while you worked? Alastor would appear, and his shadow would deftly lift the strand, tucking it behind your ear with a softness that he would never directly exhibit. You'd instinctively lean into the gentle touch, humming contentedly. Alastor, meanwhile, would simply observe, his internal monologue a chaotic blend of triumph and a strange, unfamiliar yearning. Yes, my dear, feel the gentle touch. This is what I long to give you, had my nature not been so… direct.

One particularly chilly evening, as you shivered slightly in the surprisingly drafty lounge, Alastor entered. Before you could even voice a complaint, his shadow stretched out, swirling around your shoulders like a living shawl, seemingly radiating a subtle warmth. You gasped, then giggled, snuggling into the inexplicable comfort. "Oh, Alastor's shadow, you're so cozy!" you murmured, your hand reaching up to pat the shadowy "fabric" wrapped around you.

Alastor felt a pang, sharp and unwelcome. He stood a few feet away, poker-faced, but his mind screamed. She's patting my shadow! She's comfortable with my shadow! She's getting warm from my shadow! He wanted to be the one providing the warmth, the comfort. He wanted your touch, your soft murmurs directed at him. But he couldn’t. His pride, his carefully constructed persona, forbade it. So he merely chuckled, a dry, radio-static laden sound. "Indeed. Quite the… obliging companion, isn't it?"

The shadow, however, seemed to revel in your attention. Alastor often found it stretching towards you of its own accord, almost as if sensing his unspoken commands, performing small acts of service or comfort. It would hold objects for you, shield your eyes from sudden flashes of light, or even, once, untangle a particularly stubborn shoelace while Alastor watched, a rigid smile plastered on his face, a growing sense of disquiet swirling within him.

You, meanwhile, had grown genuinely fond of Alastor's shadow. You spoke to it, thanked it, and sometimes, when you thought no one was looking, you'd reach out and gently stroke its form, as if petting a cherished companion. You'd even given it a silly little nickname: "Shady."

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The "Shady" nickname grated on Alastor's nerves more than he cared to admit. It implied a familiarity, an almost intimacy, that you withheld from him. Yet, he persevered, instructing his shadow to perform increasingly complex and oddly tender acts.

One morning, you were humming a forgotten tune as you meticulously watered the hotel’s potted plants – some of which still occasionally tried to bite. A particularly thorny vine snagged on your sleeve, threatening to tear the fabric. Before you could react, Alastor’s shadow darted out. Instead of simply pulling it free, the shadow gently, almost coaxingly, untangled the tendril, its dark form shifting to mimic the delicate movements of fingers. It then lingered, its 'hand' briefly brushing yours before retracting. You looked up, a soft smile on your face. "Oh, Shady, you're so careful! Thank you." You leaned down and patted the shadow's surface, a gesture that made Alastor's internal static buzz with a frustrated mix of triumph and agony.

Another time, during one of Charlie's overly enthusiastic, yet ultimately ineffective, "team-building exercises," you found yourself awkwardly trying to balance a stack of wobbly, oddly-shaped demonic board game pieces. Just as they threatened to topple, Alastor’s shadow flowed around you, acting as an impromptu brace, holding the pieces steady until you could secure them. You glanced at Alastor, who merely offered his usual wide grin, but then turned back to the shadow. "You're always there when I need you, aren't you, Shady?" you murmured, a genuine fondness in your voice. Alastor felt a sharp, unwelcome stab in his chest. I am always there. I am the one orchestrating this!

He even commanded his shadow to do things that hinted at a softer, more protective nature he actively suppressed. If you coughed, the shadow would manifest a tiny, ethereal cup, seeming to offer a silent drink. If you sighed in exasperation, it would gently pat your arm. These were acts of pure, unadulterated solicitude, gestures Alastor would never permit himself to display openly. He watched, always watched, hoping to see a spark of recognition, a flicker of something more than just casual appreciation in your eyes. But you remained, frustratingly, adorably, oblivious. You simply took these acts as quirky, endearing traits of Alastor's unusual companion, attributing them to the shadow’s own, seemingly independent, personality.

This increasing personification of his shadow by you was becoming a serious problem. You’d chat with it, sometimes even confide in it about your day, treating it less like a sentient extension of a powerful demon and more like a quiet, comforting friend. You found joy in its silent presence, its helpfulness, its uncanny ability to anticipate your needs. Alastor heard these soft conversations, watched these gentle interactions, and felt a burning resentment blossom within him. It was getting harder to maintain his facade of detached amusement.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

This was where Alastor’s brilliant plan began to unravel. The thing he thought could be his unassailable advantage slowly, insidiously, became his torment. He found himself being jealous. Jealous of his own shadow.

The jealousy was a foreign, noxious emotion, coiling in his gut like a venomous snake. He, the Radio Demon, a being of immense power and cold ambition, was jealous of an extension of his own being. It was absurd. It was humiliating. And yet, there it was, burning hot and inescapable every time you offered his shadow a gentle touch, a fond word, a quiet smile that you never quite gave him with the same unreserved affection.

He yearned for what his shadow was earning from you. He yearned for your hand to rest on his arm, not merely brush against it. He yearned for your genuine, unguarded smile to be directed solely at him, not the amorphous dark shape he controlled. He yearned for you to lean into his presence, to find comfort and warmth in his proximity, not just his commanded reflection.

One afternoon, you were struggling to reach a particularly ancient, heavy tome on a high shelf in the hotel’s ridiculously tall library. Alastor appeared, as if on cue, his staff resting lightly against his shoulder. His shadow immediately extended, gracefully plucking the book down and placing it gently into your hands.

"Oh, Shady, you're the best!" you exclaimed, laughing softly as you patted the shadow, which rippled contentedly under your touch. "So much more helpful than Alastor sometimes!" You glanced at him and winked playfully, completely missing the flicker of something sharp in his crimson eyes. "No offense, Alastor!"

Alastor’s smile wavered, a barely perceptible twitch. No offense? No offense?! His shadow had just performed a task that he could have done with a snap of his fingers, a gesture that was meant to showcase his protective nature, and his own shadow was getting the credit, and worse, your playful affection. A low, almost inaudible growl rumbled in his chest, quickly covered by a cheerful burst of static. "None taken, my dear," he managed, though his grip on his staff tightened imperceptibly, his knuckles turning white beneath the red glove. His shadow, sensing his sudden, intense irritation, shrunk back slightly, as if attempting to placate its furious master.

The situation was getting… annoying. Beyond annoying. It was maddening. He had created the perfect shield for his pride, but in doing so, he had created a rival, a rival that was literally a part of him. He found himself resentful of his shadow’s successes, even though those successes were entirely by his own command. He wanted to snatch your hand away from it, to demand your attention be solely on him. He wanted to banish the damn shadow to the darkest corners of Hell if it meant getting your unadulterated affection.

He began subtly withdrawing the shadow, making it less readily available. He’d make it appear only briefly, perform its commanded task, and then retract it quickly, hoping you’d start to seek him out for help. But you, in your characteristic obliviousness, simply thought the shadow was busy, or perhaps just having an "off day," or that it was being "shy."

"Is Shady feeling alright?" you once asked him, your brow furrowed with genuine concern as his shadow flickered erratically before vanishing mid-gesture. "It seemed a bit… tired lately."

Alastor nearly choked on his internal scream. Tired? His shadow? It was an extension of his very being, powered by his own demonic energy! He was just trying to subtly redirect your adoration! "Perfectly fine, my dear. Perhaps it merely needed a moment of… quietude," he replied, his smile stretched thin, betraying none of the furious maelstrom churning within him.

The internal conflict raged. His pride demanded he maintain distance, his fear of vulnerability screamed against confession, but his burgeoning, desperate love for you yearned for connection. And his shadow, the very tool he'd designed to bridge that gap, had become a frustrating, affectionate barrier in itself. He wanted to feel your soft touch, to hear your affectionate words, not have them filtered through a demonic extension of himself.

As time passed, the thing he thought could be his advantage became not. He felt a burning jealousy every time your attention strayed to his shadow, every time you spoke to it with a familiarity you hadn't quite yet granted him. He found himself yearning for what his shadow was earning from her. He was Alastor, for crying out loud! The Radio Demon! He didn't yearn for anything, let alone affection from a mere soul, let alone affection his own shadow was monopolizing! It was getting… Annoying. And somewhere, deep within the tangled, unyielding fortress of his pride, Alastor knew, with a terrifying certainty, that his next move would have to be far more direct, far more perilous to his carefully constructed façade. Because if this continued, he might just find himself strangling his own shadow.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Alastor’s frustration simmered, a low, constant crackle beneath his usually composed façade. The jealousy, a bitter, acidic taste he found utterly repulsive, intensified with every affectionate murmur you directed at his shadow. He was the Radio Demon, for crying out loud! The very idea that his own extension, a mere projection of his will, was garnering more genuine, unguarded affection from you than he, the master behind it all, was almost unbearable. He found himself fantasizing about sending his shadow on permanent "vacation" to some desolate, lightless corner of Hell, just to see if your attention would, by sheer force of habit, finally gravitate towards him.

His pride, usually his unbreakable shield, felt like a brittle shell, cracking under the relentless pressure of this ridiculous, unprecedented emotion. To confess overtly was still out of the question – it reeked of weakness, of vulnerability, of a desperate plea for something that should simply be. Yet, the subtle machinations, the calculated displays of chivalry via his shadow, had clearly failed. You remained charmingly, maddeningly dense. He was trapped in a self-made purgatory of unexpressed affection, tormented by the success of his own proxy.

One sweltering afternoon, the hotel's antiquated air conditioning finally sputtered its last breath, sending a wave of oppressive heat through the building. Charlie, ever the delegator, had tasked everyone with finding solutions. You, ever resourceful, decided the best course was to try and clear out some of the dust and demonic cobwebs that had accumulated in the higher, usually ignored vents in the grand ballroom.

Alastor found you there, perched precariously on a rickety, ancient ladder, armed with a feather duster and a determined expression. The ballroom was unusually quiet, most residents having fled to cooler, shadier corners of the hotel. He watched, a faint hum of static building in his ears, as you stretched, reaching for a particularly stubborn patch of grime near the ceiling. The ladder wobbled ominously.

"My dear," Alastor drawled, stepping into the room, his voice sharp with a sudden, uncharacteristic edge of alarm. "Perhaps a sturdier apparatus would be… advisable?"

You giggled, not looking down. "Oh, this old thing's fine, Alastor! Just gotta lean into it." You stretched higher, a bead of sweat trickling down your temple. "Almost got it!"

But the ladder groaned, a splintering sound echoing through the cavernous room. Your eyes widened as it began to tilt violently, slowly, inevitably. Before you could even cry out, before your own reflexes could kick in, Alastor moved.

It wasn't a shadow’s gentle nudge this time. It was instinct, raw and unthinking, overriding centuries of careful detachment. In a flash of crimson, Alastor was there. His staff clattered forgotten to the floor. His large, gloved hands shot out, not to simply steady the ladder, but to catch you. He seized your waist, pulling you off the teetering contraption with a sudden, powerful yank, bringing you crashing against his chest.

You gasped, the air knocked from your lungs, your feather duster falling unheeded to the floor. Your face was pressed against the crisp fabric of his coat, the unsettlingly fast beat of a heart you hadn’t known he possessed thrumming against your ear. Your hands instinctively flattened against his chest, seeking balance.

"Are you quite alright, my dear?" Alastor's voice was devoid of its usual cheerful radio filter, stripped bare of all artifice. It was rough, urgent, laced with a genuine concern that made the hair on your arms stand on end. His crimson eyes, usually so amused and calculating, were wide, dilated, and filled with an intensity you had never witnessed. They bore into yours, devoid of his usual smile, showing a flash of pure, raw fear that was completely, utterly un-Alastor.

For the first time, in that suffocatingly close moment, pressed against his rigid form, the scent of brimstone and something uniquely him filling your senses, you saw it. The genuine alarm in his eyes. The way his hands, still gripping your waist with surprising tenderness, were trembling ever so slightly. The rapid thrum of his pulse beneath your palm. This wasn't the detached Alastor who joked about cannibalism. This wasn't the Alastor whose shadow lent a helping hand. This was him. Exposed. Vulnerable. And utterly, terrifyingly, worried about you.

His shadow, which had darted out the moment the ladder tilted, now hovered nearby, not intervening, but watching, almost with a knowing stillness. It seemed to have faded slightly, its edges less defined, as if its master's direct, unthinking action had momentarily usurped its role.

The silence in the ballroom stretched, broken only by the distant sounds of the hotel and the surprisingly loud thumping of Alastor’s heart. Your eyes, wide with a sudden, blinding realization, slowly drifted from his frantic gaze down to his gloved hands still clamped around your waist, then back up to his face.

The gifts. The constant proximity. The possessive stretches of his shadow. The way he always seemed to be there. The subtle brushes. The baking charade. All of it, every single confounding action, suddenly clicked into place with the sickening force of a falling domino. He wasn't being friendly. He wasn't being peculiar. He was… he was trying to court you. He was showing affection. And you, in your blissful, impenetrable ignorance, had missed every single sign.

Your cheeks flushed a deep, mortified crimson. Not from embarrassment about the fall, but from the horrifying realization of your own monumental obliviousness. And then, a new, exhilarating warmth spread through you, a feeling that had nothing to do with Hell's oppressive heat.

Alastor, sensing the shift in your gaze, the sudden change in your breath, slowly became aware of how intimately he was holding you. His eyes, though still intense, regained a sliver of their usual cunning. The moment of raw emotion, of unguarded vulnerability, had passed. His smile began to return, slowly, almost imperceptibly, stretching across his face, trying to rebuild the mask of nonchalance.

He loosened his grip slightly, though he did not fully release you. "Forgive my… abruptness, my dear," he purred, his radio filter returning, albeit with a faint, trembling undertone. "But one simply cannot allow such a delightful resident to suffer an unfortunate tumble. It would simply not do." He attempted a jaunty chuckle, but it sounded a little forced, a little strained.

You, however, were no longer listening to the words. You were staring at the single vein still throbbing ever so faintly at his temple, a physical manifestation of his barely contained emotion. You were looking at the raw fear that had momentarily consumed his eyes, a fear that was clearly for you.

"Alastor," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, your eyes wide with revelation. "You… you like me." It wasn't a question, but a dawning, incredulous statement.

His smile froze. The radio static surrounding him spiked, a harsh, painful screech that reverberated through the ballroom, making the remaining light fixtures flicker erratically. His shadow, which had been observing, suddenly dissolved completely, as if unable to bear the directness of the moment. Alastor’s eyes, now back to their usual, unnervingly focused red, bore into yours. He had been caught. His carefully constructed wall of pride and control had just been breached by a single, simple, blindingly obvious statement.

A long, excruciating silence descended, broken only by the crackle of Alastor’s own internal turmoil. His facade was crumbling, and he knew it. There was no retreat, no witty deflection, no blaming the shadow now.

He cleared his throat, his smile wavering for the first time you had ever seen. He tightened his grip on your waist just for a fraction of a second, a small, possessive gesture that felt less like an accident and more like a silent, desperate confession. His voice, when it came, was lower, deeper than usual, completely devoid of its cheerful filter, barely above a murmur.

"My dear," Alastor said, his crimson eyes holding yours, an uncharacteristic sincerity bleeding through their depths. "It seems… that is no longer a secret, is it?"

And in that moment, as the realization solidified into an undeniable truth, and the Radio Demon stood before you, stripped of his usual theatricality, you knew everything had irrevocably changed. The era of oblivion was finally, wonderfully, over. And the dizzying dance of whatever came next had just begun.

· · ───── ·𖥸· ───── · ·

✎ It's end y'all 😭 but idk if you send good ideas i may continue it UwU

[mystic-rox]

Glass Between Us

Master List

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Arden Morvant (OC)

Warnings: abandonment, painful memories, Arden being a Villian, hurt

Word Count: 1.2k

2. The Echo Years

They were supposed to go together.

Same campus, same cramped dorm, same 3AM gas station runs when Arden couldn’t sleep and Aaron couldn’t say no. They’d opened the letters side by side, breath held like it might keep the future from crashing in too fast. The same school. The same program. Like fate had finally decided to cut them a break.

But two weeks before the semester started, Aaron got a call from George Washington University, a last-minute acceptance off a waitlist he barely remembered applying to. A letter with fancier paper. A different kind of future. One that made Aaron’s father proud for the first time in years.

He didn’t tell Arden right away. Maybe he should’ve. Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Because by the time Aaron worked up the courage, Arden was already gone.

No note. No goodbye. No contact. Just silence, stretched out like static between stations.

It was as if he’d never existed at all. Except Aaron knew better. He still had the hoodie. Still had the violin string Arden left behind, coiled like a secret in his desk drawer. A voicemail that played static for ten seconds and ended with a soft, accidental exhale. Like he’d meant to say something. Like maybe he still would.

Aaron played that message until his phone died. He saved it until he couldn’t anymore. It was like he’d evaporated, like the second Aaron stepped out of orbit, Arden lost gravity. Aaron didn’t realize it at first. Not really. He told himself Arden was just mad. Or being dramatic. That he’d show up on his doorstep when the silence got too loud. But then weeks passed. Then months.

And the absence stopped feeling like a punishment. It started feeling like a funeral.

⸻

Twenty Years Later – Seattle, Washington

The file landed on Aaron Hotchner’s desk with a dull thud, inconspicuous in size, but already radiating the quiet kind of weight that said this changes things.

He didn’t reach for it. Didn’t even look at it at first. The name on the tab had already burned itself into his brain before the paper even settled.

Morvant, Arden T.

Aaron hadn’t seen that name in twenty years. Not on a report. Not in a headline. Not even in passing. It was a ghost word. A sealed-off section of memory he didn’t let himself open. Too messy. Too dangerous. Too full of things that never got said.

He felt the echo of it down in his ribs. A soundless tremor, like something old had cracked back to life.

He stared at the file for a long time. Maybe a minute. Maybe longer. Outside the office, the BAU buzzed on; phones rang, boots clacked across linoleum, voices discussed flight schedules and autopsy reports, but it all bled out into a kind of dull static.

Then he reached for it. The first thing he saw was the photograph. Clipped neatly to the top page, faded by the copier, grainy like it had been taken through a smudged lens or a rainy windshield. But there was no mistaking it. Even after all these years.

It was him. Arden Morvant. His entire high school and community college experience in one man.

Older. Sharper. Paler. There were more bones in his face now, more stillness in his eyes, like everything soft had been carved away to make room for calculation. But the mouth was the same, that same unreadable curl of thought resting just behind his lips, like he was always on the verge of saying something unforgivable.

Aaron felt his breath stall in his chest as he flipped the page.

Subject: Morvant, Arden J.

Alias(es): Multiple confirmed

Suspected Role: Orchestrator / Criminal Consultant / Peripheral Offender

Direct Victim Count: 0

Confirmed Involvement in Serial Homicides: 20 cases across 12 states

Suspected Involvement in Serial Homicides: 268

Primary Modus Operandi: Behavioral Design / Psychological Manipulation / Environmental Control

Capture Status: In custody – voluntary surrender

Voluntary.

That word stuck in his throat like glass.

Someone knocked lightly on the doorframe. Aaron didn’t look up until he heard the voice.

“Hotch?” Spencer Reid stood there, hesitant. “I figured you’d want to see it before the briefing.”

Aaron didn’t speak he didn’t trust himself to.

Spencer stepped in anyway, closing the door behind him like he already knew this wasn’t just another case. He always knew. Too smart. Too observant. Too close, sometimes.

“How long have you had this?” Aaron asked, finally. His voice came out quieter than he expected.

“A few hours,” Reid replied. “They brought him in just before dawn. He walked into a precinct in New Orleans, handed over an encrypted drive full of case files and said…” Spencer stopped, watching him.

“Said what?” Aaron’s voice dropped a note.

“That he wanted to speak to you.”

That landed like a punch to the sternum.

Aaron sat back in his chair. Slowly. Like his body was trying to make sense of gravity again. He glanced down at the file, now open like a wound, and then back at Reid.

“He asked for me,” Aaron repeated, as if trying to untangle the meaning of it.

Spencer nodded. “He hasn’t said anything else since. Won’t speak to anyone. Not even his assigned counsel. Just ‘Call Aaron Hotchner.’” Spencer hesitated.

Only Arden ever used his name like that, Aaron when he was soft with him, Aaron Hotchner when he was trying to hurt him, or worse, trying not to.

Aaron ran a hand over his mouth, thumb pressing into the corner of his jaw like he could massage away the ache blooming behind his eyes. The silence pressed in again, thick as humidity, familiar in a way that made him feel suddenly twenty.

“You knew him?” Reid asked, carefully.

Aaron didn’t answer at first. He stared back down at the photo. At Arden’s face frozen in grayscale. Haunted but unreadable. Defiant and exhausted in equal measure. “I thought I did,” Aaron finally said. “Back then.”

Spencer didn’t press. He didn’t need to. He just stood there quietly, taking in the man who never flinched and watching him crack without shattering.

Aaron closed the file slowly, fingers resting on the edges like if he let go, it might vanish.

But he knew better.

Arden Morvant wasn’t a ghost anymore.

He was real. Alive. In custody.

And he’d asked for Aaron by name.

Taglist: @paintemars | @skeletonfrogs | @rensswritess

Send a DM or an Ask to be added! Liebe dich! 🖤

[gaijin-fujin-resonance]

黄昏のハウリング / Tasogare no Howling

It starts, fittingly, with the slam of a door. A cold, hollow, echoing sound of utter finality. Something has ended. A portal closed for the very last time. And then nearly 10 seconds of silence, as the echoes fade away. It strikes me again: the use of silence on this album is masterful. And yet it’s not total silence. Out of the echoes arises a faint hum, maybe an orchestral pad, with the hint of angelic sighs - a thousand breaths being held at once.

When the first echoey guitar chimes at 0:10, it is the weariest exhale, caught and strung out with an endless delay. Bass and drums kick in at the same time, a stately funeral pace, minimal to the point almost of bleakness. By comparison, even the funereal arrangement of Ai no Soretsu sounds like a costume-party carnival. Tasogare no Howling opens on a barren, windswept tundra. The gleaming guitars are as corruscating as the ice of freezing rain. In the background, a staccato synth-bass drives the procession forward, while all about, tiny squalls of static and electronic noise nip at the ears like gusts of drifting snow.

In an odd way, the orchestration mimics the opening track, Hyakumannayuta no Chiri SCUM, but instead of warmth and welcome, the impeccable sound design creates a cold, cavernous space of loss and emptiness. The only relief from the arctic wind are the tiny, echoing notes of piano off in the distance - I think Yokoyama-san added them simply to provide some warmth and humanity, like a sparkle of sunlight glinting off all the forbidding icy grandeur.

But as on the opening track, the surprise is the deep, tender humanity of Imai’s voice. His lower register, when he sings from his chest tone, is so beautiful, so expressive - you can feel the weary weight of loss, his voice as raw as if he has been up all night crying. Imai has never been a particularly emotionally expressive man; he keeps his cards close to his chest. But as his voice creaks and frays, it’s apparent that still waters run deep. (This is probably projection, but I’ve always detected a touch of alexithymia in Imai. It’s not that he doesn’t have deep emotions, but he seems to struggle to even process the shape of them, let alone express them.)

The arrangement builds slowly. The details are so exquisite: sighed scraps of backwards-masked vocals (0:37); the repeated clang of a metal icepick in the background (0:43); a weird rubber-band distortion (0:55). Shards of jangly guitars drift in about 1:12, wrapping Imai’s voice in angel wings, then around 1:40, haunting electronic sighs like a rising wind seem to lift the song up into the chorus. Chugging rhythm guitars build up the tone in the mid-range, while a charming clinking sound like a marimba made of bones dances in the treble.

Imai’s voice wavers tremulously on the chorus, an unforced vibrato. The contrast between the icy grandeur of the arrangement and the bewildered humanity of the singer gives the song its great power - like an explorer cresting icy snowdrifts, this is a man struggling through an emotional landscape that seems wholly unfamiliar to him. I don’t know why it’s so unexpected - after all, Imai wrote the music for all those dark, tortured gothic anthems, from Taiyou ni Korosareta to Romance. It’s easy to think of Imai as the upbeat, cyberpunk dance-lover, and forget that he sculpted the epic underground caverns where Acchan, Prince of Darkness played.

After the chorus, a piano solo - again, I think this is Yokoyama-san’s work? But the lovely fluid melody creates such a sweet respite of hope, echoing the echoey strums of the guitars, lifting the listener up like the beating wings of some giant beast. The second verse has lush vocal harmonies adding warmth and humanity. The backing vocals are oddly sweet: Imai’s deep spoken intonation of ‘Howling’ mixes with gasps and little exhalations of ‘hoo!’ as if he’s reached the top of a long, exhausting flight of steps. But these extra vocals convey the odd sense that Imai is no longer alone on his journey through the wastelands. The beasts have gathered; the angels are flocking. By the second chorus, Imai’s voice has changed - he has gathered strength from his ghostly companions, as if he is persevering, rather than simply resigned.

And at 4:46, the whole song cracks and breaks open. Do you see what I mean about the use of silence? The guitar feedback rings out at the end of the chorus, then abruptly everything totally cuts out for a split second - like the whole world holding its breath! The calm before the storm, The eye of the hurricane. Christ, he makes us wait for the best bit. Then oh my god, what a guitar solo! A rising squall of feedback, then the pummel of Toll’s drums - and the heavens break open and the storm lets loose.

For two whole chord progressions, Imai just hangs there, on one single note, like a bird of prey on a thermal (I counted it, it’s 20 full beats!) before the note frays, breaks up, that distinctive electronic shriek that means he’s using the sustainer on the Stabilizer Guitar. The tone swoops, shudders, warps and bends - honestly the first time I heard this solo, I actually thought it was theremin, it’s so liquid and quicksilver - before dropping out of the sky. Wait, no, it soars back up, it cries, it wails, a storm of fury and loss and devastation and triumph, a single man howling against nature, howling at god about the unfairness of fate. 

Imai is not a particularly technical guitar player (though he has certainly demonstrated over the years, that he can play elaborate riffs and solos, he just chooses not to) - but the intense emotion of his squalling atonal noise solos leaves me gasping at his sheer expressiveness. The chaotic simplicity of it is devastating. There’s a whole cathartic emotional journey expressed through guitar noise - he falls down, drags himself back up, claws at his hair, spins around, turns himself inside out, then finally, as the drums come to their cataclysmic conclusion, he lets the mood waver and echo away. Still hanging on to the last drops of sound, he swings back and forth over the brink a few times, sawing away at the tremolo arm until the actual note is gone, there’s only echo, delay, reverb, a stretched-out ghost of a guitar sound drifting off into eternity in the silence of the tomb.

It is not a light or easy listen - it’s not a tune you can just have on in the background. It grabs your emotions by the neck and takes them on a terrifying ride through the rawness and bleakness of loss before coming to the peace of acceptance. But the more extreme the human experience, the more extreme the music. This band’s members went through an inexpressibly extreme experience in losing Sakurai; as did the band’s fans. There is no greater gift from a musician to a listener than to express the inexpressible with the rawness of sound. It somehow feels right to listen to sad music when you’re sad, angry music when you’re angry, grieving music when you’re sad and devastated and reeling and grieving.

Music is healing.

Exorcism.

Catharsis.

The whole album of SUBROSA, but in particular this song, is such a gift to the fans - giving us a place to experience, and work through our grief. Thank you, B-T.

[lelengerine]

helloo!!! I am so glad you are back again,really missed seeing you on my dash:(

also,from your mini drabble list, the arranged marriage au really caught my eye! can you please write it with jeno as the main protagonist? I don't have anything specific in mind except that I am obsessed with the opposites attract kinda trope but you can write it anyway you want! thank you in advance <3

love, lee

pairing | prince!jeno x princess!reader

genre | royalty + arranged marriage au, jeno uses a nickname for reader (love), no pronouns are specifically used for this, lmk if there’s any i missed!

wc | 0.9k

notes | i think my love for royalty aus are really stating to show now TT this is my first jeno work and there were actually multiple entries for jeno with the arranged marriage trope so i hope this suffices for now (maybe i’ll make a part two or follow another req if i can !!) it’s not exactly the same as what anon mentioned because i tried to condense the ideas to the size of a drabble as much as possible but i love all ur brains so much LIKE TELL ME MORE 😭😭 anw likes, rbs, and feedbacks are very appreciated ;0;

this is part of my drabble req event here!

m.list

there’s this prophecy that landed upon your kingdom just as its walls were newly established, one that spoke of prosperity if two individuals coming from royal backgrounds were to be wed under every full moon.

of course, that hasn’t come true (and you don’t believe it ever will), but both the civilians and the royal family hold onto that sliver of hope ever so dearly. though, in the position of being someone forced into the position of marriage, you can’t help but view the tradition as something simply bizarre and unnecessary.

moreover, you haven't a clue who you are about to marry. the thought irritates you to the core, and your mother’s repetitive words on how this was ‘something she experienced too’ not making you feel any better — in fact, it was dampening your already sour mood even further.

just why hadn’t this been dropped centuries ago? the answer to that question doesn’t seem to be keen on revealing itself to you.

and so here you are, behind tall wooden doors in a dress you struggle to move in — much less breathe in — that will soon reveal a banquet hall filled with your and your groom’s relatives, a plethora of aristocrats that you couldn’t even dare to name no matter how long you stared at them, and reporters who were ready to swarm you with questions whenever they’d get the chance.

“there’s no need to fear, my dear.” your mother states by your side, and a scoff is the first response she receives.

“i hope you understand that what you’ve said lacks any sensitivity for my situation.” you bitterly reply with a blank expression, not even turning to face her once. with that, she decides to keep silent, not wanting to aggravate you any longer.

the doors open, finally placing you on display for everyone to see, and the first person your eyes search for is your husband-to-be.

he stands in front of the beautifully decorated altar in a navy blue suit and fur coat that looks just as uncomfortable as the white gown you’re wearing, and you start to feel a little sympathy for him knowing he probably didn’t have any plans of marrying you either.

you were both victims in this grand scheme, after all.

a step, two steps, and before you know it, you’re meeting his gaze for the first time. he offers a soft smile that puffs up his cheeks ever so slightly, pupils shining beneath the lights that brighten up the entire hall, and for a moment, you forget how much you’ve detested this day to come.

‘get a grip, it’s definitely for show’, you mentally tell yourself as your lips return the kind gesture.

the ceremony soon starts, and the words spoken by the priest pass through your ears like static fuzz, not paying attention to the prophecy that was being retold to the audience.

“i assume you were forced into this?” you begin in a whisper, wanting only the person beside you to hear your voice.

you turn to gaze at him and he looks a little surprised you actually started a conversation. “sure.”

sure? what kind of response was that? the least he could do was respond with a decisive yes or no to not leave you hanging like this. perhaps that smile from earlier really was to fool the reporters on a loveless marriage

“could you at least tell me your name?” you try to reach out once more, “it’s laughable as is to know we are in the middle of being wed and i have not a single clue on who you are.”

“lee, jeno.” he responds, and though it technically is an answer to your question, you’re oddly left unsatisfied at how perfunctory it was. “yours?”

“l/n, y/n.” you state in the same manner as if you wanted him to feel the same as you did just moments prior. “how does it feel to get married to a stranger? because i surely find this unsettling.”

you tried to play into humor, hoping to get a better reaction out of him, but what he says shocks you instead. “we aren’t strangers though.”

“what-” you start to sputter, however the priest cuts you off at the mention of announcing your respective vows.

“i’m sure you’ll recall it soon enough.” jeno’s expression finally shifts from his icy facade to a sly smirk that perfectly exemplifies his features, and you’re not sure whether to find the sight unsettling or absolutely breathtaking. “because i’ve known you my entire life, love.”

the nickname has your mind reeling in circles, paying no attention to the vows jeno was now dictating like a memorized poem of sorts. there was ever only one person who’s called you by that name, though it could never be someone like him… could it?

you snuck out of the castle to one of the town’s bakeries back when you were younger, meeting a boy who told you he was doing the exact same thing because he swore their garlic bread was absolutely out of this world, and that’s exactly why you came in the first place. it was like you both clicked, and that meeting became the first of many. though, as you grew older, your hectic tutoring schedules made it difficult for you to frequent the bakery as much as you used to.

still, you remember he suggested exchanging letters as a means of keeping in contact, and he’s the only one who’s referred to you as love. his love.

you’re abruptly taken away from your thoughts as the priest repeats your name, “princess, your vows if you may.”

“oh um, sorry.” you quickly apologize, trying to gather yourself back up.

jeno’s gaze on you looks much more animated than before, almost as if there was a playful glint that replaced the cold ones from earlier. where was the man you met moments ago as the event started? “i suppose you remember now.”

“yeah.” you breathe out, “yeah, i do.”

[sexhaver]

just came up with the single most evil concept for an EDH deck. commander is this dude:

the 99 would be mostly unplayable shit with literally 0 wincons, but notably includes the following creatures:

(the Serpent and Dandân represent the 14 total creatures in the game that straight up kill themselves the moment their controller controls no Islands, so you would have a total of 17 creatures with text boxes like this)

crucially, you need to INSIST that everyone else at the table takes a look at your cool new decklist before playing. this is where the actual gameplay happens: if they realize what you're trying to do, they will shut that shit down immediately by banning the deck; if they glance over it and go "huh seems weak" they fully deserve what they get.

the gameplan goes as follows:

get one of your 17 conditionally suicidal creatures onto the field

cast your commander

at the beginning of your end step, put two +1/+1 counters on the suicidal creature and donate it to an opponent without any of the relevant lands/colored permanents/etc.

ask if anyone has removal for the shitty creature. your opponents will probably chuckle at this - why would they remove a creature that's about to sacrifice itself?

announce that because the creature is trying to sacrifice itself based on a state-based trigger but isn't allowed to sacrifice itself due to its own static ability, it is creating an infinite loop of state-based actions that can only be ended by directly removing the creature in question. ask if anyone has removal again

"no? looks like it's a draw then :)"

dodge the table being thrown at you

[ya-zz]

oou, if ur down for it how about bitter ex!Ram who's realized Genji's trying to ask reader out :0 he still holds this bit of possessiveness towards reader and it's even worse because it's "his brother's pet human" - so like there's this undertone of Genji being a "replacement" in Ram's perspective. you can try to connect this to canon, but this is more of like an imagine, like 'if x and x did this, how would x react-'

also i don't mind if you decide not to write this :b i just like seeing characters i'm currently obssessed with in different situations LOL

happy holidays! (if u celebrate) and a happy rest of your december!

May have went down a little more... possessive route for this...

Ramattra x Reader (gen)

Word count: 1071

The omnic had been watching for awhile. Too long, almost. He watched you from the sidelines, the way you grew, the way you healed past the relationship he once had with you. It pained him at how well you moved on in the last few months.

When a certain cyborg came along and started flirting with you, however, something began to grow within Ramattra’s circuits. Something dark, hateful… spiteful.

Ramattra still wants you, that he cannot deny no mater how many times he tries to think otherwise. He needs you by his side. You were the only person who was capable of loving him and he just had to fuck things up. 

Back then, he wanted you all to himself. Who wouldn’t? You were the best thing that had ever happened to him and to everyone. You made hearts flutter and smiles warmer. Ramattra, dare he say, was obsessed with you. 

He still is. 

His systems would go back to the nights he shared with you, hands roaming bodies, static moans and cursed whimpers all but filled his receptors. Many nights he would sit and watch everything like it was a movie until it went back to the fateful day you had packed your belongings and left him. 

You wanted no part of his liberation. Despite trying so hard to convince him that there were thousands, if not millions of humans out there who cared for and adored omnics, Ramattra wasn’t convinced and so went ahead with his war.

Years had passed since then and here he was, sitting down in the garden meditating alongside Zenyatta whilst you and Genji were training across the field. 

“Does he always watch over you?” The ninja asks you, peering over to the omnics sitting away from them. 

“No. I think Zen asked him to join him on some meditative stuff.” You shrug. 

“I mean- he’s watching you.” Genji gets a little closer, voice getting quieter. 

“You can tell behind the faceplate?” 

Genji nods. “I picked a few things up from Master Zenyatta.” He picks up on how Ramattra’s hands clench on his knees and he knows exactly what’s going on. 

“Huh.” You look over at the omnics before shrugging the thought off. “He can watch all he wants, I don’t care.” 

The cyborg chuckles, moving his focus back onto you. 

Ramattra couldn’t pick out the conversation as the wind rustled within his receptors, only seeing you and Genji turn to look at him, lips moving but muffled voices. He knew that you were talking about him though, and that only made the anger rise within his circuitry. 

…

…

The larger omnic had picked up on several mannerisms with the ninja. The way his face softened when he was with you, the ghost touches, the way he laughed when you told a joke. Ramattra was slowly but surely figuring it out that Genji wanted you. 

Whether or not it was to spite him, he didn’t care. The fact that Zenyatta’s pet human was flirting with you was fuelling this hatred inside of him. 

He found you wandering the halls and stopped you. 

“I see that ninja has taking a liking to you.” He states. 

“That is none of your business.” You spit back, clearly frustrated at the sudden interaction. 

“He is not good for you.” Ramattra crosses his arms over his chest, his tall stature looming over you in an almost hostile way.

“Oh, like you’re any better?” You stand your ground. “At least he didn’t start a fucking war.” 

He vocaliser clicks. “I had my reasoning. You did not listen to me.” 

“I listened. How could I not when that’s all you were going on about for months!” Anger began rising within you. “That was all you focussed on.” 

“I needed you.” 

“No. No you fucking didn’t.” You speak through gritted teeth. “All you wanted-”

“What I wanted was peace for us omnics.”

“By brainwashing them?” You cock your head to the side. “I may not be the fucking brightest around here but I do know that the way you used those poor omnics was not right.” 

Ramattra keeps his optics on you. 

“You used your own people!” Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “I ended it with you because I couldn’t stand the way you were thinking. You were too wrapped up in that.. that… liberation of yours that you never had any time for me!” 

Something inside of Ramattra begins to hurt. 

“So help me god, if you get in the way of anything, of my happiness, I will fucking end you myself.” The tears finally spill as you storm past the omnic who stands there almost dumbfounded.

Never once had you raised your voice at him, let alone in the hostile tone just seconds before. Ramattra had to take a moment to process your words, to process what you just threatened to him. 

He turns around but by that point, you had long left him. 

…

…

The next time you saw Ramattra, he had pinned the ninja against the wall by his throat. His tone was angry, no, he was seething with rage as he threatened to end Genji’s life. 

You didn’t hear how it started, but you certainly ended it by pulling Ramattra away from the cyborg who then fell to the ground gasping for air. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” You shout, coming between the two men and staring the omnic down.

“Putting that ninja in its place.” Ramattra scoffs before turning and walking away from the scene. 

“Are you okay, Genji?” You ask, kneeling down and putting a hand on his shoulder. 

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Didn’t think he’d come for me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He still wants you.” Genji looks up at you. 

“I know, but that does not give him the right to attack you like that.” 

You help the cyborg up, helping him access the damage before escorting him to the med-bay.

Meanwhile, Ramattra was sitting in his room feeling rather content with himself. The jealousy was all but rising within him the more he knew you were hanging around with his brother’s pet human. He still wants you, he needs you. 

The omnic could only sit back and wait as his plan starts falling into place. He will get you back by any means necessary and if that means turning Genji on you, then he will do just that.

—

KOFI

[codingquill]

Day 2 - 100 Days CSS Challenge

Welcome to day 2 of 100 days of css challenge, where we will be together getting a given image result into reality by code.

We already know the drill since we did the first challenge, now let's get right into the different steps:

First step : Screenshot the image and get its color palette

No crazy color palette here, we only have two colors

White

This shade of green: #3FAF82

To make things more organized and get used to coding in an organized way, even if not doing it here wouldn't make any difference because we only have two colors, in more complex projects we would have a lot, we will define our colors at the beginning of our CSS code (well, only the green in this case):

:root { --main-green: #3FAF82; }

And this is how we'll use it whenever we want:

color: var(--main-green);

Second step : Identify the image elements

What elements do I have?

Three lines: line1, line 2, and line 3. I'll add them to my HTML starter template, again I'll leave the frame and center there:

<div class="frame"> <div class="center"> <div class="line-1 line"></div> <div class="line-2 line"></div> <div class="line-3 line"></div> </div> </div>

Third step : Bring them to life with CSS

Applying the background color

Only one line should be changed in the CSS code already added to .frame class:

background: var(--main-green);

So this is what we have going on for now :

Creating the lines

Now let's create our lines; if you noticed I gave each one two classes line-number and then line. I'll use the line class to give them all the common properties they have such as the color, height, width, position, border-radius, and shadow. And then I'll use the line-number to move them wherever I want using the left, top, right, bottom properties of an absolutely positioned element in CSS.

Let's start by creating all of them:

.line { left: -45px; position: absolute; height: 9px; width: 100px; background: white; border-radius: 10px; box-shadow: 2px 2px 5px rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2); }

And just like this you'll see this in the browser:

You only see one line because the three are overlapping each other, and that's why we'll move each one of them exactly where we want using this:

.line-3 { top: 22px; } .line-1 { top: -22px; }

Now our static menu is ready:

Creating and analyzing the animations

As of observing, we can see that:

Line one goes down to line 2

Line three goes up to line 2

THEN line 2 disappears

THEN lines 1 and rotate to create the X

line-one-goes-down animation

This is my line-one code in the static version:

.line-1 { top: -22px; }

What I'm trying to do here is simply a movement translated by changing top from -22px to it becoming 0px:

@keyframes line-one-goes-down { 0% { top: -22px; } 100% { top: 0px; } }

line-three-goes-up animation

Again, I'm trying to go from top being 22px to it being 0px:

@keyframes line-three-goes-up { 0% { top: 22px; } 100% { top: 0px; } }

line-two-disappear animation

Making disappear simply means turning its opacity and width to 0:

@keyframes line-two-disappear { 0% { opacity: 1; width: 100px; } 100% { opacity: 0; width: 0px; } }

I'm gonna apply these animations and see what happens , before I create the rotation animations

.center.active .line-1 { animation: line-one-goes-down 0.5s forwards; } .center.active .line-2 { animation: line-two-disappear 0.5s forwards; } .center.active .line-3 { animation: line-three-goes-up 0.5s forwards; }

forwards means that the element will stay in the final state after the animation and not return to its original state.

This is what applying those three animations looks like:

Last but not least : let's Create the X

We only have to animations left for this: rotate-line-1 and rotate-line-2. Let's create them:

@keyframes rotate-line-1 { 0% { transform: rotate(0deg); } 100% { transform: rotate(45deg); } } @keyframes rotate-line-2 { 0% { transform: rotate(0deg); } 100% { transform: rotate(-45deg); } }

And that is my friends how we finished this challenge!

Happy coding, and see you tomorrow for Day 3!

[carrlyn-stan]

The Snow

Starting long form stuff again, actuall long form fics.

anyway. first chapter :0

Stanford Pines & platonic!Child!reader Word count: 1522

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The snow fell softer as the night drew on. Stanford was working his way into the night on his project. The soft hum of the heater was the only sound that filled the room other than Ford's mindless mumbling about his math. The empty static of the room was numbing for others' minds but Ford forced his focus onto the project. Oftentimes, Ford thought about how the static would feel if the cabin was filled with other people.

The hum of the heater eventually lulled the sleep deprived Ford into a content slumber. As the night now drifted into a slower pace, the lab in the basement of the cabin was now filled with the soft snoring and electric hum of the heater. Once the early light of dawn came through the curtains of the living room upstairs, Ford’s inner clock clicked his brain open and awakened with the day.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and pulled the paper stuck on his face off. He stretched his arms above his head and cracked his back over the back of his chair. He stood and groggily walked over to the stairs. The walk to ascend the stairs woke him even more. He covered his eyes as the bright light shone both through the windows and the snow that was still falling outside.

He journeyed into the kitchen and opened the fridge. The white light that filled the chilled box illuminated the emptiness of the white interior. The only thing that sat in the fridge was a jug of expired milk and carton of broken egg shells. He wasn’t planning a trip to the store that day, but the evidence of the lack of food was educating. Ford thought for the moment. Had he even eaten yesterday? Actually, to think of it, had he even eaten the day before yesterday?

In all of his sleep deprived work, he must've also been forgetting to feed himself. Once again an ache in the back of his head started to form. So yes, a trip to the store was indeed necessary, yet the long walk into town would be exhausting. The first day he came to Gravity Falls, the anomaly epicenter of the United States, something ate the roof off his car and crushed the rest of it. Since then, his only form of transportation has been foot.

But then again, the walk to the store in the winter would be good to find the anomalies of this town in the winter. An excited grin spread across Ford’s face. He ran down to the basement and grabbed a pencil and his journal. Back upstairs he grabbed his winter jacket and a scarf. He stepped outside the cabin and onto the porch of the cabin. 

The white exterior of the world around him shone a bright blinding colour. The snow had halted its cascade to the earth. Ford took a step off the covered porch and into the white, expansive horizon. Each imprint of his boots followed behind him. He looked up to the sky, the world once again peaceful around him. Ford looked back towards the forest and walked towards it. 

As the snow stuck to his feet, Ford noted the strange behavior of the snow in Gravity Falls. The way it melted when he stepped upon it, though he knew it shouldn’t. The environment around him was too cold for it to explain why it was doing that. The subtle smell of rotten eggs, actually, it was more of a sulfur smell than pure rotten eggs. He grew up in New Jersey, he knew this was not what snow was supposed to smell like. 

“Intriguing,” Ford muttered. The crunch of the snow under his feet sounded like styrofoam. The first snowfall of the year came early in October, the leaves hadn’t yet fallen from the trees. The snow seemed to preserve them in a way. A mysterious way. A way that no freeze or frost would preserve the way that this snow had. He wrote down each of his observations in his journal. 

As he ventured farther into the forest, the light coming through the still leafed trees became dimmer. Gravity Falls was truly an interesting town. All the scientific discoveries Ford could make! The recognition he could one day have. It clouded Ford’s head with thoughts, thoughts he was really excited about. 

He brought a smile onto his face as he looked at the strange, yet still unchanging scenery. The walk through the woods today remained uneventful for the hour it took to walk to the town of Gravity Falls. If he wasn’t considered a hermit by the rest of the town, then maybe he’d think about getting another vehicle. There was a chance it would help with his hypotheses, making traveling around the valley faster. 

As he walked into town, the soft hustle and bustle of people through the streets made his head dizzy compared to the quiet of his cabin. Cars halted to abrupt stops trying not to slide into the intersections on the ice. As Ford walked closer to the store, the sky clouded once over back into gray, the snow fighting not to fall back down into the town. Ford tucked his journal back into the inner coat pocket as he pulled the door to the supermarket open.

“Good morning, Mr. Pines,” the cashier at the checkout greeted him from the register. Ford nodded as he stomped the styrofoam sounding snow off of his boots. He walked farther into the store, grabbing a small basket before making his way into the dairy section. 

He didn’t often make his way into town for just groceries, but with nothing at home, he needed something for substance. He put a carton of eggs and another gallon of milk into the basket. From the freezer section he grabbed frozen mixed vegetables. He walked through the aisles of the store, grabbing some fresh-ish looking produce and canned soup. The market was unusually empty for a Saturday morning, and the only sound was the electrical buzz of the fluorescent lights. 

Feeling a set of eyes on his back, Ford looks behind him. Nothing. He wasn’t often one to feel delusional or paranoid. He shrugged off the feeling. Walking to the checkout, Ford gently placed each of the items onto the conveyor belt. After hearing the total, Ford gave the young high school student $25 in cash. Walking his way out the door with two brown paper bags filled with enough groceries to feed him for two weeks. As the door opened, he was greeted with the bright light of the snow once again starting to fall from the sky. 

As he neared the limits of the town, a younger woman came up to him. She held a baby swaddled in several blankets. As Ford acknowledged her with a small nod, she pushed the baby into his arms and took off into the woods. Confused, Ford started to run into the dark forest. He ran after the woman. After about five minutes of running the woman's footprints disappeared in the snow. No more tracks showing where she disappeared to. Ford stopped and took a deep breath, he looked in every direction, no sign of the woman that just abandoned her baby in Ford's arms.

It was never part of Ford's great plan to have children. But as he looked down at the baby just shoved in his arms, his mind changed. Looking down at this tiny, small bundle of blankets changed him. He couldn’t just re-abandon the baby. Something inside him told him to take the child. Take the child into the warmth of his home, at least until he can find the baby’s mother. 

As Ford takes the baby into the cabin, he is hit again with the warmth of the furnace hitting his face. Ford knew nothing about children really. He was 17 when his little brother Shermie was born. He was old enough to remember that, but he moved out shortly after his brother’s birth. He set the baby and the two bags of groceries on the table as he took his coat off. He didn’t have anything to feed a baby. Once again, he wasn’t planning on ever having or raising a child.

“I umm, don’t have baby food,” Ford mumbled. He walked back over the table and looked at the baby’s face. “Do you even have a name? A birthday? Who are you, kiddo?” Ford unswaddled the baby, finding a small folded up note. He gently took the note from the baby’s swaddle. Unfolding that page, he learned both the baby’s name and her birthday.

“Kassidy…” He murmured out. “Well you are cute, that’s for sure.” Ford lifted the tiny baby up into his arms. She squirmed slightly at the new position, opening her eyes from her nap. She gurgled softly at the new face above her. The birthday on the note was less than a month ago. The tiny baby smiled and gurgled up at Ford.“This will be quite the adventure, huh?” Ford smiled back at the baby.

[humormehorny]

I was reading the Boy or Girl paradox page on wikipedia for reasons pertaining to a video game, which, briefly, is a paradox in which the problem "Mr. Smith has two children. At least one of them is a boy. What is the probability that both children are boys?" has two simultaneous answers (1/2 and 1/3) depending on how you approach the problem, when I got to a section called "Gender assumptions" which has the following paragraph:

Although Gardner envisioned the paradox being considered in a world in which gender was static and binary, and the distribution of children was uniform across that gender binary,[1] his framing of the problem does not state or require those assumptions. The difference between the two questions is equally interesting from a mathematical point of view in a world in which P(girl) and P(boy) are well-defined across a population of individuals at a given time, but are not necessarily equal or static and do not necessarily add to one.

I think it's extremely funny that modern mathematicians were like "oh this paradox is outdated, the kids could be nonbinary!! wait actually that just makes it better"

Anyway you're my only mathblr mutual so I thought you might get a kick out of that.

This is so wonderful! I spent a while reading the article after I finished reading your ask! I love that they are changing this problem.

I think there is some mathematical urge to make the most general statement/equation you can, and the first iteration definitely is a special case of gender where boy and girl are related to some degree [if (your a boy) => ( your not a girl) && if (your a girl) => (your not a boy)] means or at least implies that boy and girl are not linearly independent genders. Likewise wiki goes on to say that the total probability for genders is not necessarily 1. I would go further to say that for n genders the total probability 0 < P(all) < n.

Thank you so much for sending this in!

[harlequinoccult]

HEY! dnd anon here again, I meant for this to be a daily thing but I missed yesterday because I got busy with irl stuff.... rip but don't worry! I have both Sweetheart's and Elysium's Classes ready to be sent today..... although I will be sending them in separate messages just as a heads up anyways here is Sweetheart with the Obsession Domain! I quite like sweatheart, I think he is such an interesting character and I think the class captured his 'vibe' pretty well.... although I guess your the judge of that lol --------

Obsession Domain: it is not uncommon for clerics to worship ideas of Love, Union and Companionship, to wish to act as match-maker, to find their soul mate, however….. clerics who take this to the extreme…. to have the ideas of love go to a point of mania and insanity…. they become Obsession Domain clerics…. clerics of obsession have an unhealth love for the concept of true love itself, it's also important to note they loathe any who break the bonds of love and punish them with violent retribution

1st: Obsession Domain Magic at the following levels you gain these spells, they count as cleric spells for you, are always prepared and do not count against spells you have prepared 1st: Dissonant Whispers, Ceremony 3rd: Crown of Madness, Warding Bond 5th: Bestow Curse, Life Transference 7th: Confusion, Death Ward 9th: Synaptic Static, Rary's Telepathic Bond

1st: Bonus Proficiencies At 1st level, you gain proficiency with martial weapons and heavy armor.

1st: Soul-Mate By spending one hour with a willing creature, you can dub them your 'soul-mate' while bonded both always know the location and emotional state of each other, when one attempts to heal the other that healing is always maximized and when you or your soul-mate make Wisdom, Charisma or Intelligence saving throw and both of you may use your soul-mate's saving throw modifier so long as it is higher than your own. Additionally you may cast warding bond on your soul-mate without a spell slot, when casted this way, it no long becomes limited by range and lasts for 8 hours This bond can only be ended by a 4 hour ritual, in which the bonded creatures must make contesting wisdom rolls, the loser taking 8d8 psychic damage which cannot be reduced in anyway

2nd: Channel Divinity: Heartbreaker by using a use of your Channel Divinity you can label a number of creatures equal to your wisdom modifier as Heartbreakers worthy of being purged, for 1 minute, the you gain a +2 bonus to attack rolls against the selected creatures as well as the creatures taking an additional 1d8 psychic damage whenever you hit them with a melee attack

6th: Punish the Disloyal At level 6, you learn how to punish heartbreakers even further, Creatures marked by your Channel Divinity: Heartbreaker now take 2d8 psychic damage and have disadvantage on all Charisma, Wisdom and Intelligence saving throws against your spells

8th: Divine Strike At 8th level, you gain the ability to infuse your weapon strikes with divine energy. Once on each of your turns when you hit a creature with a weapon attack, you can cause the attack to deal an extra 1d8 psychic damage. When you reach 14th level, the extra damage increases to 2d8.

17th: After Death Do Us Part at level 17, When you or your soul mate are reduced to 0 hitpoints, the one reduced to 0 hitpoints remains conscious for 1 minute but still must make death saving throws and suffer the effects of taking damage a 0 hitpoints, once this minute ends you die as normal if you failed 3 death saving throws otherwise you are knocked back unconscious, however in a stabilized state. the other is sent into a frenzy, causing them to have a -2 to AC, +5 to all attack rolls and all all damage they do as well as a +3 to their spell save DC and +20 movement speed -------- Every time I do one of these I feel like I triple check it to make sure there are no glaring errors in like grammar or spelling or any mistakes in like putting the wrong title and I don't see any and then I see my ask in your response and then I see the issues and I die inside a little but anyways, I'd love to hear what you and Sweetheart think!

oh as a DM, After Death Do Us Part is a very very interesting one 👀 im a sucker for abilities that can mechanically link people that can lead into RP. wonderful.

Sweetheart would really really really like the Soul-Mate ability. wishes he really did have it, he's vaguely familiar with ttrpgs by way of his extended family so he wouldn't be a total noob

[sleepingdeath-light]

bullied chubby friend hcs ; chica

requested by ; 💜 anon (18/06/23)

fandom(s) ; five nights at freddy’s

fandom masterlist(s) ; here

character(s) ; fnaf 1!chica / og!chica

outline ; “So first! :0 I’ve been thinking about chica a lot… I think she’s really neat. I mean FNAF 1 chica. All the other chicas after her are so overrated tbh. No one cares about FNAF 1 chica it seems 💔 it’s always toy chica this and glamrock chica that 😭 (my bad for the rant lol) but yeah! Can I request… Chica with a reader who’s kinda chunky? I think it would be so wholesome if chica came in and scared everyone who was bullying reader for being so chunky and Maybe she’d bring us a pizza or something because CHUBBY GIRL POWER >>>>>!! (The reader can be GN for this one :D) I don’t know if you want this to be like hcs or a one shot, drabbles? I dunno! Do as you’d like with it! And… is it ok if the reader is an adult? I’m an adult and honestly if a big 7 foot robot chicken came to comfort me after being bullied by other stupid self entitled adults who commented on how chubby I was I would be ECSTATIC)”

note ; reader is an adult

warning(s) ; bullying

chica is incredibly protective of those she cares about, even if she rarely ever gets the opportunity to show this — given her mostly stationary (and perpetually monitored) state

however there are moments where the stars align so to speak and she’s able to slip away from the prying eyes of staff members to go and check on her friends — whether that’s foxy at the cove or you whenever you stop by the restaurant

this was one such time, where she’d slipped away from her handlers in the middle of a rowdy party to see you where you were waiting in one of the back rooms

the promise of plentiful pizza on her beak and a joy clear in her eyes as she went

only to be stopped when she caught sight (and heard) a group of threatening guests ganging up on you — mocking and goading you for your weight

petty, cruel comments spilling from their lips as easily as laughter, which itself punctuated their bullying

you were just barely hanging onto stability — hiding your discomfort behind a barely-there apathy that she could see through as easily as freshly cleaned eyes

noticing all the obvious giveaways of discomfort immediately

the tremor in your smile

the wateriness in your eyes

the aversion of your eyes as you stared off at a spot on the wall

you were upset and she hated seeing you like this

so she straightened up her endoskeleton, opened her beak widely and made good use of her crackling voice box and squeaky metal joints to terrify them

sprinting a few metres forwards and screeching loudly — the sound causing them to startle and scream before they fled, scrambling over each other and falling over their own feet as they hurried out of the staff room

you, however, didn’t even flinch, more than used to her ‘creepy’ sounds by now

once she was sure that they were gone, she snapped her beak shut and went to stand beside you (her endoskeleton far too rusted to let her sit) — but despite the difference in height and her aged voice box she still tried her best to speak gently and quietly

‘are… you… okay…’

you smiled awkwardly and nodded, mentioning that you were pretty used to this sort of thing by now

‘you… shouldn’t… need… to… be…’

her voice, though scratchy and delayed and filled with static, rang out with the stubbornness you knew her for and before you knew it you were wrapped up in a cold, metallic hug

and she let you voice your frustrations: cry, sob, vent, cuss

do whatever you need, she wasn’t going anywhere because that’s what loved ones are for

all the while she’s reassuring you in that staticky voice, struggling through the broken mechanism because you were more important to her than that

‘i… will… protect… you…’

‘not… alone… any… more…’

‘won’t… let… them… hurt…’

‘care… about… you…’

the more she speaks the less clear she becomes until the mechanism gives up from the strain and she falls mostly silent, crushing you tighter into the hug for a split second before letting go and setting you back down on the floor after forcing you to dangle for who knows how long

you sniffle and joke and she lets out a croaky laugh before she makes an offer that you would never refuse

a single word that made you smile because it was a very her thing to offer

‘… pizza…?’

and besides, all of that venting had left you awfully hungry…

[gaijin-fujin-resonance]

海月 / Kurage

Welcome to the mind of Imai Hisashi. Thoughts flicker past like bioluminescent jellyfish, and disappear leaving only flickering traces of afterimages. In the depths, giagantic clockwork slowly turns, summoning the clanging of enormous bells. Somewhere in a forest of giant kelp, windchimes softly tinkle. A single deep, echoing drumbeat startles the wildlife to attention, but the ecosystem soon settles down to its natural state of restless, curious, eternal motion.

I’m sure there are fans who cynically believe that this soft, feathery little track, the last of the album’s three ambient pieces, is nothing but a palate cleanser between the strident warning of Gabriel’s Horn, and the deep, dark, almost oppressive wail of grief that is The Twilight Howling. To me, I see it more as a glimmer of the New Buck-Tick shining through the Old Buck-Tick.

It’s odd how this album seems built backwards, in a way. That it starts with the hopefulness and reassurance of Hyakumannayuta no Chiri SCUM and SLEEPWALK, and ends by leaving you in the cold and the dark, 3000 lightyears from home. So I believe that the presence of this light, chiming little meditation is quite deliberate - a message that even in the crushing depths of the darkest ocean, there is still light and joy and playfulness.

It’s the kind of song I can get lost in for hours, just observing the shifting patterns of sound like light refracted off running water. It’s deceptively simple on first listen, yet reveals layers upon layers of sound. It starts with the jittery static that runs through the piece, then brings in some warped Autechtre noises about 0:08, interspersed with intriguing tremolo snippets. At 0:19, the smooth, metallic chimes of singing bowls start up - I’m reminded again that Imai’s wife is very interested in the practice of singing bowls and sound baths. According to Buddhist practitioners (and scientists who have studied these practices) the bowls' resonating sound and vibrations can serve as a focal point, aiding individuals in anchoring their attention to the present moment and increasing their awareness.

It’s no secret that in my Headcanon, Imai is neurodivergent. This intense, flickering mass of entangled thoughts is very common in the ND experience. There are many (some controversial) theories about autism in particular, suggesting the neurons of our minds are simply more deeply connected together. Either way, letting one’s thoughts run wild and dart about, woolgathering and daydreaming, is a vitally important part of the ND creative process. And yet focusing and bringing one’s attention back together for long enough to work on something (the buffering phase) is the hard part. I cannot help but hear this song as a depiction of the ND mind - the electronic static depicting the thoughts as they flicker and run riot, then the singing bowls and the occasional drumbeats serving to focus the mind and transform those rioting thoughts into the shape and form of the melody that emerges from the chaos at around 1:11.

It’s a song without a verse or chorus, no riffs, and only one short burst of melody - but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have Structure. Ambient music often has its own distinctive style of structure - taking the listener on a (linear or nonlinear) journey rather than the familiar cycle of lyrics and refrain. I like to think of the piece as a depiction of Imai’s own mental journey, from chaos and confusion and static, to harmony and tranquility, focus and eventually peace.

Favourite bit: during the middle, focusing part, there’s a brief interlude about 1:50 where a shiny, metallic tapping sound (to me, it sounds like a coin being dropped onto guitar strings) appears, flicks from right to left, then quickly speeds up. It becomes a jangle, then a buzz, and finally a scraping sound. It sounds a bit like the intro to Bucephalus Bouncing Ball by Aphex Twin - and given Imai’s interest in replicating the classic Acid House snare rush in Subrosa, I do wonder if this sound is somehow related.