#and its been building to this for a long time now

[stackslip]

fujimoto is the absolute king of creating a world where mass death is a regular occurrence and yet every single time it feels singularly devastating. i've seen people say his work is nihilistic, that people die over nothing--i profoundly disagree! again and again, it is made clear that the deaths and horrors in chainsaw man aren't random acts of god, and that the people who die aren't random faces in a crowd but people who are willingly sacrificed in the name of social cohesion and the comfort of a few. the people killed by the gun devil all had names, lives, ages that were inescapable and their deaths are just as bad of a tragedy's as aki's. asa's mom's death might have been forgotten by all, and yet it has a profound impact on asa's own life and outlook. the people convinced to commit suicide by falling had long discussions about their everyday life before they fell off their balcony. it is power and nayuta's deaths--people who mattered little to makima and to barem, who were simply seen as tools for an end--that utterly crush denji and awaken pochita. himeno lost her partners, one by one, and every time she got more and more depressed. these are real people, all of them! their lives mattered! death is a normal occurence in chainsaw man, but the loss of a life is a tragedy every time

most importantly; most of these mass death events, as normalized as they are, are not random or natural. they're the result of devils being used as tools, of the powerful using those that they consider belong to them as payment for their comfort or to further their goals. in chapter one, denji got murdered after a lifetime of abuse as payment for his abuser's eagerness for power. the president of the united states pays for the gun devil to fight makima with one year from each american's life. the japanese government pays for makima's every death with the death of a citizen. public safety regularly sends its employees to cut their throats for a devil to wipe out a building. the german government contracted santa claus and gave her children in return. the chainsaw man cult used its desperate, scared child members to gain an army.

and now, foreign children are given citizenship simply so they can be gunned down coldly and used as blood and payment to use chainsaw man and make scared, rich old men live longer. idk how much more explicit you can be here. look at these kids! do their lives mean nothing? they're drawn in loving detail. they're real people being sent to be butchered!

death in chainsaw man isn't meaningless. far from it! this isn't saying "this world is absurd and has no meaning". this is about exploitation. chainsaw man has always been about exploitation and abuse, at its very core. these people mean something. these are real human beings, being fed to the grinder, again and again. they're being fed to it BY the rich and powerful, by their governments, by their employers, by their abusers. hell, yoru has fed her own children to this grinder, just to get a little more. ownership and greed, this is the core of what's happening. this is murder, not random acts of violence!

[transform4u]

Just like the movies

The crisp air on campus carries a hint of nostalgia, mingling with the earthy scent of leaves transforming into vibrant shades of amber and crimson. As students meander along the widening road of academia, the familiar hum of conversation fills the air, punctuated by laughter from nearby frat houses. On the quad, a group of theatre majors passionately rehearses their lines, their voices weaving through the rustling leaves, while a few bespectacled students dash off to the library, arms laden with textbooks and notes, eyes focused ahead.

Winding paths lead through the campus, lined with towering trees that whisper secrets of the season. Just off the main thoroughfare, a newly restored art house theater stands as a beacon of creativity and mystery. The building, once cloaked in shadows, now boasts a fresh coat of paint and a glittering marquee illuminated by retro Edison bulbs, casting a warm glow against the encroaching twilight. Posters plastered along the entrance advertise a lineup of classic horror films: Nightmare on Elm Street, Frankenstein, Friday the 13th Part 2, The Shining, Psycho, Rosemary's Baby, and The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, all promising a thrilling escape into the macabre.

The theater’s storied past lingers like a ghost, having transitioned from a notorious porno house in the ‘80s to this vibrant hub of art. Developers, perhaps naively optimistic, undertook the daunting task of restoring it, scrubbing away the grime of its seedy history and replacing the moldy carpet that bore witness to countless clandestine encounters. Yet, what they didn’t know was that their mysterious backer, R. Morningstar—an enigmatic figure with an ageless visage—saw potential in the decrepit building. He believed it could harbor something more than just old memories; it could embody the restless spirits of creativity longing for rebirth.

Beneath the polished surface, the theater holds its breath, waiting for the first flicker of the film reel to spark life once more. Each cinematic frame, imbued with echoes of the past, yearns to breathe new life into the community, to remind them of the magic that resides in storytelling—if only they would dare to watch.

Patrick strode across the campus with an easy grace, the kind that comes from years of confident familiarity. His salt-and-pepper hair framed a face that had aged beautifully—deep-set eyes crinkling with warmth, a sharp jaw softened by the years. He wore a tailored jacket over a simple sweater, a nod to the academia he adored, but there was an effortless style to him that set him apart. He was handsome, but it was the kindness in his gaze that truly drew people in.

As an art professor, Patrick found himself surrounded by the vivacity of youth each semester. His students, bright-eyed and bursting with ideas, reminded him of the carefree days of his own youth—days filled with late-night gallery openings, spontaneous road trips, and an insatiable hunger for new experiences. Now, while they thrived in the whirlwind of possibility, he often felt like a spectator, a seasoned guide navigating a world that seemed to whirl ever faster around him.

Still, life was good. He had a loving husband, a devoted dog named Jasper, and a comfortable routine that, while predictable, brought him joy. Evenings were spent in quiet solitude, savoring a single glass of wine, a ritual that felt more comforting than indulgent these days. Indie rock—music that had long since faded from the mainstream—filled the air as he flipped through the New York Times, engrossed in political commentary that often left him shaking his head. With his husband being a poli sci professor, discussions at home could be both enlightening and frustrating, especially with the state of the world seeming to veer into chaos.

But today, something caught his attention—the news of the newly restored art house theater. Independent cinema had always been his passion, a link to the past that fueled his creativity and reminded him of the films that had inspired him as a young artist. Curiosity piqued, he browsed online for showtimes, but found nothing. With a shrug, he decided to make the short walk to the theater, hoping to catch a glimpse of what it had to offer.

As he strolled through the campus, the crisp autumn air filled his lungs with a freshness that felt invigorating. Leaves crunched underfoot, the brilliant colors painting a picturesque backdrop that seemed almost cinematic. Approaching the theater, he couldn’t help but feel a spark of excitement. Maybe this place would breathe some new life into his routine—maybe it would stir something dormant within him. As he neared the marquee, illuminated against the encroaching twilight, he felt a sense of possibility blossom, ready to embrace whatever the night had in store.

As Patrick stepped into the building, the soft flicker of Edison bulbs cast a warm, inviting glow across the lobby, their orange light bathing the space in a cozy ambiance. The air felt alive, tinged with the scent of buttered popcorn and the faint trace of paint from the recent renovations. In front of him stood a modest booth, its vintage charm echoing the theater’s storied past. Behind the counter was a lone employee—handsome, with an effortlessly cool demeanor—dressed in a somewhat retro usher uniform. His name tag read “R. Morningstar.”

“Hello, quite the place you got here,” Patrick remarked, letting out a slight sigh as he took in the atmosphere, but the usher merely looked him up and down, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

“Ticket, sir?” came the prompt response, echoing the formality of a bygone era.

Patrick’s heart sank as he fumbled through his pockets, realizing he hadn’t prepared for this moment at all—he didn’t even know what was playing. “I—I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I should go,” he muttered, already turning to retreat.

“Sir, ticket,” the usher repeated, this time with a tone that brooked no argument. With a quick, almost magical flick of his wrist, he handed Patrick a ticket stub. “Theater 13. It’s on the house. Help yourself to whatever concessions you’d like.”

Utterly bewildered but intrigued, Patrick accepted the ticket and wandered over to the concession stand, pouring himself a tub of popcorn and grabbing a soft drink. He felt like he had stumbled into a surreal dream, but the allure of the unknown pulled him further into the winding hallway.

As he made his way down the dim corridor, posters adorned the walls, each more bizarre than the last: Nightmare on Bro Street, Cabin and Some Wood, Rosemary’s Baby Daddy, Douchebag of the Dead, The Night of the Living Nerds, and Bible Study. A mix of humor and horror flashed before him, and he couldn’t help but chuckle nervously. What kind of films were these? More and more titles lined the wall, things he had never heard of.

Confusion mingled with a tinge of excitement as he finally approached Theater 13. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped inside, greeted by a sea of empty seats. The auditorium felt both intimate and eerily quiet, the kind of silence that heightens every sound. He took a seat in the middle, hoping to absorb the atmosphere before the film began.

As the lights dimmed, he braced himself for the familiar buzz of previews or perhaps the iconic Nicole Kidman introduction, but the screen remained blank for a moment before abruptly displaying the title. Patrick’s heart raced as anticipation hung in the air—he had no idea what he was about to watch, and that thought both thrilled and unnerved him. He settled back, popcorn in hand, ready to dive into whatever bizarre cinematic adventure awaited him.

As Patrick looked up at the screen, the bold, red letters spelling "Hell’s Frat Party" seared into his consciousness. An icy grip of terror clutched at his heart, and he found himself frozen in place, unable to move as images of raucous college life flooded the screen. The overwhelming sounds of laughter and shouting filled the air, echoing with the energy of young, muscle-bound men—an endless parade of bulging biceps, thrusting pecs, and glistening abs that were drenched in sweat and blood.

Something stirred within him. Was it the film? The tension in his muscles seemed to echo the energy radiating from the screen. He tried to convince himself that this was just a silly movie, but each scene sent a jolt of apprehension coursing through him. Patrick licked his lips, anticipation mixing with a sense of dread.

And then, abruptly, the screen went black. SCREEEEECH! The jarring sound pierced the silence, causing Patrick to rub his temples, as if trying to banish the confusion clouding his mind. Thoughts of art history, of Van Gogh's swirling colors, slipped away like wisps of smoke. All that remained were the pulsating images of muscle and youth—an intoxicating blend of desire and envy that filled his senses.

As he watched, something strange began to happen. His own muscles felt tight, as if responding to the visceral power on display. He imagined himself as that twenty-year-old frat bro on screen—tall and broad-shouldered, with a physique honed by relentless dedication. The memory of his older body seemed to fade, as he envisioned a chest that rippled with strength, a perfectly defined six-pack glistening from exertion.

As Patrick continued to watch the film, an unusual warmth began to spread through his body. It started as a tightness in his muscles, a sensation that felt both foreign and exhilarating. With every flex of the frat bro’s arms on screen, Patrick felt his own biceps twitch, as if responding to an unseen force. The ache transformed into a deep, throbbing power, as though he were drawing energy directly from the display of youthful vitality before him.

He imagined himself standing tall, broad-shouldered and full of strength. His older body seemed to dissipate, replaced by a sculpted chest that rippled with strength. Each heartbeat sent a rush of warmth coursing through him, igniting a desire to reclaim that physical prowess he once had. Perfectly defined six-pack glistening from exertion filled his mind, and he could almost feel his own muscles straining against the fabric of his shirt---and they did.

As the frat bro flexed, veins snaked along his arms, a testament to hard work and discipline. Patrick felt a surge of longing, his own forearms tightening as if mirroring the action. Fat being replaced by hard earned muscle. It was a physical ache, but one that began to feel like a promise---a promise of power. The weight of the world seemed to lift, replaced by a heady mix of adrenaline and desire.

The images on the screen shifted again, showcasing the young man's impressive physique. Patrick could feel his own glutes tightening, a strange sensation of fullness and strength building beneath him. Each glance at that muscular form fueled his body, and his own body swelling with energy, the outlines of his muscles sharpening and becoming more defined.

With each passing second, the scents of stale cologne and sweat filled his senses, amplifying his longing. It was intoxicating, stirring something primal within him. The ache in his muscles became a thrum of vitality, a pulsating rhythm that echoed the energy on screen. Patrick could almost sense his body shifting, his age fading as he surrendered to the fantasy of youth and power.

As he watched, every muscle aching with the desire to awaken and push beyond its limits. The film played on, but for Patrick, it was more than just a movie—it was a catalyst, igniting a powerful yearning for strength and vitality he had thought lost forever.

The image shifted again, showcasing the young man’s bubble butt, round and muscular, drawing admiring glances whether he wore shorts or fitted jeans. His face was striking—strong jawline, cheekbones that caught the light, and a cocky grin that revealed perfect teeth, framed by a hint of stubble that gave him a rugged appeal. Mischief sparkled in his eyes, a promise of endless parties and adventures.

To calm down, Patrick reaches for his soft drink, not realizing its suddenly become a beer. As the cold, crisp beer touches his lips, the sensation sparks a surge of energy within Patrick. A wave of confusion washes over him, quickly replaced by a wicked grin. The cold liquid cascades down his throat, a newfound sense of entitlement swelling inside him. He slams the empty can down, the aluminum scraping against the surface as if trying to keep up with the rush of euphoria.

Patrick's gaze lingers on the scene unfolding before him—the bros holding court at their makeshift kingdom of fraternity and debauchery. He watches, enraptured, as the sororities dance and gyrate for their adoring followers, their moans and shrieks of pleasure intermingling with the thumping beat of the music. The memories come flooding back—a haze of drunken college parties, the thrill of gridiron battles, the hours spent sculpting his physique into a weapon both deadly and beautiful. The wrinkles in his face seem to vanish. In that moment, nothing else matters but feeding this growing sense of dominance, this all-consuming need to exert his will over all.

Slowly, the golden cross around his neck begins to take shape, each intricate link representing his superiority in every aspect of life. His hands curl into fists at his sides as the anger simmers, ready to ignite at any moment. He feels powerful—no, invincible. This is his world, and everyone in it knows it. Even as his blood sings with righteous fury, he savors the sweet taste of intoxication on his tongue. Just another step in his march toward total domination.

The cruel smile spreads across Patrick's face as his rage begins to build. His eyes narrow, pupils dilating with a malevolent hunger. The air around him crackles with barely contained aggression, an aura of danger radiating from his very being. Each beat of the thumping score seems to stroke the flames of his fury, fueling the ever-growing sense of entitlement bubbling up from deep within.

He watches with rapt attention as the sorority chicks writhe and undulate, lost in a haze of drunken desire. Their wanton displays of lust only serve to inflame his twisted fantasies, each flicker of skin against skin igniting his sadistic imagination. Patrick's hands clench, nails digging into his palms as he fights the overwhelming urge to reach out and mark these girls as his own personal playthings, but they were just visions on the screen.

In his mind's eye, he sees himself presiding over a kingdom built on a foundation of physical prowess and sexual domination. Frat parties become a means to an end—an opportunity to test the limits of his power and claim yet another group of unsuspecting victims. College football games are merely a platform for him to flex his brawn and assert his status among the social hierarchy. And those endless workouts, meticulously crafted to sculpt him into a living, breathing weapon…they are nothing more than preparation for the conquests to come.

Every fiber of Patrick's being screams at him to seize control, to assert his dominance over anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. The gold chain around his neck seems to burn against his skin, a tangible reminder of the authority he holds over his peers and the world beyond. With each passing moment, he grows more eager to unleash the beast that lurks beneath the surface.

As Patrick watches the depravity unfold on the screen, a single tear rolls down his cheek. For just a fleeting moment, the haze of anger and lust lifts, allowing a pang of regret to pierce through the fog. Memories of his quiet life—a loving husband, a beloved dog, a sense of purpose—flash through his mind. But they fade away almost as quickly as they appeared, drowned out by the primal urges raging within him.

His focus returns to the frat party on screen, and his eyes zero in on the group of gay men stumbling about the room. A cruel sneer twists his features, and he leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he studies the scene with predatory interest. The frat bros are merciless, their fists flying in a frenzy of violence as they pummel and taunt their helpless prey.

Patrick's gaze darts to the women watching from the sidelines, their eyes wide with a mix of excitement and arousal. He can practically taste their fear, their confusion at finding themselves caught in this twisted spectacle. But their hesitation only fuels his excitement, the thrill of taking something pure and innocent and corrupting it with his own dark desires.

Unbidden, his hand moves to scratch at his thick chinstrap beard, the rough calluses on his fingers betraying his rough upbringing and hard living. He sways his baseball cap back and forth in his grasp, a subconscious gesture of dominance and control. The image of perfect tits bouncing to the rhythm of the music fills his mind, and he growls low in his chest, his cock stirring to life in his jeans.

All traces of empathy, of any shred of human decency, have been eroded away by the onslaught of base instincts. Patrick finds himself chugging the rest of beer, crushing the can against his forehead. Blacking out momentarily. As a frat party blurs around him, Patrick finds himself standing in the midst of a raucous celebration, just like the one he had been watching on screen moments ago. The air is thick with the musky scent of sweat and alcohol, and the pounding bass of the music reverberates through his very bones.

Before him stands a buxom blonde, her massive breasts nearly spilling out of the low-cut top she wears. She hangs off his bulging biceps, her breathy voice laced with admiration as she recounts the details of his latest victory on the field. "Oh Cayden," she purrs, her hot breath tickling his ear. "You were incredible out there. Those Western boys didn't stand a chance against you."

Pat----Cayden grins wolfishly, his teeth glinting in the harsh light of the party. "Tell me about it, babe," he growls, his voice dripping with confident arrogance. "No one can match me on the gridiron." He looks around the room, scanning for potential challengers to his newfound dominance. His eyes land on a group of meathead frat bros in the corner, their eyes glazed with cheap liquor and barely concealed desire.

An idea, if you could call the thoughts still spinning in his head an idea, sparks in Cayden's mind, and he turns to his new conquest with a mischievous glint in his eye. "Hey there, boys," he calls out, his voice carrying across the room. "How about a round of beer pong? If I win, you guys have to do whatever I say." The bros look at each other uncertainly, clearly debating whether to accept the challenge or back down. As the night wears on, Cayden saunters from girl to girl, his confidence oozing from every pore. With a charming smirk and a wink, he charms the airheaded beauties, promising them the time of their lives if they'll join him for a drink.

Most eagerly agree, drawn in by his charisma and the promise of a wild good time. Cayden wastes no time in leading them to the bar, his hands already roaming their curves. He pulls them close, nuzzling into their cleavage as he orders round after round of shots and beers. The alcohol flows freely, and soon, the girls are giggling and stumbling, their inhibitions lowered by the potent cocktails.

Cayden takes full advantage of their drunken state, dragging them off to secluded corners of the house. He pins them against the wall, grinding his hardness against their bodies as he kisses and bites at their necks. One particularly slutty blonde hangs on his every word, mewling in delight as he gropes her ass. "Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, giving her a rough thrust. "I can't wait to split you open on my fat cock."

He continues his reign of debauchery throughout the night, leaving a trail of sloppy makeout sessions and crumpled clothes in his wake. Pranks and shenanigans ensue, as Cayden and his bros pull harmless but hilarious stunts on unsuspecting guests. Farts and burps punctuate every conversation, much to the amusement of their fellow partygoers.

Towards midnight, Cayden spots a particularly brazen bimbo across the room, her low-cut top barely containing her ample assets. He saunters over, his confidence oozing from every pore. "Hey there, gorgeous," he purrs, leaning in close to whisper in her ear. "I've got a room upstairs where we can get better acquainted."

She giggles, batting her eyelashes coyly. "Lead the way, stud." Cayden grins, offering her his arm like a true gentleman. As if. Together, they navigate the rowdy crowd, drawing appreciative stares and catcalls from their fellow partygoers.

Once inside the bedroom, Cayden wastes no time in pinning the girl against the door, his hands roaming her body with reckless abandon. She moans wantonly, arching into his touch as he nips at her neck. "Mmm, you feel so good," she gasps, grinding her hips against his straining erection.

Cayden growls in response, his hands slipping under her skirt to grope her ass. "That's right, baby. You're mine now." He captures her lips in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue as he plunders her mouth. The girl whimpers into the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Without breaking the liplock, Cayden walks them towards the bed, tearing at their clothes until they tumble onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. He pins her wrists above her head, his eyes dark with lust as he looms over her. "Get ready for the ride of your life," he smirks, before burying his face between her thighs and devouring her like a man.

[myouicieloz]

Live your life

band!aespa x groupie!reader

Synopsis: It’s been less than a year since the band Aespa was created. Karina, Minjeong, Giselle and Ningning travel all over the country with nothing but a few gigs, little money and much love for the music. They’re far from superstars, and still don’t have a lot to offer. Besides, there’s something they can’t quite grasp: why you, the band’s most faithful fan, follows them without even questioning.

Warnings: lots of plot w a little bit of smut in the end, as alwayss.

Word count: 6.5k

Notes: I tried following the MV in chronological order (except for that little deck scene bc I forgot abt it and when I went back to rewatch the MV I didn’t know where to squeeze it in so wtvr) and I’m kinda proud w the way it turned out ˆˆ I had lots of fun writing it so I hope you have fun reading it too!! Also I ❤️ you band!aespa let me be your fucktoy I can take the four of you. and not in a fight (probably in a fight too).

pt.1 | pt.2

“Is this legal?” Ningning asks, hugging the straps of her backpack. She tilts her head up to grasp at the place that would make their stay for this week of competition, its grand walls of concrete leaving her in awe.

You’ve been wiser this time: the cache of the band’s last performance made it possible for them to buy a roof rack for your brother’s— now basically theirs— van, which provided much more space for equipment and luggage. 

“Not really.” The four of you say, in unison. With a deep sigh, you grab your belongings and walk towards the huge stairs that precede the nearly-abandoned place. 

“It used to be a bathhouse,” Karina tells the maknae, holding her by the shoulders as they walk forward in hopes of making her less uneasy. “But now they use it as a vintage, low-cost hostel, or whatever. It’s always cramped during these times of the year, so we’re safe Ningnie. Don’t worry.” 

The bathhouse is huge, although its dirty façade announces it’s been long since the place served its initial purpose. Grass grows around their feet, nearly disappearing into the wild, and there’s a great amount of dirt clinging to their shoes in the parking lot. Three floors are presented in front of them in all of their grandness, in a structure so massive the place could be misguided as a shopping mall. 

Ningning gulps, although she doesn’t look relaxed in the slightest. Going up so many flights of stairs leaves you breathless, resting your hands on your knees as soon as you reach the entry lounge. The inside of the building is much different from what you expected: it’s filled with warm lights, and most importantly, it’s packed. Young people storm from side to side, hanging out in the corners or walking in rushed paces. The mixed voices bring a lively vibe to the open area, and you smile as you watch comforting chaos unravel. Such noise is enough proof that you're here: the girls are actually going to perform in the most important music competition in the country. 

A hand on your shoulder grabs your attention as you reach for your camera, itching to record every second of the journey. Ningning’s voice makes you look up amidst getting lost searching for it in the middle of your stuff.

“Y/n.” She calls for you, staring at the ground to avoid making eye contact. Her shoulders are pressed downwards, announcing a hesitant posture much unlike herself. You hum in response, acknowledging her while still looking through your backpack. “Is it ok if we room together, this time?” 

You watch as Ning brushes her hands repetitively, aware something’s wrong. Ningning might be the youngest of the band, but she’s usually mature, serious, and confident; It’s concerning to have her acting like that.

“Sure, unnie.” You smile at her, looking around as you squeeze her arm in hopes of offering her some reassurance. After making sure the other girls were busy with the check-in, and that there weren’t any eavesdroppers, you ask, “Are they back again? Have you been getting any sleep?”

Ningning’s nod, followed by a tired sigh, is enough of an answer. You know being so dependent on her friends bothers her deeply, even though you’ve told her countless times none of you mind. 

It’s well-known among the girls that Ning struggles with night terrors. Being an independent and strong-willed child made her extremely talented, but also very lonely. Ningning’s parents invested in her and sent her away from her hometown, Harbin before the age of 10. From then on, the maknae found herself all alone in Korea, pushing through an excruciating routine at a shitty entertainment company where people barely knew her name. She never spoke, at first because she didn’t know Korean at all— but also because people rarely talked to her; only urging her through events and evaluations like a doll.

Or better, more like a ghost. The loneliness clung to her bones, making its way through her soul until she wasn’t even sure who she was without it. 

Ever since then, her nightmares have kept her awake at night, trapped in a tangled mess of absurd dreams that deprive her of getting any rest. The hallucinations are so real she’s frequently urged out of sleep with a trembling body and heavy nausea, rushing to the nearest bathroom in complete panic.

Thankfully, not sleeping by herself is something Ningning found to be of much help, even if just a bit. So the girls take turns holding the youngest member close in their arms until her body gives up to exhaustion, still trembling. 

That was before Ning had gotten it under control. With the help of a professional and her friends’ endless support, she eventually learned how to suppress her troubled thoughts. As months went by, her nightmares somehow did not scare her as much as they did when she was a little girl. 

Or so she thought. Asking for help meant things were not looking good at all, which set up an alarm in the back of your mind. 

You had to talk to Karina about it and let the leader know. Out of the three girls, she was the most protective of Ningning: the duo acted like sisters most of the time and had a tight bond. 

“We’ll get rid of those nasty monsters, Ningie.” You tell her, resting your arm on her shoulders as you walk side by side to the elevator. “Fuck them. I’ll personally beat their asses for disturbing our little princess’s sleep.” 

Ningning’s laugh fills up the small corridor, and as she clings to your body, you’re reminded of how small she is. The maknae trusts you; it’s something you feel in the way she reaches out for your embrace, allowing herself to be vulnerable even if not for long. 

“So,” Karina says, staring at the four of you with a serious face. “I know we all want to enjoy the festival too, and we absolutely should. But it’s late, and it’s a week-long competition, so I say we take it easy and rest today.” 

The leader's words reverberate through the elevator, her assertive tone leaving it clear that it was a rather strong-willed suggestion as you all nod. 

“We’ve worked hard for this opportunity.” Minjeong agrees, leaning onto the big mirror that gave the impression that the elevator was much bigger than its actual size. “Let’s not fuck it up. We can have fun later anyway.” 

“Our first performance is tomorrow, but we have a bunch of interviews scheduled before that. We must be well prepared and rested.” Giselle adds, while they get onto their floor and start walking toward their assigned rooms. 

Somehow, the girls always manage to get caught up with something just minutes before getting in the car for their road trip, which meant you arrived later than expected. At nearly 4 AM, everyone was tired, even though the adrenaline of being part of something as big as The Box was enough for them to be a bit jumpy, eyes darting around to capture everything dimmed possible. 

The rooms were better, this time: there wasn’t any dust and the place looked fairly comforting, compared to the last place you stayed at. You drop your backpack and your small suitcase onto the ground without much care.

“Goodnight, cuties. See you in the morning.” You murmur, rubbing your eyes as you throw yourself on the bed, extra tired from being the designated driver for the entire journey. Giselle, Winter, and Karina wave faintly, too, making their way to their room at a quick pace. 

Ningning smiles and watches as you stretch yourself, exhausted. She’s quick to drop her stuff and pull her single bed, although it doesn’t move further than an inch. “Y/n… help me join the beds, please?” 

“Right, right. Of course.” With some effort, the two of you manage to move the two beds together into the center of the room, and you relax for a bit while Ningning occupies the bathroom. The soft sheets that welcome your face are much different from the leather seats of your car, and the change is well welcomed— so much you let out a deep sigh, relieved now that you’re finally able to relax. 

After changing into your pajamas, you stare at the ceiling and you wait for Ningning to hop out of the shower and join you in bed before falling asleep yourself. However, the last thing your mind registers are the soft sounds of Yizhuo’s shower before sleep takes over your body and you lose a short-lived battle to unconsciousness. 

—

Life is anything but peaceful when you give up a normal, ordinary life to live off of music. Not that it’s a bad thing: if anything, the thrill of not having a routine grants to the girls a type of freedom that only comes with art. 

That’s all Karina can think about as the five of you hang out at a big, open field. There’s a fence where you and Ningning sit, and the cool breeze messes up her long, pitch-black hair. More than freedom, the leader’s chest also burns with a deep sense of accomplishment. 

Within a blink, she’s at the bathhouse’s rooftop and this time her bandmates chat lively by the place’s enormous sign. It’s nighttime, and a different kind of unsettlement takes place inside her rebel heart this time, one Karina feels deep in her bones.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to dwell much: her senses prove to be right almost immediately when they’re struck by a sea of shooting stars. They fly by so fast Karina barely sees them, making their way through with such strength she’s pushed onto the ground. There’s only enough time for her to grab a single star, grasping the small light within her hands as strongly as she can. 

But just as fast as it happened, the storm is gone. Karina looks up to talk to you and the girls about it, but you’re nowhere to be seen. She frowns, realizing she’s left all alone, under the darkness of a starless sky. 

That’s when she wakes up: breathless, trembling badly as she grabs her neck in hopes of making more air run through her lungs. Despite the cool night, her body is drenched in sweat. Yet, the oldest member can’t help but sigh in relief once she looks up beside her and finds Minjeong peacefully asleep. The leader looks to the other bed, where Giselle’s faint snores can be heard, her mouth hanging slightly open as saliva drools onto the bassist’s pillow.

Karina’s safe. She’s with her girls, in the comfort of their room. 

Yet the loneliness she felt still echoes through her body, hurting enough to draw small tears from her eyes before she acknowledges it. It had been such an empty moment… to look up and not see any of the people she loved and cherished deeply. 

It’s something Karina decides she never wants to feel again. 

“Mhm…” Minjeong stirs, her eyes half open as she stretches her arms out. Karina’s noises probably woke her up— the girl has never been a deep sleeper anyway. “What are you doing awake?” 

A few seconds go by, and Karina stays silent. The answer comes when the blonde is almost falling asleep again, so low Minjeong thinks she’s imagining it. “You left me there, all alone. All of you.” 

“We… who?” Minjeong’s voice is scrappy with confusion. She looks at the leader, scratching her head as she watches Karina get up. “Why would we do that? We’re literally right here, unnie.”

Minjeong’s attempts to understand her friends fail. If anything, she’s bluntly ignored by Karina, who shakes Giselle gently until she manages to get the Japanese girl up, although clearly in a zombie-like state, still barely conscious. 

The weather was still a bit hot by the time they arrived, so the girls agreed to leave the old, arched windows open for the night. Now, the wind had messed up the leader’s wavy hair, and there were little eye-bags under her eyes from waking up so abruptly. As a result of such an intense dream, Karina’s lips trembled and her body lacked its usual strength, which was noticeable by her limp arms. She looks fragile, clearly disturbed by a train of thoughts echoing inside her mind. 

And the way the leader stares at Minjeong so helplessly… It’s the reason why she doesn’t question when Karina offers her hand to help the blonde out of bed, in complete silence. One that remains until the leader unlocks your and Ningning’s room with her spare card, walking onto the bed with light steps— as if she was taken by the wind itself. 

Your bedroom is not as big as theirs, and the improvised bed is still rather small, but Karina makes it fit. Her hand is keen on Giselle’s back, urging the girl back to bed as the leader lies her down once again. Like in a puzzle, Minjeong squeezes herself between your arched back and Ning’s body, careful to not wake up either of you. 

“Feeling better?” She asks Karina, who watches the scene with a small smile. Minejong’s heart is filled with warmth at the girl’s pretty face, as she closes her eyes once again. 

“Much better.” The vocalist murmurs, calm and collected. Being tangled with her girls at one of the country’s most successful music events is enough to dissipate her previous loneliness. There’s nothing else she needed but the five of you. “I’m no longer alone, now.” 

She’s complete.

—

The Box is an event created for Companies from all over the country to show off their assets and make as much profit as possible—and they make sure to capitalize on every second of it, which is as much of a burden as it is an opportunity for its participants. The girls had interviews, outfit changes, and makeup booths provided by sponsors, guaranteed as long as they shot commercials and launched a few good words about their brands. 

Held in a big, open area, the place brings goosebumps to Karina’s stomach, reminiscing too much of her dream as the same clouds wind on the sky, blocking the sun’s path. Just as she had done moments prior, you look up too, frowning. The lack of light makes the day seem gloomier than usual, and a single droplet of rain would result in an atrocious, muddy day. 

And that would be a disaster, for sure.

“So,” After recording the stage they’d perform at in just a few hours, you turn around and nearly shove your camera on Giselle’s face. “Enlighten us, Gigi: why is the festival named The Box if the main stage is actually a big fucking losangle?” 

Giselle’s tone is condescending as she adjusts her perfectly arranged bangs, giving you a dirty look before answering. “Y/n, my love.” She redirects the camera to capture both of your faces, smearing your cheek with her lip gloss. “You just have to accept some things: like the weather, time… and The Box’s setup. It’s how it’s always been, so let’s not dwell on that matter, okay? Thanks.” 

“Very well, then. You heard her.” You nod back at the camera, capturing the massive stage for a few more seconds before pausing the recording. 

Giselle’s passive-aggressiveness was one of her hottest traits, and you loved to watch her boss people around. Which she always made sure of doing, whenever she had the chance to.

The Japanese girl giggles at your words, nudging you gently. Not much further from you, Karina and Ningning stand in a big line for something popular dish. You wave to them, and Giselle straightens her posture, following your stare as she grunts. 

“So, you and Jimin, huh.” She asks, plucking at the grass with her shoes. It’s obvious she’s trying her best to sound nonchalant and not make a big deal out of it.

It was no secret that you were devoted to Karina, surrendering yourself with as much as a whisper from her. Still, it was amusing to you how shy Giselle seemed with her question. Her hesitation was sweet, so cute it draws a smile from your face. 

“Oh… well, yeah.” You shrug, not at all ashamed of her hidden inquiry. “She needs someone to warm up her bed.” You eye Giselle attentively, studying the older girl’s body language before adding, “I can help you with that too if you’d like. I know Jimin unnie wouldn’t mind.”

Your answer catches her off guard, her eyes wide from your straightforwardness. You’re nearly teasing her for being so shocked when she laughs, shaking her head at your straightforwardness. It’s Giselle, after all: the girl has such a flirty nature you’d be surprised if she didn’t give you a run for your money. 

“We’ll see... You’re sure one of a kind, Y/n. That you are.” She answers, with a sultry tone before gently squeezing your arm and vanishing from your sight. 

That is enough for you. The Japanese girl’s gorgeous looks and confident nature make her so desirable and hot— truly an it girl, often leading the group to try out new music styles and different types of choreographies. Giselle is always pushing herself outside her comfort zone. 

It’s good that she knows you’re also willing to try anything she’d like, too. 

Brushing that subject off your mind, you take some time to dive into the festival, just as curious as the girls were: the place is still beautiful, despite the weather. Its lively atmosphere is enchanting, and there is so much happening: from bands singing on minor stages to dance performances not much further from where you stand. Everyone seems eager to participate, and you’re just as excited to watch everything at once.  

This event is also a great opportunity for you, considering you’re still attending university— hoping to major in Media Arts in a year or so. Even though you spend most of the time following the girls around, your passion for filmmaking and photography is also one of the reasons you’re so committed to recording everything your eyes meet. You plan on making this documentary into your final presentation of the year and submitting it to one of your main classes. 

So you record everything: making a full turn to capture your entire experience. You’re so committed to your task that you don’t even notice Minjeong’s frame behind you, the blonde girl not making an effort to move such thing as an inch from out of your way. 

The two of you collide with each other so roughly you have to hold onto the girl’s tiny frame with your free hand to prevent her from a having dirty fall.  Minjeong gives you an ugly look, impatiently wiping the dirt from her plaid skirt. She’s judgy, as always— not a day goes by where the blonde doesn’t give you a hard time.

Although you weren’t exactly peaceful to her, either. 

“Do you ever wear a bra?” She mumbles, annoyed. Minjeong’s fingers press the tip of her nose bridge and she closes her eyes as if dealing with you was enough to drain all of her energy. 

“Why are you looking anyway?” You’re quick to snap back, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Choosing comfort over fashion was something you’d always do, and today was no different. Your look for the day was rather basic but perfect for someone who’d be walking around the entire time: a pair of jeans and a plain white tank top that made your Aespa badge visible to anyone who took a quick look at you. However, that little show of hers has made the dirt that clung onto the fabric attract attention to your breasts, highlighting the way your pierced nipples peeked through. It had only been a few weeks since you and Giselle got them done, so you were still a bit hypersensitive.

Not that you minded, anyway. Minjeong would be a jerk regardless of that: the blonde made her life’s purpose to annoy the shit out of you, and she’s very committed to doing so.

Proving your point, Winter scoffs, all annoyed. “You always make this shit on purpose, don’t you?” You stare at her, confused, and it seems like she’s had enough. Rolling her eyes, Minjeong brushes past you, nearly dragging you by the shoulders as she stomps away. “Whatever. Whore.”

Minjeong is so rude. Undeniably so, with an insanely stubborn temper. Her mood changes quickly, and it is hard to tell if she genuinely hates you or if it is just some kind of playful banter. Not that you cared much, honestly. 

Truth be told, you had other things to worry about, like the amazing festival happening at the moment. You’d deal with that nightmare of a girl some other time. 

Instead of allowing the petite girl to disturb your mind, you decide to walk around by yourself too— despite preferring to be surrounded by the girls at all times, you were cool to be on your own.

You were deeply committed to making a masterpiece out of your clips. If the work you handed in was good enough, then perhaps your professor would overlook the number of absences on your attendance sheet and give you a nice grade. 

After walking around for a few minutes, a certain stage catches your attention: the structure is small and curiously held like a boxing ring, where nine girls sing and dance in beautiful harmony. The space is so far from the center of the festival its last rounds of chairs nearly drag onto the woods that surround the place. 

The girls performing are all dressed in dark pants, white crop tops, and black ties, and they’re incredibly in synch while still making complicated moves. Their voices are sweet, and so is the music that flows to your ears: it’s a cover of one of your favorite songs, KARA’s Mr.

Your eyes go straight to the sign that hangs in front of the stage, looking for said group’s name. Thankfully, it’s easy to find, both in Hangul and Romanized.

Fromis9.

The nine girls’ bright stage presence fills up the area, and it amazes you how coordinated they are, not one outshining the other despite being so many. No lines are stolen in the song; instead, they add to each other beautifully, reminding you of your girls. The contrast is fascinating, from Aespa’s four-member band to those strangers, who sing cheerful songs like this will be the last happy summer of their lives. 

You’re enchanted by them, truthfully. Not only talented, the girls seem genuinely sweet, as they spin and jump around to hype up the dead crowd. And oh, they’re stunning: each one with striking features, ones that surely seem like they’ve been taken straight out of a fairytale. 

You make sure to record their entire performance, as well as the little playful moments reserved for interacting with their fans and supporters. Soon enough, the song ends, leaving the group breathless but happy. You watch as the girls bow and take turns passing small water bottles around, tired from giving their all on stage. 

A few of them start a small discourse, although you don’t pay enough attention to grasp the meaning of their words. You’re too busy staring at one of them instead, hiding behind your camera so she doesn’t see how enamored you are. 

The girl is small, but her slim waist and toned muscles announce she must spend most of her free time at the gym. An energetic pink-haired girl clings to one of her arms, providing a clear contrast to her long, pitch-black hair, but she doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest: if anything, she hugs the energetic girl back, laughing and she twirls her friend around.

Luckily for you, there’s a big paper clasped in front of her shirt, just like every artist who is currently performing and competing at The Box. You search for her name with expectation, just like you’ve done with her group’s name.

Hers say, Saerom. 

A beautiful name for an enchanting girl. 

However, it’s her face that surprises you the most. She’s beautiful, of course— stunningly so, but so is everyone at this festival: something expected for a place with such a high concentration of artists, models, and people in the entertainment industry in general. But as you look into her high cheekbones and sharp jawline, you’re surprised to find such kind eyes staring back at you. Saerom’s eyes provide her soft, almost ethereal look as she nods to you. It’s a faint action, one a distracted eye would barely notice once she moves back to the middle of the stage with her bandmates, yet you’d never miss it. There’s no way she wouldn’t stand out, despite her plain outfit. 

You could stare at her for hours. 

Although you’re incapable of doing so: in a blink, steady hands grab your camera, and your arms are urged down so fast you nearly let it fall on the ground. Nothing disastrous happens, thanks to your steady grip and good reflex, but your vision is blocked by a serious Karina, fuming as she stares angrily at you. 

“What are you doing, Y/n?” The leader’s cocky, angry voice is something you only hear when she’s feeling intimidated or when she wants to be petty, which is unusual for the occasion. Why would she be so defensive towards you?

Karina usually yaps her heart out until your ears hurt from her complaints. It’s a normal thing for her to do, whenever she’s pissed. However, she doesn’t say anything this time, clearly waiting— demanding an explanation. 

So you lift your camera, playfully poking her in a failed attempt of easing the grumpiness out of her. “I’m making The Box’s documentary as my final presentation.” You stay on your tiptoes, trying to get a hold of the view Karina is blocking so confidently, but it’s useless by now: the performance is over, and the Fromis9 members have already retreated backstage. “For that class I told you about, remember?”

Karina rolls her eyes, ignoring your explanation as she directs you in the opposite direction. With a resolute tone, she brushes off the matter. “Whatever. Listen, Y/n: you should only focus on us, your band. There’s no need for you to look at anyone else.”

Oh, Karina’s fuming. It’s easy to tell, from the way she refuses to meet your face to the red that paints her cheeks. You giggle, enjoying her subtle possessiveness. 

Truth be told, you thrived on being reassured just as much as the girls did. The only difference was that you made an immense effort to hide how much it aroused you, well aware they’d use it as an advantage. 

Besides, there was a bit of truth behind her words: the girls were the only ones you truly felt connected to; they were yours just as much as you were theirs, and you didn’t feel like you needed to meet new people.

“Of course, Jimin unnie.” You nod, walking next to her as you turn your camera off and place it back in your backpack. “Aespa is the only band worth looking at, anyway.” 

Karina blossoms under your praise, smiling brightly as she kisses you gently, her irritation gone. “Good girl. Now let’s go to the main stage. There are only two hours until our performance, and the girls are starting to get ready.” 

You’d like to tease her back a bit but now wasn’t the time. Not when the band’s nerves were all over the place, nervous they’d fuck up the opportunity of their lives. No, you wouldn’t do such a thing. You’d be their anchor, peace, and most faithful supporter as you always were, ready to remind the girls of their true potential. 

With that, you and Karina walk back to the main stage with synchronized steps, and the moment with Saerom is brushed off to the back of your mind.

You've probably imagined the entire thing, anyway. There was nothing to wonder. 

—

“Hello, girls. Are you Aespa?” The staff asks, entering the room with his eyes glued to the list in his hands. After the five of you nod, he adds, with a comforting smile, “You’re on in 30. Come after you finish your makeup and clothes so we can start the soundcheck and set up your microphones.”

With another nod, you fall into a nervous silence once again. The girls have waited for this opportunity for so long; the crowd’s heated screams could be heard from where you stood, only adding to the girl’s expectations. It was the first time they performed in front of so many people, let alone at such a big and renowned festival. 

“I think I’m going to throw up.” Giselle mumbles, softening her necklace as if it were suffocating her. Her breaths were uneven, her eyes fixated on the ground. 

Karina smiles softly at the girl. As the leader, she knows it’s her duty to look composed and relaxed, to tranquilize her bandmates. “You’re not going to throw up, Gigi. You just need some air. Come on, let’s get out of here.” 

The leader grabs Giselle by the arm, urging her up. As they go through the door, Ningning rushes to follow their steps. 

“I need to breathe too.” She gulps, not even sparing you a glance as she runs to catch up with her friends. 

The nerves were striking, and they needed to look composed so they’d give their all on stage, as always.

You and Minjeong were the only ones left backstage, which allowed you to take some time to study her better. The blonde was perfectly still on the couch, with a rigid posture and hands clasped tightly on her lap. She looked composed, almost bored, as she always did— but you know her better. 

Minjeong’s muscles were visibly tense, and her left leg was bouncing so much you were afraid it’d be chopped off from her body. She’s usually so composed, rarely giving a fuck about anything in her life. Whatever it was, the most Minjeong would do was roll her eyes at it or give it a nasty, rude response. Nothing else.

Seeing her bottle up her feelings like that is something that leaves you deeply uncomfortable. The way she deals with her emotions is none of your business of course, and it’s not like she ever talks about how she’s feeling with anyone anyway. 

Minjeong rarely talks about herself; not to you or her bandmates. She’s simply someone very private when it comes to that matter. It’s something the blonde struggles with— understanding and acknowledging her emotions are not things that come to her naturally, so Minjeong would often carry her burdens alone until the feelings get so heavy she explodes, taking it off on someone who has nothing to do with whatever it is she’s going through. 

Although it surprises you to see how deeply caring the girl can be. Minjeong, who knows Karina loves apple-flavored candy and sorts them out for her leader, even though they all think it’s gross. Minjeong, whose personal space is sacred, allows Ningning to be as clingy as she wants, aware the maknae longs for physical contact after being deprived of it so much as a child. Minjeong, who is the most competitive person you’ve ever met, but lets Giselle beat her at deck games whenever they notice the Japanese girl is feeling down. 

Minjeong, who despises you thoroughly, but snuck a new SD card into your purse after seeing you struggle with your camera for a few days. 

You didn’t want her to make her big debut feeling like a nervous wreck. She needs to relax, and not be so tense otherwise she won’t do good in her performance. 

And you know just what to do. 

With a sigh, you drop your hand from the doorknob and turn to her, leaning on the wall to take a better look at her. 

“You’re nervous.” You state, smirking at the sight of her face growing red—the blonde girl, usually so collected… oh, how she hates to be caught. 

Most importantly, Minjeong hates you can always see right through her. 

“Well no shit, Sherlock.” 

Walking towards her with small, unhurried steps, you sit right next to her, crossing your legs as you lean onto her.

“I can help you with that.” You whisper to her, staring at her mouth. “Do you trust me?”

Minjeong scrunches her nose but doesn’t move away. Her answer, however, comes immediately— not an ounce of hesitation coming from her mouth. “Not at all.”

“Good.” You cup her face. “Wise girl.”

Leaning in, you capture Minjeong’s lips in a messy kiss. Despite her fiery personality, she tastes sweet, and you savor the strawberry essence of her lip gloss. Kissing Minjeong is addictive, yet you can’t seem to get enough of her. You lick her lips and devour her until your lungs scream for air, and the two of you get off each other when there’s no air and you’re both left desperate and breathless. 

Minjeong’s blonde hair flows freely, her scrutinizing stare forgotten the moment the two of you got so close your breaths entwined. For a moment, you don’t do anything but stare at each other, as you look for any signs of what she’d like to do next. You’re nearly sure she’d tell you to get lost until she grabs your neck and pulls you close, kissing you for the second time. 

“You’re completely insufferable, Y/n.” She murmurs in between the kiss as her thumb brushes down your neck. Even though there’s a faint pressure, her touch is almost soothing, urging you down to your knees. “Now, do more.”

You’re more than eager to follow her wishes, urging her pants and underwear down in a swift motion. Minjeong’s pussy is so pretty, all pink, swollen, and glistening, and you lick your lips with anticipation. The blonde girl lies comfortably on the couch as she spreads her folds with two of her fingers— showing herself to your hungry gaze.

“How do I look right now, Y/n?” Her tone is drenched with mockery as you squeeze her thighs, drawing a shiver from her. Your hands trace tiny circles on her milky skin, and you choose to ignore her; too focused on her beautiful body on display for you. 

Minjeong’s free hand goes to grip your hair, annoyed by your lack of response. “Fine, then. Do you want to know how you look?” 

Her malicious smile, much different from her delicate features, is what makes you shiver at her concentration. Giving her thighs faint bites, you ask, “Enlighten me, Minjeong.” 

“Like a whore.” Her grip tightens and you can’t help but bite harder this time. “Hey! See, I’ve always said you’re just a cheap who—“

Minjeong is silenced by your warm tongue on her pussy, licking a big stripe of her sex, as you go all the way up to suck on her clit as well. Her high-pitched moans are like music to your ears, and you take turns sucking her sensitive bud and letting out some lewd, loud sounds as you nearly make out with her pussy. 

“Do you want my fingers, pretty girl?” You mumble, staring at her through your lashes. 

Minjeong looks like a painting, beautiful with her mouth half-opened and a thin cover of sweat covering her brows. She nods frantically, urging you even closer.

Greedy, that’s what she is.

“Yes, please.” It’s the first time you’ve ever seen use her manners, so you’re quick to comply. “Fuck, Y/n…” 

Two of your fingers enter her cunt without any resistance as you thrust hard and fast. She bucks her hips to add to the stimulation, and you’re graced with the glorious view of her abs, thankful she chose a tiny crop top for the day. You want to see her tits, too, but it’s not like you’re in any position to demand anything— not while Minjeong uses you as a toy, rocking onto your mouth as her moans grow louder and louder. 

You feel her walls tensing up, and her toes curl as she tells you, “Y/n, I’m going t—“

“Cum for me, Minjeongie.” You give her clit one last, harsh suck, as her breathing becomes even quicker. “That’s it, let go.”

Minjeong follows your commands, reaching her orgasm with a high-pitched moan as she squeezes your head in between her thighs. Her body trembles from the stimulation, and you keep your fingers inside her walls until she’s calmed down enough that her screams are reduced to heavy breaths. You lick her clean, then, careful to not touch her clit as you eat her out for a few other moments. 

What’s most surprising to you, though, is the delicacy in her touch as she urges you up, tasting herself on your lips. 

“Sweet.” She giggles, before grabbing your tank top and pushing you off her. Minjeong’s obsessed with oversized jeans, and her current ones look huge on her tiny waist as she takes her time with buttoning up. “I really needed that, Y/n. Thanks.”

You don’t bother to hide a cocky smile as you nod, shrugging. 

“You’re going own that fucking stage today, Minjeong. All of you.” It’s what they were born to do. There isn’t a slight possibility of them not doing their absolute best on stage.

“I know.” Minjeong looks around, bouncing back and forth with her hands on her jeans’ back pocket. After a pause, she adds, with a quiet tone, “You’re going to be there, right? At the front row. Recording and all. It’s one of the only things you’re useful for.” 

You smile, understanding the hidden meaning behind her bored tone. “Of course, I will, dumbass. I’ll be there with you, as always.”

You’d always be there for your girls: cheering, supporting, or helping the band with anything they needed. 

Karina, Ningning, Giselle, and Minjeong were not sure of when you had become such an important figure in their lives, but there was something they all agreed on: they’ve grown too fond of you now. It was impossible to let you go. 

Not that you had any intentions of leaving their side, anyway. 

[drgnflyteabox]

lament [1]

part one -> honey || part two -> tbd

pairing: john price x fem reader summary: as you recover from prolonged illness, you meet a man on a hike in the woods just as strange things begin happening around you. tags/warnings: creepy / horror vibes, slowburn, phone sex, masturbation, injuries, mention of hospitals, pneumonia, mobility aids, softdom!price (for now), dubcon due to intoxication, tags will update as the story does w.c: 5.9k

The woods are a peaceful, meditative thing. You’ve been spending your mornings there walking with Diva, meandering through the local trails and venturing off for pictures of red mushrooms or Diva in her little yellow raincoat, sniffing something or other.

The trails were scarcely used and took a couple of hours to finish, a longer trek in taller trees that closed off the sunlight and created peace through insulation, like an echo chamber of wet pitter patter from rain the night before and the gentle calls of birds, broken only by the sounds of your hiking shoes crunching gently through pebbles and leaves.

Quiet. It’s just what you need, slowly erasing memories of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of antiseptics. The trail isn’t elevated, it’s long, but not elevated. That’s important for your recovery, two months spent in a hospital bed attached to breathing apparatus.

Relief, freedom, as slow as your steps are and as beleaguered is your breathing, it’s pure relief. You’re no longer breathing through a straw, building strength walk by walk, spending time with Diva and watching her little tail wiggle under her coat. This time is good for her, too. You could sink to your knees and praise a higher being for the time off and sick pay policies your job has - so could Diva.

The shaking continues, your limbs still weak, muscles unused to standing and walking. You often find yourself sitting, on a log or a rock, and taking time to breathe and recover. Sometimes a granola bar makes its way into the mix, sometimes a handful of trail mix.

The last few times, there’s been a man. Tall, imposing, walking much quicker than you even with a brace around his knee. His posture tells you he takes himself pretty seriously, or he’s military, if there’s any difference.

Mutton chops, mustache, cargo pants. He’s been coming up behind you with sure steps, barely a limp even with his knee, and going by you so fast there's a breeze, makes you a little nervous to get mowed down.

Diva is weary of him. Her hackles raise, though she doesn’t bark, and she tucks close to you when he goes by. You don't feel unsafe, just a little surprised at the break in monotony no matter how tiny it is.

Doesn’t help that it’s pretty nice watching him go, that broad back and tight shirt, those well sculpted legs. Hey, you’re still sick and weak, still recovering. Sue me, you think, leaning on a tree when your lungs start burning again a little too much.

He stops, a few feet in front of you.

“You broken?” His voice is just as you imagined, rough maybe from smoking, maybe from overuse.

“What?” Broken?

“You alright?” He repeats, turning then. The quiet is a little oppressive now, with your struggle. You’re wheezing.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine-” you cough, dryly. “Just asthmatic.” It’s an easy explanation, you’re trying to get him to move on. You’ve never felt in danger, but it’s still the middle of the woods and he’s still a strange man.

“Need a hand?” He has to look down at you, even from a distance. His head is tilted down, arms folding across his chest, biceps calling to you like sirens.

You shake your head, squatting down as best you can, taking the breaths learned from your doctor and pulling out your steroid inhaler. One puff, two puff.

The man looks at you skeptically, eyes small and narrowed, flitting once to Diva who would fail as a service dog, but tries her best at guarding you despite being so small. Her gaze is pinpointed to him, as stiff as he is.

”Right, then,” is all he says before he’s back to his soldiers march.

You imagine him with horse blinders on and pulling a sled behind him, wheezing a laugh into the empty air.

Recovery is not linear. That’s what your doctor tells you, what you were told before you left the ICU, before you were discharged all together. There’ll be ups and downs, moments where you feel you’ve backslid to the point of having to start all over.

You get it, really. It’s a mantra. Recovery is not linear.

What they don't warn you is that it’s different when you’re actually feeling it, waking up weaker than ever and coughing, burning in your chest. It’s jarring, every cell in your body crying for oxygen and yet you aren’t low enough that you need to go back to the ER, just sit up in bed and stare out the window to the fortress of green that surrounds your house.

Recovery is not linear. You watch comfort shows - animated Halloween specials, a couple months too early. They fit the cooling temperatures, the slow yellowing of the trees.

Food is hard when you can’t stand for long periods of time, so you order in. Soup, and an extra chicken crunch treat for Diva on her dinner.

It’s only when you turn Charlie Brown off that you hear it.

Tap tap tap. Deliberate, timed taps, like a mini hammer on a mini nail. Quiet enough that your ears strain, and yet you can just barely catch the sound. It’s coming from the side of your house, opposite to your bedroom and closest to the living room you were just in.

Tap tap tap. Maybe it’s the vibe you put yourself in, but you shiver with apprehension. Could be an animal, you do live fairly far out, and by the woods. Your driveway is long, separated from the highway just outside of town.

Diva is usually a false alarm - she raises her hackles at the stove, she’s not trustworthy when it comes to alerting you. And yet you look, and find her standing straight up and staring at the wall the sound is coming from, lips peeling back.

Only there's nothing you can do. You aren’t gonna go check, not with your weak limbs and thin breath. Theres a landline in the kitchen with a long cord, and your cellphone. The best you can do is lock the windows and doors, which you do, shuffling so as to make the least amount of noise possible.

Next the lights and curtains, drawn and shut. You tuck a knife under your mattress, more for reassurance than anything, and close your bedroom door behind Diva.

The only reason you’re able to sleep is the bedroom door locks. The handle has one, and there’s a chain above that. You tuck into bed under the covers like a child hiding from their closet, straining to hear the tap tap tap. Sometime between you locking all the entries and exits, it stopped, but you’re still unmoored.

Your lungs fare better the next morning, eased by rest. You’re back in the woods by late morning, driving up to the trailhead through the canopy of trees. It really is beautiful, part of the reason you moved here, other than peace and quiet.

There's another car as you pull up, a reliable model in a dark colour, a surprise since you’re usually the first one there. 

You park away from it in an effort to not be creepy, but still sneak a peak while Diva does her post-car ride shakeout and pee.

It’s the man from before, sitting in the front seat, talking on a phone. He looks serious, frowning, talking in a measured way but you can still hear the volume as you pass by.

He waves, and you wave back, giving him a little smile.

Diva leads the way, prancing into the woods without fear even as the leaves start blocking out the sun. She inspires you - a little dog, brave, braver than you were last night.

God, it was probably a rabbit or a possum stuck somewhere. Maybe a mouse, and though you hope it isn’t it is the season for them. Cooler temperatures means creatures trying to enter your house. Means you have yet to drive down to town and pick up insulation supplies for your windows before fall really hits and you’re freezing.

Making a mental note of that, you lean heavily on your walking stick and pause. It’s one of those days, needing more aid than usual after yesterday and more breaks.

Crunch.

“Sorry, honey,” the army man holds his arms up, seeming sheepish as you flip around to face him. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” your cheeks burn in embarrassment. “Just jumpy today.”

“That’s alright,” his eyes crinkle at the corners, softening at the edges. He’s approachable today, not speed walking through the woods like there's a pot of gold at the end. “Mind if I join you?”

Unexpected, but with your eyes at pec-height it’s an easy yes. You deserve a handsome escort for the second half of the trail, and your emergency alarm is tucked in your front sweater pocket if you need it.

“Sure,” you nod. “I’m pretty slow, though, just to warn you. Recovering.”

“That’s fine, I should be taking it easier anyway. Make my physio happy for once,” he gestures to his knee with a chuckle. “John.”

You tell him your name. John. It suits him, the masculinity of it, the simpleness too. He gives the impression that he’s careful about how he presents himself, that outside of this sudden friendliness he’s very closed off - the way he was when you’d come across him before. Now he calls you honey, and touches his fingertips to your back as you navigate a patch of rough terrain warped by roots.

“I’m off until my knee is battle-ready, again,” he says it like it’s a joke, but there’s a steel edge beneath his words. You ask about his job: contract work, he says, not self-employed but with pockets of free time.

“Did you move here recently?” The wind shivers the trees, chillier than last week, as you meander.

“Ah, didn’t move here,” he scratches his thumb with his nose. “Staying with a friend. Needed the fresh air.”

“I get it,” your shoulder brushes his arm. “That’s why I moved here too.”

“Helps your asthma?”

You pause for a moment, confused. And then.

“Oh!” You’re a little embarrassed. “I don’t have asthma, actually. I mean I could have it, or develop it. But really I had pneumonia for a while, really wiped me out.”

“Ah, I see,” his voice says surprised, but his face stays the same. You wonder if he notices. “Terrible, that. My mum had a bad bout of it a couple years back, gave us a scare.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” you aren’t sure how old John is, but you can assume it was dangerous for his mother to have caught such a bad infection. “How’s she doing now?”

“Much better. Healthy as a goat.”

“A goat?” You’re laughing, then. A giggle that has him smiling back at you. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

John hums when he doesn’t reply verbally, and nods like you’re giving a university lecture. The attentiveness is nice, but it makes you self conscious, unused to having so much attention so focused on you. And he is so focused, like you’re discussing nuclear launch codes or what a quark is or something important. Honestly, it makes you hide your face in an embarrassingly shy way, avoiding eye contact.

He walks with you slowly, patiently down the path, arms crossed behind his back. Every once in a while either or the two of you laugh, which seems to bother Diva, whose been looking back at John suspiciously or trying to get between you the whole time.

“So sorry about that,” you really don’t know what’s gotten into her. Sure, she’s a pro at finding innocuous things suspicious, but you’ve been walking for a while now and she usually warms up when she realizes you’re okay with the offensive person or item.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” honey again. He sure knows how to make a lady flustered. “She’s just looking out for her mama, right?”

If your pussy reacts to that, it’s no one’s business but your own.

The air chills, day by day. John has begun joining you on your walks every other day, and sometimes you catch him jogging to the trailhead from the road instead of driving it. It makes you wonder where he’s, whether it’s close or he’s really pushing his knee, and whether or not he’s flirting with you when he shows up all sweaty in a tight shirt.

Another anomaly is that the tapping has returned, nearly every night. You’re scared every time, won’t even let Diva out for a final pee and have stuck to walking up at the buttcrack of dawn to make sure she’s taken care of.

Tedious, is what it is. Ridiculous. And yet when those little taps come, in different places around the house now, different walls, you hide under the covers with Diva growling her little growl at the bedroom door and try to sleep.

When cabin fever starts to set in, anxiety and insane thoughts like, what if someone is trying to break into my house? You decide it’s past time for a visit to town.

The trip serves many purposes, anyways. Diva needs treats, kibble, and a new ball. You need groceries, tampons, new socks. Overall worth it outside of the fresh air and human interaction with more than just one person.

“Hey! Hey you!”

You’re in the bakery, weighing with your hands two loaves of artisanal bread. Just the one will do, since your freezer is small, but you want both. Pumpernickel or dark rye? Which will go better with the honey ham sandwich slices?

“Hello? Earth to-”

Your deliberation is interrupted by a waving in your face. You realize Jo, your only real friend in town, has run across the street to catch your attention.

“Oh gosh, my bad,” you look down at your shoes, then reach for a hug. She squeezes you.

“That’s okay, babe, off in your own world?” She’s dazzling, too cute for such a small town. Her ringlets bounce on her shoulders and her mouth, which is always smiling, is stretched wide with mirth. Makes you feel warm inside that she cares for you.

“Trying to make a hard decision. You know, end world hunger or stop all wars.” Stupid, but she laughs. You love making her laugh, and if you were lesbian you’d have made a move on her. Maybe you were, just a little.

“Why not both?” Her hands find your shoulders and squeeze. It’s then that you notice someone behind her, a much taller someone. At first the muscled chest and thick neck make you think it’s John, and a small squeeze of jealousy grips your stomach.

Then you see the mohawk, the difference in height. This man is looking at you with a similar intensity, though, all piercing blue eyes, thick furrowed brows, pin-straight posture.

“You’re right,” your laugh is more awkward, then, motioning with your eyes to the man.

“Oh, I’m so rude,” she turns to him. “This is Johnny, we met a few weeks ago.”

A wink. Ah, they met a few weeks ago. You picture them in the only bar in town, low lighting and Jo looking like Botticelli’s Venus, plump cheeks and red lips. And yeah, Johnny’s pretty good looking. You’d laugh about the mixup and the names if it wasn’t rude.

“Nice tae meet ya,” his accent is thick, palm warm and rough against yours. “Shall we, lass?”

He’s talking to Jo. They exchange glances, him looking at you once so fast you almost miss it. There’s something uncomfortably familiar about the look he gives you, but you shake it off. Nerves, you think. From the taps.

“Right,” Jo looks a little sheepish, then. “We’re off to the movies, but nice to see you!”

You raise a brow. You can’t help it, it’s 10am. Jo laughs and they leave.

You bake, sometimes. It’s a good hobby for someone on a leave of absence with nothing much else to do but read, walk and play with her dog.

The oven sometimes scares Diva, and she curls up in your room indignantly until you’re done using it. You’ve always wondered why, since she came to you as a puppy and hasn’t got a single reason to be upset with the appliance. 

Oh well.

You decide to bring brown butter chocolate chip cookies on your hike, hoping to see John and give him one. Your interactions haven’t progressed past leisurely chatting and walking together, but he’s a handsome man and you're still a little stir-crazy. At least with work, it wasn’t just hours on hours of uninterrupted alone time.

Funny how that works, isn’t it? You spend every day at work wishing not to be at work, and once you have the opportunity you have no idea what to do with yourself.

John loves the cookies. He takes two right out of the Tupperware, flattering you by groaning as he eats. The recipe is that good, but you think he might be putting it on a bit anyway.

It’s sweet.

“Fantastic,” he says, licking his fingers. You try not to look. “You bake often?”

“Just something to do, keeps me busy.” Diva has growled at John again, her second offense. She’s being a real heel today, rude and fussy. You elect to schedule a vet visit for a checkup soon.

“No one to keep you company in that house?” He stops when you need to stop, takes the opportunity to stretch his bad leg.

“What?” You take a puff of the inhaler, frowning a little.

“Are you lonely?” A weird question, but you chalk it up to small town weirdness.

“A little, but that one over there keeps me company,” as if she knows, she turns and yips. “What do you mean, that house?”

“You mentioned you live in your grandfather's house, no? Inherited it.” He chuckles at Diva.

“Did I? I don’t think…” you fully frown, thinking back to your conversations. Did you mention that? You haven’t even thought of it yourself for a while, not wanting to revisit painful memories. Your grandpa did pass you his house, but you’re usually more private than offering more than surface-level information to strangers.

“I believe so,” he looks deep in thought himself, squinting up at the umbrella of trees above you. That comforts you, the fact that he’s trying to recall. You’ve been so anxious lately.

“I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ve just been so scrambled lately.” John perks up at that, turning towards you as you finally continue walking.

“Scrambled?” His palm finds the back of your arm, the meat of it. He squeezes you, and it fills you with warmth. “How so?”

“Ah, well, just some animals around my house. I think,” you meet eyes, and he gets the best of you, so you elect to stare between his brows.

“Want me to take a look?” His tone is very serious. You shiver.

“I don’t think it’s necessary… I think there’s just some mice making a home for winter. I gotta call an expert,” He slides his hand down to your elbow, holding it gently. You’re nearing the end of the trail, the woods getting brighter around you. Diva marks her territory here more than anywhere else and yips at John again. 

“I could do it for free though, honey,” the air drops where you are, a gust of wind creating a symphony of sound all around you. A little romantic, you think. Ridiculous.

“Well,” far be it from you to pass up free help. “Only if you let me pay you back somehow.” 

“You have already,” he holds up the cookie Tupperware, shaking it gently. 

“Then let me make you dinner. Whatever you want!” The enthusiasm in which you say it has you cringing at yourself, but mentally you justify it; it’s completely normal to invite a friend over, especially to pay back a favour. You’re not being obvious that you’re attracted to him at all, no sir. Definitely not scared and in need of comfort, Mr John sir. 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m free after 7 o’clock.”

You elect to be cliche and make British food. Good British food, a proper roast. Something you’d had a few times with friends in pubs or that time you’d visited London as an exchange student. Hot, smothered in gravy, salty and perfect with a mug of beer British food. You really hope he likes it, that he doesn't think you’re weird or making fun of him for his accent.

John is a proper gentleman, so punctual that he knocks on your door the very second it turns to 7:30 on your oven timer.

Diva has to battle her hatred of the stove with her need to announce a guest, staying in hallway purgatory barking at both.

The smell of garlicky roast beef, rosemary and thyme, salt and boiling potatoes is rife in the air, no doubt spilling into the woods through your badly insulated windows.

The moment it hits John, you can see it. Your door opens, creaking, and his eyes fix to you so quickly it’s almost physical.

“Hey! Thanks for coming,” you open it, motioning for him to come in. “Don’t mind Diva, she’s not a fan of the oven being on.”

He toes his boots off, still staring, like you’re a prize heifer and he’s set on buying you at the farm auction. A little sexy, mostly nerve wracking. Diva peeks around the corner at him and the sound of her little nails on the hardwood breaks the tension.

“Smells like home,” he leans closer to you to put his coat up on the rack. “You really went through all this trouble?”

“It’s the least I can do for your help.” At that moment, he seems to remember.

“Right, the mice. Want to show me where you heard them, or can I not steal you away from the stove?” His voice deepens as he talks, intensifying, grating hot coals and growling like a bear. Blue, focused eyes find the half-apron you’re wearing. You swear his pupils dilate, but he shakes his head before you’re sure.

“I can show you, there’s still a few minutes left for everything.”

The air is biting outside, cold with the evening breeze and dark already. So dark you equip your biggest, brightest flashlight and walk around the house with him, explaining the taps all around.

“I figure it’s them trying to dig holes so they can get in,” you hand the flashlight to him, feeling your fingers brush, and shivering in response. “I’ve been too chicken to check, to be honest. I keep thinking it’s a person walking around, not some animal.”

John nods as you speak, squatting by your little tool shed, looking diligently and moving items as he needs to. Then, he looks up, smiling a little.

“Why don’t you head inside, darling? Let me take care of this.”

“Sure,” you squeak. Squeak. Your stomach makes a knot and you scurry like one of the mice he’s looking for back into the house to mash the potatoes and make the gravy.

You are quite proud of this meal, not a proper cook by a long shot but it looks and smells pretty good. The Yorkshire puddings are alright, too, and that was the hardest part. Plus, you think, it’s free food. He’s gotta be happy with the effort, even if he winds up not liking it, right? That’s something your mother always told you. Someone’s put in a lot of effort for this meal, she’d say, pointing at you with a long nail. Better eat it.

“Think I found the little buggers,” John startles you just a little as he comes in, toeing his boots off again. You’re plating his plate, huge portions of mash potato and roast carrot and brussel sprouts nestled to the beef. His eyes look at the plate, then to you, then down to your apron, and you pretend you can’t see him adjusting his pants.

This isn’t what you think it is, you remind yourself. Two friends, one lending a hand and the other paying them back. You don’t even know his last name.

“Oh god, how bad was it?” You ladle gravy over his portion, then yours, pretending to be unaffected when he walks into your kitchen and takes a huge sniff.

“Not too bad. I’ll have to come back with some traps, if that’s alright.” You want to say John, you can come back anytime, but you don’t.

“Glad to know it was mice at least,” that’s the truth. A feeling you didn’t totally realize you had turns from paranoia into relief. “I was really scared it was some creep walking around my house, trying to get in.”

“Here,” John takes his plate when you hand it to him, but puts his phone into your hands before you can get yours. “Put your number in there, honey. Call me if anything like that happens.”

Honey. You fucking love that, so much it renders you temporarily mute as you punch in your number. He doesn't let you bring your own plate to the table, picks it up while you’re busy and comes back to shepherd you there with a palm on your lower back.

“Thank you,” you say, struck timid by his casual and yet firm guidance of you.

Diva makes an appearance for supper, summoned by the smell of beef and the oven being turned off. Her little claws tip tap against the hardwood as she circles your chair, tucks herself under the table looking for scraps, and whines at John while he’s trying to eat.

You nudge her away from him with a socked foot, stuttering that she isn’t usually like this, honest, only for him to brush it off kindly.

After supper, when you’re full and you can’t handle him looking at you with those half-lidded, well-fed bear eyes anymore, you move to pick up the dishes and bring them to the kitchen.

“Ah ah,” John cuts in front of you, stealing the plates and cutlery. “You cooked, I’ll clean.”

Useless to argue - he’s built like a brick shithouse. You’re forced to pack up the leftovers, one container for you and one for him to take home. For no reason other than you’re feeling especially soft and gooey, you wrap up a few homemade fig and date granola bars for him to take too.

“Thank you,” he gruffs, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, flexing his forearm muscles, making you hot again.

“It’s really the least I can-”

Snap. Fuck, the day that creepy noises don’t happen near your house is the day you convert to whatever religion that’ll make it happen. Both your heads turn to the living room window, where the sound came from, a crack in the otherwise quiet night air.

Anxiety curls in your stomach, sharp and dreadful. You try to remind yourself that you live in the woods for gods sake, there’s gonna be sounds, but that awful sense of danger is back and if you were Diva your hackles would be raised.

John frowns, wiping his hands on a towel. He doesn't seem as phased as you are, probably because he’s not worried over boogeymen haunting the forest like you are, but when he looks back at you and sees your fright he leans in and murmurs that he’ll go take a look.

“It’s okay, it’s probably one of my furry friends,” you try, but he shakes his head, putting a palm on your hip for a brief moment as reassurance and then he’s out the door.

God, you’re so nervous you whip out a bottle of wine, desperate for a little courage. The feeling is so strange, you’re used to feeling safe and cushioned by your home, by the forest. Even your little dog whimpers, tapping her way into the kitchen, rubbing her face on your leg like a cat. She’s a comfort still, something about there being a more nervous person (or animal) that inspires bravery. Still, you won't peek out the window.

The wine is good. A little too dry, but still good. A housewarming gift from your mother, even though she knew you didn’t drink unless it was social.

Or unless you were nervously waiting for some man to come back, having dealt with your problems for you. She’d weep to see you, aproned and wringing your hands and sipping red wine too quickly. Whatever, you think. There’s nothing wrong with letting him help.

John comes back in, maybe a few minutes later or maybe a half hour, you can’t tell. Your wine is half empty, and you feel awkward about it so you pour him one without asking.

“Think you’ve got more than one furry friend,” John says, laughter in his voice. In his fingers he’s got tufts of light brown hair, which he holds up. “Dinner, if you hunt.”

“Ah, I don’t,” and you wouldn’t. You’re fine eating meat or even purchasing it from a local hunter to eat, but there’s something in you that’s deeply uncomfortable with the idea. Maybe it’s cowardice, unable to do the dirty work and yet enjoying the fruits of someone else’s labour. Maybe you’re putting stock in something that really isn’t worth stressing over. Either way, you’re overthinking, and only stop when John steps into your space.

“Hey- you alright, darling?” You like darling too, just as much as honey.

“Yeah, sorry,” your hands find the wine glass you poured for him, and you hand it over. One thing about abstaining is that it hits you quickly, even with the big meal. “Want to sit? I’ve got a fireplace.”

You cringe at yourself, not meaning to sound so suggestive. Oh well, he doesn’t seem to mind, just nods and takes you by the elbow again to your living room.

“This all the heading you’ve got?” John asks.

“Er, no. I have to get my windows insulated for winter, then I can turn the heating on without it all going to waste. For now, I make do with the fireplace,” when you sit, Diva runs to you both and demands to be swaddled in her blanket. It’s an old knitted one, a college project finished between essay assignments and readings. There’s sentimental value there, especially with your pup who doesn’t even let the presence of a strange man come between her and her cozying up.

“I can help with that,” John says. Briefly, Westley pops into your head shouting As you wish! and it makes you smile.

“That’s okay,” you sip, tasting spice. Would’ve been good with dinner. “I owe you double now for helping me again.”

“Not at all, sweetheart.” Oh, he’s full of names - and getting bolder. 

The conversation ebbs and flows naturally. Sometimes you both sit in silence, sipping, refilling glasses, staring at the fire. He’s easy to talk to, soothing, his confidence and sureness leaving you relaxed.

“I better get going,” he grunts as he stands, extending a palm to you.

“Are you okay to drive?” You’re half worried, half disappointed. There’s been a steadily building sense of heat between your legs the entire evening, brought on by his touches and his pet names and his taking care of you

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I live close-by.” That’s one mystery solved.

“Well, okay. But will you call when you get home?” If you weren’t three glasses in, you might be embarrassed. John crinkles his eyes at you while he puts his boots on.

“John?” You’re in your pajamas, face hastily cleaned with a makeup wipe. Your door is double locked again, anxiety beaten down by the wine.

“I’m home,” he sounds distant. You can’t really hear anything, just his breathing, the sounds of him taking off his coat and his boots. “You tucked in bed, sweetheart?”

“I am,” you breathe, eyes slipping, drunker than you thought you were. “Did you drive okay?”

“I did,” he laughs. His keys jingle and make a clamor as he tosses them. You imagine him in a house that fits him, a log cabin or a house built by hand, before remembering he’s talking with someone. Disappointment dampens you a little.

“I guess I should let you get to bed then,” you try to keep it out of your voice, but you’re curled on your side with a hand pressed against your clothed pussy and it’s hard not to be sad at the fact that you have no idea if he’s actually been flirting with you, or just being friendly.

“You sound disappointed,” either he’s perceptive, or you’re more obvious than you’re trying to be. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you without saying goodnight.”

A pulse, between your legs. You rub with all four fingers, moving the phone away from your mouth.

“That’s okay, I don’t want to keep you,” you scrunch your eyes shut, trying to stop, not being able to. You’re starved, really, haven’t been touched or talked to like you’re desirable in quite some time and he makes you feel safe. Taken care of.

“You touching that wet little cunt, sweetheart?” A shockwave, from your nipples tightening to your toes tingling, curling. You stop hiding, breathing whines into the phone.

“I’m so sorry,” you mumble, biting your lips. It feels like permission, and maybe it is or maybe it isn’t, but you stuff your hand into your pants and start focusing on your needy clit. “I’m so-”

“Shh, sh, sh,” you hear a mattress creak, a grunt, and imagine him laying back. Maybe palming his cock. “That’s okay, baby, I could tell how needy you were.”

Panting, you stuff two fingers in your soft hole, grinding your palm into your clit. You hear him making sounds, quieter than you, but you’re straining to hear them. He starts talking you through it, murmuring into your ear, calling you sweetheart and honey and baby, telling you to put three fingers in and to play with your tits.

“Go ahead and touch your nipples, sweetheart, go on,” his breath is growing laboured. “Needed to come so she could sleep, did she?”

For a moment, you think he’s talking about you.

“Poor little pussy needed some attention,” his voice gets rougher again, like when he walked in and saw that you had made him a roast. “Give it to her then, baby, go on, let her come.”

That’s all you need. You squeeze your nipples one last time, letting your tits out of your shirt and turning over to hump your hand unashamedly. Your clit drags against your palm still, hips desperately moving, listening to him grunting and groaning on the other side of the call, waiting to hear him come before you let go.

You shake, shiver, curl into yourself as your core tightens and explodes like an elastic band snapping. It’s great, just what you needed, and you’re half asleep by the end of it

“John..” you mumble into your pillow, just enough consciousness left to pull your hand out of your pajama pants.

“It’s alright, it’s time to sleep now, alright? Close your eyes.”

“Alright, John.”

“Good girl,” his voice is distant, sleep taking you, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in so long.

You’ll deal with the rest in the morning.

[chiscaralight]

being roommates with kinich!! but you swear he hates you. he’s such pretty thing! but he almost never talks to you. he’ll do all the dishes, take out and fold your laundry and leave it on top of the washer dryer for you, he’ll clean when you’re not home and even leave food out for you when you get back late! but he just. won’t. speak to you!!!

and it’s driving you insane. you just want to get to know him! he’s gorgeous and he seems really sweet. he’s also built just the way you like. slender and toned, with the strongest gaze you’ve ever felt. is it so much to want to talk (and maybe fuck) your absolutely perfect roommate?

it’s driving you insane! so insane, that you start to miss when certain articles of clothes don’t come back from the laundry you pick up on top of the machine. maybe you didn’t actually put those panties in the bin this time, but who cares? kinich is shirtless while he does dishes this time, it’s the exact moment you need to pretend to watch something on tv!

and your sideward glances are not as slick as you think they are, because he knows exactly what you’re doing. it’s a ring from the doorbell that has you rolling your eyes, going to see who’s disturbing your peace while he licks the fork you used to eat the food he cooked a few hours ago. by the time you return, he’s already done, wiping down the counter and making his way back to his room wordlessly. you sigh in exasperation, you didn’t even get time to think about what fake story you could cook up to get him to talk to you! but as you groan at your misfortune in the living room, his fingers are wrapped hard around his cock, nose pressed into the underwear he’s stolen from you this time. It doesn’t take long before he’s making a mess around his hand, traces of your scent flooding his senses. but this pair is starting to lose its smell and he’s getting more and more fed up. how much longer can he keep this up before he breaks?

for you, it’s not much longer, because your fingers are deep in your cunt, thrusting in and out while you try to silence your sounds. you can’t even help the way his name slips from your mouth, you can’t even control it! it’s not your fault he’s been all over your mind for the past few weeks, at work, in classes, in the shower, it’s just too much for you!

and maybe you were just a bit louder than you expected, because your door is cracking open a few moments later, the afformentionef problem staring down at you ask you freeze up. he’s still deathly quiet as always, but he's practically jumping for joy in his mind. this is like a dream come true? you’ve basically been served to him on a silver platter, and he’ll make sure to not waste a single bite.

maybe a bit too literally, because your neck and chest are covered with love bites from his lips. one hand is holding one of yours above your head, the other very slowly brushing against your clit, big difference in the way he’s absolutely drilling into you. and you swear your seeing stars, moans morphing into cries as he angles up just the slightest bit, cock prodding against the walls of your cunt. it’s almost like magic, the way you feel. and he’s much less quiet now, because once his lips are on yours, he’s groaning into your mouth, teeth clashing with yours as he drags his lips downwards to sink his teeth into your skin again.

his build isn’t just for show either, because he’s flipping you over with such ease, holding your hips just where he needs them to be as he bullies his cock right back in.

kinich who now realizes how much power he holds over you, because whenever he even just as much passes by you, he can see your body tense up just the slightest bit. and he used it to his advantage! riling you up throughout the days with weird looks and soft touches, before ultimately deciding to bend you over the counter because he misses that cunt so much already </3

he’ll leave the door unlocked when he gets back, settling on the couch with speed so he can drag you onto his lap and have you ride him because it’s all he could think about in his classes.

and kinich that will beg you to let him cum in that sweet pussy just once, but between the two of you oh both know he’s lying. he’ll keep fucking his cum into you over and over, until he’s cumming inside you once again. he just can’t help it! you’re sucking him in so good like this, what did you expect him to do.

just like the way he took care of the little things, when you’re spent, on the verge of passing out on his cock, he’ll scoop you up and take you to his room, cleaning you up and wrapping you in his blankets so he can stay with you the entire night.

[vermilionsun]

Headcanons about how the LIs would kiss the MC for the first time? Definitely not ideas to draw-

oMG— HI HI HIIIIIIIIIII 🙋‍♂️🙇‍♂️ *exploads*

𝓐𝓲𝓼

✩ Probably happens in a dimly lit, secluded part of Eridia—perhaps an alleyway where the air is thick with the pungent stench of rotting garbage and decay. The narrow space between the crumbling buildings offers a rare moment of solitude in that God-forgotten city.

✩ Ais's eyes, usually sharp and alert, soften as they linger on the MC.

✩ In his defense, emotions were running H I G H. It's not his fault they were right there, looking so beautiful and absolutely enticing.

✩ His gaze remains locked on theirs, searching for something—maybe permission, maybe a sign that they feel the same pull that he does. When he finds it, his resolve seems to crumble, just a little.

✩ With a deep breath, as if steeling himself, Ais reaches out. His hand, usually so steady and sure, hovers for a moment before finally brushing against the MC’s cheek. The touch is surprisingly gentle.

✩ Yeah, the consequences could wait

✩ The kiss is slow at first, almost tentative, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure of how far he can go. But when the MC responds, the kiss deepens, becoming more intense.

There’s a rawness to it, an urgency that leaves them both breathless.

✩ Ais’s other hand comes up to cradle the back of the MC’s head, pulling them closer as if afraid they might slip away. The world around them—the decay, the danger, the darkness—melts away, leaving just the two of them, lost in the moment.

✩ When they finally pull apart, Ais’s breath is ragged, his forehead resting against the MC’s as he struggles to regain control. His eyes, once so unreadable, now shimmer with a vulnerability he’s never shown before.

✩ “Don’t make me regret this,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, a plea wrapped in a warning.

𝓚𝓾𝓻𝓪𝓼

✞ The bitch /affectionately has been dropping shameless hints the moment he met them the very same day

✞ It is a wall. A very nice wall, if he has a say. He's the type to trap them between a rock and a... hard place [you guess which is which]

✞ "Well, he looks at me and I look at him And he looks at me and I look at him And he looks at me and I look at him" And it goes like that for a few agonising long moments. Mfr is like :3

✞ His expression is gentle, but there’s a depth of emotion there that he hasn’t fully expressed before. Eventually, mister giraffe leans down for a long peak. There’s no rush, giving the MC all the time in the world to decide if that is what they want.

✞ He kisses them with a kind of reverence, as if they’re something precious, something to be cherished.

✞ Oh, don't get me STARTED ON THE HAND PLACEMENT

✞ One hand on the small of their back, firm yet gentle, guiding them closer to him. The other hand tangled in their hair, fingers softly caressing the back of their neck.

✞ When they eventually pull apart, Kuras’s eyes remain closed for a moment longer, as if savoring the feeling, the memory of their lips on his. He smiles, but it’s tinged with a kind of sadness.

✞ Next moment, he's holding them tight against his chest, allowing them to feel the steady beat of his heart.

✞ “Thank you”

𝓛𝓮𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻

🗡 Takes place in The Wet Wick, buzzing with its usual crowd—a mix of unsavory characters, mercenaries, and those looking to drown their troubles in strong drink.

🗡 Leander leans in his chair, his posture relaxed. His fingers tap lightly against the rim of his glass, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

🗡 “You know, I can’t tell if you’re doing this on purpose,” his words, like always, are laced with that effortless charm.

🗡 Leander watches them for a moment longer, then, with a slow, deliberate movement, reaches out. His fingers lightly graze the back of the MC’s hand, sending a shiver up their arm. Leander’s touch is warm, and his lips even more so as places a soft kiss upon the bare knuckles, emerald eyes gleaming with adoration.

🗡 He then moves their hand to cup his cheek, leaning in...

🗡 The kiss is everything the MC might have expected from him—confident, intense, and undeniably passionate. His lips move against theirs with a kind of practiced ease, as if he’s done this a thousand times before.

🗡 His hand comes up to the small of their back, pulling them closer, his body pressing against theirs.

🗡 When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. His eyes are darker now, filled with something deeper.

🗡 He gives a small chuckle, though it’s softer, more vulnerable. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this”

𝓜𝓱𝓲𝓷

🕊 rOOFTOP KISS

The night sky is overcast, casting a muted gray glow over the city. A cool breeze rustles the MC’s clothes as they sit beside Mhin, both of them watching the distant lights flicker across the chaotic city below. The two of them sit in silence, a silence that’s not uncomfortable but rather familiar.

🕊 Mhin's shoulders are slightly less tense, their gaze lingers on the horizon rather than avoiding eye contact. They mightt be on the edge of letting something slip through the cracks of their defenses.

🕊 “Why are you still here? With me?” It’s a question born of clear curiosity, neither insecurity nor doubt.

They turn to face the MC, their heart beating a little faster.

🕊 For a moment, Mhin looks like they might pull back, might retreat into themselves the way they always do. But instead, they hesitate, their breath catching slightly as they move closer.

🕊 “Because I want to be.” It’s not an elaborate answer, but it’s the truth, and Mhin values honesty above all else. “Are you sure?” Mhin asks, their voice quieter still, almost like they’re asking themselves more than the MC. The MC nods, their gaze steady. “Yes.” 🕊 That’s all it takes.

🕊 Mhin is the one to close the final distance between them.

🕊 The kiss is delicate, almost fragile, as though Mhin is afraid to break something—perhaps the walls they’ve built around themselves [too late for that tho---] It’s not rushed or passionate, but slow and measured, like they’re trying to make sense of it.

🕊 Mhin’s hand hovers near the MC’s cheek, as if they want to touch but aren’t sure they should.

🕊 When they finally break the kiss, Mhin pulls back slowly, their gaze searching the MC’s face for any sign of regret or hesitation. There's definately color in their cheeks.

𝓥𝓮𝓻𝓮

✦ The alleyway behind The Wet Wick, where the flickering light from the tavern barely reaches. It's late, the streets mostly empty except for the occasional passerby, and the two of them have just slipped out of sight, away from the bustling noise of the tavern.

✦ “You really should be more careful around me, you know,” Vere says, his voice low and lilting, dripping with mock concern.

✦ He steps closer, his movements smooth, almost predatory, like a cat toying with its prey. He tilts his head slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes as he closes the gap between them.

✦ His hand moves to brush lightly against the MC’s arm, the touch barely there, more of a tease than a real caress. It's intoxicating, his scent a mix of something sweet and dangerous, like poisoned honey.

✦ They can’t tell if he’s about to kiss them or kill them—and that’s exactly how Vere likes it.

✦ His lips are soft, but there’s a dangerous edge to the way he kisses them, his teeth grazing their bottom lip just enough to send a shiver down their spine.

✦ His hand comes up to cup the side of their neck, his fingers lightly pressing into their skin, holding them in place as he deepens the kiss.

✦ It's as much a test as a promise, a dance on the edge of something darker, something dangerous. It isn’t just about fun for him—it’s about control.

✦ When he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his eyes w i d e and hungry. He lingers close, his lips still barely brushing theirs.

✦ “You’ve managed to exceed my expectations,” Vere murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with intrigue. "Kiss me like that again, and I might actually start to like you.”

[linos-luna]

Cameras 🔪

Yandere!Han x Reader

Warnings: YANDERE, violence, toxic behavior, manipulation, spying, 18+

———————————————— •

You sit at your desk, staring down at the open notebook, your fingers tracing its edges, but your mind is somewhere else. The house is quiet, a little too quiet, and that familiar, uneasy feeling creeps over you again. Lately, it’s like someone’s been watching you, even when you’re sure you’re alone.

You try to shake it off, just like you’ve done every other time, telling yourself it’s nothing. But deep down, you know it’s not just paranoia. The little things have been adding up. Your stuff is always out of place, your jewelry box lid half open, a photo frame slightly crooked. And Han… well, you had mentioned it to him once, but he brushed it off.

"You're stressed, Y/N," he had said with that charming smile. "You need to relax."

That smile you love. Now it just feels off.

Your eyes drift to your bedside lamp. Something flashes, just for a second, but you see it. You sit up, heart skipping a beat as you reach for the lamp. Unscrewing the lampshade, you freeze when you see it. A tiny, blinking red light. A camera.

What the hell??

Your pulse quickens as you stare at the small device in your hand. Why is there a camera here? Who put it here?

But you already know. You just don’t want to believe it.

Your breath comes in short gasps as you tear through your room. Behind the framed pictures, inside the air vents, even inside your stuffed bear. More cameras. Everywhere.

You feel sick. How long has this been happening? How much has Han seen?

Without thinking, you grab your phone and dial Han. The anger in your voice barely masks the fear. “Han, we need to talk. Now.”

It doesn’t take him long to show up. His face is full of concern—or is it something darker? You can’t tell anymore.

“What’s going on?” he asks, stepping inside like nothing’s wrong. Like he hasn’t been invading every second of your life.

You hold up the camera, your hand trembling. “Why are there cameras in my room?”

For a split second, something flickers in his eyes. And then, just like that, his mask drops. The concern fades, and what’s left makes your stomach twist.

“I did it to protect you,” he says softly, stepping closer. “You don’t understand. I need to know you’re safe.”

Your breath hitches in your throat. You want to scream, to cry, but all that comes out is cold, hard disbelief. "This isn’t protection, Han. This is control."

His eyes darken, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "You don’t get to walk away from me."

Your body tenses as he steps closer, too close. His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist before you can react. Pain surges through your arm as his grip tightens.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” he growls, his breath hot against your face. “No one else will take care of you like I do. You don’t get to leave me.”

A wave of panic crashes over you, but underneath it, anger is building. You twist your wrist, trying to pull free, but his grip only tightens. The pressure makes your vision blur with tears.

“No, Han…” Your voice trembling with fury. “Y-you’re sick!”

Without thinking, you drive your knee up into his stomach, hard.

He lets out a grunt, doubling over just enough for you to yank your arm free. You stumble back, heart pounding, adrenaline flooding your system. But then Han straightens, his face twisting with rage.

Before you can react, his hand swings out, slapping you across the cheek. Pain stinging in your face, knocking you off balance. You crash into the dresser, books and other nicknacks scattering to the floor. Tears rolled down your cheeks as you whimpered a bit in pain.

He’s standing over you now, breathing heavily, his fists clenched, but then something shifts in his expression. His eyes soften, a flicker of regret passing over his face as he takes in your terrified look.

“Baby, I’m sorry!” Han pleads, his voice breaking. “Don’t cry, please! I-I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

The room spins as you force yourself up, your legs trembling beneath you. Your hand brushes against the dresser, and you grab the nearest thing, a heavy lamp. Without a second thought, you throw it at him.

It misses, crashing into the wall behind him, but Han still flinches, staggering back as he dodges. His eyes widen, and for a moment, you see hurt flicker there.

“Y/N? W-why are you trying to hurt me?” His voice trembles, and you pause, your heart pounding in your chest.

“You’re the one getting violent!” you shout, the words tearing from your throat.

For a split second, he looks like he’s about to cry, and something inside you twists painfully. He just stands there, staring at you with those sad, broken eyes, making your heart ache.

He’s manipulating you. You know it, you *know* it, but that pang of guilt creeps in anyway. You have to shake it off.

“Stop it, Han. It’s not working. Not this time.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, the softness drains from his face. The mask drops, revealing the cold, eerie calm underneath.

“Y/N…” he says, his voice unnervingly steady. “You know I love you. Everything I do is because I love you.” He takes a step closer, his eyes darkening. “And I’ll do anything for you.”

Han’s words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. His eerie calm sends a chill down your spine, but your legs won’t move. His eyes bore into yours, dark and unwavering, and you realize with a sickening jolt that there’s no reasoning with him. He’s beyond that now.

You back up slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Han… stay away from me.”

But he doesn’t listen. Instead, he takes another step toward you, his voice lowering into something soft, almost tender. “I’m the only one who can protect you, Y/N. Don’t you see? No one else will love you the way I do.”

You feel the wall press against your back, cold and unyielding. There’s nowhere else to go.

“Please, Han,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”

For a moment, his face softens again, but you know it’s a lie, just like before. He closes the distance between you in two long strides, grabbing your arms and pinning you against the wall. His grip is bruising, his breath hot and uneven as he leans in, his eyes glinting with something dangerous.

“Why can’t you just be mine?” he whispers harshly, his fingers digging into your skin. “Why do you have to make this so hard?”

Panic surges through you, but your body feels frozen. You struggle against his hold, but he’s too strong. His hands move to your throat, not tightening, but just enough to make you realize how helpless you are in that moment.

Your vision blurs with tears as you gasp for air, your body trembling under his hold. This is it, you think. It’s the end. You close your eyes in defeat, bracing for the inevitable as his hands apply light pressure to your throat.

But then, just as quickly as it started, the pressure eases. You blink in confusion, feeling his grip loosen. When you open your eyes, Han’s expression has changed… his face etched with guilt, sadness pooling in his eyes.

“Baby…” he whispers softly, his hands still hovering at your throat, but no longer squeezing.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you watch him look down at his own hands, as if seeing them for the first time. Tears start to roll down his cheeks, silent and slow, before he suddenly pulls you into a tight embrace.

“I-I’m sorry…” he sobs, his voice breaking.

His arms wrap around you, almost crushing you against him, and the sudden shift feels jarring. You can hear him weeping, his breath catching between sobs. The warmth of his body, the way he clings to you, it's so different from the rage that had consumed him moments ago.

You stand frozen, your body still shaking, unsure of what to do. Was this another trick? Another way to manipulate you, to pull you back into his control? Or… was he actually genuine this time?

It was hard to tell, and that terrified you the most...

[dropsnectar]

Pollen and Potions: Bee-men x Afab!reader

PART FIVE

NSFW

Well! Five parts later and here is your bee-smut! There will be other parts to this, and part six will probably be up by later tonight, since I'm on a roll rn. tw: breasts WILL be mentioned lol

When Rena finally stopped flying, you were outside of a large structure. You’d always imagined the hive itself as a sort of large cartoon beehive, but instead found something that looked more like a gymnasium. The outside coating looked almost like a gray paper mache, no sharp edges in sight. The “building” stood four stories tall and seemed to form itself around the impossibly tall trees of the ancient wood. It stretched impossibly wide, and you couldn’t tell quite how long the building stretched on.

There were several guard bees at the entrance. You recognized one of them as a bee-men you had met at the music festival. They saw you and Rena and immediately moved aside, Rena pushing you through the door. She eventually grabbed your hand and started to guide you through what seemed like tunnels.

The ceiling shone with a faint light, much like the inside of the shed you had visited once. You weren’t able to do much. You were out of breath from your running when you eventually made it to a large room with a high ceiling. You could see about thirty bee-men, scattered around this way and that. Many of them met your eyes, looks of pity, and despair settling in the ridges between their eyebrows and noses. You kept on, until Rena brought you through another tunnel, passing room after room. Finally, it seemed you had made it to where you were supposed to be and you saw a figure slumped down in a small alcove in the wall. You’d recognize these those wings anywhere.

“Lyith!” You yelled, running to his side. You turned him over, and you were taken with a strange forbidden feeling  pulsing its way into your head. It was like a current was pushing at the dam of your mind, waiting to break. Lyiths usual, lemon-grapefruit sent had turned sour, like he was rotting. He was pulling in breath after breath, like his lungs couldn’t hold onto any of it. His limbs shook and twitched. He didn’t seem to be aware of anything going on in the room.

“He smells like decaying magic. Whats going on Rena.” You knew what she would say, but refused to believe it.”

“Lyith can’t handle his own mana right now. It's not compatible with his body anymore.” Rena’s eyes were filled with tears.

“But that only happens when you guys are starved for magic right? Haven told me! You guys have been able to get more magic from my honey, why is he…” Your face was hot and your mouth was dry.

“He was very weak before he started getting nutrients. His body didn’t build strength quick enough to adjust to the influx of energy..”

“But you guys were descended from gods right? You're like demigods! Can’t you heal him?”

“The problem isn’t his physical body, it’s his magical one. The structure around his magic is too weak. Listen, Little One, there is still something we can do. You can do.”

Leith let out a gargling buzz. It sounded almost like he was choking.

“You can use your magic. I don’t know how it works, but your mana is very compatible with ours.” She took your hands and pulled them around Lyiths, pressing down firmly.

“There are two forms of magic when it comes to us. Our own magic, and our hives. His magic can’t handle the hives so its burning itself up trying to keep up. If you use your magic and join it to his for a while, you might be able to give him enough strength to endure for a time. But if you do this wrong, and add your magic to that of the hive…”

“It’ll overwhelm him. I’d kill him.”

“He’s already dying, (y/n).” This was the first time Rena had ever called you by name.

You stared out at Lyith’s face, wincing at how he was contorting in pain. It was just like Haven had described. His magic was burning him up.

You didn’t know if this would work, but you had to try. You carefully shook yourself from Rena’s grip, placing your hands onto Lyith’s cheeks. You concentrated on the feeling of magic. Immediately, your vision went starry. You were overwhelmed with white pulsing hot magic. It overtook all of your senses. It took everything you had to mentally claw and pull yourself up enough to be, let alone see. There was so much there. You immediately recognized the feeling of Rena’s mind, then Haven’s then that of so many others who had shared their feelings with you overtimes. You could feel their astonishment. The horror, the joy, the disturbed and the hopeful. You had to pull yourself out of it. This feeling must be the magic of the hive that Rena had been talking about.

You reached your awareness out further, concentrating on Lyith, but it was so hard to find him over the rushing current of magic. You eventually found his pain first, and followed it back to a racing, burning hot feeling. You grasped onto it with all of your might. You reached around and tried to feel out where Lyith began and the rest of the hive began, but it took time. Too much time.

You eventually grasped him, using your magic to form a barrier around his consciousness and the magic that surrounded him. There was no physical realm in your eyes, just magic, and you slowly started to piece your own mana out to his, watching it trickle around him. You could see it then, the structures, the geometry that made him up, like he was a log cabin and his wooden beams were burning. 

Yes! That was it! You saw it now. 

Slowly, you pushed your magic into his structure, fortifying it, adding layers of concrete to his wood. That little pool of energy inside you became a well, and you added it to the weakest parts of the house. A wall had already collapsed so you concentrated on building that up again, using the ash that had already been burnt. The fire, the fire burning the house was trying to consume you too, it hurt, almost forcing your mind back into your body. 

“Little witch please be careful.” Lyith whispered in your ear. But you didn’t have a body, you were a well. The voice had been weak. Too weak. You needed to heal him, build him up again. You continued to work, fueled by your desperate need not to see him die. You gave your magic over to him, and suddenly he wasn’t a house anymore but a garden. LIke your garden! You could feel him completely around you. His breath was your wind, his body the soil.

But his garden was decayed. His flowers were wilted, the stalks browning. You couldn’t leave him like that. Not your Lyith.

“Slow down.” You heard him hiss, from somewhere you couldn’t quite see. A part of you was happy, he was finally awake somewhat. But you were not done yet, you needed to heal him. You took that pool of energy that was inside of yourself and got to work. It was easy, you had done this so often, building up the flowers and letting them grow. Letting them heal.

It felt good. A warm excitement filled your consciousness, urging you on. There was no pain here. Usually when you expel your magic it weakened you. But this. This felt good. Like that ease in your muscles after a good walk.

You continued to build up the garden. You could feel Lyith everywhere. He could feel his strength returning as you worked. The burning fire had turned to a warm summer heat, perfect for growing. 

“You know not what you do little one, I am well, you have to--” He let out a moan. Something within you stirred. He had told you to stop but you could feel him. Feel his mind and his truth. He didn’t want you to. He didn’t want you to stop. You pushed your mind further against him, like a cat rubbing their head against their owner. There was a building of the summer heat coursing through him, through you, and you wanted more. 

You pushed at him, mushed your magic into his garden, totally invading his senses. All you wanted him to think about was you, feel you. And he did. The more magic you channeled into him, the more the excitement built, searing hot pleasure flooding all of your senses. You weren’t sure if it was his or yours. You wanted more. You pushed against him again. You didn’t stop, all you felt was pleasure mounting. Hot needy pleasure. The garden you had made was healed now. His magic was sturdy, strong, healthy. You had done it! You had healed him, and you were together and--

The pulsating, beating heat crescendoed and you cried out, he cried out, and then all you felt and all you two were was ecstasy. 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you rode out your high. It was amazing, delicious and your body ached. Your body.. Slowly, your senses came back to you. You had a body. You could feel it now. Toes and fingers and eyes. You could see. And what you saw was Lyith under you, his beautiful eyes glazed over, drool trailing out of his mouth. His skin was hot under your fingertips. During your work you had straddled him. Your underwear was warm, wet, and you could feel a bulge pushing up against your clothed entrance. Your awareness finally pulled away from his and your mind was your own again.

Except it wasn’t wasn’t exactly yours anymore. You felt the ghost of a bond in the back of your head. A bond that trailed back to Lyith. You had done something that couldn’t be undone.

You felt Lyiths large sturdy hands squeeze your thighs. Affection and and loud, resilient devotion. You could taste it on the air, as you focused on it, it overwhelmed all your senses.

“My Queen. You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” He breathed out, his voice still ragged.

Queen?

Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit.

You pulled back, pushing your body off of Lyith and against the wall of the cot. Your tired, sore body was weakening, as the realization of what you had just done crashed upon you.

“I… I only meant to heal you.”

Lyith looked at you with soft eyes, before pulling himself up to face you.

“And you did. You did it perfectly. But it worked a little too well. You shouldn’t have been able to do that. Not like this.” He reached forward and cradled your hands.

“But it happened.” He pulled your hands to cup his cheeks. He stared at you, his expression complicated. You knew if you pulled on the bond it would all be open to you, every little complicated emotion. There was a tickle in your mind. He wanted you to feel how he felt.

There was sadness, for causing you pain. Ache and relief, to finally have you, pride, to be able to call you his, and for you to call him yours. Bewilderment, that your power was such that you could ensnare him in such a way, and curiosity of how the two of you would maneuver through this. And there was an instinctual part, buzzing and excited to finally have a queen to serve, to breed-”

Okay that was probably a little too far! You pulled back enough for a bit of embarrassment to pass across his face. But he held your gaze. He had shown you all of his truth and you loved him for it. 

“Well, this has been a really wild afternoon.” Rena said, loud enough to break up your scene.

The horror of realizing Rena had just witnessed everything and probably felt it too, made you choke on the air in your throat. Your already hot face charged up to a solar flare.

She was sitting down, leaning against the wall. A feral smirk on her face, both pairs of arms crossed around her chest. One finger was slowly, meaningfully tapping against her arm.

“Well, um-- you see-- it was an accident!” You sputtered, pulling away from Lyiths grasp to the end of the bed. You didn’t look at Lyith, only tried to explain the words of what happened but not finding them.

Rena suddenly stood up, her stance strong as she purposefully stalked towards your end of the bed. Her gaze was burning, a hungry smile on her face as she leaned down, and tilted your chin up with a black finger.

“Little One, only Queens can bond to a Bee-men like that. For a Human, we would have to spend weeks prepping you before you could even manage to attempt what you have done.”

She moved forward, putting both of her knees outside of yours, leaning over you with a fire in her eyes.

“I knew there was something different about you. I want to know what, and I want you to do that again.” Her bottom set of arms wrapped around your waist and pulled you flush to her. Her other hand gripped your shoulder.

Your heart was roaring now, and you looked to Lyith for help. He was watching with amusement, leaning back against the headboard wall of the cot. There wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his features or his mind.  Whatever was going on, he was definitely down for it. 

You swallowed thickly.

“C-can’t we t-take a moment to think this over?” 

She ignored you, her gaze straying to your lips. The hands at your waist started to roam, gently moving up and down, one wandered to the hem of your shirt, the other cupping the curve of your ass and rubbing through the fabric.

You tried not to let your arousal show, starting to tremble under her ministrations, as she watched you with her triumphant, molten gaze.

“Lyith may have been yours first, but I won’t let him have you to himself.” She leaned forward and gently bit down on the curve of your ear. Your breath hitched and you had to keep yourself from mewling.

 “I’m yours too, you know?” She said this part gently, an earnestness made its way into your mind. It felt like how she smelled and you leaned into it. 

If you were truly a Queen now, there was no going back. Things had changed since you had bonded with Lyith. Rena was someone you treasured too. She was arrogant and sweet, and she had always been kind in the ways that mattered.

Well. What was one more anyway? You thought, closing your eyes and leaning your body into Rena’s. She let out a triumphant trill, Then slowly started dragging her impossibly long textured tongue up your neck. 

“I’m going to show you how we normally prepare a human queen.” She purred. Her arms moved to pull up your shirt as you felt the cot move under you. Lyith had moved from his spot from the end of the bed, and had situated himself behind you, his own arms curling around your hips, playing with the edges of your pants.

“While this looks very fun, I’m not the type to just sit and watch.” He sang out in a low voice. Rena huffed and rolled her eyes. But she continued to undress you, long fingers hitching around your bra and freeing your breasts. She leaned back and looked at them, purring the whole time.

Well. It looked like you were in for a long night.

Part Six (Beware NSFW)

[marloree]

ᑎEᗯ ᗷOOKS ᗩᑎᗪ ᑎEᗯ ᗩᑕᑫᑌᗩIᑎTᗩᑎᑕES

Pairing: Librarian! Soobin × Bookworm! Reader

Genre: fluff

Word count: 1.5k

A/N: this has been dusting in my drafts for months, but I finally got to finish it! Hopefully the effort was worth it. 🥹

You, quite literally, never seemed to get your nose out of a book. No matter what you would be doing, a book was an essential. Eating, traveling somewhere, waiting for the next class - you always had a book in hand. Even if you were not reading at the moment, you for sure would still carry a book or two in your bag.

Books were your bread and water, your oxygen and sun. You wouldn’t lie if you said they were almost everything to you. Having developed a liking to fairytales in your childhood, it turned into something much, much greater as years passed. The little feeling of contentment you would feel when your mother read to you at a younger age turned into joy and excitement of seeking knowledge and getting to learn about worlds, lives and situations you never got to experience yourself.

Fairytales got replaced with books of a more serious nature, soon you replaced your mother in reading to you and read on your own. However, the thrill you felt while gulping a page after page didn’t go anywhere. If possible, it got only stronger. 

Reading was your favorite pastime and it wouldn’t be so difficult to guess what your favorite place to spend your time was, besides your room, of course.

That’s right - the library, the home of so many books. And, in a way, yours, too. It was like your second home. You could spend hours there, taking in the numerous beautiful covers that looked at you from all the bookshelves. Well, this is just what you usually would do: waking up early on the weekends just to go visit the local, oh so dear to you, library.

Having spent so many hours there, you were sure you have taken a look at every book and have talked to every librarian there. Or, so you thought. 

It was such a beautiful summer morning, beautiful and peaceful. The heat hadn’t reached its peak, the city hadn’t fully woken up yet, only the rare birds would chirp here and there. Just like the birds, you, too, were up at this early hour. You just finished your book yesterday night and couldn’t wait to read the continuation. But, for that, you had to wait until the library would open and you could finally take the needed copy. Anticipating the moment with every fiber of your body, you sat on the bed, dreaming of all the possible ways the story could take a turn to, while also not forgetting to glance at the clock every now and then. Of course you started preparing earlier than you should, taking an earlier bus as well: the excitement was running through your veins, replacing its natural content, no less.

A solid 10 minutes earlier than the most punctual librarian would open the door for visitors you stood at the entrance. Your feet tapped a beat only known to them, the book getting traveled from one of your hands to the other in a rather impatient manner. It felt like eternity passed when you finally heard the door being opened from the inside. You immediately turned to the direction of the noise, unwilling to lose even a second. Another moment passed and the door was finally open widely, welcoming the early visitor.

But, to your surprise, it wasn’t the usual librarian that greeted you, but a completely new and unfamiliar face. 

“Uh, good morning”, you muttered, looking up at the stranger, as if both perplexed and curious to see a new face.

The smile on the guy’s face grew wider, although he clearly was a bit nervous: it was his first work day here, or in a library at all, for that matter.

“Good morning, good morning!” He stepped aside, letting you enter the building.

In a moment, the curiosity towards a new face was long gone and forgotten as you laid your eyes on the needed cover, the second part of the book you’ve been longing to read. With a swift gesture, the book traveled into your hands, as you looked at it fondly, lovingly almost.

Your expression hadn’t gone unnoticed by the new librarian: he was taking quick curious glances at you every now and then, you were his first visitor, the first person he had to assist as a librarian. But, even so, his eyes sparkled almost as brightly as yours once he read the title on the cover. It was the name of his favourite series, too. In a few seconds, he walked closer to you, almost overwhelmed with excitement.

“Hey, I see you’ve read the first book, am I right? Did you like it?” The tone of his voice carried a hint of warning of a possible trouble: him exploding from his excitement. But how else could one feel when he, after months if not years, have finally found a fellow series reader?

“Yes, yes, I have!” You turned to him, your smile telling a similar story, "and I absolutely loved it!!"

The next thing you knew, you two started bombarding each other with questions regarding the series and other books of the author. Your enthusiasm was contagious, but no less was his. You kept on interrupting each other, speaking like you could never get tired. Surely, you could spend hours just talking about the thing you both loved - books.

You haven’t met many people who shared such a great amount of love towards reading, so you were more than happy to come across such a person. Your lively conversation went on and on, not seeming to be coming to an end at all. You talked and talked, trying to express all of the thoughts and emotions that got to be buried deep inside your brains for so, so long. Once you two finally shared everything you wanted about the book, your chatter quite abruptly came to a halt.

“Oh, I’m Soobin, by the way”, the librarian smiled with a hint of awkwardness, just now realizing he never introduced himself.

“It's so nice to meet someone who’s just as passionate about the series as I am”, your enthusiasm was over the roof, making you too occupied to notice the sudden feeling of awkwardness or to even remember to introduce yourself back. In your defense, Soobin hadn’t noticed he never got your name either.

“Wait, do you know N.N. too?” You suddenly hit Soobin with another question, remembering your second favorite author.

“Yes, yes, I do!” The awkwardness swiped off the guy's face once the conversation was once again turned to the topic he was so passionate about.

After rambling and rambling without seeming to ever stop or even take a breath, you finally shared everything you wanted - for the moment, at least - and, seemingly, Soobin didn’t have much to say as well.

“It's so nice knowing we share the same interest and even favor similar authors”, you sighed contently, “wait, we just have to get to know each other better.”

“Oh, you think so?” Soobin’s more shy and quiet nature immediately showed up once his favorite topic was taken away from him, “honestly, I’d love to, but I’ve been really busy lately, trying to balance my studies and work, and it doesn’t leave much time for anything else, you know,” his sigh was equivalent to how every student who ever had to take up both fields at once has felt.

“Hm”, you hummed, quickly coming up with a solution, “I don’t have much work on me currently, I could visit the library even daily!” You were so happy to finally find an eager book lover that you were forgetting you were talking to an almost absolute stranger. “If that’s okay with you, of course,” you quickly added.

A wide smile appeared on Soobin's face in an instant after your suggestion. “Of course, of course, I’d be so happy if you would! I doubt I’ll have much work during these first days, so it would be really nice of you if you’d come around.”

“Then I’ll surely come tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, too!”, your smile reached all the way from one ear to the other, “and I’ll definitely bring you a list of my most favorite books!”

“I will as well, then, and I’d definitely be looking forward to tomorrow!”

As you walked out of the library that day, the sun was shining so brightly and the birds were singing even more cheerfully than in the morning, nature seemed to be just as happy as you were. You were so excited about your future conversations, it felt like you've found a perfect, if not soul mate, then a book mate, for sure.

You carried the copy in hand, anticipating tomorrow. But, at the moment, your focus was slowly shifting towards the book. To read it, as always, turned into the main goal of the day. Overnight, preferably.

Meanwhile, among Soobin's daydreams, the realization that he still didn’t know your name crept and grew stronger. Well, he surely would ask you tomorrow. Unless the excitement lets it slip his mind once again, that is.

[nerdygaymormon]

Sometimes you mention that you've lived long enough to see changes in the church on LGBTQ topics. What are some of the major changes you've experienced in church?

I feel like I've lived in 3 eras of the LDS Church.

When I was a child, it was an era that now seems very far away. Black people weren't allowed to go to the temple or have the priesthood (which also limited which callings they could have in church). Church met twice on Sundays, once for Sunday School (children attended Jr Sunday School) and I think priesthood quorums met prior to Sunday School, and then we came again later that day for Sacrament meeting. This part is fuzzy to me, but I think youth activities were on Tuesday, and Primary was on Wednesday (and I think Relief Society was also on Wednesday). In addition to paying tithing, my parents were asked to contribute to the local ward budget, and we raised money to build the local church building. I remember my family working on the local church farm (I'm not sure if it was part of the welfare system or was a fundraiser for the local stake/ward budgets, perhaps both). There was a BIG emphasis on food storage. Social life revolved around church as there were many activities such as the annual Gold & Green Ball (dinner and a dance for the married folks, it was a big deal, they'd dress fancy for it). The church members were socially and politically conservative.

My teens and young adult years were spent in a different era. The church had undone the restrictions on Black members. Church was now consolidated to a 3-hour block on Sundays (except for youth activities on Wednesdays). Temples started getting built in big cities outside of Utah but still were a far drive for many members, instead of going on a temple trip once a year, as a youth we could go twice a year when a temple was built a few hours away. There were still a lot of activities, especially for the teenagers, such as big stake/regional dances, sports competitions, road shows, and a big youth trip in the summer. The ward budgets came from the church (from the tithing) and not from individual members of the ward giving more, and we no longer had to contribute (either money or labor) for local church buildings to get constructed. We didn't work on farms anymore, but worked in the cannery (I remember hearing adults talk about operating machines that bottled ketchup). While the membership was still very conservative, a more moderate approach was being taken by top leadership, and President Hinckley made big steps towards being more open with the world.

I'd say that President Nelson has ushered in another era. Two-hour church on Sundays. Wednesday youth programs being less rigorous or programmed. Temples within a relatively short drive of members and encouragement to go often. Teenagers can have their own temple recommends. No home or visiting teachers and instead a conversation and informal friendship counts as ministering. Few church activities outside of those for youth and our regular church meetings. More accommodation for differences in beliefs of what were considered core doctrines & principles (this started before the Nelson era). The internet has caused the church to be more open about its past, including some issues which are hard like racism and polygamy (again, this predates the Nelson era). There's also been steps to undo some of the patriarchy in the church structure (like women can serve as witnesses and changes to the temple ceremony).

I definitely would not want to go back to the era of the 1970's when I was a child. While there are things I miss from the era of Hinckley & Monson, I don't think I'd like to revert back. The one effect I worry about from the recent changes is people have weaker social ties to their church community. I've heard leaders say that church isn't a social club, but for a long time it was and I think the church underestimates the importance of social connections.

—————————————————

As for LGBTQ history in the LDS Church, Nathan Kitchen, the former president of Affirmation, did an excellent job in describing the changes in the church on these topics. I have lived through 5 eras of the church on LGBTQ issues.

The era from when I was a child was brutal. Even saying you're gay was seen as sinful. You were expected to fight with everything you had to completely erase these feelings. Attempts to remove these “tendencies” included electro-shock therapy at BYU. Most families would reject the queer family member.

The death of President Spencer W. Kimball in 1985 led to the next era for LGBTQ members. Rather than insist on complete erasure of homosexual feelings, gay members were to behave like straight people--get married and have kids and DON'T TELL ANYONE. This is the invisible generation who felt isolated and alone, hidden from other members and each other. Every so often we still hear about a former mission president or stake president who finally comes out after decades of living as a straight person. Most of the mixed-orientation marriages failed, the queer person eventually spoke their truth, picked up the pieces of their shattered dreams, and moved on and out of the church.

In 1998, President Gordon B. Hinckley did a widely-viewed interview with Larry King in which he said said we love "so-called gays and lesbians" and put forward the idea that gay thoughts aren’t a problem, but gay actions are. The church's view was that some of us are struggling with unwanted same-sex attractions, much like people who have other addictions. Even as the church led a major effort to defeat marriage equality, queer members no longer had to remain hidden, so they found each other and attended conferences together and encouraged each other. Members would admire queer members for their wrestle against their attractions. Because they were trying to make this path work and were admired for it, these queer members mostly didn’t share their struggles & mental health challenges with their family, friends, or other members. They were visible, but largely were silent. A generation seen but not heard.

Beginning in the early 2010's, a growing number of gay members receive media attention, and groups like Mama Dragons and North Star are formed. By the mid-2010's the church shifts its approach and starts highlighting and celebrating gay and bisexual members who are single & celibate, and also a few who are in mixed-orientation marriages. The church starts softening its former positions as it officially rejects conversion therapy, advocates for no violence and doesn't require members to deny their queer identities. As long as you are single & celibate, you are welcome. This is also when trans members start entering the consciousness of the church as in 2015 Emmett Claren (now Emmett Presciado) starts a YouTube channel where he documents his transition and in 2017 Kris Irvin makes national news for having a bishop threaten to withhold a BYU ecclesiastical endorsement if Kris receives top surgery. LDS families no longer automatically reject their queer children, but tend to leave the church together if their queer child doesn't feel welcome or safe at church. One last effort to pull membership back occurred in 2015 with a policy against gay couples and their children, and it received a LOT of pushback and generated a wave of members leaving the LDS church.

I think we entered a new era in 2019 as the Handbook policy of 2015 is reversed. In 2020 the now-publicly available Church Handbook softens the approach to gay and bi members but puts in more rules and restrictions of trans members. It's the beginning of a dichotomy where we see progress for people who aren't heterosexual and regression for people who aren't cisgender. In 2024, there are now married gay couples quietly attending church and not being excommunicated (which wasn't a thing even just 2 or 3 years ago), and trans members are facing severe restrictions due to more changes in the Handbook. It's hard not to believe more positive changes for gay and bi members will be coming, even as the church ratchets up its fight against trans members.

[ssa-dado]

7 - Cogito, ergo Sum

Aaron Hotchner x bau!fem!reader

Genre: slow burn, sad just sad stuff, angst

Summary: On a train to Riverhead, you confront buried memories of your father’s death and the complex emotions stirred by Peter’s welcome back party, where Hotch’s past with Haley left you feeling like an outsider. Hotch, haunted by memories of his abusive father and first love with Haley, grapples with his choices and regrets. Meanwhile, Hotch and Peter clash over your safety and personal boundaries on the job, discovering the next target of a series of poisonings. Warnings: Grief, domestic violence, emotional abuse, anxiety, CM case. This is quite sad

Word Count: 4.5k

Dado's Corner: Not me sobbing like a kid while writing this haha. Poor Aaron you deserve a hug. That said, I experimented a bit with the style of this chapter - it's quite cinematic. I drew inspiration from Suits' 2×08 where Harvey goes to visit his father's grave and the narrative interlaces flashbacks, present and the characters' point of view so beautifully. Also - this has a sister chapter coming up next so don't worry.

previous chapter ; masterlist

The train rattled gently as it made its way toward your hometown, Riverhead, each passing mile pulling you deeper into a past you had long avoided. The rhythmic clatter of the wheels against the tracks was a steady, relentless metronome, marking each second that brought you closer to face your father’s grave.

You glanced up to see a little girl holding her father’s hand, her tiny fingers wrapped tightly around his as they made their way to a seat just past yours. The sight was simple, ordinary - something that happened every day - but today, it felt like a punch to the chest.

Watching them, you felt the train become a catalyst for everything you’d been trying to bury; the pain surged, raw and unfiltered, hitting you all at once. The easy affection between them, was a reminder of what you could never have again. Your throat tightened, and tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill as you stared at the floor, trying to swallow the ache of everything you’d lost. In that fleeting moment, the emptiness of your own hands felt unbearable, as if the absence of your father’s presence echoed a thousand times harder in the quiet hum of the train.

You stared out of the window, but the passing trees and fading buildings blurred into the background, their muted colors mingling with the fog of your thoughts. You’d taken the rare step of taking a day off to make this journey, a day that was supposed to be about finding some semblance of closure, or at least confronting the loss you’d tucked away behind your work.

But you hadn’t been able to think only of your father. Your mind kept drifting back to Peter’s welcome back party the previous week. Where you sat at the table, Gideon’s words lingering in the air, the concept of thesis, antithesis, and synthesis feeling painfully apt in that moment.

“Everyone, this is Haley,” Hotch said, his voice carefully controlled. “We… we go way back.”

Only now you could clearly see at how Haley smiled, but her eyes were constantly on Hotch, her presence radiating a sense of ease that only came from years of knowing someone deeply. “It’s been a long time, Aaron,” she said, her tone gentle but layered with unspoken memories. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

You watched the interaction with a heavy heart, feeling like an outsider in your own team. The connection between them was undeniable, and for a moment, you felt a pang of jealousy, a sharp twist in your chest that you hadn’t prepared for.

You had just started to let your guard down with Hotch, to allow yourself to see him not just as your stoic coworker who would crack a joke every once in a while - but as someone you could trust, someone who understood you. And now, here was a piece of his past that you hadn’t been privy to, thrown in your face without warning.

As the evening wore on, you tried to engage, to laugh at Rossi’s jokes and nod along with Gideon’s stories, but your mind kept drifting back to Hotch and Haley. You couldn’t help but feel the sting of not knowing this part of him, of realizing that no matter how close you’d gotten, there were still walls between you.

At one point, Hotch caught your eye from across the table. His expression softened, a silent question in his gaze, as if he could sense your discomfort. But before he could say anything, Haley leaned in, pulling his attention back to her, and the moment passed.

Gideon, ever observant, leaned closer to you, breaking the awkward silence that had settled over you.

“You know, Y/N,” he said thoughtfully, tapping the cover of the book you’d bought for Hotch, “Hegel’s all about finding balance. Sometimes, the only way forward is to let go of what you thought you knew and embrace the contradictions.”

You nodded, but the words felt too close to home. You weren’t sure how to find balance in this moment, how to reconcile the sudden wave of emotions crashing over you. All you could do was hold on and hope that, somehow, things would make sense again.

Now your mind was buzzing with a mix of emotions: shock, confusion, and a sinking feeling of being completely blindsided. It was in the way Hotch and Haley exchanged glances, the comfortable proximity, the shared history etched in every small gesture. It hurt more than you’d ever thought it would, making everything sounded distant, muffled, like you were underwater.

The gathering had been a lively affair, full of laughter and shared stories, but a specific moment kept replaying in your mind: Haley’s warm smile as she said goodbye to Hotch, “It was really good to see you, Aaron, I’m glad you’re doing well. Maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.”

Hotch nodded, his expression warm yet tinged with a hint of sadness. “Yeah, Haley. Take care of yourself. See you around.”

With that, she gave a small wave to the table and headed back to her group of friends, leaving Hotch standing there, momentarily lost in the past. As he returned to his seat, you could see the way he was grappling with the emotions stirred up by the unexpected reunion. He caught your gaze briefly, offering a small, almost apologetic smile that only deepened your sense of uncertainty.

As she walked away, Rossi had thrown a smirk Hotch’s way, raising an eyebrow as he quipped, “So, old flames burning bright again?”

Hotch rolled his eyes, though there was a faint, embarrassed flush to his cheeks. “Rossi, don’t start,” he warned, though his tone was more amused than annoyed.

“Oh, come on, Aaron,” Rossi continued, clearly enjoying himself. “Haley’s quite a catch. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a little lovestruck.”

Hotch sighed, but there was a softness to his demeanor that hadn’t been there before. “It’s not like that, Dave. We… had our time. It just didn’t work out. She wanted a family, a stable life. I was too caught up in my career, trying to make it into the Bureau. We were just… heading in different directions.”

There was a pause as the table absorbed his words, the rare glimpse into Hotch’s personal life catching everyone a little off guard. You could see the flicker of understanding in his eyes, the acknowledgment of choices made and paths taken, and it resonated deeply with you. It wasn’t just about Haley; it was about the sacrifices, the regrets, and the constant pull between duty and desire.

You had stood on the sidelines, listening, and telling yourself it wasn’t jealousy you felt, but something else entirely. Hotch and Haley’s history was full of things you couldn’t touch, memories you couldn’t rewrite.

The ease between them that felt unreachable, at least for you. It highlighted your own struggles, the way you and Hotch danced around each other’s guarded edges, each too closed off and too stubborn for way too much to admit the walls you’d built were anything but necessary. You had worked hard to break through those barriers, inching closer to something that resembled real friendship with Hotch, but seeing him with Haley made it clear how far you still had to go.

One of your coworkers, ever the instigator, smirked and raised their glass, turning the conversation light again. “Ah, first loves. We’ve all been there, right? High school sweethearts, college crushes, and then… life happens.”

They nudged Peter playfully, their grin widening. “I bet you’ve got some stories, too. You and Y/N? Seems like you two have your own history.”

The comment, though playful, struck a chord. You could feel all eyes momentarily on you and Peter, the unspoken insinuations hanging in the air. Peter chuckled, leaning back in his chair with a casual ease that belied the tension simmering beneath the surface. “Oh, come on, let’s not dig up the past. Y/N and I? We were just kids. We studied, we got into trouble, and then we grew up.”

Rossi, always enjoying a chance to stir the pot, raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really? ‘Just kids,’ huh? I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Seems like more than just studying to me.”

Peter shot you a sideways glance, his smile both teasing and sincere. “Well, you know me, Dave. Always mixing business with pleasure.”

You forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to your ears. “Please, don’t encourage him. Peter was more like the annoying older brother I never asked for.”

The table erupted in laughter, and for a moment, the awkwardness eased. But underneath it all, there was a thread of unspoken tension, a reminder that you and Peter’s relationship, much like Hotch and Haley’s, was layered with complexities that no amount of jokes could untangle.

Hotch watched the exchange quietly, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary. There was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it understanding? Regret? You couldn’t quite tell, but it was clear he was processing his own thoughts amidst the lighthearted teasing. The parallels between his past and what was unfolding now weren’t lost on him.

Then memories shifted, drawing you deeper into the party’s ambiance: the clinking of glasses, the chatter of old friends reuniting, and Peter’s infectious laugh as he moved through the crowd.

You remembered the moment he found you in the corner of the room, handing you a glass of wine with a casual, “So, are you ever going to let me take you out on that date?”

You had laughed it off, deflecting with a joke. “You’d have to catch me when I’m not buried in case files.”

Peter’s smile had softened, and he leaned against the wall beside you, his eyes searching yours in that disarming way he had. “I’m patient. You know that.”

There it was, an offer that seemed perfect on paper. Peter was kind, funny, and someone you could talk to for hours without feeling the need to perform or pretend. He had always been a constant, someone who understood your messy family dynamics and never judged you for them. Yet, for reasons you couldn’t quite name, you had hesitated.

It wasn’t just fear that a relationship might ruin your friendship, though that was part of it. No, this hesitation was something deeper, something that had started to shift within you over the months you’d been at the BAU.

The job had changed you, had made you see the world differently, and maybe that change had rippled into the way you saw Peter, too. He was familiar, a comfort you could rely on, but when he looked at you with that earnestness, you felt a strange dissonance, like you were two notes that no longer harmonized as they once did.

You shook off the thought and turned back to the scenery, trying to refocus. The landscape outside shifted, becoming a blur of rolling hills and scattered houses, but all you could see were memories of the afternoons you’d spent with Peter.

He was a piece of your past that felt safe, steady, and uncomplicated. You remembered the day he’d chosen your mother as his thesis supervisor, the excitement in his eyes as he explained why.

“She’s brilliant,” he had told you, sitting at your kitchen table, his hands animated as he spoke. “I mean, I’ve read everything she’s published. Working with her is like… I don’t know, getting to play with a master.”

Your mother had smirked from the kitchen, where she was brewing tea. “I’m not sure if ‘play’ is the word I’d use,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “But I’m glad you’re eager. I could use someone with your enthusiasm.”

Those afternoons felt like moments frozen in time, filled with academic debates that stretched into the evening. You would sit with Peter, surrounded by books and papers, discussing everything from human behavior to obscure psychological theories. Your mother would occasionally join in, her sharp insights cutting through Peter’s eager optimism, and you would feel an odd sense of belonging, of being seen and understood in a way that was rare. You and Peter fit so easily then, like two pieces of a puzzle that made sense together.

So why now, when Peter had finally asked, did you feel that familiar comfort turn into something that almost felt suffocating? It wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was something more complex, more tangled.

You couldn’t quite put your finger on it, but whatever it was, it had kept you from saying yes. Part of you wondered if it had to do with the person you’d become at the BAU, the person who had learned to live in the shadows, to thrive on the unspoken and the unsolved. There was a distance between the you that Peter knew and the you that existed now, and you weren’t sure how to bridge that gap.

As the train chugged closer to Riverhead, you let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of your own thoughts settle in your chest. This trip was supposed to be about your father, about facing the memories you’d buried along with him. But as the scenery continued to blur outside your window, you realized it wasn’t just him you were here to confront. It was yourself, and all the tangled, unresolved things you’d left behind.

.

Back in his apartment, Hotch stood motionless in front of his closet, the faint hum of the city outside barely reaching his ears. It was supposed to be a simple, mindless task: changing out of his work clothes, slipping into something comfortable to signal the end of another long case. But that morning, the weight of the past lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating, refusing to be ignored. Seeing Haley again had shaken something loose inside him, memories that he had tried to bury beneath layers of duty, responsibility, and the unyielding armor of his carefully crafted stoicism.

He stared at the closet door as if it were a portal to another time, a past version of himself that he had spent years trying to forget. His hand hovered over a hanger, hesitating before he finally pulled the door open. He reached for a pair of sweatpants, the movement automatic, but his fingers brushed against something unexpected, something soft and familiar. He pulled it out, holding it up to the dim light of the room. It was an old pirate hat, worn and faded, buried at the back of the closet like a forgotten relic.

The sight of it was enough to send a rush of emotion coursing through him, his heart tightening with the weight of memories long left untouched. It was a small, silly thing - a costume piece from a high school play - but it held the echoes of a time when life had felt simpler, when love had been a lifeline rather than a distant, unattainable dream.

Hotch turned the hat over in his hands, his thumb tracing the worn edges. It felt lighter than he remembered, the fabric frayed but still holding the shape that had once made him feel like someone else - someone braver, someone who didn’t wake up every day terrified of what the morning might bring.

Holding it now, he was transported back to those days in high school, when he had first met Haley during their school’s production of The Pirates of Penzance. He could still remember the nerves that twisted his stomach into knots as he stepped onto the stage, feeling every bit the awkward, shy boy who never quite knew how to fit in.

His father’s presence loomed over every aspect of his life, a dark, volatile force that made every day feel like a minefield. Mornings were the worst; he’d wake up before dawn, his heart pounding with the dread that his father would already be up, the stale stench of whiskey on his breath and anger simmering just below the surface.

Every morning, Hotch would lie still in his bed, his ears straining to hear the slightest sound - a creaking floorboard, the clink of a bottle, the unmistakable thud of something heavy being thrown against the wall. He’d close his eyes tightly, his breath catching in his throat as he braced himself for the inevitable: the harsh sound of his father’s voice, slurred and laced with venom, cutting through the stillness of the house like a knife.

“You worthless piece of shit,” his father would sneer, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched. The insults were always the same, a relentless barrage of contempt that felt like punches to the gut. And sometimes, they were. The bruises left behind were easy to hide, but the fear lingered, seeping into every corner of his mind.

But then there was Haley.

Haley, with her bright smile and infectious laugh, had entered his life like a beam of light piercing through the darkness. She was everything his world was not: warm, kind, and unafraid to be herself. He could still see her as she had been that first day, standing backstage with an easy confidence that seemed to light up the entire room. He had been fumbling through his lines, tripping over words as he tried to keep his hands from shaking, feeling the familiar grip of anxiety clawing at his throat. But then she had turned to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Not bad, Hotchner,” she teased, her voice light and teasing, breaking through the wall of his self-doubt.

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder, her touch gentle but grounding. “But if you’re going to be a pirate, you’ve got to look the part.” She reached up and tilted the hat on his head, adjusting it with a flourish. “There. Much better.”

He had laughed then, a rare, unguarded sound that felt almost foreign to his own ears. It was a laugh born of something deeper than humor - it was relief, joy, and a sense of being seen in a way he never had been before. That moment had been the start of everything: the stolen glances, the whispered secrets shared between classes, the way she’d lean in close, her eyes bright with something that made the whole world seem less terrifying.

Haley became his first thought in the morning, replacing the dread that had once greeted him when he opened his eyes. Instead of the anxiety that his father would be there, ready to strike, his mind was filled with thoughts of her: the way she smiled, the sound of her voice, the softness of her lips whenever they kissed, the easy way she’d tease him about his nervousness on stage. She was his anchor, the one person who made him feel like he wasn’t drowning in his own fears.

Every morning, instead of waking up with his heart racing at the thought of his father’s rage, he’d wake up thinking of Haley. He’d think of their rehearsals, of the way she’d roll her eyes when he messed up a line but would always follow it with a grin that told him she was proud of him anyway. She had made him feel safe, like maybe, there was more to life than the fear that had defined his every waking moment.

Hotch hadn’t just fallen in love with Haley; he had clung to her like a lifeline. She was the first person who had shown him what it felt like to be cared for, to be valued for who he was, not for what he could endure. She was his sanctuary from the storm that raged inside his home, and for a while, she had made him believe that he could have something good, something real.

But as he stood there now, holding the hat, those memories were tinged with the bittersweet realization of what he had lost. The love that had once saved him had crumbled under the relentless weight of his ambition and the demands of his career.

He had chosen the Bureau, chosen to bury himself in the pursuit of justice, thinking that if he worked hard enough, if he dedicated himself to the job, he could finally be free of the shadows that haunted him.

But in the process, he had lost Haley. He had lost the last piece of innocence that had made him believe he could balance it all: love, career, and a future untangled from the pain of his past. Now, the hat felt like a symbol of everything he had tried to bury, a reminder of the boy he used to be and the love that had once made him feel whole.

Hotch closed his eyes, a wave of grief and regret washing over him as he placed the hat gently back in the closet. The memories of Haley, of the warmth she had brought into his life, were still there, but they were shrouded in the painful truth that he had let her slip away. He had spent so long running from the fear of his father, trying to replace it with something brighter, but in the end, he had pushed away the very thing that had saved him

The shrill ring of his phone cut through his thoughts, jolting him back to the present. “Hotchner,” he said, masking the turmoil beneath his usual calm.

Gideon’s voice came through the line, urgent and clipped. “We’ve got a situation. A series of poisonings in Long Island, targeting public spaces. Libraries, parks, shopping centers. It’s escalating, and the unsub’s leaving messages. We need you here, now.”

Hotch glanced back at the pirate hat before slamming the closet shut. “I’ll be there in twenty,” he replied, shoving the memories aside as he grabbed his coat and headed out the door. There was no time to dwell on the past; the present demanded his full attention.

At the BAU, the team gathered around the conference table as Gideon outlined the details of the case. The poisonings were strategic, each attack aimed at places where people gathered, spreading panic through the community. The unsub’s taunts came in the form of cryptic messages, each one hinting at the next target.

Hotch’s jaw tightened as he scanned the crime scene photos, feeling the familiar pull of duty override everything else.

“We’re splitting up,” Gideon said, his gaze sweeping across the room. “Hotch, you and Peter will head to the latest crime scene. Rossi and I will cover the first.”

Hotch nodded, his face impassive as he gathered his things. He was already mentally mapping out the approach, compartmentalizing the emotional weight of the morning. But as they drove, Peter, clearly uncomfortable with the silence, tried to break the tension.

“You know, about that bet I won,” Peter began, glancing over at Hotch with a hint of a smile. “The date… with her. I’ve been trying to figure out how to make it special.”

Hotch’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, his expression tightening at Peter’s words. The mention of you - the team member who had started to break through the cracks in his own carefully guarded exterior - sent a surge of conflicting emotions through him. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

“Have you really thought this through?” Hotch asked, his voice low, almost a growl. “You and her, both in the field, both seeing the worst of what people are capable of… it’s not as easy as you think.”

Peter shrugged, trying to maintain his casual demeanor, but there was a defensive edge creeping in. “We’ve always been good at separating things. She gets it - she’s smart, one of the smartest people I know. We can handle it.”

Hotch’s frustration boiled over, his tone sharpening. “It’s not about being smart, Peter. This job… it changes you. It gets into your head, your heart. And you’re fooling yourself if you think it won’t affect you both. What happens when you’re forced to make a choice - her safety or the job? How do you keep that from clouding your judgment?”

Peter’s smile faltered, and his eyes flicked toward Hotch, the beginnings of anger flashing across his face. “You don’t think I know that? You think I haven’t thought about it every damn day since I realized I wanted more with her? At least I’m honest about where I stand. I’m not hiding behind this job like it’s the only thing that matters.”

The tension between them was palpable, the car’s interior charged with unspoken words and unresolved conflicts. Hotch’s gaze remained fixed on the road, but his mind was racing. Peter’s words hit closer to home than he cared to admit, scraping against wounds that had never fully healed. Peter’s willingness to embrace his feelings, to take the leap Hotch had always hesitated to make, stung in a way that was hard to articulate.

“You don’t get it, Peter,” Hotch said finally, his voice quieter, more resigned. “You have no idea what it’s like to live with the consequences of those choices. I’ve seen what it does to people, how it tears them apart. This job… it doesn’t let you have a normal life, no matter how hard you try.”

Peter stared at him, searching for something in Hotch’s expression that he couldn’t quite find. “Maybe not. But I’d rather take the risk than spend my life wondering what could have been.”

They lapsed into silence, the argument left hanging between them, unresolved. Hotch felt the weight of Peter’s words settle heavily on his shoulders, mingling with the guilt and regret that had been simmering beneath the surface since seeing Haley again.

He didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know if he even had the right to. Peter’s defiance, his willingness to fight for what he wanted, was a painful reminder of the choices Hotch had made and the things he had lost in the process.

When they arrived at the crime scene, Hotch pushed all of it down, shoving the emotions into that familiar place he rarely let himself go. The crime scene was chaotic, with officers milling about, evidence markers scattered across the library floor.

Hotch’s keen eyes scanned the room, piecing together the unsub’s method, the subtle clues left behind. But something caught his attention: a bulletin board crowded with flyers and notes, too chaotic at first glance, but hiding something.

He moved closer, pulling back layers of paper until he found it: a cryptic message, written in neat, deliberate script. As he read the words, his blood ran cold, the implications settling like lead in his stomach.

The riddle painted a clear picture of the next target. Hotch’s hands trembled slightly as he stepped back, the reality sinking in.

Riverhead.

The place you were right now.

Without a word, Hotch turned and sprinted out of the building, his heart pounding with a fear that went far beyond the professional. This wasn’t just another case. It was personal, and every second mattered.

[hotgirlbedtimescenarios]

Wish

For the first time in years Joel acknowledges his birthday and wishes on a star. He gets pulled into the past and relives his birthday, the day that changed everything.

Words: 1.7k+

Warnings: all of the emotions. Sadness, depression, but also happy moments and hopefulness :)

*part of @burntheedges roll-a-trope challenge*

Main Masterlist

---

September 25, 2033

It’s almost Joel’s birthday. Again.

Over the years, he’d let it pass without thinking about it. Losing track of the days was easy while he roamed, too caught up in trying to survive.

But now, in Jackson, time isn’t as elusive. Joel wakes up knowing that Mondays and Tuesdays are for patrolling, Wednesdays and Thursdays are for guard duty, Fridays are for helping with construction, and the weekends he keeps to himself.

The powers that be in Jackson also keep track of time, mostly for crop rotation and organizing the seasons, giving structure to the lives of its citizens. That means Joel has been aware of his birthday this year, creeping closer and bringing along memories he hates.

This year, he can’t live in blissful ignorance while it comes and goes, especially with Tommy around to remind everyone. So instead, he runs from it.

Joel walks down the soft, snowy streets of Jackson with his camping gear strapped to his back. He told Tommy he was going outside the walls tonight, making up some excuse about scouting a building that might have supplies to scavenge.

It was a lie.

Joel needed space—a place where he could wallow in solitude when the old feelings haunted him as his birthday approached.

With his gathered supplies, Joel mounts his favorite horse and rides out of the commune, waving to Tommy atop the lookout tower.

“See ya when you get back! And happy early birthday, big brother!” Tommy yells down.

Joel winces at the reminder and rides off into the distance.

---

Hours later, Joel makes his way to a familiar spot in the forest, a clearing he often visits while out on runs.

This hidden clearing, nestled deep among the trees and brush, is spacious enough for him to see the stars twinkling overhead while remaining safely concealed from any lurking dangers.

He sits by a small fire, eating his rations and gazing up at the night sky, lost in thought. He reflects on how he ended up here, all that he’s been through and all that he's done, dragging himself deeper and deeper into the pit of despair he so often finds himself drowning in.

Suddenly, something twinkles far above in the night sky, streaking across the tops of the tall oak trees.

A shooting star.

Joel had never seen one before; he had thought they had vanished like so many other pure wonders and good things in the universe. But tonight, he was wrong.

Unable to resist, Joel’s eyes follow the tiny, sparkling fragment as it glides across the sky. In that moment, he decides to be hopeful just one last time. After all, his birthday is approaching. Despite years of loathing it and skipping celebrations, maybe he deserves to make one wish.

As midnight strikes and the star falls, Joel closes his eyes and makes his wish.

He wishes to no longer hate this day. He longs to free himself from the burden of September 26th—the day he was born, but also the day he lost his reason for living, the day he lost Sarah. He wishes the memories of despair would lift from his shoulders, that things could have been different. That he could have cherished just one more birthday before everything fell apart and the world went to shit, giving him more good memories to hold onto and keep him company throughout the years.

When the shooting star fades from view and the sky darkens again, Joel feels a wave of silliness wash over him. Of course, his wish wouldn’t come true. With a sigh, he stamps out the fire, crawls into his sleeping bag, hand resting on his rifle, and drifts off to sleep.

---

September 26th 2003

Joel wakes to the sound of an alarm clock blaring.

He bolts upright, heart racing, and instinctively reaches for his gun—only to find nothing there.

As his vision clears, he realizes he’s not in his sleeping bag anymore. He’s in a bed—his bed—from thirty years ago.

Joel rubs his eyes, blinks, and even pinches himself, trying to shake off the dream, but it feels all too real.

Looking around his old room, everything is just as it was on the last day he lived there: rumpled sheets, a pile of dirty laundry in the corner, an old newspaper, and a glass of water on the bedside table.

It’s as if he’s been transported right back to 2003.

Warily, Joel gets out of bed and notices his joints don��t ache as they should. He races to the mirror attached to his dresser and takes in his features. He looks exactly as he did thirty years ago: fewer lines of age and worry, hair short and dark, no grey in sight, and far more muscular. There isn’t even a scar across his nose or temple.

Joel stares at himself in the mirror, breaths coming rapidly. It’s a dream, he tells himself, repeating it like a mantra.

But what if it isn’t? What if everything is as it’s supposed to be? A redo.

Just then, he hears something he never thought he’d hear again, and it takes all his strength not to fall to his knees.

“Daddy!” Sarah yells, her singsong voice bright and clear, just as he always remembered.

She bursts through his bedroom door, grinning from ear to ear—beautiful, whole, and safe.

“Happy birthday, you old fart!” Sarah teases.

Joel bounds across the room, scooping her into his arms.

“Babygirl,” he chokes back tears, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “You’re okay.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m fine,” she replies, her voice muffled against his chest. “Why are you being so weird?”

He doesn’t want to scare her, so he pulls himself together, trying to act like this isn’t the most magnificent moment of his life—a blessing to have another chance with his girl.

Gently, Joel loosens his grip and smiles down at her, cupping her cheeks in his hands.

“I love you so much,” he tells her.

“I love you too, Dad. I wish you didn’t have to work today. Working on your birthday is so lame.”

She’s right. That is lame. So, Joel does what he should have done the first time around: he pulls out his old cellphone and calls his boss to take the day off.

“Does that mean I get to skip school too?” Sarah jokes.

“Well, it’s only fair,” Joel says, a grin spreading across his face.

Sarah’s eyes widen. “Really?!” she squeals, excitement radiating from her.

“Why not?”

---

Joel meets Sarah in the kitchen, and together they spend the morning making pancakes and dancing to their favorite tunes. When Tommy arrives, Joel manages to talk him into skipping work as well.

“Come on, Tommy, you’ve never complained about skipping work before,” Joel teases.

“Fine,” Tommy says, his mouth full of pancake. “But when I’m short on rent this month, I’m counting on you to back me up.”

The three of them enjoy breakfast together, relishing their time as a family.

They spend the day having fun together, going to the park for Sarah to show off her soccer skills, stopping into town for ice cream on the way home, and lounging around on the couch, soaking in the quality time.

They end the day with a movie—a birthday tradition featuring "Curtis and Viper 2." This year, they even have a cake since Joel was able to skip work to pick one up.

With bellies full of sugar, Joel, Tommy, and Sarah are all sleepy-eyed on the couch, watching the end credits roll, when Sarah suddenly perks up.

“Present time!” she cheers, darting to her bedroom. Moments later, she returns with a small box in her hands.

“You got me something?” Joel asks, pretending to be just as surprised as when he first opened his birthday gift.

Sarah hands him the box and settles next to him on the couch. “You kept complaining about your broken watch, so I figured… you know.”

Joel opens the box to reveal the watch he prized above all else. He picks it up delicately, admiring the shine of the silver and the smooth, unbroken glass of the watch face.

“You like it?” Sarah asks, her voice tinged with nerves.

“Honey, this is nice,” Joel replies, tapping the watch. “But I think it’s stuck.”

“What?” Sarah exclaims incredulously. “No way! I just got it fixed—”

Joel bursts into laughter, and Tommy joins in.

“Oh ha ha, you got me,” Sarah concedes, rolling her eyes. “That was lame.”

“Where’d you get the money for this?” Joel asks, placing the watch around his wrist and snapping it into place.

“Drugs. I sell hardcore drugs.”

“Nice, kid. Real proud of you,” Joel laughs, playing along.

“Maybe you can help me out with this month’s rent then,” Tommy jokes from the other end of the couch.

“Thank you, honey,” Joel says, pulling Sarah in for a hug and kissing the top of her head. “I love it.”

Soon after, Sarah falls asleep on the couch, leaving Joel and Tommy some time together. Joel appreciates this; he’s missed his brother, and it weighs on him how their relationship has deteriorated over the years.

“Wanna go out to the bars to celebrate?” Tommy asks after a while.

“Hell no,” Joel replies. “Your ass will end up getting arrested.”

“Not fair! That only happened once!” Tommy whines.

“And it sure as hell will happen again if I don’t keep you in check.”

“Whatever,” Tommy concedes, settling back into the couch and scrolling through TV channels in search of something to watch.

“I’m gonna take her up to bed,” Joel says, nodding toward Sarah before standing and gently scooping her into his arms.

He carries his sleeping daughter to her room one last time, tucking her in with a kiss on the forehead. Instead of leaving, he wants to soak up every moment with her, as if any could be his last. So, Joel kicks off his boots and slides into bed beside her, wrapping an arm around her.

He falls asleep with a full heart and a smile on his face, grateful for the best birthday he’s ever had.

---

September 27th 2033

When he opens his eyes again, Joel wakes up on the cold, hard ground to birds chirping in a forest clearing. He should feel disappointed to be back in the present, but instead, he chooses gratitude. Grateful for the chance to relive the last moments with his daughter. Grateful for a wealth of new memories to carry with him through the years.

He realizes that maybe next year, when his birthday rolls around, he’ll remember the laughter and dancing in the kitchen with Sarah instead of the horrors that have haunted him for so long. The warmth of those moments will be a beacon, guiding him away from despair and toward hope.

With a deep breath, Joel rises to meet the day, ready to embrace whatever comes next.

[probablyfunrpgideas]

So Campaign Idea

The setting is a digital world that is presented to the players as an actual world with actual history and actual people living within it.

The digital world, however, was created by a now-extinct Mindflayers who created a data version of a mindflayer long ago to create a world to which the Mindflayers can move to. But sadly, the world wasn't finishee before the Mindflayers went extinct.

The Data Mindflayer is completely aware of their kind dying, but it knows nothing else but to create the world overwriting the previous one again and again essentially recreating a loop.

The party, during the "final" session of the campaign find out about the data mindflayer and decide to confront it - in which they fail.

Now, back to the first session, where they restart at their starter levels. The characters themselves don't know anything BUT THE PLAYERS DO, and the characters essentially start to remember things as they go on through more loops and resets, creating possibly different builds each time so when they get to the final loop and get the most info and ways to defeat the Data Mindflayer they would be able to "merge" their two fav builds for the ultimate showdown.

Thanks for this idea! I was trying to put together a list of some other time loop posts on this blog, but thanks to our impeccable search function I only found this one. I think the best way to do this campaign, though, is if you purposefully add some new options and paths and adventures on each loop!

If the Dataflayer is rebuilding the world, that implies a few things: one, there's a limited amount of storage or some other resource! As characters and places get recycled, you can offer the party a quest they didn't take last time, or even a new ally or patron who's been programmed in to make the digital dimension more convincing. The other thing you can do is (especially at the end of the first run) use the digital universe to inspire a sense of dread.

"As these brave heroes sink down, lost in the dust of history, the world moves on. Generations come and go. Your hometown grows to a city, then becomes abandoned when the droughts consume the land. Thousands of years pass, and the world is unrecognizable, with towering spires and vast amphitheatres - all empty. As if they were built for a people who never existed. Millions of years pass, and everything crumbles. The stars go out one by one, like electric lights switching off. And when all is dark... a light blinks on once more. A new planet, a new sun, forming over millions of years, shaped by invisible commands, until we see a small village in a valley, where a group of heroes is meeting for the first time. Everyone, please introduce your character!"

The last bit of advice I'll give is that there has to be a way to solve the problem or convince the Dataflayer to change its ways or escape the digital world without having to win this crazy difficult fight. Maybe the PCs can find out why they're special, why they're the only people in this world who discovered it's a simulation? Or maybe they can create or find evidence of real mind flayers, allowing them to take control of the program...

[syluslnd]

Sssooo... thinking of Stalker Sylus the first time he gets to catch MC masturbating...

Stalker sylus catching you masturbating

You had no idea you were being watched, none at all. The apartment was supposed to be your safe space, where no one could see you in your most vulnerable moments. But Sylus had been watching for weeks now, his eyes always on you, tracking every move you made, every sigh, every flutter of your lashes.

Sylus had always thought you were pure, an innocent creature who stirred something primal in him. He'd set up the cameras around your home, hidden in the shadows of your bookshelves, the corners of your ceiling. He was never far, always lurking, always observing.

Tonight, though, was different. You had no idea what you were doing to him. The way your hand slipped beneath the sheets, your breath catching in the quiet of your bedroom. Sylus leaned forward in his dark office, eyes glued to the monitor. He couldn't look away, couldn't believe what he was seeing. His innocent little kitten, no longer as innocent as he thought.

The way you whimpered softly, biting your lip, your cheeks flushed—he watched with a dark satisfaction growing inside him, feeling a surge of possessiveness like never before.

His fingers hovered over his phone, a wicked grin spreading across his face.

“Sweetie” he typed, the word dripping with that familiar teasing energy. “You know l've been watching, right?”

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand, startling you. You grabbed it, heart pounding as you read the message. A cold shiver ran down your spine. He knows?

Before you could even react, another message came through. “I'm on my way to you. Don't move.”

Your heart raced as you stared at the screen, a mixture of fear and excitement building inside you. You looked around your empty room, the dim lighting suddenly feeling oppressive, like the walls were closing in on you. You knew he had his darker side-Sylus was dangerous, a man not to be crossed.

But he also had a soft spot for you. His obsession with you had always been more protective than harmful.

What had you gotten yourself into?

A knock sounded at your door mere minutes later, though you hadn't heard any footsteps.

Sylus was always swift, always silent. You hesitated, but the door creaked open before you could even reach it.

And there he was, leaning casually in the doorway, his dark suit clinging to every muscle, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, locking it, his lips curling into that maddening smirk.

"Well, well” he drawled, his voice low and dripping with amusement "I didn't know my little kitten had such a dirty side. How long have you been hiding that from me, sweetie?"

Your breath hitched as Sylus stalked toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. You felt your pulse quicken, the heat rising in your cheeks as he got closer, the intensity in his gaze sending a thrill through you. He stopped just inches away, his presence overwhelming, the air around him electric.

"You weren't supposed to see that" you managed to whisper, your voice barely audible.

He chuckled softly, tilting your chin up with one finger so that you were forced to meet his gaze. "Oh, but I did. And I have to say, kitten, I'm not disappointed." His voice was a low purr, dripping with that familiar, teasing tone. "I always thought you were innocent, but it seems l've been missing out."

His eyes darkened as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear. "Tell me, sweetie" he whispered, his breath warm against your skin "were you thinking about me?"

The question sent a jolt of panic through you but there was no denying the effect his voice had on you. Sylus knew exactly how to get under your skin, how to toy with your emotions and now that he knew your secret, he was going to enjoy every second of it.

"I-" You tried to form a coherent response but his hand had already found its way to your waist, pulling you closer to him.

"Don't be shy, kitten” he murmured, his lips grazing your neck. "You don't need to hide from me anymore. I've seen everything." His words were dark, yet there was something comforting about the way he held you, like even in this twisted obsession, you were safe in his arms.

The game had changed and you knew Sylus wouldn't let you forget it

You stood frozen in his arms, your mind spinning from his words, from his touch.

Sylus held you against him like you were his most prized possession-his obsession fully realized. The teasing look in his eyes deepened, flickering between dark amusement and something more primal.

His thumb traced slow circles against your hip, a touch that sent shivers up your spine.

"You know, sweetie" he continued in that low, velvety voice "I've been patient with you. Watching from afar...protecting you." His lips hovered just above yours, and you could feel his breath, warm and steady, fanning against your skin. "But now, I think it's time I stop being so... subtle."

Your heart pounded, torn between the thrill of his closeness and the fear of how much he knew-how much he'd seen. The intensity in his eyes, the possessiveness that radiated off him-it was overwhelming.

"Sylus, please" you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. A part of you wanted him to stop, to give you space to think, but another part, the part he was awakening with every word, with every slow caress, wanted to give in. You could see the hunger in his eyes-the need to own every part of you.

His lips twisted into a knowing smirk.

"Please? You're going to have to be more specific than that, kitten. Do you want me to stop?" His fingers slid up to your chin, forcing you to look at him again, to confront the heat in his gaze.

You swallowed hard, your body betraying you with every beat of your heart. You should tell him to stop, but you couldn't deny the way your body responded to his. It was maddening.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against yours, so close that the air between you felt like a spark about to ignite. But he didn't kiss you. Not yet. Instead, he held you there, teasing, making you wait.

"You're mine” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper, "whether you admit it or not." His eyes darkened, his hand tightening slightly around your waist as if to make the point clear. "And now that l've seen how much you want me... well, kitten, there's no turning back."

A shiver ran through you, but this time, it wasn't just fear. It was anticipation. Sylus had seen everything-your vulnerability, your desires—and now he wasn't just your protector, your stalker. He was the one thing you couldn't run from.

Without warning, his lips crashed down on yours, the kiss rough and claiming. It was everything you'd feared, everything you'd secretly craved. His mouth moved against yours with a hunger that stole your breath, his hands gripping your hips possessively as he deepened the kiss.

When he finally pulled back, you were left gasping, your body trembling under the weight of what had just happened. He looked down at you with that smug, satisfied grin, as if he knew exactly the effect he had on you.

"You'll never be able to hide from me, sweetie," he said softly, almost sweetly, but there was that edge to his voice, a dark promise laced within the words. "I'll always know what you're doing, what you're thinking."

His hand slid up your arm, fingers brushing against your neck, making you shiver. "And next time," he whispered, his lips close to your ear, "you won't be playing with yourself alone. You'll be mine. Completely."

The room felt heavy with tension, the air thick with the weight of his words. You knew Sylus was serious. There was no escaping him, not now, not after this.

And maybe, just maybe, you didn't want to escape at all.

[pawpupster]

Kit

Back at it again y'all. Um, this one is literally so self indulgent. That's beside the point though. I'm not trying to make it fit into any movie or existing timeline and once again I'm just making stuff up bc I can. Anyway...

Paternal Logan x child!gn!reader

Summary: Young Y/N finds their way to the mansion after long travels. Once there, Charles quickly sends Logan to bond with them because they were derived from his DNA.

warnings: nothing to worry about if you watch X-men anyway.

Kit

Y/N wandered down a long path, utilizing their nose to lead them in the right direction. They knew they looked suspicious. I mean really, how many kids go around covered in blood? Not many, and if they do it's not long until they’re picked up and questioned. 

Y/N couldn't risk that though, they knew what would happen if humans saw the claws coming from their knuckles. That's why they needed to follow this scent. Y/N had been trekking the woods after escaping their parents basement for days now. No real direction or plan. Just thankful they were away from that personal hell... and that their mutation let them eat raw meat. Too many squirrels were eaten in the past few days.

It was day 16 that the wind brought along the scent of fellow mutants. Y/N was all too knowing of exactly what a mutant smelled like. I mean, you spend enough time locked up with nothing but your own senses and you pick apart what you can, in this case, your own scent. 

All the better at the end of the day though. Nothing could be worse than what they came from. Y/N just hoped they wouldn’t judge them too greatly for killing their torturer. 

A mass amount of mutants like the one Y/N could smell would either be helpful or harmful. They were confident they could hold their own enough to escape again if things took a turn for the worse, but they were banking on this group being helpful. As Y/N neared, they could begin to hear the sounds of laughter, definitely a good sign. 

Finally around the bend, Y/N was surprised to be greeted with a voice in their head. 

“Hello, young one. My name is Charles Xavier, what brings you here?”

Y/N was freaked out to say the least. Their body kicked back into flight or fight mode and they swore they could feel their muscles tighten to their adamantium bones. They didn’t know how to answer the question. Shouldn't it be obvious they wanted to be with those like them? Plus, who was this Charles to think he could crawl into people's heads without permission?

“You raise a good point, I apologize. You seem to be in a pretty rough shape. Please, let us assist you,” Came the kind voice in their head once again.

Unwillingly, Y/N began to find comfort in that voice. As they stared at the looming building, Y/N could only think of how unkind their father was. 

They doubted that this ‘Charles’ would infuse a woman's growing fetus with the last remains of the weapon x’s experiment’s DNA. Much less to then keep that child locked in his basement after it killed his wife by birth, though, staring at the mansion Y/N could admit its basement probably wasn’t as bad as the one they were in. 

“Oh you poor thing,” Y/N was once again interrupted in their own head, "we are just the place for you. I promise. You’ll never have to suffer like that again.”

Y/N looked back up at the mansion when they heard the great doors open. Out came a gruff looking man. Y/N was set on edge again as the man began making his way towards them at a quick pace. 

Scrambling backwards, Y/N ended up tripping and attempted to use their hands to catch themselves. This only resulted in them stabbing themselves in the thighs upon their landing. The scent of their own fresh blood flooding their nose is what sent Y/N into a true frenzy. 

Tears began to pour and growls rumbled in their throat as they once again were shocked with the voice of Charles in their head, “Do not fret Y/N, this is Logan. I believe you’ll find him to be most helpful at the moment.”

Remembering the gruff man once again, Y/N jerked their head up to find that the man had stopped a few paces from their position on the ground and was staring intently at the claws embedded in their thighs. 

“Hey bub, Charles” the man - Logan, they remembered - began hesitantly, looking up to see if Y/N was listening, “sent me to bring you in. He’s under the assumption you're some sort of backasswards offspring of mine.” Logan cocked an eyebrow at Y/N as he released his own claws from his knuckles, only to pull them back in after Y/N’s eyes flashed with recognition. 

They were shocked to hear gentle rumbles coming from the man. It was soothing. Y/N found themself starting to hiccup instead of sob, and their own growls lessened into small mewls. 

“Oh kit,” Logan started advancing again. Once near enough, he kneeled down and sat back on his heels, “let’s get those out of your legs and then we'll work on cleaning you up, okay?”

As the man began reaching towards them, Y/N flinched away and wrenched their claws out of their thighs to hold defensively before them. 

“Don’t hurt me, please! I’m sorry for coming. I didn’t mean to kill them I promise! I just wanted it to stop, please don’t hurt me,” Y/N desperately cried, eyes looking to their quickly healing thighs, hoping with everything in them that this man wouldn’t impale them with his own metal claws. 

“Kit, I’m not goin’ to hurt ya, and I’m certainly not gonna be the one to tell you off for doing whatever ya could to get out of what looks to be a tough situation. Lemme get you inside, allright. Inta a nice warm bath and some better clothes than these rags. How’s that sound?” The man spoke very gently, still with that kind rumble in his chest. 

Y/N looked up at him again when he gently grabbed their wrists to lower their claws. Y/N watched as he began to gently rub the pads of his thumbs over the inside of their wrists. Y/N was confused at first, until they watched as their claws retreated back into their forearms when Logan hit a particular muscle. They tried their best to not let the pain of the movement show, but they were sure Logan heard their small hiss and the smell of distress spike.

Making eye contact again, Logan reached out to grab Y/N under their arms. Overwhelmed with all that's happened over the last few weeks and especially the last fifteen minutes, Y/N’s body decided it was the best course of action to shift into their wolverine form… to the shock of Logan, Charles (who was viewing from Logans head), and the students out on the lawn who had been watching the interaction from a distance.

Logan could hear the students begin to murmur about the kit having a true animal form, and he even heard one brave kid question if Logan could do the same (he couldn't), but his main focus right now was making sure Y/N was taken care of. 

Carefully cradling the small wolverine to his chest, Logan made sure to keep up his gentle purrs as he made his way into the mansion. He was amazed by how quick a pack-like bond was forming between him and this kit. 

Stood in the foyer, Logan contemplated heading straight to Hank, but ultimately decided a bath would be of better use, especially when he knew any injuries have already healed.

With that in mind, he made his way up to his room. Nodding to the kids he passed in the hall, Logan made sure to keep Y/N out of their view and to glare at anyone close enough to hear his purrs.

Entering his room, Logan gently closed his door and then made his way into his bathroom. He gently set the small wolverine on his counter and began to fill his sink with warm water, all the while pressing a soothing hand over Y/N’s back.

“Don’t worry, we can do a bath just like this if you’d prefer,” Logan told Y/N when he noticed their beady eyes looking up at him. Instantly the kit relaxed under his hands and laid still while watching Logan gather a towel and his 2-in-1 from the shower. 

Once the sink was filled with sufficiently warm water, Logan picked up the kit and let them soak, gently petting the fur on the top of their head before cupping some water and wetting their head, being sure to wipe any from their eyes. 

Squeezing some shampoo into his palm, Logan made sure to scrub everywhere as efficiently as possible. It quickly became apparent that a second fill of water and scrub would be necessary. 

Midway through the sink filling for the second time, Logan heard Jean's voice in his head, “Is it alright if I come in? I promise I only have a spare change of clothes for the child and I’ll just set them on your bed, okay?”

Sending back an affirmative to her presence in his head, Logan made sure to keep a calming hold on the kit when they heard his door open with Jean’s scent rolling under the bathroom door and then close again as she left. 

“It’s all good, Y/N. Let’s get you finished here and into those clothes,” Logan said as he picked up the shampoo once again. 

After the water was running clean off the wolverines fur, Logan picked them up once again and wrapped them in a towel. 

“I’ll go grab you clothes and leave you to change,” Logan set Y/N on the ground once dry and went to grab the clothes Jean left. Going back into the bathroom with them, Logan made sure to warn, “these are just the school merch, so they smell a little starchy and dusty. Don’t worry, we’ll get you some new clothes soon enough.” With that, Logan left the room to give his kit some privacy. 

Y/N had no idea why this man was being so kind. Obviously he was like them, but they still didn’t expect this much care. Y/N can’t remember ever having hot water at their disposal, but Logan made it seem like they’d be getting that and so much more if they stayed here. Feeling calm enough to change back into their human form, Y/N quickly shed their old dirty clothes. Dressing into the sweats was easy enough, though they weren't sure how to keep them on, the pants kept slipping past their waist. 

Holding them up, Y/N stepped out of the bathroom and found Logan sitting on what they presumed to be his bed waiting for them. 

“Oh kit, c’mere,” Logan said as he realized they probably hadn’t had the comfort of sweatpants before. 

Slowly walking toward the man, Y/N was shocked when he gently tugged the string around their waist. At first Y/N thought he was going to tie them up somehow, but quickly realized he was just making a normal bow and their pants now fit. Y/N stared with wide eyes at Logan who only smiled in return. 

“C’mon, you can do with a nap, you look like yer about to drop,” Logan said as he stood from the bed. He pulled back the covers and began to make that rumbling noise Y/N liked so much again. 

Watching the man to make sure he wasn’t going to change his mind, Y/N crawled up into the bed and let themself be tucked in. It was then that they realized they had their own nice rumbly noise coming from their chest too. 

Y/N watched with hazy eyes as Logan made his way to a chair in the corner of the room. The final thing they saw before succumbing to sleep was him opening to marked page in a book. 

Logan couldn’t hold back his smile no matter how hard he tried to. The kit was too adorable when swamped in the logo-ed hoodie and sweatpants and absolutely swimming in his massive bed. Hopefully after a good sleep Y/N would be okay to see Hank and the Professor, but for right now, Logan was gonna let them sleep as long as they needed to. 

[problems-exe]

The Poem

The story of how Prim and Lu got together in the printerjamau

Wrote this a bit ago and decided it was about time I posted it. This is incredibly long, so I apologize for that, but for those interested in their story, I think it's worth the read.

Begins after the cut :]

The sound of the wind breezing through the desolate building rooftop does nothing to drown out the rapid beating of their soul.

Prim finds themselves sitting, not alone, but with a close friend. Listening to her ramble about the latest au she visited and the small bakery from which she had bought treats. The bag sitting at her side was long emptied, its contents having been eaten hours ago. Prim has found themselves a lot less alone lately.

Despite their best efforts, it's hard for them to focus on Lu’s rambles, distracted by the intense feeling of something in the air. Something about today felt distantly off. It wasn't unusual for the two to meet like this, a gift cradled in one of the skeleton's hands. But Lu had seemed so.. anxious when she asked them to meet. It was odd. She had seemed… flustered? Almost? But that wouldn't make any sense-

“Prim?” Lu pulled them out of their daze with the utterance of their name, a concerned and nervous expression on her face.

“Sorry, that wasn't that interesting, was it? I got a bit carried away…” She states, averting Prim's eyelights as a deep blush settles on her face, accentuated by the deep orangish-pinkish hues of the sun setting before them.

‘She looks so beautiful like this,’ Prim shoves that thought as soon as it crosses their mind, nervous glitches appearing up their body as they force themselves to refocus on the conversation again.

“Nah. Long day. Just zoned out.” Prim replies after a pause. A lie. And they know it's one. Their day had been fine, a typical day as any. They're always honest with her; why are they being like this now?

“Oh,” She sounded surprised, as if she had been expecting Prim to call her boring.

“I'm sorry, do you want to talk about it? I've been rambling on for a while…” She continues, looking back at Prim with a crooked smile. The usual squint of her eye sockets not present. Something was wrong. She'd been acting noticeably off all evening; they should have picked up on the pieces sooner. Prim was the worst person for something like this.

“Are- are you feeling alright? You seem.. upset.” Prim slowly gets out, thinking through the words before settling on them. Lu looks a bit startled at the question.

“I'm, um, yeah! Yeah, I'm alright, just-” She fumbles with her words for a moment, blush on her face darkening, and Prim's expression turns into a concerned frown.

“I wrote you something.” She continues, digging around in her bag for a split second before retrieving a clean, white envelope. Clasped shut with a cat sticker, the words “For Prim” written in cursive on the back. She bashfully presents the letter to Prim, and they momentarily gawk at it, carefully taking it from her hand. Careful to not get ink on it.

“You mentioned wanting to read one of my poems sometime, so..” *She adverts her gaze, voice trailing off at the end as Prim looks over the parchment presented to them. Their soul pounds in their chest, and they scramble to find balance in its weight. They stare at the small envelope, feeling deeply touched by the gesture. They reach to carefully remove the cat sticker before Lu's hands stop them.

“Don't, um, don't read it here. Read it when you get home. It'd feel embarrassing to watch you read it in front of me.” She states, with a nervous laugh, gently pulling her hands away. Prim nods carefully after a moment, slowly and delicately moving to place the parchment in their bag, careful not to bend it.

“I better get going now,” Lu interjects after watching Prim's bag close. They look up at her, surprised.

“Already?” They respond, concern still evident in their face.

“Yeah, I've got a long day tomorrow. I'll see you in a few days?” She responds, sounding hopeful, pleading almost.

“Obviously,” Prim responds immediately, worry still swirling in their chest.

“Right. Of course.” She states, as if reassuring herself.

“I'll see you then.” She continues, a tight smile on her face. She gives a wave of goodbye before disappearing into a portal, leaving Prim sitting alone. Surprised by the abruptness of it all.

They clutch at the strap to their bag, the featherlight weight of the envelope feeling heavy at their side. They're worried about what they'll find written in there. It's hard to fathom Lu acting so.. afraid over one of her poems. She'd sounded excited at the idea of sharing some with them when Prim had brought it up. Maybe she got cold feet? Even then…

Well, no point in speculating. They'll find out when they get home.

Prim sits for a moment longer, taking in the sunset one last time, attempting to calm their racing thoughts. After feeling more composed, they reluctantly rise to their feet, a tinge of anxiety gnawing at their chest.

Navigating through the usual motions of leaving a get-together like this, they slide one of their feet along the asphalt, leaving a trail of ink behind. They place their foot back next to the other, standing in place as the ink pools around them.

They begin to sink into the puddle, dragged into darkness for a split second before emerging in the cozy living room of their apartment, ink swiftly vanishing beneath them.

Taking a cautious step toward the nearby couch, they gingerly take a seat, pausing to take a deep breath. They turn their attention to the coffee table before them, using their hand to slide a few objects to the side, making room for the letter nestled in their bag.

Pausing once more to collect themselves, they carefully unfasten their bag, delicately reaching inside to withdraw the envelope. They stare at it pensively, toying with the small sticker that sealed it, a tiny yet almost taunting obstacle. They smooth the envelope with a thumb, using one hand to slowly and meticulously peel off the sticker, careful not to rip the parchment

They feel lost in their own little world, with nothing but themselves and the letter existing within the tranquil room. Unfurling the page from the envelope, they place the latter on the couch alongside them before setting the sheet down on the cleared space of the coffee table.

Their eyelights graze over the page, reading its contents carefully. It reads,

Prim,

I've written this poem for you to convey the words I've struggled to say aloud. I’m sorry for not finding the courage to tell you in person. As an artist yourself, I'm sure you understand that sometimes it's easier to express our emotions through our work.

I understand if my feelings aren't mutual; I know this must have come as a shock to you.

I just hope this doesn't change anything between us.

Yours Always,

Lu

Below this, begins the poem,

On a canvas brimming with vibrant dreams,

Where colors mix and blend with gentle grace,

I've etched our story, yours and mine,

In shades, that time will embrace.

Your smile, a brush of vibrant hue,

Turns every moment into radiant light,

And in your eyes, I find the clues,

To ignite my soul with a beautiful sight.

Each day with you, a masterstroke,

A blend of joy and true elation,

Your laughter dispels the shadows,

Bestowing me a profound sensation.

From twilight’s glow to dawn’s first rays,

My love’s a spectrum rich and rare,

In every shade, in every phase,

You're a masterpiece beyond compare.

With every brush and every stroke,

I craft a world where we could be,

A place where dreams and hearts intertwine,

A canvas created for you and me.

So I ask now, with hopeful heart,

To step inside this vivid scene,

To share a life, to play a part,

Will you be my love, my dream?

Prim sits in stunned silence, reading and rereading the words, page blurring as they attempt to process what they've just read. Lu likes them. Actually likes them. It's hard to comprehend. Why would Lu choose someone like them when she could have anyone she wanted? Lu's affection felt like a dream, too surreal to grasp.

The confession weighs heavily on Prim's chest, butterflies fluttering in their stomach. They're at a loss for words, mind racing with questions and uncertainty, but also a strong feeling of excitement that they can't push down. Their face turns a deep shade of cyan, magenta, and yellow as the realization sinks in. Lu likes them, and they like her. The words of the poem echo in their mind, evoking a soft smile. Despite being alone they start to feel embarrassed by their reaction, prompting them to pull their scarf up to cover their blushing cheeks as they read through the page once again.

A panic settles in as Prim suddenly realizes that they need to respond to Lu's confession. What do they say to her? Nothing they could say would come even close to matching what she had written for them. They never had been the best at expressing their emotions. But… Lu needed that right now. She deserved a proper response from Prim.

No wonder she had been so nervous earlier, she had poured her heart out to the inky skeleton. She's probably feeling as anxious as Prim does right now, waiting for their response.

Well, better not keep her waiting any longer.

They cast a final gaze at the poem before rising to their feet, letting their scarf fall from their face. They secure their bag firmly over their shoulder, one of their hands clasped around its strap. With unwavering determination, they proceed, ignoring their nerves.

They begin the familiar routine of creating a portal, their foot swiping across the ground with a trail of ink following in its wake. The ink gathers at their feet, pulling them into the encompassing darkness.

Upon emerging, they find themselves standing outside The Star Sanses’ base, as well as Lu's home. The Omega Timeline bathes everything in the glow of starlight, casting the surrounding area in a celestial glow. After countless visits, the building's layout is etched into their memory, allowing them to easily locate Lu's room from the outside, even in the darkness.

After a brief walk, they arrive at Lu's window, gazing up to get a glance at it. They can see her curtains partially drawn, revealing a few of her plants resting on the windowsill. Their nerves intensify as they turn their attention to the tall tree adjacent to her window. Taking a deep nervous breath, they begin the familiar climb. Despite having done this many times before, the weight of the moment makes their movements feel awkward and slow, taking longer than usual to ascend the tree.

Eventually, they settle on a sturdy branch, close enough to reach Lu's window. They pause for a moment, trying to calm their anxiety before tentatively tapping on the window and leaning back, waiting for Lu to open it.

Moments later, they catch a glimpse of Lu's face peeking through the curtains, her eyelights meeting theirs. Despite the dim lighting, her deep blush is unmistakable. With a soft click, the window unlocks and slides open, revealing Lu's head as she peeks through to see them clearly.

“What are you doing out here?” She asks, her voice filled with unease, a nervous expression on her face.

“Me too,” Prim responds quickly, their cheeks darkening as the words leave their mouth, realizing that their statement didn't quite make sense.

“...What?” Lu asks after a pause, her head tilted slightly in confusion, a slight laugh heard in her tone.

"I mean— I read the poem. Me too. I, um, I feel the same,” Prim stammers, avoiding Lu's gaze, turning their face away and tugging their scarf over their cheeks once more.

“Oh,” She breathes, surprise evident in her voice. There's another moment of silence, broken only by the chirping of the crickets and the rustle of the wind.

The air feels tight as the silence sits between them, Prim's soul pounding anxiously in their chest. They're starting to wonder if it was a bad idea coming here. What if they misunderstood the situation? What if they just messed everything up?

Gently, Lu's hand takes hold of Prim's arm, snapping them out of their thoughts; they timidly look up, finding Lu's gentle smile waiting for them. Prim feels the blush on their face deepen and forces themselves to not look away. It's hard to gauge her expression as Prim searches her face, but she doesn't appear to be upset. Lu tugs on their arm, and Prim understands the unspoken message. With Lu's help, they slowly make their way through the window and into her bedroom, landing softly on her carpet.

The silence doesn't last much longer once Prim is inside. Lu's expression is soft and adoring as she delicately takes Prim's hands, their eyelights meeting in a moment of quiet connection.

“...Really?” She asks, her voice gentle and hopeful. The look on her face leaves Prim feeling flustered, wondering how they had gotten so lucky. Prim nods, struggling to find the words, their throat tightening. Lu's smile widens.

“I want to hear you say it out loud, though,” Lu playfully pouts, her affectionate expression coaxing the words out of Prim. They feel like they'd do anything, as long as she continued to look at them like that.

“Yeah. Yeah, I, uhm…I like you. I have for a while now,” Prim responds, their voice slightly shaky. Lu's smile grows impossibly wider, her eyelights fuzzy at the edges, glistening with tears of joy.

“Will you be my partner, Prim?” Lu asks, her voice filled with hope and excitement.

“I'd like that,” Prim replies easily, their face flushed, gazing back at Lu with the same adoration.

“Cool,” She responds with a wet giggle, using one hand to wipe happy tears from her eye sockets.

“Cool,” Prim repeats, with a similarly elated expression. They gently replace Lu's hand with theirs, wiping the tears from her face. The two of them stay like that for a moment, silent, until Lu speaks again.

“May I..?” She asks, face flushed, eyelights flicking down to their mouth. Prim nods, and Lu leans in.

Yeah, coming here had been the right decision after all.