#can’t remember if I posted this already

[anonf1writer]

the reaction after he stands up for his family — single parent universe

second part to this.

text au. ig post. 2k words. drivers: max, charles, oscar and lando.

note: i promised there would be a second part, and here it is. i tried something different, so i hope i didn’t disappoint (although i have the feeling already this wont be everyones cup of tea, so im sorry in advance!).

thank you to everyone who sent requests that led me to create this cute universe. ive had the greatest time with it, and i know it wouldnt have happened without your ideas. so thank you ❤️

──────────────────

MAX

First, came the soft click of Oliver’s bedroom door, and then the lazy thump of Max’s feet making his way back to you. 

Leaning your side against the kitchen counter, you knew a conversation was coming. From the moment you heard the question and turned the TV off, to the moment Max arrived home with a smile on his face, you knew it wouldn’t be something either of you could ignore. 

“Fucking hell,” he murmured as soon as he stepped into view, both hands running up and down his face. “I can’t remember the last time I wanted to punch someone’s stupid face this fucking much.”

You pressed your lips together and shifted on your feet, stepping away from the counter. This was the first moment alone the two of you had gotten after the race, the first moment without a little boy demanding attention, and the first moment Max was finally letting it all out. The anger, the frustration, the disappointment. So you didn’t want to shush him. You didn’t want to tell him he shouldn’t be cursing and swearing right now, that he should be careful, that he should think before he spoke. It didn’t seem fair to him, especially after he had clearly tried his best to put on a fantastic show in front of your son. 

“Did you watch it?” he asked, voice closer than before.

You nodded, removing the whistling kettle from the hob and stepping towards the empty mugs. “Just saw the video. We were watching it live on TV, but I turned it off as soon as I noticed what was happening.”

“Shit.”

“Oli didn’t hear a thing tho, don’t worry about it.”

You took your time filling the first mug, watching how the tea bag floated and swayed in the water, then eventually sank into the bottom. 

“They were so out of line,” Max said, his voice a quiet whisper in the bright kitchen. “I can’t believe that question even crossed their minds.” 

“I know…” 

“But I caught his name,” Max added. “And I had a meeting with the team as soon as I called the interview off. I’ll make sure that guy doesn’t get a fucking word from me anymore.”

You nodded again, and poured boiling water into the other mug. His mug. 

A moment went by before you felt him. Before he wrapped his arms around your waist, rested his chin on your shoulder, and pressed his chest against your back. 

“You ok?” he asked, voice low and too close to your ear. 

You placed the kettle back in place and nodded, one hand resting on his forearm and the other reaching to touch his face. 

“Yeah…” you said, your body instantly leaning into him. “I’m just… I hate that you had to go through that.”

Max nodded, his facial hair brushing your skin as he moved to kiss your palm. Once, and twice. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he spoke. “For putting you two in this position.”

At that, you frowned. You dropped your hand and shifted on your feet, turning to properly face him. 

Max’s exhaustion was written all over him. But there was also worry there. Maybe a little bit of fear, too. 

“Hey,” you said, hands cradling his cheeks, eyes firm inside his gaze. “Don’t be silly. What you did for us was amazing.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The way you stood up for us… The fact that you won’t let anyone speak about our son like that… That’s what I care about.” 

He sighed, then leaned in. Forehead resting against yours while he closed his eyes. 

“Our son,” he repeated, like he was savouring the words. 

“Mhmm…” You nodded, slightly. Just for him to feel the movement face to face, skin to skin. “It was really hot, y’know? To see you like that…”

Max smirked. Eyes staying close while he listened to you.

“The way you talked about us… How you got all worked up… When you said ‘that kid is mine’?” You sighed. Loudly than you normally would. Your hands moving down to his neck, shoulders, then back to cradle his face. “And then when you stormed off… Damn you, Max.”

A low, amused chuckle escaped from his chest, his whole body shaking lightly against you. “I should’ve figured you’d like that.”

“You should, yeah…”

You leaned in, then. Your lips barely meeting his before you pulled back again.

Max reacted instantly, taking a step forward and fully pressing you onto the counter, his feet slotting between your legs. “Hate teasing,” he murmured, already crashing your mouths together for a much needier kiss. 

You smiled, his lips barely giving you any time before he was capturing them again. 

And again. 

And again. 

──────────────────

CHARLES

──────────────────

OSCAR

──────────────────

LANDO

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” Lando said, leaning against the handrail and watching Olivia run around the synthetic grass of the paddock. Just like you had been doing for the past ten minutes or so. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” you said. “They were the ones who crossed the line.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts,” you said, curling your lips into a smile just in case someone was watching you. “Like I said, it wasn’t your fault. That’s not up for discussion.”

Next to you, Lando sighed. Loudly. 

You heard it, you felt it. 

His unhappiness with your answer.

So you shifted on your feet, crossed your arms on your chest, and kept your eyes ahead as you said, “You stood up for her. That’s what matters to me. I wish these things didn’t happen at all, but it’s not up to us. We can’t control what others say or do, but we can control how we react to it. And the way you reacted… That’s how I want it to be. So as long as you stand up for her, just like you did today, then you don’t have anything to apologize for.”

For a moment, Lando didn’t talk. Didn’t move. Didn’t react. He just stared ahead, focusing on the little girl that had everyone’s attention as she distributed papaya-unicorn stickers all around. And then, when you thought he would finally speak up, he just coughed and looked away. As if taking a break to organize himself before returning his gaze back to her. 

To your daughter. 

Yours, and his. 

“Should we go inside?” you asked. “Talk inside?”

He shook his head. “She’s having fun… I just… I wanna watch her for a while.”

You nodded, but your heart skipped at that, and you couldn’t help but sigh and take a step closer to him. Unwillingly. Without thinking. 

Elbow almost, almost touching his arm. 

Lando’s whole body stiffened. 

He stretched his legs, straightened his back, and pulled his arms closer to his sides. 

And the tiniest gasp left his mouth. 

Once again, you couldn’t help yourself—you snorted, bringing your hand to cover your mouth and lowering your chin to look down at your feet.

“What?” he asked, quietly. But you could hear the smile in his voice. The amusement. Growing just like yours.

“Shut up,” you said, muffled behind your hand. 

“I didn’t say anything.”

Shaking your head, you held back your laughter and looked up, eyes meeting your oblivious daughter. Happy and full of energy amidst so many strangers. 

You dropped your hand back down to cross your arm around your chest, and after a beat, you murmured, “I can already imagine a video going viral…”

You caught the way he nodded. 

Neither of you ever facing each other.

But keeping the conversation for only the two of you to hear. 

“Lando Norris avoids contact with his girlfriend,” he said. 

And then, you cackled. Dropping your head back and laughing to the sky while bringing both hands to cover your mouth. 

Next to you, Lando chuckled as well, albeit not as hard. The soft sound making its way to you and adding extra warmth to your already heated cheeks. 

He waited until you had calmed down before speaking again, the playfulness hinted in each syllable of each word. “Little do they know… All along, I’m the one who’s been deprived of love.”

“Oh my God,” you grunted and laughed. A mix between disbelief, but also joy. “You’re so dramatic.” 

“Dramatic? Please. I’m just a boy… Standing next to a—”

You gasped and turned your body, leaning onto your side so you could face him. 

“—a girl… Asking her to hold my hand.”

“Lando…”

“Or give me a hug.”

“You do not get to quote my favorite movie back at me.”

He shook his head, eyes still fixed ahead of him. “Just anything,  really.” 

You pressed your lips together and turned back to Olivia, a sigh leaving your chest while you watched her engage in a conversation with some other kids she had met earlier that day. 

“You know that’s not how it works.”

Lando, on the other hand, simply smirked to himself.

“What I know is that you won’t love me in public.” 

“Because you get way too handsy!” you reminded him. “And you don’t know how to kiss me in public. You always end up going for a full make out session. Why is it so hard to keep it simple?”

“Because it’s you!” he laughed. “Can’t help it if you’re irresistible!”

“Yeah, well…” You shrugged. “If you can’t help it, then we stick to my rules.” 

“Fine.” 

“No PDA.”

“I know.”

“That’s all.”

“Yep.”

You sighed. 

He sighed. 

Max and Pietra stepped out of hospitality, both of them stopping to chat with Olivia before she pointed straight at where you were. Lando’s best friend looked at you and nodded with understanding, meanwhile his girlfriend waved and lowered her weight to get Livie’s attention. 

You knew, from that on, that Max and Pietra would keep an eye on her. That they would stay around and give you two a chance to take a little break, like they usually did. 

“I never thought I could get so mad at someone,” Lando blurted out. So out of nowhere that you needed to blink a couple times to make sense of it. “I’m watching her right now and it’s just… Look at her… She’s the cutest child around here… She’s kind to everyone… Makes everyone laugh… Always has the funniest, most random comments… And she’s so sassy and bold in such an adorable way… She’s just perfect. How can they… I mean how can they even ask something like that? I don’t get it.”

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you found yourself unable to reply.

“I meant what I said, y’know? About being proud of being her dad… I know it’s not on the paper… But I don’t mind that… Like it won’t make me love her any differently… What we have now it’s something I’ve earned, y’know? We’ve built it from scratch… I know you wouldn’t have allowed me to be here if you didn’t mean it… So I just… I can’t imagine my life without you anymore… Both of you. And I hate that they tried to use that against me… Because they knew what they were doing when they asked that… They knew they would touch a nerve…”

The emotions in his voice touched your nerves, your instincts, your need to protect him and stand up for him. And before you knew it, you were already walking. Already stepping away from the handrail, turning to him and closing the distance. Until you were standing in front of him and then close enough to crush your body to his. Wrap your arms around his waist and press your cheek against his chest. 

“Whoa…” Lando stumbled the slightest, the handrail keeping him in place as he placed both arms around your shoulders and kept you close. Close. Close. Close. “Hold on with the PDA, love.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled. “Just take it.”

At that, he chuckled. Chin pressed on your temple and arms squeezing you tightly. 

“Your favorite words.”

“Lando!”

“What?!”

You pinched his hip, and he flinched.

“Heyyy!” he laughed.

You smiled, cheek all nuzzled onto him while the world kept moving around you. While the public walked up and down the paddock. While curious eyes and intruding cameras watched you. 

“I love you,” you said. “And I’m so proud of you. Really. Thank you, for everything you do. For who you are. I can’t imagine our lives without you anymore, too. I don’t want to know what it would be like to go back to a life without you. So again, thank you.”

“Who are you and what—”

“Lando!” 

“Ok, ok,” he laughed. “I’m shy, I get nervous…” 

“I know, but I had to say it.”

He shifted his arms, his hug getting both gentler and tighter at the same time. 

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear. “And I can’t wait to show you how much. But Livie is running up to us right now, so I’ll keep it to myself for now… Just for now.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” 

──────────────────

[stingrachelmha]

Shouta “I love cats but not on the bed” Aizawa and Toshinori “I’ve never had a pet before and desperately crave love” Yagi

[dollyswishingwell]

hi dollyyyy, after reading ur last post abt insatiable mc i declare myself as one of the people that want a post with the roles reversed omg..... .. .i wanna se the lads going crazy for mc

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ Insatiable P.2

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙⋆✮ fluff, mostly suggestive but some smut, that’s it

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They can’t keep their hands off you

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You were ruined.

Absolutely demolished, really, legs shaking, breathless, and curled up in the center of the bed like a worn-out porcelain doll. Your silken slip was hiked up around your hips, one strap barely clinging to your shoulder. Gloss smudged. Hair a mess. The sheets clutched desperately to your chest like they were the only thing protecting your fragile soul from yet another round.

You peeked out from under the covers, just in time to see him coming back.

“R-Raffy…”

Rafayel was already shirtless again, collarbone glistening, belt hanging loose. His purple waves were a mess and his pupils were blown wide with the kind of hunger that should’ve been illegal.

“You’re too pretty,” he breathed, crawling onto the bed like a predator who had not gotten his fill. “I swear to God. It’s your fault. You walk around the house in those tiny little dresses like some cursed siren and then act surprised when I lose my mind five times a day.”

“B-But I’m sore—!”

“I’ll be gentle,” he lied immediately, already grabbing the bedsheet you were clutching and yanking it off like it personally offended him. “And then I won’t.”

You yelped and tried to crawl back giggling, but he was already wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against his chest, burying his face in your neck with a groan that made your thighs clench all over again.

“‘M obsessed with you,” he mumbled into your skin, his voice rough with love-drunk need. “You don’t get it, pearlie, I look at you and I black out. I wanna kiss every inch of you until you’re crying.”

You were already teary-eyed and trembling.

“You’ve already done that like four times today,” you whimpered, face burning as he licked a fresh kiss across your collarbone.

“And yet,” he said with a grin, “I still feel like I’m starving.”

Your whine was muffled by the pillow as Raf slotted his hips between yours and nuzzled into your cheek like some deranged, horny little prince.

He placed one gentle kiss to your forehead. Then two not-so-gentle ones on your chest.

Then whispered softly—

“Let’s make it at least six.”

And just like that, the bedsheet was gone, your pleas were ignored, and your sweet, artsy husband was devouring you all over again like you were his favorite masterpiece, smeared in lipstick, gloss, and love.

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

You were barely breathing.

Absolutely spent, trembling under the silk sheets, your thighs still pressed together, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run a marathon. Your lip gloss was smudged. There were hickeys blooming all over your collarbone and neck like some exclusive collection. And your once-perfect hair?

Destroyed. Gloriously ruined.

You lay there blinking up at the ceiling, the sheets clutched to your chest like a makeshift shield.

Then, the bathroom door creaked open.

“Z-Zayne—wait, baby, please—”

He was already walking back toward the bed, towel slung around his neck, toned body still damp from the shower he had taken exactly five minutes ago… post-round-five.

“I was going to let you rest,” he said calmly, slowly undoing the towel from around his neck as he climbed back onto the bed. “And then I walked past the mirror and remembered how you looked begging underneath me, and, well…”

His hazel-green eyes darkened.

“I’m not a strong man, sweetheart.”

“Zayne!” you squeaked, pulling the covers tighter around your body. “You’re a doctor, shouldn’t you be worried about, like, overworking my body?!”

He raised a brow and placed one large hand against your thigh, slowly dragging the sheets away from your chest like he was unwrapping a precious gift.

“You should’ve thought about that,” he murmured, “before you came out this morning in that tiny little lace set and kissed my neck while I was on the phone.”

You whimpered.

“That was eight hours ago!”

“And I’ve had to touch you five times since to keep myself from losing my license due to lust-induced delirium,” he said flatly.

With a soft grunt, he pulled the sheets completely off your body, exposing the state he left you in, marked up, trembling, and absolutely perfect in his eyes. He groaned under his breath, pinning your hips with both hands.

“You’re too pretty, darling,” he whispered against your shoulder. “You break my self-control. I’m a respected surgeon and you turn me into a beast.”

You hid your face in your hands with a choked laugh. “You’re insane.”

“You married insane,” he corrected, already sliding between your thighs again. “Now be a good girl and let me love you properly, for the sixth time.”

He made very good on his word, leaving you breathless, boneless, and ruined all over again, whispering in your ear like a man in love with every inch of your soul and body:

“Let them say I’m obsessed. You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You couldn’t move.

Your body felt like jelly, your limbs tangled in silk sheets, hair a wild, tousled mess across the pillows. Your lips were kiss-swollen and glossy, your pretty robe long discarded somewhere across the room. You were a wreck, soft thighs trembling, eyes dazed, the scent of your husband still all over you.

You clutched the sheets to your chest like your life depended on it.

“Xavi… I can’t. I literally can’t feel my legs.”

And yet.

You watched in horror as your beautiful, unhinged, silver-haired husband slowly turned from the mirror, where he’d been fixing his tousled hair, red marks all over his pale neck like you had ruined him.

But his eyes were dark. Soft. Starved.

He walked back to the bed, bare-chested and flushed, licking his lips like you were the last meal of the universe.

“You’re too pretty, starlight,” he murmured. “It’s your fault. You kept making those sounds, and you looked at me like you wanted me to ruin your life. So I did.”

“Five times,” you gasped, clinging to the covers as he crawled over you. “You did it five times. I need water. And a medic.”

He chuckled softly, brushing your hair away from your flushed face and kissing your cheek with maddening gentleness. His fingers curled under the sheet you were hugging so tightly.

“Mm. You don’t need water,” he whispered. “You need me again.”

“Xavi—”

“Just once more. For science.”

He ripped the sheet away.

You screamed. He grinned like a man entirely out of his mind.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured, pinning your wrists above your head as he kissed down your shoulder again. “I don’t get tired of you. I don’t reach a limit. I see you, and I want to touch you again. Over and over. Until you’re crying my name so sweet I forget what galaxy we’re in.”

“You already did,” you whined, squirming under him. “You kept calling me starlight in three different languages.”

He blinked. “…Did I?”

Then smirked.

“I’m doing it again.”

And he was wrecking you all over again, slow, obsessed, utterly devoted, his voice a breathy chant in your ear as you melted into him:

“So pretty… so good for me… mine, mine, mine.”

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

You were sprawled on the bed like the world’s most exhausted princess, lipstick smeared, thighs trembling, hair in complete chaos, and the silken sheets yanked up to your chest in a desperate attempt to protect what little pride you had left. You looked used, loved, devoured, and Sylus?

He looked like he’d barely broken a sweat.

His silver hair was ruffled but charmingly so, his toned torso covered in blooming bite marks, but he was already standing by the foot of the bed again, rolling up the sleeves of his half-unbuttoned shirt, red eyes gleaming like a predator who enjoyed watching his prey try to crawl away.

“Sylus—no, baby, I can’t,” you gasped, clutching the sheet tighter. “You’ve ruined me three times already and I can’t even feel my spine anymore—”

“That was four,” he corrected smoothly, already tugging the sheet right out of your grip like it was tissue paper. “Don’t shortchange me, kitty.”

“Sylus!” you squealed as the sheet was ripped from your hands, exposing your completely wrecked, bite-marked body to the cool air and his shameless eyes.

“Ohhh, look at you,” he drawled, low and pleased, eyes raking over your bare skin. “You look like something I paid for and destroyed. You love it, don’t you?”

“I look like I’ve been hit by a luxury car,” you whimpered, burying your face in the pillow.

He chuckled darkly, crawling over you with slow, deliberate movements, voice dripping with affection and heat.

“That’s because you have. You married a man who’s obsessed with you and has the stamina of a war machine. What did you expect, sweetie?”

You moaned softly as his lips grazed your shoulder again, gentle, teasing, as if he hadn’t just wrecked you five minutes ago. His hand slid under your waist with practiced ease, pulling you closer.

“You’re the prettiest thing in the world, kitty,” he murmured into your ear. “You’re lucky I let you breathe.”

“Sylus,” you warned, “I will cry.”

“Cry on my chest then.”

And just like that, he was pulling you under him again like you were nothing more than his favorite toy, whispering in your ear as you sob-laughed into the pillows—

“I could drag you in here five times a day for the rest of your life and still never get tired of you…”

“…So go ahead, sweetie. Scream for number five.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

You couldn’t even speak.

Your voice was hoarse, your body shaking, your pretty little nightdress long gone, discarded somewhere on the floor like your last shred of dignity. Your cheeks were flushed, lipgloss smudged, neck and chest covered in bite marks so deep and dark they looked like they might be permanent.

You were lying on your stomach now, gripping the sheets like a woman barely surviving battle. Your legs refused to close. Your whole body was humming from the aftermath of multiple rounds.

And you could feel him behind you. Still there. Still hard. Still watching.

“C-Caleb,” you whimpered, voice cracking. “Please. Please, I need a break, I—I need water, I need—”

“You need me.” His voice was low, rough, and absolutely merciless. “You always need me.”

You heard the sound of his belt unbuckling again, slow and casual like he had all the time in the world.

“B-But I can’t feel my legs!”

“That’s fine.” His palm slid over your lower back. “You don’t need them.”

You shrieked into the pillow as he yanked the bedsheet right off your body with one brutal tug, leaving you bare and trembling under his shadow.

“You started this, pipsqueak,” he whispered against your ear, his big body already sliding over yours again. “Walking around in my shirt this morning with your cute little thighs peeking out. Sucking on your lollipop and sitting on my lap like you weren’t begging to be fucked stupid.”

You sob-laughed helplessly. “That was at breakfast—”

“And now it’s almost dinner,” he bit out, nipping your shoulder. “And you’ve already screamed my name four times today, baby. Don’t act like I’m the crazy one.”

“You are!” you cried, kicking your feet weakly. “You’re a menace! I look like I just got dragged through a war zone—”

“You look like my wife.”

He pulled you up by the waist, kissed the corner of your eye where tears welled.

“You are my wife. My pretty, soft, ruined little housewife who gets dragged into bed five times a day because I can’t stop thinking about her.”

You hiccuped through a shaky moan as he pressed deeper against your back, voice thick with adoration:

“Mine. My pips. My wife. My problem.”

And as he pinned you down again for round five, he whispered it over and over like a prayer he’d never stop chanting:

“Love you. Love you. Love you.”

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

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

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

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

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

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

• Word Count: ~2.1k

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

🛼✨🧁🍒

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

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

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

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

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

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

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

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

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

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

Quinn freaked out.

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

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

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

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

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

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

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

You were just the detour. The accident.

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

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

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

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

But you saw it anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

And he didn’t even know.

—

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

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

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

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

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

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

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

Quinn.

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

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

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

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

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

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

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

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

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

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

Quinn stopped first.

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

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

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

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

“Mama!”

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

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

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

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

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

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

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

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

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

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

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

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

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

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

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

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

Quinn was silent.

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

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

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

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

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

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

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

Then came the big things.

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

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

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

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

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

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

You looked at her. Then at him.

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

Just unfinished.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It stayed in his head all night.

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

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

You turned to him, stunned.

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

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

⸻

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

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

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

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

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

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻

[cosmogyros]

language-learning advice from a pro

(I started writing this post just now as a message to a friend who asked for language-learning advice. But I’m a GIANT NERD when it comes to language learning, so it got wayyy too long to be a message. So I’m posting it here in the hopes that it might help others as well. I have not edited this or even read through it all yet – it just poured straight out of my fingers – so please let me know if you spot any typos!)

Okay, first of all, there are two parts to language learning: active learning and passive exposure. You can choose to do only one or the other, but you’ll have the most success if you do both.

ACTIVE LEARNING

Active learning is pretty much what it sounds like: actively focusing on the language, learning new words, sounds, phrases, idioms, etc. It’s often centered around a textbook, sometimes with accompanying audio, but you can do active learning in other ways too. For example, you can read a news article online and check a dictionary for every word you don’t know. Or do the same thing with a foreign film – when you hear a word you don’t know (or see it in the subtitles), pause the movie and look it up.

Active learning makes you progress fast, but it also tires out your brain and overwhelms it with new information, making it easier to forget things you’ve already learned. That’s why it’s best to space out your active learning sessions and fill the gaps with passive exposure.

PASSIVE EXPOSURE

The goal of passive exposure is for your brain to randomly encounter words and phrases it learned recently and go “Hey! I recognize that!” This is SO important not only for reviewing and consolidating your memory, but also keeping up your motivation! If the only place you ever encounter your TL (target language) is in your textbook, on some subconscious level your brain will think it’s not that important… because after all, you never encounter it out there in the real world, do you?

Passive exposure can include any of the following and much more: listening to music in your TL; watching a movie in your TL (either with English subs, or with no subs at all and just don’t worry if you don’t understand everything that’s going on); skim-reading a book or a short story or a news article or a blog post in your TL and looking for words you recognize, even if you can’t 100% remember what they mean; finding speakers of your TL in real life and eavesdropping on them; watching instructional YouTube videos or short documentaries in your TL (the visuals ought to help you understand some of what’s going on, even if there are no subtitles); etc.

The idea is to let your TL wash over you without straining your brain at all. Zero effort, just relaxation and fun. You will inevitably notice and understand a few words or phrases, and that percentage will increase as time goes on, but you’re not actively studying when you’re doing passive exposure. Remember the two things you’re trying to achieve with passive exposure: 1) effortless review/practice, by inevitably re-encountering some stuff you’ve already learned; 2) reminding your brain that this language is a real cool thing out there in the world, not just a boring chore located in a textbook.

But there are also two more extremely important benefits to passive exposure that are drastically neglected by most language-learners: 3) picking up the correct pronunciation and accent; 4) gaining an instinct for natural, native-sounding language.

These are two things you will not learn in a language class or from a textbook. You can’t learn them except by doing a LOT of listening and reading in your TL. But the good news is that it doesn’t need to be the “Active Learning” kind of reading and listening; it can absolutely be the “Passive Exposure” kind, and you will still pick this stuff up.

The most important thing, above all else, is to figure out a method of passive exposure that works for YOU personally. This means: do NOT force yourself to repeatedly do something that you don’t enjoy, because you won’t benefit from it. To pick the right method, think of your interests and the things you like to do in your free time: watching movies? reading books? listening to music? writing in your journal? surfing the internet? You can do any of this in your TL, too. Yes, you will encounter a lot of stuff you don’t understand at the beginning. But A) that’s good for you, it helps you learn patience, which every language-learner needs, and B) the internet has free translation tools everywhere you look.

COMBINING BOTH

Personally, I like to pick a well-respected textbook with accompanying audio (Assimil is my favorite; Teach Yourself and Colloquial can also be very good, especially the older editions; Linguaphone used to be fantastic but I’m not sure if it’s still around) and work my way through it, doing one lesson per day if possible. That takes only about 10 to 20 minutes, so that leaves a lot of time for passive exposure. My preferred method is listening to music (I learned a good 50% of my German from just obsessively listening to German pop music in high school), but here are some other things I like to do:

find an internet talk radio station in my TL and put it on in the background

same deal with a podcast

translate a few keywords related to my favorite hobbies/interests into the TL and then paste that text into YouTube and watch random videos in my TL

read a news article in English, and then find a news website in my TL and see if I can find an article about the same topic in that language

watch bad reality TV or soaps in my TL with no subtitles, just trying to guess what’s going on from context

etc.

No Duolingo. No Rosetta Stone. (I’ve written a whole post about the latter here.) You don’t need to spend any money at all, though if you e.g. use a pirated resource to learn and find that it really helps you, I strongly suggest buying it from the original producer after the fact, to say thank you.

MEMORIZATION

This is very much a “YMMV” piece of advice, but: if you’re having trouble memorizing stuff, just don’t. Don’t bother trying to remember anything. Remember that “passive exposure” bit? It does a lot of the heavy lifting in terms of memory. If you keep bumping into the same word or phrase over and over again, you will incorporate it into your body of knowledge almost effortlessly. Of course this is easier with more common words that turn up again and again – but you’d be surprised how well you can get by, especially at the lower levels, with only the more common words!

Intentionally memorizing vocabulary can of course be very beneficial, so there’s nothing wrong with it. But I notice that it’s often one of the biggest pain points for language learners, and I believe language learning should be pain-free.

FROM INPUT TO OUTPUT

Once you’ve gotten a good grasp of the basics of the language, a really effective way to consolidate the knowledge you’ve gained is to use it actively and creatively yourself, in speech or writing (or ideally both!). For speaking practice, besides simply making friends who are native speakers of the language, you can search for a physical or virtual tandem. This is when you meet up with someone who’s a native speaker of your TL and is trying to learn your own language. You can meet for, say, an hour, and chat together for half an hour in your native language, and then half an hour in their native language. So both of you benefit!

Don’t underestimate talking to yourself, too. Whether it’s narrating your actions, complaining to your pet (okay, I guess that’s not technically “talking to yourself”), or simply having an imaginary conversation with someone else, it’s actually a good way to practice.

I also really enjoy writing in my journal in my target languages. The act of hand-writing a word does a lot to help me remember it. If you like writing, of course, you could also look up penpals who speak your TL.

And that’s about it. As always, I am more than willing to answer specific questions on language learning, as this is something of a specialty of mine and I absolutely love to help other folks get started on their own language-learning journeys. Please feel free to drop me a line if you need any concrete advice or are struggling with some aspect of your current language-learning efforts!

[weavingstarlight]

Happy Pride, have some angsty art of Four and Shadow ~

So I decided I wanted to draw Four and Shadow for Pride because, hey, I love these gay boys — but when it came to deciding WHAT I wanted to draw, I had a little more trouble. Instead of doing a classic “Pride post,” I wanted to tell a story. I’ve been spending a lot of time recently with Four and Shadow in Guiding Lights and so I felt like it made sense to draw that version of them (even though it felt a little self-indulgent). I didn’t want to illustrate a particular scene, but instead capture the emotions of the characters symbolically. So, uh, this is what I ended up with!

[Spoilers for chapters 1-17 of Guiding Lights below the cut]

Four was not meant to take over the narrative the way he did. Neither was Shadow. Both characters managed to insert themselves into my outline and demand a larger chunk of the story for themselves. I accept this as “the way writing goes.”

I mention in the fic tags that the soulbonds that unite the Chain are entirely platonic, and this is important to keep in mind with Four and Shadow, who are bonded but who additionally have a non-platonic relationship. It is also important to remember that the soulbonds “activate” the moment a pair of Links get close enough to each other, physically or emotionally (and depending on each Link’s sensitivity to the bond). This means something very important for Four and Shadow’s relationship, which some of you may have already figured out but I’ll lay it out plainly here: The Colors were already soulbound to Shadow when Shadow destroyed the Dark Mirror.

Imagine what that felt like for a moment.

Imagine what Link went through, immediately after his adventure — not only losing his friend, Vio’s partner, but losing his soulmate. And at the same time, rejoining for the first time — going from being Link to being the Colors to being Four — and all that that entailed. (We’ll learn more about what that entailed later in our story.) And the choice, the sacrifice, was made by Shadow and Shadow alone.

Four is no stranger to grief… nor to anger.

And then, quite by accident, Shadow was revived. And Four had to adjust his worldview yet again, now to include the person he was sure he’d lost forever.

But Shadow was the same person as the day he’d died, and Four… wasn’t, anymore.

Fast forward to the “present” day.

Shadow desperately wants to use his powers to rejoin his partner — to save him — but practicality prevents him from doing so. He’s not just worried for Four, he’s scared. And he’s also scared for the other Links, and though he’d be embarrassed to admit it, scared for himself. What happens to Shadow if Four is seriously hurt? What if he dies? Guilt of several kinds bites at Shadow at every moment. He feels angry at his enemies, but also angry at himself for not being able to do more — and even though he knows it’s unfair, he’s angry at the Chain for being slow, angry at Wild for not taking a bigger risk and transporting them with the Slate, and angry at the world for just being sucky. And, selfishly, he misses Four. He’s sad.

Meanwhile, Four is going through his own ordeal. He has no way of knowing where the others are or even if they’re coming to save him. Half of him wants to have faith in his partner and brothers; the other half wants to focus on right now and on saving himself. And there’s a little bit of anger on his part, too — of course the others did the best they could, of course they did… and yet. Four is scared, injured, and lonely, and he can’t afford to be any of those things if he’s going to survive and escape.

But despite all the pain they’ve been through, what unites these two — what unites all the Links — is love. They take strength from each other no matter the distance between them, secure in their love for each other. Nothing can destroy that love, not even death. They’ve already proven that.

During Pride month, it’s great to see examples of queer joy — it’s important to see that! But I think it’s also important to see queer sadness, anger, fear — the full range of human emotions, because queer people and queer relationships contain the same kinds of pleasure AND pain as non-queer ones do. So I don’t feel bad about drawing my poor stressed-out boys during Pride month, and I promise I’ll do happier art of them at a later time. ***

Technically speaking, this piece went great. I’m especially pleased with how the colored pencils came out. My white ink was very dry but it rehydrated well!

8 x 11. Alcohol markers, colored pencils, micron pens, and white ink. Digital background.

[IMG: An illustration of Four from Linked Universe and Shadow (Four Swords manga with a Linked Universe-based design). Four is walking away to the left, visible from the knees up. Shadow is floating behind Four and reaching out for him. Shadow is surrounded by a dark, fiery aura, which flames out behind him. Four is reaching back over his shoulder and their fingers are intertwined. Four is wearing a patchwork tunic, black pants, and black gloves over a light gray shirt. He has blonde hair, pale skin and multicolored eyes. Shadow is wearing a black tunic, white pants, and black gloves over a light gray shirt. He has black hair, paler skin than Four, and red eyes. His feet melt away into dark flames. The “flames” surrounding him are various shades of purple. The background is a textured dark gray-blue. The drawing has black ink lineart and is colored with markers and colored pencils.] *** UPDATE: I made additional posts about the process of drawing this illustration, check them out here!

Process photos Inking timelapse

[frogsinflannel]

depression tunnel tidbit tuesday

hey no one tagged me for anything over the past few days or if you did I missed it. I’m writing and posting this anyway. and I have like one tiny bit of the superhero au to finish and instead of that I wrote this. I have not been doing well !!! ha ha !!!

~

“So, uh. You’d give me pretty much anything I asked for. Right?”

Tommy turns to look at him, amused, his eyes bright as they roam Buck’s face. “We both know that’s true,” he says, “but I’m pretty sure it’s against some sort of social code to admit it.”

Buck scoots closer, affecting the sort of aww shucks demeanor he knows Tommy likes. And sure enough, Tommy’s peering at him from under his lashes, eyes dark. “Yeah but.” He chews his bottom lip, waits til Tommy’s gaze lands on it. He even lets his hand come to rest on Tommy’s knee. “We both know it’s true right?”

“Evan.” And Buck has to fight back a smile at the tone in Tommy’s voice, has to resist climbing into his lap all wandering hands and teasing kisses pressed to the rough skin of Tommy’s jaw. Their gazes are locked and he knows before it happens that he’s going to win. Sure enough, Tommy huffs and looks away for a moment before turning back with an indulgent smile sitting crooked on the pretty curve of his mouth. “Fine,” he says, not even attempting to sound put out about it. “You’re right. I’d give you anything you wanted that it was within my power to give.” He runs a hand through Buck’s hair and tugs gently when he gets a sparse handful of curls. It’s proprietary and sweet at the same time, and some little creature in Buck’s chest wants to purr.

He wishes sometimes that Tommy wanted more, that he would ask Buck for things too. He’s already given him Evan and it’s a word that fits perfectly in his mouth. Buck wants to give him everything. He always feels like he’s too much and Tommy is there, ready to pour more in. He deserves more than just the overflow. Yeah. Buck wants to give him everything

“Okay well. Remember that when I ask for this.”

“Ask for… what exactly?”

Buck sits straighter and Tommy’s hand falls from his hair. Which Buck misses, but he doesn’t have time to focus on that. He has a pitch to make. He’s practiced this. “W-well there was, uh. A thing. That I saw.”

One of Tommy’s brows raises a little. “Okay?”

“It was a sex thing.”

A smile flickers across Tommy’s face and even though he bites it back he can’t keep himself from looking fond. “Yeah, I’d guessed as much.”

~

I’m not tagging anyone because I don’t want to bother you but please feel free to share if you see this! This is going to be a dumb smutty primal kink one-shot that it’s up in the air if I ever finish. so yeah.

[shiftesque]

　

　𝐈𝐍　ℰ𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘　𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍　𝐎𝐅　𝐌𝐄

　　　　　　　there is a story that ends with 𝓎𝗼𝘂 !

　

　 ib　　@withluvvenusʼs post　@zaddizuʼs post　　@moonyskarmaʼs post　@laylasverseʼs post

　

to:　danya , nemo , kyle , adam & jere .

from:　sincerely yours .

　

　

𝒟anya

  you’re scared. i am too. but somehow, in the middle of all that fear, we find each other. without words. without asking. i draw you when i feel like i can’t breathe. and you always know when to leave tea by my door, hands shaking just like mine. this love is quiet, and careful. but it’s also the safest thing i’ve ever known.

　　♩ ◞　figure skater x singer

　　♩ ◞　red string of fate

　　♩ ◞　mutual anxiety, silent caretaking

　　♩ ◞　“ you donʼt have to say it, i already know. ”

　

　

𝒩emo

  you walked into my café like a song already stuck in my head. all glitter and stardust and suddenness. and yet you lingered. you helped close up one night and never really left. i still don’t know if it’s your laugh or your voice that haunts me more. maybe it’s the way you say my name like it’s lucky.

　　♩ ◞　baker / barista x popstar

　　♩ ◞　slowburn tenderness

　　♩ ◞　“ you make me believe in easy love. ”

　

　

𝒦yle

  you were the first person i ever loved out loud. we were kids, barely even real people yet, and somehow you’ve only gotten better with time. i’d recognize your laugh in any lifetime. i still remember your hands on a controller, your breath in my headphones, your silence in my bed. i never stopped being yours.

　　♩ ◞　youtuber / streamer x singer

　　♩ ◞　childhood sweethearts

　　♩ ◞　“ we grew up together. and then we grew back into each other. ”

　

　

𝒜dam

  i heard your voice before i ever saw your face. and it was over the second i did. you were a song i had no business loving. but there you were - sparkling, unapologetic, magnetic. i kept telling myself it was just fandom. just obsession. and then you looked at me. and i knew.

　　♩ ◞　influencer x singer

　　♩ ◞　parasocial to painfully real

　　♩ ◞　“ you’re not my type. you’re my exception. ”

　

　

𝒥ere

  we’ve always known each other. the kind of knowing that comes from scraped knees and shared secrets. and still, i didn’t realize it until way too late. you were just jere. until you weren’t. until erika looked at me sideways and i heard what you meant. now i can’t unsee it. or unfeel it.

　　♩ ◞　childhood friends to slow realization

　　♩ ◞　the moment love turned visible

　　♩ ◞　“ i think i loved you before i understood the feeling. ”

　

[maxdibert]

The thing that gets me about that one post is where they said Snape *needs* to be straight and white because his reasons for bullying Harry are petty. Like, what does that even mean?? If James truly bullied Snape because he was already a blood purist and death eater like they claim, then what does it matter if he's black and gay? If it really was just a rivalry over Lily's attention, then there shouldn't be a problem right? Why are Snape's actions petty if he's white and straight, but somehow more legitimate when he has a different race and sexual orientation? Is pettiness only a white, straight trait? Are other people not allowed to be petty? Are white, straight people not allowed to be traumatized by bullying? They can only acknowledge it was traumatizing if its done to a marginalized group? Lmao I need their thought processes explained to me.

Yeah, so, there’s something really messed up going on with all this, because what they’re saying has like two layers, two different readings, and both are pretty disturbing if you actually stop and think about it. On the one hand, what they seem to be implying — without saying it directly but definitely suggesting it — is that someone who isn’t white and/or straight can’t do bad things. Like, that’s the takeaway. According to this weird logic, if you make Snape queer and racialized, suddenly nothing he does matters. He could literally be Voldemort, he could turn into a serial killer like Ted Bundy, and somehow he’d still be… untouchable or something, because that’s the unspoken rule. Since he belongs to a historically oppressed group, his actions automatically stop being questionable. And that’s incredibly dangerous, not just because it’s essentialist to the core, but because it basically means you're assigning ethical or moral capacity based on who you sleep with or how you look in the mirror. It's completely fucking absurd on every level.

But the second point is even more fucked up. What’s being implied —almost unconsciously but very clearly— is that if a white, straight, working-class person like Snape is humiliated, bullied, stripped in public, and subjected to systematic psychological abuse during his teenage years by a bunch of rich, powerful kids —because let’s remember, James and Sirius weren’t exactly struggling— then suddenly it doesn’t matter. Apparently, according to these people, that kind of abuse only counts if it happens to someone who fits into a particular identity category they’ve decided is worthy of empathy. In other words, trauma is only valid if the victim is part of an oppressed group. But if the victim is a white, straight dude, then he had it coming, right? Then it’s not bullying, it’s not trauma, it’s not something that could scar you for life or mess you up psychologically.

And that’s where it all becomes a complete mess. Because if we start from the idea that only certain people have the right to be hurt, to suffer, to have trauma, or to react badly to the things that happen to them, then what we’re doing is accepting a worldview that’s incredibly dangerous, one where morality is distributed based on identity categories instead of actions or context. And I’m sorry, but that’s not social justice, and it’s not fighting oppression. That’s just swapping one arbitrary system for another equally unfair one, just dressed up as progressivism.

And finally, what pisses me off the most about all of this is how deeply dehumanizing it is. Because denying someone the capacity to do wrong just because they’re not white or straight is just as absurd as denying someone the capacity to suffer because they are. Both things reduce people to symbols, to archetypes, to puppets in some ideological narrative. And that, to me, is the most dehumanizing thing of all. Because every single one of us has the right to be complex, contradictory, vulnerable and yes, sometimes petty or even cruel. There’s no identity that automatically makes you a better person, and there’s no skin color or orientation that exempts you from doing horrible things or from experiencing horrible things.

So yeah, I’d love for these people to explain their thought process, because either they haven’t thought it through at all, or —if they have— then where it leads is kind of terrifying.

[triggswastaken]

I can’t find the original post by @otherwindow but I loved it so much that I had to write this short story based on the concept:

There were three things Ash hated more than anything: group hugs, sunlight, and the smell of burning sage. Earth had too much of all three. But Earth also had Nora.

Ash had arrived through a rusted vent in the back of an abandoned laundromat, ash-skinned and grin sharp as a switchblade. He wasn’t there for long-term plans—just a few stolen wallets, a defaced mural of a cherub, and maybe setting a mailbox on fire. Then he met Nora.

She worked at the comic book shop next to the laundromat and had an irritating habit of smiling at him like he was a stray cat she’d already named.

“Hey, edgy boy,” she said once, handing him a cold soda. “You look like you haven’t blinked in four days.”

Ash didn’t respond. He didn’t blink either.

She kept talking anyway. She told him about her brother who got too into theology and now refused to eat round foods. She showed him her sketchbook full of winged people with sad eyes. She made him a playlist called For Demons Who Want to Feel Again. Against every instinct in his charred, smoke-stuffed heart, he started to like her.

And then the problems started.

The first time Ash noticed the glow, he thought someone had shined a flashlight into his eyes. It was faint, like the shimmer off hot pavement, just above his head. He hissed and slapped at it.

“Sunburn?” Nora asked, watching him swat the air like a maniac.

“Something like that,” he muttered.

He stopped cursing out bus drivers. Stopped setting off car alarms for fun. He even returned a stolen lighter. He blamed Nora’s influence—her weird, warm gravity that made him want to sit still and listen instead of rage against light poles and yell at pigeons.

But then, one morning, he woke up in the back alley with a full-grown halo above his head. It glowed like a streetlamp, humming low and holy.

“No no no no no,” he whispered, pacing in frantic circles. “I’m gonna ascend. I’m gonna ascend and they’re gonna chain me back up.”

Demons who shed enough sin reverted to angels. Not the fluffy, harp-playing ones. The terrifying, blinded-by-purity ones. Ash didn’t want to go back. Not to the chains. Not to Heaven’s cold silence. Not if it meant losing Nora.

So he started sinning. Quietly.

He jaywalked with flair. Stole one breath mint from a gas station. Told a barista he liked their new mustache when he did not. Poured milk before cereal. Spoiled a movie ending to a stranger.

Each night, the halo dimmed a little.

Each morning, he woke up with a mix of pride and panic.

Nora didn’t notice—at first. But then came the coin incident.

He was helping her clean the shop when she dropped a sketchbook. He caught it. Saw a page. A drawing of him. Smiling.

His heart skipped. And his halo flared to life with a soft ching!

“Hey, are you okay?” Nora asked, turning.

Ash snapped. “I said I hated being drawn, remember?”

Nora flinched. “Sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“I’m not a pet project, Nora. I’m not some sad stray for you to fix!”

She stood frozen, and Ash watched her face crumple—not into anger, but hurt. Real hurt.

That’s when it happened. The halo gave a final ding, shrank, and dropped to the floor like a coin off a counter. It rolled in a perfect circle once before wobbling flat.

They stared at it.

Nora was the first to speak. “That was… yours?”

Ash sighed. “Yeah. It means I’m still damned. For now.”

He expected her to step back, to throw salt at him, to scream about his lies.

Instead, she knelt, picked up the halo, and handed it back to him. “Do you want to keep it?”

Ash looked down. “Only if I get to stay.”

She smiled, bruised but soft. “Then sin small, sinner.”

So he did.

He started stealing pens from banks and purposely mismatching socks. He complimented people’s tattoos but got the references wrong. He drew smiley faces on “Do Not Write” signs.

And every now and then, when Nora wasn’t looking, he checked his reflection.

Just to make sure the light hadn’t come back.

[leejenowrld]

haeun and jaemin scenes in 'back to you'

dad! jaemin, fluff

word count — 7.6k

authors note — i just thought i’d compile some of the jaemin and haeun scenes that are in ‘back to you’ for readers who 1) wanna revisit them 2) readers who haven’t read back to you but want to read the jaemin and haeun scenes in the fic. you don’t need any context of back to you to read these, just know it’s in a second person pov and that oc is bty! y/n. and these are not all of the scenes, i have more to post, this is 1/4 of the jaemin and haeun scenes. if this post is received well and you guys actually interact and tell me what you think, i’ll post the other scenes

jaemin and haeun arrive at jeno and oc’s wedding

Last comes Jaemin, shoulders tired but eyes still smiling, carrying two-year-old Haeun on his hip as though she’s a soft little star he can’t bear to set down.  She wears a butter-yellow dress stitched with tiny sunflowers, hair parted into two glossy plaits that Karina wove on the plane, each braid tipped with a tiny silk ribbon that flutters whenever she turns her head. One tiny hand clutches her guava-juice sippy cup, the other gripping a wrinkled crayon drawing labelled For ‘Auntie & Uncle Nono’ in wobbling capitals. Every few steps she presses syrupy kisses to her father’s cheek, then cups her mouth to his ear, giggling out secrets that make him laugh in the same velvet tone he uses to soothe her nightmares.  The moment the courtyard opens wide, she blinks up at the palms and lanterns, dimples carving deep, as if this place, this light, these people were all made just for her.

The moment Haeun appears in Jaemin’s arms, the whole villa blurs into background noise, Karina’s garment bags, Shotaro’s teary sniffles, Donghyuck’s champagne pop, even Ryujin’s clipboard clatter all fade to watercolor. Your gaze snags on that butter-yellow dress and the nervous fists twisting Jaemin’s collar. She won’t budge, shaking her head so hard the silk ribbons at the ends of her braids flap like tiny flags of surrender. Jaemin bounces her gently, rubbing slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Angel,” he murmurs, voice made of velvet patience, “look, it’s Uncle Nono and your Auntie. You asked for them every single night, remember? 

Haeun lets out a tiny whimper, a soft, breathy “mmmh, sweepy,” and tucks her face deeper into the crook of Jaemin’s neck, her little fingers tightening around his collar. 

Jaemin chuckles, shoulders shaking with quiet amusement, and he fills you in while still swaying her gently: all week long, she’s woken before dawn, stumbling into his room to rehearse her mission, tiny hand clutching imaginary petals, pacing the hallway in her socks, whisper-chanting questions in singsong baby cadence about “Nono’s wedding day,” about when she can wear her “p’etty dress,” about whether the flowers will fly high enough if she throws them extra hard. Every nap ends with the same hopeful burst: is it time yet, can she walk the aisle now, will Uncle Nono clap when she twirls? Yet here, faced with the real moment, the weight of lantern-lit adults and the promise of so many new eyes, she folds small against him once more. He tips her just enough for a glimpse, but she only melts deeper into his shirt, ribbons shivering with each shy shake of her head, the earlier rehearsals hiding for now behind velvet-brown lashes.

With a gentle sigh, Jaemin eases Haeun down so her little sandals kiss the marble. The instant her feet touch the cool stone, her lower lip wobbles. She cranes her neck, arms shooting sky-high. “Up—up!” she pleads, breath hitching into the first shaky cry. Jaemin keeps his palms open but holds his ground, brow knitting in a mild, fatherly sternness meant to encourage bravery. “You can stand, Petal,” his eyes say even if his mouth is quiet, giving her space to find her courage instead of hiding in his arms. The uncertainty lasts only a heartbeat, because Jeno is already there, laughter bubbling warm as he drops into a crouch a careful arm’s length away, ready to coax her small world back into joy.

A bright, easy laugh breaks from Jeno, the sound echoing off the marble and spilling warmth into the room, hands lift as though coaxing a finch to land. “Princess, is that my famous sunflower girl?” he asks, eyes sparkling. “I heard you’ve been practicing twirls without me, did Daddy show you Nono’s secret spin move?” His voice is soft, playful, each word riding a smile meant only for her. Haeun lifts her head just enough for one wide-eyed peek. Jeno taps two fingers to his shoulder, then slowly pirouettes on his heel, an exaggerated, silly half-turn, before wobbling like he might topple. The act earns a surprised giggle; she bites her lip, trying not to smile, but the dimples give her away. Emboldened, Jeno traces a small circle in the air, inviting her to try. The tension unspools from her shoulders; tiny fingers unclench from Jaemin’s legs. One cautious hand reaches forward, and in another breath she’s tumbling into Jeno’s arms, already whisper-laughing “Again, again,” as he lifts her and promises an aisle full of petals and as many secret spins as she can count.

The moment Haeun tumbles into Jeno’s arms, he gathers her close and presses a trail of soft kisses, forehead, cheek, the tip of her button nose, each one a whispered “I missed you, beautiful,” breathed directly into her giggles. She melts against his chest, twining her fingers in the collar of his shirt, and the shyness evaporates as though it never existed. Words spill out in a bright, breathless tumble: how her “p’etty dwess” has sparkles “this big,” how she’s going to “fwow so many petals,” how she practiced curtseys on the airplane aisle until Daddy said people were sleeping. Jeno nods solemnly at every flourish, eyes soft, rocking her gently back and forth as if their hearts already remember the rhythm.

Jaemin watches, half exasperated, half in awe, and shakes his head. “Bro, I had to hide her dress,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “She tried to put it on at three a.m. and then insisted on sleeping in it. I’m ninety-percent sure she’d be wearing it now if I hadn’t stashed it in my carry-on.” Haeun gasps, a tiny scandal blooming in her eyes, but Jeno only laughs and whispers that real princesses always keep their gowns safe until the perfect moment, sending her into another delighted stream of babble while he holds her like the most precious thing Bali’s sunrise could ever gift.

You linger just behind them, arms crossed lightly over your chest, unable to tear your gaze away from the sight: Jeno’s strong arms circling Haeun, his face soft with laughter as she clings to him and whispers secrets only he gets to hear. The way he looks with her, gentle, attentive, utterly present, hits you somewhere deeper and wilder than you expect. It’s dizzying, almost shameless, the way watching him cradle someone so small and precious sends a flush rushing up your neck, your whole body prickling with heat. Your eyes glisten, torn between tenderness and a rush of desire so intense you have to press your thighs together, biting your lip as you try not to stare too obviously. Jeno catches your gaze over Haeun’s head, his mouth curving into a slow, knowing smile, the kind that says he feels every bit of your hunger from across the room, that he’ll answer it the moment you’re alone. Haeun, oblivious, peppers his cheek with sticky, syrup-sweet kisses, her giggles ringing out, and you swallow a moan, half in awe, half in anticipation, feeling something almost wild coil between your ribs.

As Haeun’s laughter spills through the air, you drift toward Jaemin, pulled by a different gravity, the quiet, unshakeable comfort of old friendship. He opens his arms without a word and you slip right in, his embrace warm and steady, his chin resting on your crown for a moment. He squeezes you, gentle but grounding, and pulls back just enough to study your face with that soft, knowing smile he’s reserved for only the most important moments. “How are you feeling?” he murmurs, voice low and meant just for you, “You’re glowing, Y/N. Really, you look happy. The best kind of happiness.” His eyes flick from your face to Jeno, lingering a little longer on the connection that crackles between you, then back to you again, proud and a little misty.

He gives your shoulder an encouraging squeeze, voice thick with affection. “I’m so happy for you guys,” he says, barely loud enough for anyone else to catch, “So, so proud. Feels like everything’s finally falling into place, huh?” His gaze shines with true joy for yohe warmth of someone who’s loved you through every storm and is beaming now at the clear blue sky. In his arms, you feel everything settle, the world narrowing to friends who feel like home and the wild, gentle future finally blooming right in front of you.

You dart straight for Haeun, eyes already misting. “My flower, I missed you so much, look at you! You’re so grown and beautiful!” you gush, arms stretched wide for a reunion worthy of a drama finale. She lifts her chin, gives you one solemn blink and huffs. Tiny arms cross in perfect toddler indignation, and she whips her face away like a pint-sized diva snubbing paparazzi. You gasp, hand to heart, scandalized. “Haeun!”

Jaemin chuckles, bouncing her lightly. “She’s been calling Jeno her ‘boy-fwen’ all week,” he explains. “Every time I showed her your engagement photo she said, ‘No, Daddy. Mine.’  She kept on falling asleep hugging her dress like a security blanket, mumbling, ‘No share Nono.’ ” He strokes her hair, lowering his voice. “She even practiced saying ‘I object’ in case the officiant asked for objections. But my baby can’t say that word, she keeps shouting ‘I ab-jex!’ and then giggling like she started a food fight.”

Jeno cough-laughs into his fist, dramatising a flattered blush. “What can I say? I’m irresistible to women under three feet tall.”

Jeno adopts his most solemn superhero voice. “Princess, emergency meeting.” He taps his jaw once, her secret signal. She peeks, betrayed by curiosity, but keeps her arms crossed. “I heard rumors,” he continues gravely, “that you’ve been guarding my heart like a real knight. That true?” She nods, dimples threatening to break formation. “Well, I need a brave knight for one day. Think I could borrow you as my bodyguard at the wedding?”

She wrinkles her nose. “What Auntie do?”

“Auntie will be my queen,” he whispers. “And every queen needs a fearless flower girl to lead the way. You’ll throw petals, pink ones, just like you asked, and walk your very own aisle. After that, I’m all yours again. Extra twirls. Extra ice cream. Deal?”

Haeun reaches both arms toward you, tiny fingers opening and closing in invitation, and Jeno willingly passes her over. She settles on your hip with a little huff of importance, thrusting the crayon masterpiece under your nose. “Okay,” she pronounces, solemn as a queen, as if giving you permission, “you can have my boy-fwen.” You smother her apple cheeks with a flurry of kisses, syrup-sweet from juice, until she dissolves into giggles, waving the drawing like proof of her generosity. Only when you pause for breath does she lean back to admire your reaction, dimples flashing, ribbons bouncing. Laughter ripples through the courtyard. 

Jaemin, hands on his hips, shakes his head in mock defeat. “Kid’s already handling love triangles better than I ever could.”

Her drawing makes you gasp. It’s heavier than paper has any right to be, layered in fat crayon strokes, glitter-gel squiggles, and the stubborn pressure of a toddler determined to get every color exactly right. In the center, you and Jeno appear as stick-figure royalty: matching crowns (yours pink and heart-studded, his crooked but sparkling), both in long triangle gowns because princess math insists everyone wears a dress at weddings. To the right stands Haeun herself in a butter-yellow bell dress, brandishing a tiny basket bursting with neon-orange petals. And, because she refuses to imagine any universe without him, a miniature Jaemin smiles beside her, sunflower doodled on his stick-shirt, arms open. The sky is cobalt scribbles; clouds outlined in lilac, “wedding clouds need pwetty colour”; a lopsided sun blasts gold-glitter rays; and the grass is a green zig zag carpet freckled with pink “flower seeds.” Across the top she’s lettered, single-handed, wobbling neon, “To Nono & Aunti.” The “e” flips backward, and the dot over the “i” is an oversized heart.

You bring the masterpiece to your chest, eyes stinging. “Jaemin, did you draw this?”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Me? No way. Some lazy intern from my paediatrics rotation got roped in during rounds.” There’s a flicker of annoyance in his eyes, old habits from being the strictest senior on the ward. “She was supposed to be updating charts, but Haeun threw a tantrum so dramatic that the entire floor could hear her from the nursery. Honestly, her class of interns, they’re abysmal, absolutely no work ethic, no sense of urgency, always getting distracted,” he rolls his eyes, but his tone softens as he continues, “this particular intern caved, dropped to the ward carpet, and spent the next half hour coloring every line and sparkle until Her Highness here was satisfied.” 

He ruffles Haeun’s braid, still feigning exasperation, but there’s something else, a lingering warmth, the tiniest glint of something curious when he says, “the intern called it the most stressful art class of her life; Haeun calls it collaboration. Who knows, maybe she’ll finally learn something important.” There’s an edge to his words, but a softness too, like a door swinging open just a crack, as if something about that particular intern lingers with him in ways he won’t admit yet, a glimpse of a new story just beginning.

Haeun wriggles in your arms, holding your face between her tiny, chubby hands, thumbs stroking clumsily at your cheeks like she’s trying to memorize you. “Auntie, you so pwetty,” she babbles, eyes going moon-wide and earnest, her soft little voice sticky with adoration. “Wanna look just like you! Auntie Rina says my dwess is best but I want your shiny hair.” She beams, then leans in for another syrupy kiss to your cheek, her laughter all hiccups and sunbeams.

You can’t help but look at her, really look, as if you might miss a detail that will vanish by morning. Haeun is almost ethereal in her beauty: cheeks rounded and plush, brushed pink by Bali’s warmth, skin so fair it seems to glow blue-white in the lantern light, untouched by even a single freckle. Her hair is a deep brown so dark it looks black in the shade, each plait tipped with a yellow silk bow that wobbles every time she laughs. She has the heart-shaped face of her mother, a soft, delicate jaw tapering to a pointed chin, rosebud lips parted in perpetual awe, and the tiniest dimple that peeks out only when she grins wide enough to show the gap between her baby teeth. 

And when you really study her, your lips falter—a small, trembling ache—because it’s impossible to deny how identical she is to her mother. The same porcelain skin, the same delicate architecture of her features, the same gentle fullness in her cheeks; only Jaemin’s velvet-brown eyes mark her as his. The resemblance is so strong it takes your breath for a second, a bittersweet rush of memory and marvel. She holds the kind of beauty you want to protect and the kind of innocence you’d cross oceans for. She looks so much older than the baby you first cradled, but her feet still dangle, her wrists are still soft, and there’s an ache in your chest because she is so small, so new, and so heartbreakingly beloved.

Before you can say another word, Haeun’s gaze shifts past your shoulder, drawn to Jaemin’s outstretched arms and the familiar, gentle voice that calls, “Come on, pretty, let’s go see our room. I bet your bows need fixing.” She immediately wriggles to be set down, loyalty absolute; she’ll never not go to her daddy, not for anyone in the world. With a last, gummy smile at you, she toddles over and lets Jaemin scoop her up, small arms looping around his neck. He peppers her cheek with a soft kiss, murmuring, “Did you show Auntie your masterpiece? Are you going to tell me how you’ll dance at the wedding?” Haeun babbles in reply, launching into an excited, tangled story about her dress, the flower petals, and “Nono’s secret spin,” her little voice trailing happily as the two disappear down the villa hallway, shadows stretching long in the golden light.

You’re still watching Jaemin and Haeun vanish down the hall, their laughter and soft babble fading into the sunlit hush, when suddenly Karina barrels into you from the side. Her arms wind tight around your shoulders, cheek pressed to yours, nearly knocking you off your feet. She breathes in like she’s been holding it for months, squeezing until you squeak. “I missed you so much, idiot,” she whispers fiercely, and then pulls back just enough to eye you up and down, mock scandal in her smile. “Honestly, you leave New York for five minutes and now you’re what? Bali bride? Engaged to a fucking NBA star? Was the group chat not dramatic enough for you?”

bubba haeun and dad jaemin swimming 🥺 then she gets some cuddles from jeno and auntie after

Baby Haeun is the sun at the heart of everything, radiating a softness that makes even the grown-ups pause and smile. She’s bundled into a frilly white swimsuit trimmed in sun-yellow ruffles, the tiniest hint of a belly poking out above her floaty waistband. Her wide-brimmed hat, meant to shade her precious cheeks, has slipped sideways so only one ear peeks out, ribbons streaming down her back like beams of sunlight. Her hair, parted in the middle and caught up in two uneven plaits, glistens damp and wild as she toddles along the pool’s edge.

Her cheeks are so round and pink you want to kiss them until she giggles, her mouth a perfect bow that breaks open into shrieking laughter each time Jaemin lifts her into the water. She clutches a pair of pastel paddles in hands still dimply with babyhood, holding them aloft like little trophies. Jaemin hovers near, kneeling with his arms outspread, patience etched into every gentle line of his face. “You got it, angel,” he coaxes, “Show Auntie and Unca Nono how you swim!” Haeun paddles, legs splashing, then glances over her shoulder with that infectious, earnest pride, her eyes wide and dark and glowing.

“Auntie, look! Unca Nono, look me!” she calls, her voice wobbling between command and plea. You blow her a kiss, making a silly cooing sound, and she grins so wide her dimples nearly disappear. She stops mid-splash to press both chubby hands to her cheeks, cheeks now the color of summer apples, and squeals as Jeno claps from his spot on the ledge. You call out, “You’re perfect, my baby flower!” and she beams, happiness sparkling so pure and bright that for a second, you swear the whole pool tilts toward her, every splash and every heart pulled into her orbit, safe, adored, and entirely hers.

You and Jeno claim the best seat by the pool, a double lounger half-shaded by billowing white curtains, tucked so close to the water you can skim your toes along the glassy surface. He’s sprawled behind you, thighs bracketing your hips, his chest bare and golden, skin glossed by sun and salt, abs hard and tempting where you keep reaching back to press your palm. His swim trunks ride scandalously low on his hips, midnight blue, the band barely containing the V that disappears beneath your lazy gaze.

You stretch across his lap, arching into him, the deep sapphire of your own swimsuit cutting high along your hips, sheer panels glimmering dangerously in the afternoon light. The suit is more than an outfit, barely enough fabric, almost nothing at the sides, designed for Jeno’s hands more than the sun. He grins, slow and predatory, as you hand him the bottle of sun cream, already knowing the game.

“Gotta protect what’s mine,” he murmurs, squirting a line of lotion along your spine, pretending to be diligent as his fingers knead slow, worshipful circles down your back, pausing to massage your ass with more interest than is strictly necessary. He lets his palms linger, gripping and squeezing, sun cream an excuse, his thumbs ghosting the outer edge of your tiny, still-secret bump. His voice dips, soft and low for only you to hear: “Our baby’s soaking up all this Bali sun, you feel that? You’re glowing, angel. Can’t wait to see you round and full with our little one.”

You giggle, breath hitching, glancing around at the laughter and chaos elsewhere, but no one notices—not with Mark snoring on Areum, or Haeun shrieking at the other end of the pool. Jeno bends to kiss the nape of your neck, lips dragging over your damp skin, and you writhe a little in his lap, loving the heat and the secret, the thrill of getting away with it. His hands wander, possessive and unhurried, fingers sneaking beneath the edge of your suit as he palms your belly and cups your breast, sun cream slick and cool under his touch. “Stay still,” he teases, voice like a promise, “unless you want me to make a scene.” But it’s impossible—you’re practically sitting on him, laughter caught in your throat as he keeps touching you, as if the world exists only for this: a tangle of sun, sweat, and whispered confessions, the two of you building a secret language right there by the water, skin to skin, heartbeat to heartbeat, unbothered and wild and utterly, blindingly alive.

Jeno’s hands grow bolder, slicking another palmful of sun cream over your ass, slow, teasing circles that have you squirming in his lap, half-hidden by the towel draped over your hips. He laughs under his breath, voice all honeyed sin, his fingers slipping between your thighs, tracing lazy, possessive lines up your skin. “You’re such a mess for me,” he murmurs, voice pitched low, one hand cupping your tiny bump, the other gripping your ass in a way that’s anything but innocent. The cold lotion makes you gasp, then dissolve into giggles, but his touch never falters, he’s perfectly at ease, like worshipping your body in public is the most natural thing in the world.

You arch back against his chest, your giggles half breathless, half scandalized as he tucks you closer, fingers slipping beneath the curve of your suit, massaging your stomach with broad, reverent strokes. “Can’t wait till you’re showing, angel. You’re gonna have to keep your belly out for me every day. You’ll be the hottest mama at this villa.” He nuzzles your ear, biting softly, just as your laughter hiccups out again, a bright, wild sound lost under the splashing and distant music.

Across the pool, Karina’s eyes narrow behind her sunglasses as she spots the scene, her gaze flicking to the curve of Jeno’s hand on your hip, the way you melt against him. She snorts, mutters something to Areum, and shakes her head with affectionate exasperation, but she lets it go, after all, this is you and Jeno, and she knows better than anyone how you are when you’re happy. You’re lucky, you think, to have found a pocket of privacy in all this chaos. Mark’s out cold, his hat pulled low, mouth open as he snores against Areum’s legs. No one else is paying attention, the rest of your friends lost in their own sun-drunk moments. And you, flat-stomached, glowing, your secret held safe beneath the slick shine of Jeno’s hands, are free to let yourself be loved, touched and worshipped, right here in the open, without a single worry in the world.

It’s easy to lose yourself in Jeno’s hands, in the sun and the hush and the slip of sun cream on skin, but nothing in this villa stays private for long. You’re just about to lean back and steal another secret kiss, Jeno’s lips warm against your neck, when a shadow looms behind you. Suddenly, Mark’s voice booms, much too close, much too loud: “Damn, Jeno, you seem really fond of her stomach these days.”

You yelp, nearly launching out of Jeno’s lap, and the half-melted cocktail in your hand sloshes straight onto Jeno’s thigh. He hisses, then barks out a laugh, clutching at your hips as if to keep you from levitating. “Jesus, Mark—give us a warning next time!” You smack Mark’s arm with your towel, cheeks burning.

Mark just grins, hat tipped back, eyes wickedly amused. “What? I just came to see if you left any sun cream for the rest of us. You’re out here greasing her up like a rotisserie chicken.”

Jeno wipes the cocktail off his leg, glaring but unable to stop his own smile. “Yeah, I’m putting on sunscreen, genius. I don’t want my wife getting sunburnt before her wedding day.”

Mark narrows his eyes, smirk deepening as he takes in your glistening skin. “She’s so oiled already, I’m surprised you haven’t slipped off the lounger.”

You grab a slice of pineapple from the table and hurl it at his chest. “Go back to drooling on Areum’s ass, you idiot!”

Mark catches the fruit midair, bows in mock chivalry, and shrugs. “Can you blame me? Best seat in Bali.” He flashes you both a heart with his fingers and shuffles away, hat crooked, laughter trailing behind him.

Jeno just shakes his head, pulling you back onto his lap, his hands resuming their soft, sneaky worship. “Remind me to book a honeymoon somewhere Mark can’t find us.” You giggle, letting yourself melt back into his touch, the perfect, wild chaos of your friends, your secret, and the sun-washed pool swirling together in the golden Bali air.

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

You’re mid-kiss, Jeno’s mouth gliding over yours, his hand slipping lower, heat winding tight and easy between your bodies, when a tiny, damp shadow suddenly appears by your lounger, her voice a bubble of honey and hope.

“Auntie?” You break away, startled, lips still tingling, only to see Haeun standing at your knees, dripping water, cheeks flushed and eyes wide. She stretches her arms up, curls wiggling and clinging to her hat, little hands opening and closing in that unspoken demand: up, up, up.

You laugh, breathless and exasperated, brushing a strand of hair from your eyes. “Hi, baby. Are you finished swimming, beautiful?” Haeun nods so hard her hat slips sideways, and you scoop her into your arms, nestling her close. Her swimsuit clings to her little body, ruffles squashed, and her skin is warm from the sun, slick with the faintest traces of chlorine and sweetness.

She snuggles into you, babbling in a rush, words tumbling over each other: “Daddy let me big swim! Water so cold, Auntie, and I see bug, bug in water! I twirl, Unca Nono say I’m flower, Daddy say I splash too much but he so silly, and Rina say I wear my pwetty dress later, and I wanna see!” Her voice hiccups with excitement, hands flailing as you dry her off, peppering her face and neck with kisses until she giggles and shrieks, “No more! Only nose kisses!” You obey, pressing a kiss to her nose, eyes crinkling as she dissolves into shy giggles.

You listen, nodding solemnly, mirroring her every gesture and gasp, your fingers gently untangling her wet hair, your heart full and aching. You tickle her belly, coaxing more laughter, and smooth her hat so it sits straight again. “You’re the bravest, prettiest flower I’ve ever seen, Haeun. And you smell like the sun,” you tease, nuzzling her soft, damp cheek.

Jeno watches you from just inches away, his gaze molten, every line of his face unguarded. His eyes follow the curve of your arms, the way you cradle Haeun, the softness in your voice as you answer every question and listen like there’s nothing else in the world. You don’t even notice how he’s looking at you, how wild his eyes go, how something raw and fierce rises in him, a hunger that knots together love, pride, and want in a way that nearly undoes him. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, palm sliding to your belly, and leans close, his voice a whisper meant for your ear alone: “You’re going to ruin me, you know that? Watching you like this—fuck, I don’t even know how to breathe.”

Haeun tugs your hand and you focus back on her, but you feel the charge in the air, the promise in Jeno’s touch, the way the universe seems to shrink down to just this, your girl in your arms, your lover at your side, and a world that feels too full of love to ever be real.

Haeun’s voice tumbles into soft babbles as the excitement fades, eyelids drooping, curls damp and heavy against your shoulder. She yawns, a sound like a kitten’s sigh, snuggling closer until her little nose buries into the crook of your neck, one sticky hand clutching at your swimsuit strap, the other clutching her faded bunny plush. You rock her gently, brushing stray wisps of hair from her forehead, and kiss her temple again and again until she finally gives in to sleep, cheeks flushed and lips parted in utter trust.

Jeno, quiet and golden beside you, leans over with a look you’ll never forget and tucks a light muslin blanket around the two of you, careful to cover Haeun’s legs and your own bare shoulders. His palm lingers at your waist, warm and grounding, his mouth brushing your hair as he murmurs against Haeun’s forehead, “Sleep well, my angel.” You curl instinctively into his side, your body a shelter for the little one sprawled across your lap, your heart thudding with a fierce tenderness that nearly makes you dizzy.

The villa is still spinning with laughter, Areum shrieking as Mark, finally fully awake, pushes her into the pool, Ryujin running interference with trays of fresh fruit, Shotaro snapping photos as Chenle and Ningning bicker about who makes the best cannonball. In the shade, Karina sketches another wild idea for your honeymoon dresses, and Jaemin, ever the quiet anchor, sits just opposite, a gentle sentinel in the soft shade. He watches Haeun curled up in your arms, cheeks squished against your chest, hair mussed from both pool and pillow, and feels the rare peace that settles when the world finally feels safe for his girl. He catches your eye, gives a small, conspiratorial thumbs-up, one meant just for you, a silent code for I see you, and it’s perfect, and maybe a little I’m still the only one who knows just how much more love you’re carrying beneath that swimsuit.

Jaemin glances to Jeno, the two of you so naturally tangled together it makes him want to laugh, and he feels an almost ridiculous giddiness bloom in his chest: relief that the truth is out, that Jeno finally knows, that for once, all the right people are let in on the secret. He’s almost giddy that the burden isn’t his alone to carry anymore, that he doesn’t have to watch what he says, doesn’t have to hover and shield and overcompensate, not when the man beside you knows exactly what’s at stake. But instead of getting up, he lets himself breathe. He stretches his legs, leans his head back, and just watches his daughter—so peaceful, so blissfully at ease—and lets the afternoon lull him too, content to take a rare moment for himself. There’s a fullness in his chest, part pride, part gratitude, as if the future might really be as good as this. For now, he doesn’t need to be anyone’s doctor, or guardian, or secret-keeper. He’s just a dad, at peace, with everyone he loves within arm’s reach, and the sound of your laughter blending with Haeun’s sleepy breathing is all the proof he needs that everything—finally—feels right.

Hours pass in a honeyed haze, the kind of slow-drifting time that feels spun from another world. You’ve barely moved, still wrapped up on the lounger with Jeno’s chest as your pillow, his arms a fortress around you. Haeun remains between your bodies, her head pressed beneath your chin, tiny fingers still curling around the edge of your bikini. Your breaths rise and fall in sync, hers soft and fluttery, lips parting now and then with a dreaming coo. Your own cheek rests on the crown of her head, as if you can shield her from even the sun, the two of you nested so close it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. Jeno’s heartbeat thunders under your ear, his hand sliding absently over your waist, the edge of your bump, every touch saying mine.

haeun’s flower girl dress

And at the very front, almost as if it’s guarding your own, sits Haeun’s dress, a confection of innocence and sunlit dreams. It’s pure white, the shade of milk-glass and morning clouds, with layers of the softest tulle that fan out in gentle waves, light as breath and just as fleeting. The bodice is sweetly fitted, scattered with tiny yellow embroidered daisies and delicate bows, Karina’s loving touch, knowing yellow is her secret favorite even if she can’t say it yet. Sleeves puff out like tiny wings, ending in ruffled cuffs that just kiss her wrists, and the back is tied with a silken ribbon in the palest yellow, matching the bow on her beloved bunny’s ear.

Her dress isn’t stiff or fussy, it’s designed for play and twirling, made to catch every sunbeam, every giggle, every secret she might whisper into her father’s shoulder. Beside the mannequin, a tiny pair of white ballet flats wait on a silk pillow, while above, a set of matching butterfly clips, identical to the ones she wears in her hair, are perched like little guardians, promising she’ll flutter down the aisle as the brightest joy in the room. The whole ensemble radiates that impossible sweetness, the kind only found in little girls who believe in magic, and the room feels hushed, as if even the sunlight is waiting to see her take her first step in it.

Your breath catches, tears prickling hot at your lashes as you take in the sight of Haeun, her cheeks still rosy from sleep, eyes round and puffy, lips pursed in a tiny, stubborn pout. You try to blink it away but your eyes glisten anyway, a soft giggle escaping you despite yourself at her darling face and the way she stands, fists balled at her sides, so small but so determined. She’d been roused gently from her nap by Jaemin, and though she’s still half in a dream, she looks up at the three of you in awe, as if she’s stumbled into something secret and sacred—and, in her own way, knows she belongs there too.

She toddles closer to the mannequin, blinking up at the dress, and then glances at Karina for permission to touch, her lashes heavy, her words a slurry of sleep and awe. “Is mine?” she babbles, voice barely above a whisper. Karina nods, then she gasps, tiny fingers tracing the soft tulle as she claps, but her brows furrow and her face crumples into confused worry. “Where my other dwess? My… yellow one. It’s in Daddy’s suitcase,” she mumbles, the syllables smushed together, bottom lip sticking out in protest. “My yellow is favorite, Rina.”

Karina drops to her knees beside her, gently brushing Haeun’s braids back from her face, her smile soft and knowing. “But baby, you’re the main event. You get two dresses—one for walking down the aisle, one for dancing and twirling. Only the most special girls get that, you know?”

Haeun’s pout vanishes, her whole face lighting up as she claps and bounces on her heels, silk ribbons bobbing with her excitement. “Show Daddy!” she squeals, voice rising in delight. “Show Daddy my dwesses!” The sweetness of it breaks something wide open inside you, a giddy, glimmering joy that wells up in a sniffle, a giggle, a grateful ache for everything you get to witness and hold in this moment.

Haeun takes Areum’s hand in her own, chubby fingers clutching tight, and tugs with all the eager insistence of a girl who knows her moment has come. “Show Daddy, show Daddy—come on!” she chirps, her voice bright as bells. She darts from the room at full tilt, Areum swept along in her wake, laughter trailing behind them like ribbons as they disappear down the hall. Suddenly, the door swings shut, leaving you alone with Karina in the hush of the sunlit bridal room. All at once, the world seems to narrow to this tender blue-and-gold sanctuary, every detail catching the late morning light. The dresses glow on their mannequins, quiet guardians of the day to come, while the air itself shimmers, heavy with promise, a hush that feels like blessing settling over the two of you.

!!!! i do just think you should read bty. don’t have the FOMO.

[try-set-me-on-fire]

Hii 💕💕💕

Tell me more about

- bad weather

- Buck grief breakdown with Phillip there

- ❤️🪐

Bad Weather is yet ANOTHER grief fic sdfghjk but not specifically a Buck breakdown so not listed as such. Concept: the summer after Bobby dies there are a bunch of unseasonable storms and Eddie is sleeping really badly but cant remember his dreams. Buck is doing bad and okay and bad and okay. They fight! They make up. They do chores at 3 am. Eddie finally admits he does remember what the dreams are about but Buck has kind of figured it out already (Eddie sleeps especially badly the nights it storms, maybe its conceited of buck to assume but its gotta be the lightning strike, right?) and they kiss about it. Here’s a little bit!

Part of the thing about insomnia is how goddamn boring it is. Torture, of such a mundane, shouldn’t-be-this-bad sort. Eddie lays in his bed as rain hits the roof and stares at the ceiling like if he looks hard enough he’ll evaporate the drops through the beams and shingles and thinks sleep, please sleep, please SLEEP as it feels like his eyeballs are lighting themselves on fire in protest of- all of this. He almost screams when he looks over at his alarm clock and another hour has crept by, silent and exhausting, and he can’t stay still and horizontal one more second.

Buck finds him in the bathroom, holding a caulk gun and looking, probably, deranged. He observes the bathtub, where Eddie is hunched but hasn’t actually done anything yet.

“You gotta clean that first,” he says, nodding to where tub meets tile and opening the high up cabinet where they keep cleaning supplies. “Or you’re just gonna trap mildew in.”

Already posted a bit of Phillip fic here ! Still kind of sorting it all out in my mind but yeah… want to explore an angry, sullen, not willing to deal with his issues but still overwhelmed by them Buck who’s purposefully avoiding his family to kind of stay in the mire of all these problems instead of moving past them, and who’s there in the pit with him but his own father who did this so hard for so long Buck didnt know he had a brother till he was 30. Not a recipe for success, maybe… but they’ll get somewhere I think….

[corvusalbus93]

Oh, I remember us touching on this conversation after Astarion’s siblings vanish, in some posts a while back.

As a player I was disappointed and annoyed, because of the character development so far, especially in the second half of Act 2. Of course, taking a step back, like you said OP, it makes perfect sense he’s regressing at this point in the story, for all the reasons you’ve listed.

Of course any Tav, doesn’t quite have the luxury of taking the cosy outsider’s view, looking at everything and every possible dialogue tree at their own pace, so I pictured Nizana specifically, as the Tav romancing him, quite frustrated. Angry even. Deeply hurt above all perhaps that he would use her and her feelings for him like this.

This is not a happy Nizana:

I figured she sees him not only falling back into old patterns, but actively trying to manipulate, guilt-tripping her into doing something that goes against her very nature. Sacrificing souls to a devil, not limited to, but including the spawns. Astarion only ever speaks of his siblings, but Raphael very clearly said “including”. We and our characters (should) already know it’s more than seven.

I honestly can’t say which dialogue branch is the worst; he comes across as manipulative in all.

Astation: You're not getting sentimental, are you? I thought you were with me on this. Tav: I just want you to be happy.

Astarion: Then you help me in this. Nothing would make me happier.

Back when I first played this, I wasn’t sure how his questline would continue, I had seen some context-less clips here and there, but was mostly blind. At that point, my thoughts were: “This is going to strain their relationship so much... I think they might break up.” I was seriously considering to roleplay a break up, if I felt the relationship didn’t make sense anymore. It really depended on how things continued.

And let’s imagine for a moment Astarion could have done the rite without help. Like even if turning into a full vampire didn’t bring out the worst in him and amplify it, if Astarion’s personality hadn’t changed at all afterwards – I still think Nizana would have broken up with him for doing something so morally abhorrent.

Even as players, getting to Rivington & BG can be a bit overwhelming with all the quests vying for your attention, everyone reminding you of how there is little time until the brain breaks free and I figured it wouldn’t be better for a Tav unaware of a player’s quicksave-powers.

After all, this conflict isn’t happening in a vacuum; there is so much else going on simultaneously that Tav has so manage... and look, Lae’zel/(insert alternative party member) just got kidnapped by Orin. So, my interpretation of this and the later post spawn-attack dialogue was that it was make-or-break for their relationship, with both on edge & stressed, both sides desperate to sway the other. Juicy, narrative drama – heartbreaking to roleplay.

This moment in the conversation they had after meeting Pale Petras and Dalyria at Fraygo's Flophouse was very frustrating for me, to be honest.

Not in a bad way, more like: “ohh what are you doing?!” ٩(๑`^´๑)۶

Last time I played I probably didn’t check all the lines, but now that I found this branch I need to vent a little.

If you suggest Astarion to just run away he (understandably) argues he doesn’t want to spend eternity as a fugitive, constantly fearing the shadows. And this ritual might allow him to walk under the sun, even after they deal with the tadpoles. But then…

Astarion: And you want what’s best for me, surely.

Just look at his eyes. He is being so obviously manipulative with this line it feels like a stab, especially after everything they’ve been through.

And yes, he says something similar in other branches, too. But this particular phrase sounded the worst to me, especially with that look in his eyes.

Look at her face – she’s not having it too.

But here… I think he understands this as well.

But he can’t help falling into safety of the familiar patterns he’s been using for so long. He is back in the city where everything remind him of his life before. He has just had to face his siblings. And his old self reflected in them. He is back under Cazador’s suffocating presence. The inevitable final confrontation is right ahead.

And the pressure he’s under is immense. He wants to be safe, to be powerful and free. Maybe even to be able to give something back to the person he loves.

He has barely started his path to the healing, but this all is too much too soon.

It hurts to see him like that. Maybe I should be angry. And yet – I just can’t hold it against him. Not when I see where it’s coming from.

I’m sure Roanael knows that too, and she’ll just keep being there and asking the right questions, gently reminding Astarion that there’s another path – the one that leads to light, not darkness.

[pissvortex]

You: Hey man check it out, the old project car i’ve been working on is coming along 🤳

Steam email in your notifications: Hey TwinkpilledGarfield,

A TF2 crate you listed in the Community Market in 2013 has been sold to Racist Hitler. Your Steam Wallet has been credited 0.03 USD.

[adornself]

[pickleslice]