percy-loves-bluewaffles

[tsunagite]

I was suppose to finish this like 4 days ago but I got distracted by a particular game

Anyways, uniforms of the Guest Reception. Something something for even grounds in fights (since with someone like Glaciaxion, who generally wears armor bc of the whole “exploring winter wastelands” stuff, it might be a bit unfair). And also because sometimes, I’m just lazy to draw a character’s clothes.

The only exception who doesn’t have to wear the uniform is Distorted Fate bc… yeah.

[bibluebutterfly]

Hoo boy. Now I've made it known multiple times on my blog that I LOATHE the whoobiefication of Vox, but lets get into why/how Vox is NOT a good person nor a baby that needs protecting and why he's all the better for it. Buckle up ladies and gentlemen, this will be long.

Now, why isn't Vox a good person? Easy. Because he (along with the other Vees) is supposed to be the bad guy of the story. Shocking, I know. Vox was NEVER intended to be a good person, and some of y'all just need to accept that.

Now for the long part: HOW is he not a good person?

Well, first of all, his literal introduction is an ad selling drones HE DESIGNED specifically for stalking,"peeping on the neighbors has never been more stylish"

Right off the bat, this tells us he doesn't care about people unless he can profit off them.

Which is also backed up by the point that he ADVERTISES Val and Vels "love potions" which are basically just roofies.

Again. This man ONLY cares about profit first and foremost, screw the people who can get hurt/SA'd by his products.

Next, he has a power of hypnosis which he is NOT hesitant to use. He can take away someones free will at a glance and uses that to his full advantage.

He's also very willing to give Val his lowest earners to shoot. Notice that he does so with no hesitance and no regret.

Also, (and most significantly) he's a huge, HUGE enabler. This guy has cameras EVERYWHERE, ESPECIALLY when Valentino is involved. He's got cameras in Val's room, Angels old room, at Vals corner of the club (which moves when Val does), there's NO WAY he DOESN'T know that Val is a r@pist.

And DESPITE that, he still sleeps with the man, is very likely in love with him, and oh yeah, FUNDS HIS WHOLE DEAL. The cameras Val uses are Voxtech cameras.

Val may be the one who does the dirty work but Vox willingly and knowingly makes a profit off of that. He doesn’t just know and do nothing, he actively HELPS Val out and obviously has no second thoughts nor regrets about it.

This is not a look of disgust or discontent, this is fondness. Genuine fondness. For Valentino. As a PERSON. Let that sink in.

There’s also the implications that Vox is jealous of the attention Angel gets from Val. Angel gets abused constantly by Val, Vox KNOWS, and still hates Angel because of the sheer fact that he takes up so much of Vals attention.

Not to mention the HEAVY implications that he gets off on watching people suffer.

“Well Vox can still do better than Val!!”

While I’m at it, I guess I should bring up the fact that BOTH Vox and Val are MASSIVE red flags.

With Val, aside from the obvious, he’s also a huge attention whore for Vox and isn’t afraid to break Vox’s property if Vox doesn’t pay attention to him. Yeah Vox gets frustrated with him, who wouldn’t be when their lover is throwing temper tantrums every other day?

With Vox, again, aside from the obvious, isn’t afraid to handle Val roughly when he’s mad, and literally screams about how watching his arch nemesis/obsession get the crap beat out of him is better than sex. Right in front of Val by the way. In regular circumstances, 9.98/10 that’s gonna get your ass dumped in a second.

Not to mention the mutual condescension ation towards each other.

And as much as fans (including myself admittedly) like to shit on Val for being a man child, Vox is literally no better.

Plus the explosive tempers.

Seriously. Vox LITERALLY cannot do better than Val. Vox is the only one who can put up with Vals BS and vice versa.

OH YEAH and lets not forget one last thing: VOX ALSO ABUSES HIS OWN EMPLOYEES.

This dude is scared of him, and it’s NOT because he’s worried about getting fired.

So yes. Vox is not nor HAS EVER been a good person.

And for me personally, I love that. I love that he’s entertaining yet awful. I love his dynamic with Alastor, and I love his relationship with Val even more.

If you’re wondering why I personally love Staticmoth, it’s because basic couple rules do not apply to them. They’re both toxic narcissistic red flags and therefore they can be as awful as they want to each other, and the other will simply shake it off. Yet there’s still heavy trust between the two (never being scared of each other) and they still have little moments together where they’re genuinely happy. It’s unique, and something I’ve never seen in media before.

Basically, if you liked Vox better when you thought he was a poor little baby being abused by Val, read a fan fiction. There’s a lot of them out there.

But people really just need to accept the fact that he’s an awful person. Always has been. He’s not better than Val by ANY means. He and Val are both evil pricks who deserve each other.

And guess what? LIKING AN EVIL CHARACTER DOES NOT MEAN YOU SUPPORT THEIR CHOICES. IT’S OKAY TO LIKE VOX EVEN IF HE IS EVIL.

But don’t go on saying that Vox was “ruined” as a character when all signs have always pointed to him being terrible.

[chimcess]

Nachash || jhs

Pairing: Hoseok x Reader (ft. Taehyung) Genre: Supernatural AU, Demon!Hoseok, Med Student!Reader, Smut, One night stand, Angst, Horror AU, Incubus! Hoseok, 90s AU, Yandere!AU Rating: 18+ (don’t interact if you’re a minor) Word Count: 21.4k+ Summary: After the loss of both of her parents, Y/N decided to sell their home in Florida and move back to New York City, a place that she has little memories of despite 10 years of living in Harlem. Her world begins to shift, and she starts to lose sight of dreams and reality, and at the center of it all is Hoseok, a sweet man who gives her a strange sense of deja vu, but she can’t help but wonder if he is who he says he is and why a strange bar keeps popping up in her nightmares. Warnings: Strong language, bad medical terminology (I tried), Hoseok has a demon side (like physically different), main character (somewhat) death (graphic), graphic violence, reader slowly losing her mind, heavy religious themes in a large chunk of this, explicit sexual content, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, manhandling, hard dom Hoseok, so much blood, low-key a yandere but not really, blood play, blood drinking, begging for life, extreme emotional manipulation, growling, over stimulation, unprotected sex (wrap it up), DARK ENDING, dubious consent (mind control/mood control/literally cannot leave Hoseok's presence), reader is severely mentally ill by the end of this, demonic possession, Stockholm syndrome, this is not a cute demon romance, read at your own risk, stopping here since there’s a lot just let me know if I missed anything A/N: After posting a teaser for this fic two years ago, I finally got around to finishing it! I’m still working on my smut skills, so I apologize in advance, but I hope you can get down with my favorite (and extremely evil) demon man. Happy Halloween (or, to my fellow Pagans, Happy Samhain)!

Prologue || Listen to the Playlist || Cross posted on AO3: here

Nachash (noun) "snake; serpent". Derived from the Hebrew root n-ch-sh.

July 1997

"How are you feeling?"

I sighed, pulling open another box. Unpacking was always the worst part of moving, like some cosmic joke designed to break you down piece by piece. Plates stared back at me from the box, and I clenched my jaw. The one on top was chipped—another thing on my growing list of replacements. I pulled it out and set it aside, determined to deal with it later. The rest of the plates went away in the cabinet. The broken one would be tossed.

"I don't know," I confessed. "Mom died. I'm everywhere."

My brother's hum of acknowledgment was all I heard. Miles had always been a quiet, distant sort, barely speaking to our parents. Their deaths hit him hard, but more so with Dad than Mom. Dad had been the stable one, while Mom was a relentless storm—never satisfied, constantly pushing, always demanding. To her, a doctor and a lawyer weren't enough. Miles had always seen her as aggressive, unyielding, and ever discontented. And Dad? Well, his complacency had its own way of grating.

Miles had moved to Oregon right after graduating from FSU, never looking back. We'd made the trek to see him a few times, but he'd never returned the favor. My stint in New York had mended our relationship somewhat. He visited frequently and spent his summers with me, and after Dad passed, he made a point to see Mom at least once a year. I didn't mind the trips to Portland; my Jacksonville home had become his family's vacation spot.

"So am I," he said, his voice betraying a hint of fatigue.

They'd been at each other's throats, arguing constantly, with his wife loathing Mom. Yet, I knew Miles held some affection for her despite their tumultuous relationship. He'd never truly made her proud, and that haunted him. I understood, but when I moved back home, the dynamics shifted. Mom used me as a weapon against Miles, making me the favored child, the one who came back. Miles was the ungrateful one who'd married the wrong woman.

Mom always blamed Trinity for Miles' "bad attitude." Dad knew better. I knew better.

"So," Miles shifted gears, "when can we come and visit?"

I smiled, "I'll be out there for Thanksgiving and Christmas. So maybe next summer?"

"That's a long wait."

I chuckled, "Well, Rory starts school this year and Trinity's pregnant. You're just as busy as I am."

I'd been the one with the most on my plate for years. Mom, a real estate agent, rarely left home, while Dad ran a plumbing company. When Miles went to college, I was knee-deep in medical school applications. During my residency, Miles was grinding through law school. When I moved back to Florida, I was buried in ICU shifts while he graduated and started his own practice. He met Trinity, and the two became inseparable. Mom despised her, but I saw how they brought out the best in each other. My career-driven life had left me disconnected, and while Mom reveled in it, I resented it.

Kids changed everything for them. Aurora was their miracle baby. Trinity had struggled with fertility for years, and when they finally had a child, it was as if their world had transformed. My brother was spent, and Mom's resentment boiled over. She was always bitter that they hadn't uprooted their lives back to Florida for the grandchild. By then, Miles didn't care. He'd made the trips for Dad but after Mom's cruel comments about Trinity's weight and their daughter being "too pretty" to be her granddaughter, Aurora never set foot in the family home again.

"Aurora is driving me crazy," Miles groaned. "She won't stop talking about the baby."

"As a big sister, I can tell you she's just being a normal kid."

"I know that," I could almost hear his eye roll. "I'm just worried. It's still early, and I don't want her hopes to get too high. Trinity's scared of another miscarriage."

It would be her sixth.

"Try to stay positive, bub," I bit my lip, surveying the cluttered room. I'd never finish today. "If it happens, it happens. But don't go into it expecting the worst."

"Between Mom and this…" He trailed off.

I understood his fear. Trinity was a few years older than me, and her anxiety was palpable. At 38, any pregnancy brought its own set of worries. Last I heard, Trinity was considering getting her tubes tied if this one didn't make it. The heartache was becoming unbearable.

"Hey," I kept my tone gentle, knowing that riling him up wouldn't help. "Keep your head up. Her next appointment is soon. Ensure she's sticking to bedrest, and you'll be fine."

"What if it happens again?"

My heart broke for him. Miles had always been the rock, the one who seemed unshakeable. Seeing him this vulnerable starkly contrasted with the angry kid he'd been in high school. Mom had pushed his buttons mercilessly, and I had vague memories of our squabbles, but they paled compared to the constant battles he faced with her.

I wondered if he ever grasped how I felt. He always thought Mom liked me more, but it was more about her being able to overlook me. While he fought for her attention, nothing I did ever really mattered. It was like a fog followed me, obscuring me from their view. Sometimes, it would lift, and Mom would acknowledge me, but then it would return, and I was forgotten.

"You'll get through it," I assured him.

We chatted a bit more. Aurora was excited about kindergarten and had picked out new uniforms. She was obsessed with Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, and her new backpack reflected that. She'd even given her Prince Wednesday stuffed animal to the baby. It was everyday family life, but the emptiness in my chest grew. I longed for laughter and the innocent joy of children in my home.

"Trinity's calling me," Miles said, his voice muffled by distance.

"I'll talk to you later. Love you."

"Love you too, sissy."

I smiled faintly, "Later."

He hung up before I could say anything else. I glanced around the room, eyes narrowing at the boxes that seemed to taunt me with their mere existence. All of them were my own—mainly books, a few other odds and ends. The sadness that gripped me was relentless. I'd always had the most demanding job, the tightest schedule, and the deepest insecurities. Miles was angry, and I was desperate to be seen, so much so that I followed every command without question. Now, here I was, alone, surrounded by regret.

Dating felt like a cruel joke. My time in New York had alienated me more than anything else. That fog of invisibility from my childhood had returned with a vengeance. Coworkers would barely look at me for over a second; people on the street seemed oblivious to my presence and dates. They always ended badly. They weren't evil men but would forget my name within seconds. It felt like I wasn't real, like I existed on some other plane.

The only person who seemed to remember I existed anymore was my brother and his family. Dad's Alzheimer's had robbed him of any memory of us before he passed. Mom, too incoherent at Hospice, never stayed awake long enough to acknowledge my presence. Sometimes, it felt like Miles would momentarily forget me, only for my name to pop into his mind at predictable intervals—like clockwork, only calling on specific days and times, usually if he was planning a trip. It upset me more than I could recall, but now I wondered why.

"This place won't unpack itself," I muttered aloud.

I'd talked to myself so much it felt almost normal. I knew I needed to make friends, that without connections, I'd end up as lonely as my father, but the idea seemed futile. No one saw me clearly. No one ever had. When I searched my memories for anyone who had seen me, I came up empty. No one had ever really seen me. No one ever would. Instinctively, I knew this despite the facade of normalcy I tried to maintain. I had a job, a family, a house. I wasn't haunted. Or… maybe I was just being childish. I was simply forgettable, unremarkable. This I knew.

"I exist," I whispered, the words reverberating loudly in the stillness of my apartment.

The silence that pervaded my life mocked me with its omnipresence.

"How the hell do you get lost in a bar?"

"It's a lounge, sha," came a voice behind me.

What a peculiar dream. I took a bite of my sandwich, returning to the rude awakening that morning. I rarely remembered my dreams, if I had them at all. But last night had been different. I'd found myself in a dimly lit room with a man I couldn't recall clearly, dressed in white and speaking with an accent I couldn't place. I woke up before anything significant happened. The dream had been woefully uneventful.

The floor was almost eerily quiet tonight. Aside from the constant beeps and monitors scattered around and George Gilmore in room 11 watching football, no one spoke. The nurses here seemed less lively than I was accustomed to, their faces vacant, their words few. I kept to my small office most of the night, avoiding their station.

We'd had one death so far—a patient with a DNR who suffered a stroke shortly after midnight. Another woman had been pronounced brain-dead an hour ago. We'd wait until tomorrow to pull the plug, so her daughter could say goodbye. I didn't count her in my tally. The night crew had a way of seeing me even less than the others, and I didn't like them much.

"Hello, Doctor."

I jumped, startled. At least he had the decency to look sheepish. My irritation took me by surprise. I wasn't typically agitated; my feelings were either muted or overwhelming. He pushed his hair back, revealing messy chocolate brown locks, and held a clipboard stained with dubious marks.

"Sorry," he mumbled, shifting awkwardly under my gaze. I was already weary of his presence. "I was told you were new and thought I should introduce myself before leaving for the night. I'm Damon Glass, one of the anesthesiologists."

"Y/N Y/L/N," I replied, my voice flat and uninviting. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," he smiled, showing a gap between his front teeth that reminded me of my father's. It was a rare sight among people my age. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to come to me. Dr. Whitlock is on the floor, and I believe Morgan Fletcher is on call."

I nodded, appreciating the information but ready for him to leave. My distaste had faded, but I preferred brevity in conversations, especially with outsiders. I disliked the feeling of interacting with them. It was why I preferred dealing with the nearly dead; they rarely spoke, and when they did, I knew they'd be too medicated to remember much. The families were more accessible to handle than the ones back in Florida.

It was odd how my thoughts could veer into such morbid territories. Almost as morbid as my enjoyment of overseeing dying patients. It was not as macabre as my unbidden glee at my mother's death alongside my brother, but it ranked high on my list of flaws.

"Have a good night," I said, returning to my computer to refresh my emails.

Dr. Glass seemed to take the hint, leaving with an awkward smile and wave.

August 1997

I stood outside the door, the muffled sounds of grief seeping through the walls like a relentless, jagged current. The family's sorrow was palpable, a heavy fog that followed me down the hallway. I hoped to catch them in a better moment, but the cruel truth of this place was that better moments were rare. With a resigned breath, I raised my hand and knocked. The room fell silent, and a strained voice called out, allowing me to enter.

Elizabeth Fraiser had lived a life filled with grace and elegance. Once a dancer whose feet had carried her across Europe's stages, she met her husband in Paris and married him there. They had settled in New York, where her days of ballet had given way to a quieter role as a ballet instructor in Jersey. She had raised a family, and her pride in her children was as evident as her passion for dance. She spoke of them with a joy that contrasted sharply with the emptiness of my own mother's words.

Now, Elizabeth was in the late stages of lung cancer. Her family had clung to the hope of letting her pass away at home, but the relentless pneumonia and ceaseless pain had pushed them to make the difficult decision to admit her here. Her condition had worsened sharply today, and her family was struggling to cope with the harsh reality.

"Good afternoon," I said softly, a gentle murmur in the oppressive silence.

"Nice to see you," Elizabeth's oldest son, Elijah, managed a weak smile. We both knew he wasn't fond of doctors, but he tolerated me because I didn't overstay my welcome. "Mom's been sleeping for a while."

I stifled a sigh. Her body was crumbling, and delivering bad news was never easy. The small comfort was knowing she would soon feel nothing at all. We planned to increase her morphine dosage and withdraw all other medications. Her family would need to agree, but I wasn't too concerned. Mary, her daughter, had debated extending her mother's life with her brothers.

"We're really at the end, aren't we?" Mary's voice was strained, her husband's arm around her for support. Among them, she was the calmest, but the edges of her composure were frayed. Her eyes were red, testimony to her unrelenting tears. "Will she be in pain?"

I explained our focus on alleviating her suffering. She would be less coherent in the coming days but occasionally rouse enough to interact with them between doses. We aimed to ensure she had the utmost comfort and relief in her final days. The youngest Percy took the news hardest and had to excuse himself. I held Mary's hand, appreciating the warmth of human connection. I prided myself on my bedside manner.

"I know home care wasn't ideal for you," I broached delicately, aware of their crowded lives and young children. "But I'm offering it as an option. Respite care is also available, though I understand it was stressful before. It's worth discussing."

Elijah shook his head firmly. Mary hesitated, but her husband's reminder to care for herself and their baby swayed her. Percy's wife raised concerns about her own health, cementing the decision. Elizabeth would remain with us in her final days. It was probably for the best—she was too frail and in too much agony without constant medication.

"Let me know if you need anything," I said, glancing at the family. The nurses are always available, and I'm on call until six. Is there anything I can get you before I leave?"

"Mom needs a bath," Percy reentered the room. A nurse had come by earlier, asking if we were ready to step out. Let them know they could come in."

The rest of my shift dragged on. Other families were terse and uncommunicative, and their responses were minimal. I understood their grief, but it did little to ease my weary spirit. The nurses seemed as disinterested in me as ever. I had long since given up trying to connect with them.

The air outside was crisp, almost biting. I walked to the subway, the city traffic too maddening to endure. I'd trade bumper-to-bumper frustration for the quirks of the subway any day. Last week, a man in a bunny costume rapped at six in the morning. The week before, a man argued with his reflection in the window. Last night, an elderly woman beside me commented on my disheveled appearance, lamenting that men didn't like that and worrying I'd die alone. I barely remember if I responded. I hated talking on the subway; her parting insult had stung me.

Tonight promised to be different. I left the hospital later than usual, after two code blues and an injury report for a nurse. Overdue paperwork and an insurance squabble later, it was past eight when I left. My walk was short, and the wait at the terminal was OK, but the train didn't arrive until 9:30. When I finally boarded, the car was almost empty.

Then a group of men entered. They were rowdy, pushing each other, their drunkenness a stifling cloud. I almost moved when they sat too close, but I didn't want to draw attention. I could feel their eyes on me. I clutched my bag tightly, fingers brushing the can of pepper spray hooked to its strap. I was almost home. Just three more stops.

"Hey," one of the men called out. I ignored him. "Hey, you."

I hated the subway.

"Leave her alone."

That voice caught my attention. I knew it—or thought I did. When I looked up, I was met with a stranger, yet his presence felt oddly familiar. He was striking, with tanned skin and sharp features that made his brown eyes stand out under the harsh fluorescent lights. He took the seat beside mine, and I didn't stop him. The men were back to their raucous laughter, and I was forgotten. I relaxed slightly, hoping to remain unnoticed.

"Sorry about them," he said, his warm and soothing voice a gentle tenor that evoked a sense of nostalgia. "Are you OK?"

I nodded, unable to meet his gaze. Something about him tugged at the edges of my memory, yet he wasn't a celebrity, and I was sure I'd never met him before. Perhaps we'd crossed paths on the subway? My brain was playing tricks on me.

"Yes," I said softly. "Thank you."

Despite myself, I stole glances at him. I had to remind myself to breathe when I ventured past his neck. He was slender, but there was a subtle strength beneath his clothes. If he noticed my scrutiny, he said nothing. He returned to his book, but I was convinced that his eyes were still on me when I finally looked away.

I jolted awake, my body wracked with shivers despite the suffocating warmth of the blanket. The room was deathly silent, save for the moonlight streaming through the window like a spotlight on a stage set for a performance I never auditioned for. I rolled over, trying to bury myself deeper into the cocoon of my blanket, but then I heard it—a voice, soft and faint, yet carrying an unsettling authority.

“Oh, Y/N,” the voice crooned, dripping with a sinister allure. “It’s time. Come to me.”

Confusion and dread clawed at my insides as I stumbled out of bed. The room was a far cry from my own—stone walls, thick and oppressive, casting shadows that seemed to dance with malevolent glee. The floor beneath my feet was icy, a stark contrast to the comfort of my bed. My nightgown, white and delicate, felt like a mockery in this alien environment.

This wasn’t my room.

The voice came again, seductive and commanding. “Y/N, come out, come out, now. I’m waiting for you.”

Compelled, I moved to the window. Below, in the moonlit expanse of the lawn, stood the man from the subway. His face was eerily illuminated, his head tilted back as if inviting me to join him in the darkness below. His eyes—glowing a brilliant gold—seemed to reach out to me, promising unspeakable things if only I would take the leap.

I couldn’t tear my gaze away. He raised a hand, crooking a finger in a silent invitation. It was as if an invisible thread was pulling me toward him. Entranced, my feet moved on their own accord. Barefoot, the cold stone beneath me was a cruel contrast to the warmth I’d just left behind. I wandered through hallways and passages that felt simultaneously foreign and intimately known, descending into the shadows where he waited.

As I emerged onto the lawn, his smile made me shiver. He approached, his fingers brushing the side of my face—teasing, tantalizing, yet never quite touching.

“I’ve waited for you for so long,” he murmured, his voice a velvet caress. “So very long. And now, now you’re mine.”

A fragment of my mind screamed in protest, shouting that I didn’t belong to him, that I didn’t even know who he was or why I was here. But a deeper, more primal force tugged at me, pulling me closer until I was nearly touching him. His presence was unsettlingly soothing, and I took a breath, feeling the heat of his gaze.

“That’s right, my lamb, come closer,” he coaxed.

An overwhelming longing surged through me—irrational, illogical, yet so profound that I couldn’t resist. I needed him to touch me, to make the connection complete. I tilted my head to the side, exposing my neck to the moonlight.

He responded immediately, his fingers trailing along my throat, their cool touch sending shivers through me. I gasped, my body lighting up with each delicate brush.

“More,” I heard myself plead, pressing closer.

“Say it,” he demanded, his arms enveloping me in a possessive embrace. “Who do you belong to?”

“You. I’m yours.”

He cradled my head in his hand, leaning in. His lips were smooth against my skin, but his teeth were sharp as they pierced through flesh. I screamed as he drank deeply.

I awoke with a start, sitting up in bed, my hands clutching at my throat, searching for any sign of injury. The skin was intact, unbroken. I took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm my racing heart that felt as though it might burst from my chest.

The lamp flickered on with a click, casting a harsh, unwelcome light that made me squint and shield my eyes. Grabbing my robe and a cup, I shuffled out of the room, the chill of the hallway hitting me like a slap. I closed the door quietly behind me, trying not to disturb the oppressive silence that hung heavy in the air. The bathroom, bathed in the sickly fluorescent glow, was as deserted as I’d hoped.

I filled my cup halfway with water from one of the sinks, then leaned against the cold, sterile tiles, watching my reflection in the mirror as I took slow, deliberate sips. The dream—the one that had shaken me awake—felt so unnervingly real.

I traced the line of my neck with trembling fingers, the blue vein just beneath the surface. What kind of twisted message was my mind trying to send me with that nightmare? It had been a full-on gothic horror—a relic of some crumbling English manor, not the kind of place I ever imagined myself visiting, unless I was buried in a pile of classic literature.

And him. The monster. Even now, as I closed my eyes, I could still see his face—a blend of dark allure and cruel beauty. His eyes, oh, those eyes. They’d held me in thrall, made me willing to surrender to any demand he made. I could almost feel his cold touch, see his smile that promised both ecstasy and agony.

Wasn’t the whole vampire-mother-stuff supposed to be a metaphor for sex? Maybe that’s what my subconscious was trying to shove in my face—sex, or the glaring void where it should have been in my life.

I studied my flushed reflection, feeling the heat in my cheeks. I shook my head, trying to shake off the nightmare’s grip.

The man sat next to me again. It had been a week since I last saw him, and my body still reacted to his presence. Today, I admired his chiseled jawline and elongated face. He was an exquisite oval with a strong profile. This time, he caught me looking and smiled shyly.

"I'm Hoseok."

The name sent a shiver, stirring something familiar and unsettling. I quickly brushed off the uneasy feeling. It was probably my own insecurity.

"Y/N," I replied, unable to tear my gaze away from him.

He resumed reading, and I focused on crocheting a stuffed rabbit for my nephew. Miles had called that morning to update me on Trinity's appointment. The toy wasn't perfect—far from it—but I wanted to give it a try.

"How would you feel about dinner?" Hoseok's voice broke through my thoughts.

I paused my knitting. "I enjoy dinner. Who doesn't?"

He chuckled, a rich, velvety sound that made me blush. "Cheeky."

I bit my lip, unsure if it was a compliment. I felt a pang of embarrassment, struggling to maintain my composure. The first date I'd been asked on since undergrad, and I was fumbling. Miles would have a field day.

"Would you like dinner with me?"

I hesitated. "Yes."

Hoseok's laughter resonated deeply within me, and I felt a jolt of warmth as he slid closer, his knee brushing against mine. He was impossibly warm. Instinctively, I shifted away, uncomfortable with his proximity. There was something off about him, an unsettling vibe that I couldn't quite place.

But then he smiled, and that soft, disarming grin evaporated all my doubts. He was dazzling. My eyes fluttered shut as his cologne enveloped me, weakening my knees. I had to remind myself to breathe. He was captivating.

"Do you like Italian?" he asked, his voice deeper now.

I nodded, struggling to steady my breath. Panic and embarrassment churned within me, but I couldn't ignore the physical response. My mind was flooded with inappropriate thoughts of Hoseok, vivid and intrusive. I gasped, feeling a flush of heat I hadn't experienced in a long time. 

"Does two weeks work?"

Snapping out of my daze, I looked at Hoseok and nodded. 

"I'm off on the 27th."

He smiled, and I stared at his teeth longer than necessary. They seemed different—sharper, perhaps, with redder gums. I blinked, reassured that they were just as I remembered. My sleep deprivation must be getting to me.

"Meet you here?"

We agreed to meet at six. I'd catch the 5:30 train to ensure I arrived before him. As the subway pulled into my stop, I waved goodbye and stepped out, only to realize I hadn't asked him where we were going. The thought lingered until the following day.

The voice is louder now, sharper, as if it’s cutting through the fog of my half-sleep. “Y/N? I’m waiting for you. Come to me now.”

I hear it, feel the tug of it dragging me towards him, but fear clamps down on me like a vice. My bare feet are numb on the cold, wet grass as I stumble through the twisting maze of hedges, trying to escape the invisible force that pulls me like iron to a magnet.

My breath hitches, coming fast and uneven, as I sprint around corners, the long white gown tangling around my legs and tripping me up. I’m not sure anymore if I’m searching for a way out or if I’m trying to find him.

I turn another corner, my ankle twists and pain shoots through my leg as I crash into an open space—a small, white fountain sits in the middle, surrounded by benches.

Through the flickering light of the moon dancing on the water, I see him. Not a figment of my imagination, but there he is, standing as he promised, waiting.

Hoseok walks towards me with a slow, deliberate grace. He bends, lifting me effortlessly from the mess of my tangled gown and into his arms. I feel a peculiar sense of completeness as he sits on a bench, cradling me like a precious artifact.

“Were you bringing me your gift? Or were you trying to run from me?” His voice is soft, almost tender, and yet it cuts through me. I open my mouth to speak, but no sound comes. I’m lost, adrift in confusion.

I’m mesmerized by his flawless beauty. My fingers move of their own accord, reaching towards his face. That smile returns, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes.

“You may touch me.” His lips part slightly, and I press my fingers against them. His tongue flicks out, wrapping around my fingertip and drawing it into his mouth. Before I can react, I feel a sharp bite.

I gasp as he licks the blood that wells up from the small wound. “A small treat,” he murmurs. “That’s why you came, isn’t it?”

I find myself nodding, helpless under his gaze.

He licks my finger one last time, savoring the taste before swallowing. “They told me you’d be extraordinary, worth every moment of waiting. Yet, your taste is beyond anything I ever dreamed.”

My body reacts to his words and his touch—still innocent but making my skin feel like it’s stretched too tight, like I might explode. I let my head fall back, exposing my neck to him as his tongue traces a path up the sensitive skin.

And then he bites.

I bolt awake, heart pounding as if it might burst from my chest. I fumble in the dark, reaching for the light switch, feeling profoundly alone with Rose away for the weekend.

I throw off the covers and stagger to the mirror, desperately checking my neck. There’s nothing there, no sign of the bite.

A cold shiver runs down my spine. I grab a blanket and a book, and huddle in the hall lounge, surrounded by the harsh light of every lamp and the incessant flicker of the television, trying to drive away the lingering shadows of the nightmare.

September 1997

I eased into my seat, the familiar weight of my bag pressed to my left side and draped an arm over it as if to claim it for my own. It was the first night off from the relentless grind of being on-call since mid-August and the first real night out in years. I’d never been much for the party scene, and medical school had only sharpened that aversion. The last time I went out for drinks was nearly six years ago, a fleeting memory of bar hopping that I’d abandoned early, too exhausted to keep pace with my friends.

Tonight, however, felt different. There was a nagging sense that I was misremembering that long-ago night, like a foggy half-remembered dream where something vital was missing. My life in New York had become a blur of medical texts and sleepless shifts, the grueling 24-hour days erasing the finer details of my existence. My final year had been a carousel of discomfort, but the specifics eluded me, lost in exhaustion. Perhaps a creep of some sort, some misguided doctor with a name I couldn’t quite grasp—maybe that’s what had soured my memory. 

I pulled out my phone and scrolled to find Hoseok’s contact. The old SeaTAC was still a relic of the past, but I clung to it out of stubborn habit. Despite its age, it was a lifeline to the outside world, a way to escape the pager’s relentless beeping. I longed for the day when I could toss the landline, but the cost of cell phone minutes constantly reminded me of its importance. With his endless chatter, Miles made sure I burned through those minutes with alarming frequency.

“Hello?” Hoseok’s voice was silky, a comforting balm after a long stretch of clinical detachment.

“Hey,” I breathed, trying to keep my voice steady. “Just got on.”

“See you soon,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. I could almost picture the smile on his face, and it made me smile in return. His words seemed more benign over the phone, starkly contrasting the intensity of our recent encounters. “Save my spot.”

The car was beginning to fill up, Friday night revelers claiming their space, making it nearly impossible to save a seat. I promised I’d try, even as I felt the crushing inevitability of the crowd. His chuckle was soft, almost intimate. 

“Thank you, sweet girl.”

I bit my lip, the endearment both flattering and unsettling. A tiny voice in my head cautioned me, even though Hoseok had never used his terms of affection demeaningly. The voice grew louder when he wasn’t around, whispering warnings I couldn’t entirely dismiss. It was strange, this constant inner debate.

“I’m going to hang up,” Hoseok said, his voice a sensual murmur. I moved the phone away from my ear, puzzled by the seductive undertone. Was he implying something more?

Was I expecting more from tonight?

“I’m running up my minutes,” he laughed, breaking the spell of my thoughts.

“Oh,” I blinked, snapping out of my reverie. “Sorry. See you in a bit.”

The recurring dreams of him were becoming a distraction. My nights were plagued with vivid, unsettling fantasies, leaving me restless and frazzled. I wiggled in my seat, pressing my thighs together to quell the unsettling arousal. Reality would surely disappoint, no matter how compelling he seemed in my dreams. I resolved to hold off on sex for now. I didn’t want to tarnish his allure with premature intimacy.

“Why did you want to be a doctor?” Hoseok asked, his fingers entwining with mine.

The wine started hitting, and the night air was crisp against my skin. Hoseok was the perfect gentleman; the evening was a beautiful respite from my routine. I leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body, and sighed.

“I wish I could say it was for noble reasons,” I said, my voice tinged with melancholy. “In truth, I just wanted my family to notice me. I thought graduating medical school would make them see me, but it never quite worked out that way.”

Hoseok hummed thoughtfully beside me. I turned my gaze away, feeling a strange mix of comfort and sadness.

“None of us are perfect,” he said after a pause, his voice low and contemplative. “I’ve made my share of mistakes, and my choices haven’t always been noble.”

I leaned closer, savoring his warmth and intoxicating scent. Despite my fatigue, the night felt lighter, almost magical. He was mesmerizing, and I was drawn to him in a way I hadn’t expected. 

“I have a hard time believing that,” I said with a soft grin, snuggling closer.

“Well,” he said, his arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me into his side. “You haven’t had me all to yourself yet.”

A shiver ran down my spine, a curious blend of fear and delight. The night had been a rollercoaster of emotions—enchantment and apprehension intertwined. Hoseok’s smile was disarming, melting away my unease, but I made a mental note to reflect on my feelings once I was alone. He seemed almost too perfect, and that nagging pit in my stomach grew again before vanishing. 

“I don’t want the night to end,” Hoseok whispered, his breath warm against my ear as we waited for the train. “I’m having such a good time.”

I smiled, “What kind of girl do you take me for?”

“When can I see you again?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine longing.

“Soon,” I promised. “I’m getting the next few weekends off now that the other fellowship student is starting. My supervisor is trying to get me off every Saturday.”

“It’s a good thing my boss is flexible,” Hoseok purred, causing my heart to race. “Otherwise, I’d never get to spend time with you.”

I wanted to be annoyed by his clinginess, to remind him I wasn’t his girlfriend, but instead, I found myself grinning. His words made me feel seen and appreciated. Despite the anxiety he sometimes stirred in me, I was eager to be close to him. He looked at me so intently that I was willing to overlook my reservations. Maybe it was just butterflies?

“Where do you work?” I asked, trying to divert my thoughts.

Hoseok was a bartender at a speakeasy in Manhattan, where he’d worked since it opened. He had hinted at it throughout the evening, teasing me with its obscurity. 

“It’s a smaller place,” he said amusedly. “You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“Try me,” I challenged, my heart pounding strangely.

“Dauphine.”

The name hit me like a jolt. Images of dimly lit corridors and crimson hues flashed in my mind. I was sure I’d never been there, but the name stirred a disquieting sense of déjà vu. The dream from July, the man from my dreams—there was a connection, but it eluded me. 

As we stood in the bustling, well-lit area, I edged away slightly, unsettled. Hoseok was a charming gentleman, but the name “Dauphine” had ignited an inexplicable dread. Despite his humor and warmth, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was hiding something—or maybe I was just afraid of what I might find.

I stole a furtive glance at him, and it felt as though I’d known him far longer than the scant time we’d spent together. His face was oddly familiar, like a recurring image in a dream half-remembered. I had met him before, somewhere.

“No, you haven’t,” his voice cut through the night like ice. It was cold, detached, far from the warmth he’d shown me all evening. A shiver snaked down my spine, and I forgot to breathe. His grip on me tightened as though sensing my legs would buckle beneath me. “You’ve never known me before.”

The fierce scowl on his face startled me. His eyes, glowing with an eerie golden light, seemed to burn through me. Everything about him felt otherworldly like he was something less than human. A fragmented memory of a man sitting alone at a bar surged up, only to dissolve into nothingness.

“I am Hoseok,” he whispered, his voice weaving a heavy spell over my senses. “I am your boyfriend. We’ve been together a long time, and we’re in love. You just tripped and hit your head.”

A sudden jolt of pain made me wince and try to pull away from him. 

“Does it hurt?” His voice was deceptively tender, and I sighed through the pain.

“Yes,” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “Does it look bad?”

Hoseok’s grin was unsettling, a blend of fake sympathy and amusement. 

“You were lucky this time. Just a barely noticeable red mark.”

I chuckled at my own clumsiness. I wasn’t usually this awkward, but my heel caught on a pavement crack. I gingerly rubbed my ankle and was relieved to find it unscathed. Even my heel had survived.

“Jeez,” I said, looping my arm through his. “I completely forgot what we were talking about.”

Hoseok’s smile broadened, clearly enjoying my disoriented state. I rolled my eyes and reached over to gently tap his chest. He responded by sticking out his tongue, which only made me scoff at his childishness.

“We were talking about work,” I said.

I nodded as if on autopilot. “How’s the bar?”

Hoseok worked at a swanky speakeasy in Manhattan, though I was trying to remember its name. Despite being together for what felt like ages, I had never been there. I was never one for bars, while Hoseok reveled in the place’s gothic charm. The name eluded me again as I tried to recall it.

“Tae’s excited,” he chuckled. “With Halloween around the corner, business will pick up.”

I hummed, my thoughts still lingering on the name. I had thought his boss was Tristan, but I must have misremembered. I shrugged off the nagging thought.

“You should stop by the bar,” I heard myself say, sounding oddly mechanical.

“Sounds fun,” he replied, his tone laced with a predatory edge.

Looking back on that night, it’s almost laughable how easily he swayed me. The way he possessed me was undeniable; soon, he would own every inch of me. Those dreams of him were his twisted way of showing love—how much he craved to touch me, to keep me bound to him. It’s sick and vile, and the thought of what we’d become makes me nauseous, yet to him, it’s love. 

“Let’s get you home,” he said, his arm wrapping possessively around my shoulders.

I remember leaning into his side, kissing his cheek as if I was floating. His presence was intoxicating. Even now, I can feel the ghost of his touch and his body's heat. It’s a twisted sort of longing I have for him. This place is cold and dark without him, without his reminders of how much he cares and wants me to scream for him. Here, time stands still, and life continues in a strange loop. I can’t say whether I’m alive or dead, but I know it no longer matters. Once I entered this world, my life ended and began anew. Hoseok made me feel both alive and dead simultaneously.

And as I write this, my heart aches for him. My fingers tremble at the thought of him returning to claim me again. The pain he inflicts makes my heart pound and my stomach clench. I miss him.

It both sickens and excites me.

October 19, 1997

My bones groaned and cracked like ancient floorboards beneath my weight as I fought to catch my breath. Sweat slicked my skin, and I began patting myself down, half-expecting to find something tangible to anchor me to reality. My surroundings slowly came into focus. The harsh fluorescent lights above stung my eyes, but their sterile brightness offered an odd comfort. I was at home, cocooned in thick blankets that had twisted themselves around my legs. The bed beneath me creaked with the effort of supporting my restless form. I sighed, flopping back down, trying to shake off the remnants of the nightmare that still clung to me like a shadow.

The dreams had become relentless, evolving from vague echoes of past terrors into something far more insidious. These weren't fueled by mere fear but by an overwhelming, consuming desire that felt dangerously close to swallowing me whole. The weekends were the worst, and after seeing Hoseok, they had turned almost infernal. He was always there in my dreams, his skin smooth and flawless, his deep brown eyes burning into mine with an intensity that left me gasping for air.

Every time I closed my eyes, his image flickered behind my eyelids like a dark, seductive film. The scenes always ended the same way: I would climax, my body convulsing in a fevered rhythm, while I looked up to see his face contorted in ecstasy. His deep, guttural groans would reverberate through me as his grip tightened on my skin. He would finish inside me, and my spent body would collapse beneath him. He would drape himself over me, showering my chest with tender, lingering kisses. The setting varied—my bed, a chilling, unfamiliar void, or a dimly lit lounge—but the conclusion was always the same.

With a sigh, I fumbled for my phone, my fingers brushing the cool surface. An email from Hoseok awaited me, and a smile crept across my face despite the haze of exhaustion. He was the epitome of a perfect gentleman—never pushing beyond my boundaries, never demanding more than I was willing to give, always accommodating his schedule to mine. Even in matters of intimacy, something many men would aggressively pursue, he always respected my pace. In the hectic blur of the past month, we hadn’t had a moment alone. He hadn’t even broached the topic. As I thought about it, I couldn't recall the last time we'd been intimate outside of these dreams.

From: Hoseok Jung Subject: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 03:05   To: Y/N Y/L/N Good morning, love, I'm sorry for the early message, especially since this is one of your rare mornings off. I hope I didn't wake you. I'm heading home from work and couldn't stop thinking about you. Taehyung is throwing a simple Halloween party this year, and luckily, it falls on a Friday. Would you like to join me? I think it could be a lot of fun. I love you. Hobi

I grinned and began typing my reply.

From: Y/N Y/L/N Subject: RE: All Hallows Eve Date: October 19, 1997: 04:15  To: Hoseok Jung Hobi, Don't worry, you didn't wake me. I was tangled up in strange dreams and was deep asleep when your email arrived. Sadly, I doubt I'll fall back asleep anytime soon, so I plan on catching up on Buffy or Beyond Belief—whichever's on. Hopefully, I won't get stuck with reruns of Seinfeld, not really my thing. Lucky for me, I'm working mornings this week. I'd love to come to your party. Call me when you wake up. Love you, too. Y/N Y/L/N, M.D.   Palliative Care Physician, New York-Presbyterian Hospital

It barely registered that, to my knowledge, I had never said "I love you" to him before. I had never really pondered the oddity of our relationship. My memories of our time together were a disorienting blur, but I never questioned it. It wasn't entirely my fault—he had ensnared me, body and soul, and any unresolved threads might make it harder for him to maintain control. Regardless of our tangled history or how elusive it seemed; I was simply glad he wanted to see me at that moment.

I lay huddled in my bed, my body a coiled spring of anticipation, each nerve ending tingling with the foreboding that had stalked me all day. His voice had been a persistent whisper, a sultry hum that turned my name into a haunting lullaby. It was a melody wrapped in an insatiable longing, a caress of words that promised more than I dared to imagine.

Tonight, I wanted to resist. I tried to muster the strength to ignore the insidious pull, that relentless tug drawing me toward him like a moth to a flame. The very idea of defying him churned my stomach with a nauseous dread. But the threads of his influence were woven so tightly around me, it felt like trying to escape from silken chains.

Then it came, cutting through the murkiness of my thoughts like a scythe. His voice, now sharper, more insistent, shattered the fragile veneer of my resistance.

“Y/N. Come to me now.”

With a sudden jolt, the pretense of defiance evaporated. I threw off the blankets as if they were chains, leaping out of bed and flying through the darkened hallway. My feet barely touched the ground as I hurtled down the stairs, each step propelled by an unrelenting force, dragging me inexorably toward him.

He waited for me in the foyer, bathed in an eerie glow that made him look like an apparition from a fevered dream—or perhaps a nightmare. His smile was both welcoming and chilling, a promise wrapped in malice. When he took my hand, his lips brushed against my fingers with a cool, electric touch that set my entire body aflame.

The intensity of my reaction embarrassed me, but he tilted my face up to meet his gaze, shaking his head with a look of almost pity.

“Your blood knows what it wants, my lamb. You must let your mind follow.”

My face burned with fierce heat, but the compulsion pulling me to him was too overpowering to resist. He guided me through the meticulously manicured gardens to a secluded alcove framed by dense, sculpted hedges. He seated himself on a bench, drawing me onto his lap with a practiced grace that made me feel both cherished and helpless. His eyes, dark and unfathomable, never left mine, promising secrets I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“Are you ready, my lamb?”

Without a second thought, I bared my neck to him. The desperate craving for the bliss and torment of his bite had consumed me completely; waiting was no longer an option.

He lingered, his tongue tracing a tantalizing path along the delicate skin of my throat. The sensation was almost unbearable, and I found myself begging with a voice that sounded alien, strained.

“Please.”

And then he bit.

I shot awake, my heart a frantic drum in my chest. I had fallen asleep hunched over my desk at the hospital, my neck stiff from the awkward angle. Rubbing away the ache, I cursed the book that had plagued me with such vivid nightmares. I needed to talk to my brother again; this couldn’t be anything but a cruel trick of the mind.

The glowing digits on my alarm clock mocked me with their late hour. I stood up, stretching and feeling my heartbeat slowly return to normal. I changed into a t-shirt and shuffled toward the bed, determined to banish the lingering unease.

As I passed the window, something froze me in place. I looked down into the parking lot and saw him standing under a flickering lamppost, his gaze locked onto mine with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.

It was Hoseok—or at least, it looked like him. But the resemblance was grotesquely twisted. His eyes glowed with an otherworldly light, a sickly luminescence that cut through the night like a malevolent beacon. His skin was peeling away in ragged strips, as if he were shedding himself like a decaying husk. This was no longer my Hoseok. He was a creature of nightmares, a monster forged from my darkest fears.

My fingers clung to the windowsill as I stared, my body paralyzed by the overwhelming urge to run to him, to give in to the magnetic pull of his presence. I watched as his lips moved, shaping a single word that seemed to echo through the chill of the night.

“Soon.”

I gasped, my breath catching in my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the vision to vanish. When I opened them again, the parking lot was empty, the lamppost casting its pallid light over a sea of unmoving cars. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief, snatched my blanket and pillow, and stumbled back to the on-call room, desperate to escape the sinister call that still haunted the dark corners of my mind.

October 28, 1997

"What should I do?" the nurse asked, her name slipping from my mind like a shadow lost in the night.

"Give them some space," I replied, my gaze fixed resolutely away from the room across the hall. Elizabeth had just passed away, her DNR a cold, ironclad barrier that left no room for last-ditch efforts. Her family needed their final moments with her while we waited for the body to be transported. Mary was still wailing into her husband's chest, and Elijah looked like he'd been dragged through a storm, barely able to stand. Percy stood like a marble statue, his eyes glazed over while his wife clung to him. The sight of Percy’s frozen, unseeing expression twisted my gut in a way I couldn’t ignore. It reminded me too much of what I feared—and I needed to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief.

"Should we get them out of the room?" another nurse asked, her thick southern drawl hinting at Memphis. "Seeing her like that can’t be good for their mental well-being."

I shook my head. "Let them have their last moments in peace. Offer condolences and check on them regularly."

I fiddled nervously with my ID card, the familiar unease gnawing at me. My wounds from the day seemed too fresh. Miles surfaced in my thoughts again, and I resolved to call my brother on my way home tonight. Hoseok wasn’t working tonight, so he wouldn’t join me on the subway.

"I'm going to check in with 211," I murmured, watching Percy leave the room, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "I’ll be back in 5-10 minutes to see if the family needs anything. Just make them as comfortable as you can."

"You got it, doc."

The subway ride home was a silent affair. My headache throbbed like a relentless drum, and my stomach churned uneasily. The day had been heavy with more deaths than usual. Elizabeth’s family had eventually calmed down, but their kindness on their way out hadn’t eased the knot in my chest. I knew their pain intimately.

I called my brother as I made my way to the subway. Despite his complicated feelings about our mother, he was always supportive. The conversation ended abruptly when Aurora entered the room, demanding his attention. Miles had never truly understood my emotions; I doubted he ever tried.

The short walk home from the subway was a blessing, though the cold night air bit at my skin. I was grateful for the proximity of my apartment, but the streets were alive with noise—tourists laughing, gang members shouting outside their apartment complexes. I was relieved to escape the chaos, though my street wasn’t entirely free of foot traffic. My old apartment in East Harlem had been more of a hustle, with late-night carpooling with a coworker whose name eluded me. I knew it started with an 'A,' but the memory only worsened my headache. I set the thought aside for another time.

After selling the family home in Florida and vacation properties scattered across the country, I’d managed to buy a house on Astro Row at 100th and 30th Street. It was an old building—too expensive for its size, and initially, it seemed far from beautiful. But over time, it grew on me. I loved the brownstones, the front porches, the grand trees, and the quiet streets. I couldn’t imagine leaving. Even the renovations I’d planned were postponed. The charm of the old place had won me over, and I’d made peace with its quirks. I even got along with my neighbor, a small but welcome relief.

Tonight was quieter than usual, and none of my neighbors seemed awake. I missed the old man at the end of the street who used to sit on his porch, sipping coffee and waiting for dawn. It was nearly 4:30 AM. I shrugged and continued; my mind focused on the comfort of my bed.

Fumbling for my keys, I cursed quietly when my pockets were empty. My purse, a cavernous mess of clutter, swallowed everything. As I dug through it, a sudden burst of laughter behind me made me freeze. Two women strolled down the sidewalk, their laughter echoing off the walls. They were both stunning, their pale skin glowing under the moonlight. One of them locked eyes with me, her gaze piercing through the darkness. She looked at me as if she’d seen a ghost, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew me.

"Hello," she said, her voice as light and tinkling as a bell.

"Hi," I replied, feeling strangely off-balance.

The other woman seemed perplexed. Her beauty was almost ethereal, with blonde hair as pale as her skin and eyes as dark as night. Her gaze swept over me with an unmistakable disdain, her teeth bared in a slight sneer. Yet, despite her apparent coldness, she was undeniably beautiful.

"How are you?" the first woman asked, her voice soothing.

"Fine," I responded, my throat dry. "And you?"

The nagging headache intensified as I tried to make sense of the encounter, a sense of déjà vu wrapping around me like a tightening noose. The women moved on, their laughter fading into the night, leaving me with a lingering unease that clung to me like the shadows of my dreams.

She studied me, her face a shifting canvas of emotions before settling into a look of genuine confusion. I tried to place her but struggled. There was something crucial I needed to remember, something just out of reach, but my mind remained stubbornly blank. A frantic urge to call Hoseok seized me.

The realization hit me like a cold slap. Why did I think I needed him? I tried to convince myself I could handle this alone. But deep down, I knew I needed him here. He could make this headache vanish, soothe the gnawing anxiety that had taken root in my chest. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

“What's your name?” she asked, her smile both disarming and unsettling, making my thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

“Y/N,” I replied, feeling dazed and disconnected.

“Cold night, Y/N,” she purred, her gaze never wavering. “You should get inside.”

I nodded absently, my words failing me as I fumbled with my keys. The blonde woman's giggle, filled with an eerie excitement, made me shiver. I wanted to retreat, to escape this strange encounter. I shoved the key into the lock, eager to shut out the unsettling night.

“Y/N,” the first woman’s voice halted me, her tone chillingly smooth. Neither of them had moved since they stopped. The blonde’s smile remained fixed, and I couldn’t bring myself to meet the other woman’s eyes. “Be careful out here. You never know who’s wandering around.”

I nodded, turning the doorknob, but her voice stopped me again.

“I work at a bar in Midtown,” she said, her words snagging my attention like a hook. I had always known she worked at a bar, but why was it important? “It’s called Dauphine. Ever heard of it?”

Yes, I wanted to say. That place haunted my nightmares, a dark shadow that clung to the edges of my memory. But I couldn’t piece together why. Hoseok would know. He’d make everything better. No, my mind screamed—he’d only make it worse. I couldn’t say how I knew this, but I wanted to listen to the little voice inside me tonight. Something was very wrong.

“You should come by sometime,” she offered. “We’re on 1st and East 54th in the far corner of the Diamond District. If you need anything, just ask for ‘Bootsy.’”

Bootsy…

“Are you okay with cherry liquor?” she asked.

I let go of the doorknob and turned to face them fully. I couldn’t meet either of their eyes. The sensation was all too familiar. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the answer I didn’t want to hear.

“Do you know Hoseok? He’s my boyfriend.”

The blonde hissed sharply. Bootsy gasped, her face a mask of surprise and something darker, more shadowy. It was clear that Hoseok was connected to these people, tangled up with my memories of New York, the root of all my confusion. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

No, I shook my head. Was that what he wanted me to believe? I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Yes,” Bootsy finally replied. “I’ve known him for many, many years.”

Before I could second-guess myself, I slammed the door shut and locked it. The blonde finally moved, stepping away from Bootsy and muttering something I couldn’t catch. She disappeared down the street, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts.

“What’s wrong with me?” I muttered through the door, my voice tinged with desperation.

Bootsy’s response came through with a sorrowful edge. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

I shook my head, my headache pounding with such intensity that I could barely keep my eyes open. “It’s him, isn’t it?” I asked, my voice breaking. “I don’t understand what’s happening. It’s like I remember things but not really, and everything goes blank every time he’s around.”

Bootsy’s eyes, a deep crimson, darted around nervously. They seemed to glow faintly, like a cat’s eyes in the dark. Her dark hair framed her face perfectly, glossy and sleek. Bootsy wasn’t human. What she was, I couldn’t say. But she was somehow tied to the nightmares that plagued me, and Hoseok’s shadow loomed larger than ever.

“He’s a demon,” she whispered hurriedly, her words laced with a fear that seemed almost tangible. “I can’t tell you exactly what he’s done. I’ve never known him to keep someone around for this long, but whatever you’ve done to make him want you seems to have spared your life. You should have died back in ’92 with your friend.”

A friend? Someone else had been involved? Hoseok was a demon? The fragments Bootsy offered were like pieces of a shattered mirror, reflecting a reality I could barely grasp. I believed her, though. I had no reason not to. My memories felt like they were being twisted, distorted by Hoseok’s manipulations.

Then I thought of the creature outside of the hospital and felt my knees go numb. I hadn't hallucinated anything. It was real. It was him. Oh my God.

“We can’t talk for long,” she said, a look of pained urgency on her face. “He won’t sleep for much longer.”

“What can I do?” I begged, clutching my head as if I could squeeze out the pain. It was unbearable. “God, it hurts.”

“Nothing,” Bootsy’s voice trembled. “Hoseok wants you, and he’s never lost a game. It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do; he will win. Whatever you’ve been doing has kept you alive this long, but I don’t know how much time you have left.”

Her words hit me like a tidal wave, crashing over me and dragging me under. I had been a pawn in Hoseok’s twisted game, my life manipulated by his cruel whims. What did he want from me? My body? My soul? The realization was suffocating.

“Go to Dauphine and find Taehyung,” Bootsy instructed, her voice carrying a chilling finality despite its almost maternal tone. “He had a soft spot for you back then. If you’re lucky, he might be able to change you, make you like us. That might be enough to satisfy Hoseok.”

Taehyung. The name cut through the fog in my mind like a beacon, easing the throbbing in my head, if only for a moment. He had haunted my dreams, his image vivid: a white button-up shirt, his gentle hands, his voice firm yet tender, saying he didn’t want to share me. He had left me in that bar, but the details were fuzzy—how or why I had ended up there was a blur. All I knew was that I was lost, and he had once been my guide.

She paused, her eyes darkening with a weighty empathy. “You’d be luckier if Taehyung agrees to end your life before the demon does. I wouldn’t wish this half-life on anyone, nor would I be glad to see you die, but those are your choices. I can’t guarantee you’ll make it through this.”

“What happened in ’92?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, thick with desperation.

Bootsy shook her head, her expression darkening with sorrow. “He killed your friend and tried to lure you away. That's all I know, and I don't have time to explain the rest. The sun’s about to rise, and your demon will be waiting for you to fall asleep. Don’t fight it. Let it happen. If he knows you’re aware of him, he might decide to kill you.”

It felt wrong to just let it happen. What would this mean for me in the end? Would knowing about his influence change anything? I couldn’t be sure, but if I wanted to buy myself time, I had no choice but to take the risk. I needed answers, a plan, anything to regain control.

“Y/N,” Bootsy’s urgent voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. “Your memories won't come back unless he wants them to. Let it go. Either way you'll be dead.”

With those final, haunting words, Bootsy vanished as quickly as she had appeared. The weight of my predicament pressed heavily on my shoulders, my impending doom looming like a dark cloud. I stumbled back to the porch, unlocked the front door, and sought refuge in the sanctuary of my bed. Bootsy’s grim mantra echoed in my mind as I tried to push aside my troubling thoughts about Hoseok, grappling with the uncertainty that lay ahead.

He appeared to me then, in a vision that was both intoxicating and horrifying. His eyes sparkled with a predatory thrill, his touch setting my skin ablaze, igniting waves of pleasure that crashed over me with ruthless intensity. His worship was ceaseless, his lips warm and insistent, as if trying to devour every shred of my resistance. I was swallowed by him, lost in a whirlwind of passion that twisted the love I once felt (at least, I believed I felt) into something darker, more insidious. I missed him. I loved him. I needed him…

Bootsy’s words had struck me like a death knell, sealing my fate in an irreversible descent. She had unwittingly set my downfall into motion, transforming innocent affection into a ravenous lust that consumed every corner of my mind. When I awoke late in the evening, the decision to call off work for the rest of the week came with a grim resignation. The struggle to stay awake was in vain; it was becoming starkly clear how deeply Hoseok’s control had embedded itself within me. The inevitable was no longer a distant threat—it had already begun to unfold, dragging me into its dark embrace.

October 31, 1997

I tugged nervously at my skirt, my fingers trembling despite the cool night air that should have been a relief. The address that had arrived this morning was burned into my mind, glaring at me from the top of the paper—Dauphine, the bar Bootsy had mentioned. My plans were clear: find Bootsy, get directions, speak with this Taehyung, and figure out my options. But the gnawing truth was unavoidable—no matter what I did, it felt like my life was already slipping through my fingers.

Sleep deprivation had become my relentless tormentor. My eyelids felt heavy, weighted down by leaden exhaustion, and my attempts to feign illness to dodge work had morphed into a grim reality. It was a battle to stay awake each day, and I feared that simply making it to this bar would be a Herculean task.

I stared at myself in the mirror, trying to adjust the wig perched precariously on my head. I’d opted for a lazy Halloween costume—a half-hearted Cher from *Clueless*. The yellow plaid blazer was a thrift store find, the skirt a serendipitous discovery. But the wig made me look more like a grotesque caricature than a character. Frustrated, I yanked it off and tossed it onto the floor. I’d have to go without it.

Yawning, I fought the overwhelming urge to collapse back into bed. My cab was on its way, and I had to be ready. I gathered my essentials—purse, house keys, phone, and a spare outfit—preparing for a night that could very well be my last. I steeled myself for the confrontation, even if it felt like a hopeless, losing battle.

My daily struggle with myself had turned into a monotonous grind. My feigned illness had kept Hoseok at a distance, but it had only given me more time to spiral into despair over his influence. My mind was a battleground, where fragments of my past life clashed with the twisted desires he’d implanted in me. Every morning, I awoke to a gnawing need, a desperate craving for him that left me feeling sullied and repulsed.

I stepped outside and drew a shaky breath of the crisp night air. Calling my brother was both a comfort and a torment. There was a chance this could be the last time I spoke to him, and the thought tightened my chest like a vise. I fought back tears as I dialed his number.

“Hello?” Miles answered, his voice warm and familiar.

“Hey,” I forced a cheerful tone, though it felt hollow. “Still out Trick-or-Treating?”

“We just got back,” he said. “Rory wants to talk to you.”

My heart ached at the sound of my niece’s voice. “Hi, Auntie,” she said, her voice sweet as ever. “I miss you.”

“I miss you too, baby,” I sniffled, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Did you have fun?”

“Yeah!” Aurora’s excitement was a bright spot in my darkness. “I was Katerina, mommy was Miss Elaina, and daddy was Daniel Tiger.”

“That sounds amazing,” I wiped away my tears. “What about your baby brother?”

Aurora’s voice took on a scolding tone. “His name is Corbin, Auntie,” she said as though I should have known better. “He’s still in mommy’s belly, so he wasn’t anything. Mommy’s giving him candy.”

I laughed, though it was tinged with sadness. “How’s your mommy?”

“She says ‘Hi,’” Aurora replied. “We got the best candy! A lady was giving out big Starbursts. Daddy’s letting me have all the pink ones because I’m special.”

“You are special, sweet girl.”

A painful thought intruded—would Hoseok make them forget me if I asked him? The idea was almost too agonizing to bear. He’d kept me alive for five years, a perverse form of flattery that I struggled to appreciate. My self-loathing deepened as I thought about the life I was about to leave behind.

“Daddy says I have to go,” Aurora pouted. “Bye, Auntie.”

“Bye, Rory girl,” I choked out, my voice cracking as the tears welled up. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” Aurora’s sweet voice drifted through the line, a beacon of innocence in my storm of dread.

I gasped, the floodgates opening as I fought to keep my composure. “Impossible,” I managed to whisper, my throat tight with sorrow.

“Why?” she giggled, her innocent curiosity slicing through my resolve.

“Because,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “I love you more than the world.”

Aurora’s laughter began to fade as she handed the phone back to Miles. The sound of her giggles and her mother’s laughter echoed in the background, a cruel reminder of the life I was about to lose. My heart clenched painfully at the thought of never hearing those sounds again.

“What’s up, sissy?” Miles asked, his tone tinged with concern.

“I was just heading out,” I said, forcing a tremulous cheerfulness into my voice. “Thought I’d call before my cab gets here. I’m leaving a little early.”

There was a heavy pause on the other end, a silence that spoke louder than words.

“Everything okay, Y/N? You sound upset.”

“No, no,” I hurried to reassure him, biting my lip to keep from sobbing. “Just tired. You know how it is.”

“You sure?” Miles pressed, his concern palpable. He was always too perceptive for his own good, but he never pushed too hard. I hoped he wouldn’t miss me too much.

“I’m positive, Bubba,” I said, my eyes darting to the cab pulling up to the curb. “My ride’s here. I love you.”

“Love you too, sis. Call me later?”

“I’ll try to remember in the morning,” I said, attempting to sound upbeat despite the crushing weight in my chest. “I know it’s late for you guys.”

I closed my phone with shaking hands and stuffed it into my purse, the weight of my decisions pressing down on me. The cab driver approached, his face a blur through my tears.

“Where to?” he asked, his voice a lifeline in the growing storm of my fear.

“1st and East 54th in the Diamond District,” I replied, offering a weak, strained smile.

“Dauphine?” The driver’s eyes flicked to me in the rearview mirror, a hint of something unsettling in his gaze. “Ever been there before?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, trying to steady my breath. “I don’t remember it all that well. Guess I had too much fun last time.”

“Watch yourself,” the driver said, turning on the radio with a slow, deliberate movement. “That place is crawling with freaks.”

“Welcome to New York,” I muttered, more to myself than him.

He chuckled, his voice a touch too jovial. “Been here my whole life. My name’s Jimin. Call me if you need a getaway driver.”

The car rumbled with the low hum of R&B, Jimin fiddling with the radio as if trying to mask the creeping anxiety that gnawed at my insides. I mouthed the lyrics, trying to drown out the terror that threatened to consume me.

My thoughts were a twisted mess of fear and longing. The image of Hoseok, tainted by his manipulation, flickered through my mind. The desire to escape him was overpowered by the suffocating grip of my own confusion. Taehyung was my last, desperate hope—a fleeting chance at redemption. But deep down, a gnawing realization settled in I was already damned, teetering on the edge with no way back.

The mantra echoed relentlessly in my head: I miss him, love him, and need him…

I was spiraling, caught in a web of my own making, and the thought of facing what awaited me at Dauphine was almost too much to bear.

“We’re here,” Jimin's voice cut through the thick fog of dread that enveloped me.

“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, my fingers trembling as I fumbled with the cash. I handed him a generous tip, a feeble attempt to cling to some semblance of normalcy.

The alleyway stretched before me, a grim path between the upscale buildings of the Diamond District. It looked less menacing than I’d imagined, but its familiarity offered no comfort. Dim street lamps cast weak pools of light that barely touched the encroaching darkness. I hoped—prayed—that Hoseok wasn’t already here. The fading daylight gave me just enough visibility to navigate, and the murmur of voices outside the bar was a small, shaky comfort. I clung to the hope that these voices belonged to ordinary people, potential witnesses if I needed to make a quick escape.

As I approached, the group of people outside fell silent. My stomach churned violently, and bile rose in my throat, threatening to spill. I couldn’t bring myself to turn and face them; their gaze was almost a physical presence, making my skin crawl even though I never looked directly at them. A low, sinister snicker from one of them sent a shiver down my spine, amplifying my fear. I hadn’t even seen their faces, yet their mere presence was enough to make me quake.

The bouncer at the gate eyed me with a scrutinizing glare.

“Password,” he demanded, his voice flat and unyielding.

“I-” I stammered, my mind racing to recall the password Hoseok had given me. “Audubon.”

The gate creaked open, and I slipped past the security guard, my heart pounding like a drum. Despite my nervous bravado, the bouncer’s indifference did little to soothe me. Once inside, I felt a fleeting sense of relief, escaping the unsettling stares.

I gripped my bag tightly, knuckles white, and started searching for the bar. The interior was starkly underwhelming—plush couches and private booths scattered haphazardly, with red neon signs pointing to the restrooms. The oppressive red and black color scheme was heavy, but thankfully devoid of any overtly horrific scenes. I had no desire for strobe lights or dance floors; the thought of walking into a trap was more than enough to keep me on edge.

Navigating through the dimly lit space, I felt like I was moving through a maze. The long hallway ahead seemed to stretch into an abyss, the darkness intensifying with each step. The oppressive gloom and the eerie silence made my nerves jangle. The jazz music that had been softly playing in the background had faded, leaving me in a disquieting void.

At the end of the hall, the emptiness was almost a relief. The silence was oppressive but meant I wasn’t walking into a room full of hostile eyes. Perhaps this was how I’d met Bootsy—wandering aimlessly until she had found me and guided me out.

The bar seemed to stretch on forever, an architectural labyrinth that added to my growing sense of dread. I held my breath as the walls seemed to close in, my anxiety a tangible weight pressing against my chest. The high ceilings and claustrophobic spaces combined to create a sensation of being trapped. My heels clicked sharply against the linoleum, the sound echoing eerily in the silence. The place felt more like a mausoleum than a bar. Every step heightened my unease, and the hairs on my neck stood on end as I glanced around, trying to ignore the creeping terror that threatened to overwhelm me.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice trembling as it cut through the oppressive silence. “Is anybody here?”

The sudden sound of a voice behind me made me jump, my heart racing as I spun around with a gasp that morphed into a shriek. My balance faltered, and I slammed into the wall, scraping my arm against the rough surface. The sharp sting of pain was immediate and searing. I clutched my injured arm, the pain and the shock making my vision blur. I turned to face the figure who had startled me.

He stood there, his white button-down shirt contrasting sharply with the dim surroundings. His tall, lean frame was framed by broad shoulders, and his long fingers seemed to move with an effortless grace. But it was his smile that made my blood run cold—a wide, boxy grin that stretched unnaturally across his face, his eyes glinting with a mischievous, unsettling light.

“My apologies,” he said, his voice dripping with a smooth, honeyed tone. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

I glared at him, struggling to steady my breathing and regain my composure. “It’s fine. It didn’t kill me, did it?”

He chuckled softly; a sound that felt more sinister than soothing. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his gaze dropping to my arm.

I looked down and saw blood seeping through a tear in my blazer. The sight of my own blood was like a cruel reminder of my vulnerability. The pain, combined with the sight of my blood, pushed me to the edge. My hands shook as I raised them to my face, tears welling up uncontrollably. The enormity of my situation crashed down on me like a tidal wave. Everything felt chaotic; my life had been turned upside down, and the relentless pounding in my head was unbearable. I should have stayed home. At least Hoseok’s presence, while twisted, had been a semblance of comfort.

The despair was suffocating.

“Are you okay, sha?” His voice was soft, but his touch on my arm was disconcertingly gentle.

I laughed, a hollow, despairing sound. “Does it look like it?”

“No, you look upset,” he replied, his eyes glinting with an unsettling mixture of sympathy and amusement.

“You don’t say?” I snapped, rolling my eyes and jerking my arm away from his touch.

Despite my evident distress, he remained unnervingly calm, his smile lingering like a dark shadow. His pleasure at my discomfort was unsettling, and the aura around him felt eerily similar to the disquieting presence of those outside. His attractiveness was overshadowed by a deeply disturbing quality that made me want to flee. It was as if fear had paralyzed me, pinning me in place.

Suddenly, a chilling realization hit me. As I forced myself to examine his face more closely, I recognized him from the shadows of my past. He was strikingly beautiful in a haunting way, like Bootsy. His pale skin was almost luminescent, and his eyes, once hidden in the darkness, now revealed flecks of red that seemed to glow with a menacing, otherworldly light. They were mesmerizing yet horrifying, a dangerous allure that made my skin crawl. The spell he cast was broken as quickly as it had begun, and I struggled to look him in the eye again.

“You’re looking for me, aren’t you?” His voice was a silky whisper that seemed to wrap around me, tightening with a sinister intent.

Embarrassed by my earlier outburst, I nodded slowly. My hope of finding help felt increasingly elusive as the night grew darker and more menacing. All I wanted was to escape, but the hope that things might improve clung stubbornly to me. Taehyung exuded a disorienting blend of warmth and menace, a mix of comfort and dread that left me feeling more lost than ever.

“I’m sorry for being snappy,” I said, my voice quivering as I wiped away a tear. “I don’t remember you all that well.” 

Or at all, my mind whispered in the encroaching darkness. The more I looked at him, the more I felt Hoseok’s oppressive influence tugging at my thoughts. Images of Hoseok’s touch, his voice, his eyes—each one flared in my mind with an insidious intensity. He misses you; he loves you, he needs you…

“Requiem was wrong,” Taehyung murmured, his fingers chillingly cold as they cradled my face. “You’re too far gone.”

“Who?” I managed to ask, my voice trembling and my head spinning. His touch was both numbing and intoxicating.

“Bootsy,” he cooed, his breath a mix of cotton and sweet pine needles. “She said you had a chance, but she was mistaken. My friend has already completed the bond.”

“W-what?” I whispered, dazed and confused. The throbbing ache in my head resonated with Taehyung’s presence. “What bond?”

“Maybe not,” he whispered, his proximity making my pulse race.

When his lips met mine, they were like ice, yet the jolt of electricity that surged through me made my knees buckle. His laughter was dark and twisted as he wrapped an arm around my waist, his tongue brushing against my lips. I mewled, clutching his shoulders as the electric sensation overwhelmed me. His groan sent shivers through my entire body, and the echo of Hoseok’s voice in my head was relentless. He misses you, he loves you, he needs you…

Suddenly, I shoved Taehyung away, gasping for air as a searing pain exploded in my head. It felt as if a sledgehammer had struck my temple. My vision swam, and I collapsed to my knees, tears streaming down my face as I sobbed uncontrollably.

“Poor child,” Taehyung crooned, kneeling beside me. His scent, soothing yet oddly comforting, did little to ease the tremors wracking my body. “I’m so sorry, but I cannot help you.”

“I’m going to die,” I sobbed, my voice cracking under the weight of my despair.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “The pain will lessen once you accept it; accept him.”

“What does he want?” I managed to choke out.

“Can’t you see?” Taehyung’s eyes glittered ominously in the dim light. “He believes he’s in love with you. It’s a pity, really. I want nothing more than to keep you, but I can’t risk angering him. He would destroy Requiem for revealing his secrets; she is my most cherished friend. Do you understand?”

Numbly, I nodded. I’m going to die. I miss him. I’m going to die. He loves you. I’m going to die. I need him. I’m going to die. I love him. He needs you. I’m—

“Your eyes look just like his,” Taehyung marveled, his gaze softening. “He’s bound to you in a way I’ve never seen before.”

As I stared at Taehyung, my vision began to blur, and the voices in my head whispered louder in the dark corners of my mind. Their weight pressed down on me, my eyes rolling back until all I could see was a void. When I came to, I was horrified to find vomit splattered across Taehyung’s pristine white shirt. His expression twisted in horror and pain as he watched me unravel.

A dark, malevolent presence loomed near, its acrid stench of soot and kerosene overwhelming my senses. My head throbbed as if it had been cleaved in two, and a grotesque, pecking sensation gnawed at my exposed, vulnerable insides. Taehyung’s icy touch against my rigid form offered little comfort as I lay helpless against his chest, terror seeping in with every passing second.

“There’s my girl!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the haze of despair, and just like that, the pain evaporated.

I exhaled, sinking into Taehyung’s embrace. His body felt like ice against my fevered skin, a chilling contrast that brought an unexpected relief. His cool fingers traced my scalp, their touch a soothing balm amidst the chaos.

“I hope you understand Bootsy’s decision,” Taehyung’s voice was as cold as his touch, carrying a weight of finality. “She thought you were still playing games. But she was wrong.”

A deep, resonant rumble filled the space, and Hoseok’s voice emerged from the darkness like a spectral echo.

“Requiem has every right to her judgment,” Hoseok said, his voice a smooth caress laced with menace. “If it were anyone else, I might not care. But Y/N’s suffering is a consequence of her meddling. I had hoped to keep her alive.”

“Why?” I croaked, the question barely escaping my lips.

“You’re my special girl,” Hoseok purred, his voice dripping with a twisted, cruel fondness. “So innocent, so malleable. You’re perfect.”

A strange calm enveloped me as I lay against Taehyung, the tumult of emotions and pain fading to a low murmur. Hoseok’s presence hung over me like a dark, oppressive cloud, his words a cruel mockery of the comfort I desperately sought.

Taehyung’s fingers moved through my hair with a cold, almost clinical precision. “You’ve been chosen,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling calm. “It’s a rare bond that neither Bootsy nor I can undo. I wish there was something more I could do for you.”

My vision blurred, shadows of past anguish swirling around me. Hoseok’s voice echoed in my mind, a haunting lullaby that twisted my insides. “You’re mine, Y/N. No matter how you struggle, you are woven into my essence.”

The room seemed to constrict, the walls inching inward, shadows elongating and darkening. A biting chill settled over the space, the whispers of the damned intertwining with my deepest fears. I could almost see their forms, spectral and menacing, reaching out from the darkness.

I struggled to my feet, the world spinning dizzily around me. My head throbbed with a relentless ache, my heart pounding like a trapped bird. I stumbled away from Taehyung’s unnervingly composed presence, my eyes darting frantically for any sign of escape or salvation.

“Y/N,” Hoseok’s voice was a dissonant blend of soothing and threatening. “Don’t run from me. You belong here, with me.”

My breath came in ragged gasps, the overwhelming urge to flee battling with a stubborn thread of hope tangled in my despair. My thoughts were a chaotic mess, clinging to the faintest possibility of survival amidst the encroaching darkness.

I turned to Taehyung, my gaze pleading, desperate. “Is there no way out? Is there any hope left?”

Taehyung’s expression softened with a mixture of pity and sorrow. “Try to enjoy your final moments.”

Footsteps echoed ominously down the corridor, each step deliberate and foreboding. My heart leaped as a figure emerged from the gloom. Bootsy. Her presence was both a flicker of reassurance and a shadow of dread.

“I’m sorry,” Bootsy’s voice was a murmur of regret in the darkness.

I looked at her, then back at Taehyung, and finally at the encroaching shadows that seemed to reach out with a ravenous hunger. The weight of the choice, of my impending doom, pressed heavily on my chest, threatening to crush me under its gravity.

With a shuddering breath, I steeled myself. “I can’t let this happen to me,” I said, my voice trembling but resolute. “I don’t want this.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the darkness thickening. Hoseok’s laughter echoed through the void, a low, mocking sound that sent icy shivers down my spine. “Of course you do. You wouldn’t be writhing on the floor if you didn’t.”

The shadows deepened, the walls closing in as if reality itself was warping to ensnare me. A cold grip tightened around my soul, a force dragging me back into the abyss I had fought so hard to escape. An aching chill settled below my diaphragm, squeezing the breath from my lungs. My head spun again, his voice a soft whisper in the recesses of my mind. I miss you. I love you. I need you…

Don’t leave me.

Taehyung’s expression hardened into one of grim resignation. “You’re already bound to him. The bond is too strong.”

As I fought against the invisible chains tightening around me, the futility of my struggle became all too apparent. The darkness swallowed me whole, dragging me back into the depths I had desperately tried to escape.

“Please,” I whispered into the void, but the darkness consumed my plea. “Please, no.”

Hoseok’s voice filled the void, smooth and victorious. “Welcome home, darling.”

The last glimmers of light vanished, leaving me in an eternal night, a prisoner of my own choices and the dark forces that had ensnared me. My mind fractured under the weight of the consuming darkness, and as the final remnants of my resistance crumbled, I faced the harrowing truth.

There was no salvation. No escape. Only the endless, consuming dark.

And in that darkness, I was utterly, irrevocably alone.

I don’t know how long I’ve been trapped in this suffocating darkness—hours, days, months, or maybe even years. Time has become an abstract concept here, slipping through my grasp like the thin veil of reality that separates me from the void. The only link to the world beyond this prison is Hoseok, a ghostly presence who appears with a gleam in his eyes that chills me to the bone. His voice, carrying the weight of a thousand tortured souls, always asks the same haunting question: How are you feeling?

We were never friends. Each passing day has sharpened my memories into a cruel clarity. I don’t know where my physical body is—doubtful it’s anywhere near this place. The ink and paper I use to write materialize out of nowhere whenever I need them, appearing and disappearing like phantoms in my disturbed mind. This place defies all logic and reason.

Initially, I fought Hoseok with every ounce of my being. Each refusal brought excruciating pain that felt like it would tear me apart. My screams echoed back at me from the oppressive void, unanswered and ignored. Hoseok would slip into the darkness with a silent, predatory grace, his hot hands roaming over my shivering body before I even knew he was there. I would scramble away, howling and begging him to take me home, but he always left without a word.

Eventually, I gave up the fight. I accepted that escape was impossible, even though my soul still ached for my old life. The pain eased only when I surrendered, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent. They were filled with idle chatter about his plans for me. I learned he was a demon, and I was destined to become one too. The possession would erase most of who I once was, but when I awoke, we would be forever linked as master and shade. My freedom would only come after I took my first human life, but that day seemed impossibly distant. Hoseok savored every bite of my soul with a mournful delight.

What I felt for Hoseok wasn’t love—it was an obsession, a malignant force that had seeped into every corner of my being. “A natural reaction of a shade to its master,” he said. I was bound to him, and escape was nothing but a cruel illusion.

The first signs of my unraveling appeared when Hoseok vanished for days on end. In the infinite darkness, where time had no meaning, his absence was a torment of its own. Despite his power to bend reality, he chose to leave me here, dependent on his presence for any sign of change. I began talking to myself, my voice the only sound in the oppressive silence. I spoke for hours, my throat raw and hoarse from the effort, desperately trying to fend off the encroaching madness.

I felt like an addict in withdrawal. I don’t recall when hallucinations began, but soon I was conversing with a phantom chorus of voices. Deep down, I knew it was Hoseok orchestrating these illusions, but my fractured mind twisted reality into something I could barely comprehend. My hatred for him only served to cloud my already distorted perception.

As time dragged on, I grew weary. My speech turned into riddles, convinced I was a prophet receiving divine revelations. Raised Catholic, I had long drifted from faith, but the darkness reignited an obsession with God. I clung desperately to fragmented Bible verses. Hoseok, ever the manipulator, provided me with a Bible. If I weren’t so far gone, I might have questioned his uncanny ability to fulfill my twisted needs.

When I told Hoseok about my religious background, he laughed, and the darkness morphed into a cathedral. For the first time, there was something tangible to focus on during his absences. It was both a prison and a gift. The pews were filled with spectral congregants, and every day became Sunday. I feverishly wrote sermons, warning of the apocalypse. Hoseok attended with a devotion bordering on reverence, but he always left too soon.

The withdrawal pangs paralyzed me, but incessant talking kept the crushing loneliness at bay. I remember the first encounter after becoming accustomed to this madness. My body trembled with need, yet my mind remained alert. Each denial of release brought physical agony, and Hoseok’s visits grew more frequent and prolonged. My breakdown was inevitable.

On the day of my final descent, I felt his presence before I saw him. My struggle had reached its nadir. Despite my lingering hope for escape, Hoseok’s presence shattered my resolve. I became an all-too-willing participant in his dark designs. Even now, as I lie prostrate in my despair, I can’t escape the haunting reality of my existence.

The words of the prayer rolled off my tongue like a ghostly murmur in the dim, solemn church. Each syllable was a desperate plea, a sacrament of my crumbling faith:

“Soul of Christ, sanctify me.”

“Body of Christ, save me.”

“Blood of Christ, inebriate me.”

This prayer was a twisted sacrament, a litany of sacred pleas that felt increasingly like cries into the void.

“Water from Christ’s side, wash me.”

“Passion of Christ, strengthen me.”

“O good Jesus, hear me.”

I bowed my head, eyes squeezed shut like a child hiding from monsters under the bed. My hands gripped tightly in a futile attempt to hold onto my sanity. I prayed not just for absolution but for a distraction, for him to stay away, for the sinful thoughts to dissipate like smoke in the sun.

“Y/N,” a voice whispered, spectral and insistent, urging me to rise, to accept, to finally bend to its will.

Reluctantly, I dragged myself to the pulpit, my legs trembling. I focused on the Gospel before me, the rhythm of my breath, the rehearsed words of today’s homily. I could hear murmurs of anticipation swelling in the pews, bouncing off the stone walls like echoes of forgotten promises.

Did they know? Did they sense the darkness creeping into my soul?

To be honest, I was unsure if anyone was really there or if my mind was playing tricks on me. This place had a maddening ability to distort my perception. I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, offering a fleeting smile to the choir’s children—figments of my fractured mind. Their eyes, hungry for guidance, believed in my wisdom, though I felt utterly unworthy. Their gaze was a reflection of my own inner torment.

My eyes locked on a figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat, as I beheld him. Jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—an irreverent defiance slicing through the sanctity of the church. His gaze was a burning, unholy fire that cut through the darkness with unnerving clarity.

In that moment, the last vestiges of my sanity crumbled, leaving me exposed to the consuming darkness that had become my prison.

I steadied myself, nodding to the organ player, and offered a fleeting smile to the choir’s children, who I no longer believed were real. My gaze wandered over the congregation, each face a testament to a faith I felt unworthy of. Their eyes, brimming with expectation, seemed to pierce through me, demanding guidance I could no longer provide. I questioned my own sanity, wondering if anyone in that room could see how profoundly empty I felt.

I once had everything figured out. Before this… before him.

My eyes locked on a single figure in the front row, right side, five seats in. My breath hitched, caught in my throat. There he was: jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket—a casual defiance that sliced through the church’s sanctity like a blade. His legs were crossed, hands poised by his sides, eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to burn straight through my composure.

No holy book in his hands, no righteous smile on his lips—just an unspoken, rebellious challenge. His presence was a magnetism that pulled me toward a pit of temptation and sin. I forgot my sermon. I forgot the vows and promises etched into my soul. The solemn pledges made to men of faith and to God. Promises I had written daily to stave off the creeping insanity.

Those promises now felt like distant echoes, overshadowed by him. His eyes, his lips, his rebellious aura—an inferno of forbidden heat that ignited a longing I could no longer contain. I closed my eyes, desperately trying to escape the searing image of him. Abs, legs, an all-consuming heat that seemed to draw me into its vortex.

When I opened my eyes again, the fire remained. A cough from the crowd jolted me back to the present. I tugged at my collar, the symbol of my childhood and a cruel gift from Hoseok. It used to offer comfort, a sign of belonging, but now it felt like a noose tightening around my neck.

The faces of the congregation were a sea of silent, unspoken questions. Their eyes bored into me, filled with unvoiced suspicions and judgments.

Shit.

My fingers trembled as I gripped the edges of the pulpit, trying to anchor myself amidst the spiraling chaos. The eyes of the congregation felt like spectral judgments, each one a reminder of my spiraling failure. Hoseok’s presence, fixed in my peripheral vision, was a constant, unsettling pull—a dark promise of chaos just beyond the edge of reason. It pressed heavily on my chest, a suffocating weight threatening to collapse my fragile sanity.

I forced my gaze back to the Gospel, attempting to focus on the familiar lines of scripture, hoping they would restore my fractured resolve. But the words on the page blurred and twisted, tangled in the storm raging inside my head. Each verse felt like wading through molasses, and a bead of sweat trickled down my temple, mingling with the cold sweat already gathering at the base of my neck. I cleared my throat, trying to regain control, but the sound emerged as a strangled rasp.

The whispers grew louder, like rustling wings pressing against the walls of my sanity. My heart pounded like a funeral drum, each beat a reminder of my mounting desperation. I could almost hear the devil’s laughter, mocking my feeble attempts to maintain a façade of righteousness.

Hoseok’s gaze was unwavering, a predator’s gaze that seemed to sear through my composure. His movements were fluid, deliberate—like a hunter preparing to strike. My mind raced, desperately searching for an escape from this hellish vortex. I glanced at the crucifix behind me, its hollow eyes and outstretched arms now a pitifully inadequate shield against the encroaching darkness. The sacred symbol that once offered solace now seemed like a cruel joke, highlighting how far I had strayed from purity.

The murmurs of the congregation grew insistent, a chorus of impatient whispers that echoed like an unholy chant. The church, once a sanctuary, now closed in around me, its weight suffocating. I took a deep breath, summoning the last remnants of my willpower. I forced myself to meet Hoseok’s gaze again, confronting the fiery rebellion in his eyes. He offered no sympathy, only a silent taunt that echoed my own guilt.

With a trembling hand, I reached for the microphone. My voice cracked as I began to speak, the words spilling out in a disjointed stream. I struggled to reclaim my authority, but with each passing moment, my grip on sanity slipped further. The congregation’s expressions shifted from curiosity to concern, then to alarm. Their faith faltered under the weight of my unraveling composure.

Hoseok’s gaze remained fixed, a dark star in a sea of light, drawing me inexorably towards his gravitational pull. My voice faltered, becoming increasingly erratic, reflecting the chaos within. The church fell into a tense silence, broken only by the rustling of the congregation’s uneasy shifting. I felt every eye on me, their silent judgment a palpable force.

My final words came out as a barely coherent murmur, a defeated whisper lost in the oppressive silence. I stumbled away from the pulpit, my mind a tempest of confusion and dread. As I retreated from the glaring scrutiny of the congregation, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was stumbling towards some dark, inevitable reckoning. Hoseok’s gaze followed me, a constant, unsettling presence as I fled the sanctuary.

I collapsed into the shadows behind the altar, my breath coming in ragged gasps that echoed through the oppressive silence of the church. The darkness around me felt like a living entity, wrapping itself around my chest and squeezing, threatening to suffocate me. Hoseok's eyes lingered in my mind, their haunting intensity a constant reminder of the sin and torment that had become my existence. The certainty of my spiraling downfall felt inescapable, and every breath I took seemed to deepen my dread.

The pews had emptied in an instant, leaving the room cloaked in a suffocating silence. My heart pounded as I watched Hoseok move toward me. The man before me was no longer the mortal guise he had once worn; his true form emerged, dark and unnervingly compelling. His eyes, once warm and inviting, now burned with a shadowed hunger that quickened my pulse with a mix of terror and something I couldn’t quite name.

“Y/N.” His voice, soft and reverent, seemed to carry a sacramental weight that sent an icy shiver down my spine. There was a truth hidden in those syllables, a meaning only he understood. As his nearness intensified, confusion and fear danced across my features. His calm, deliberate hand cradled my cheek, the touch both tender and overwhelming. The heat of my skin seemed to beckon to him, an invitation that terrified and enthralled me simultaneously.

"You're so lovely," he whispered, his voice a gentle murmur that barely masked the wild intensity in his eyes. His touch guided me backward with a grace that felt almost otherworldly. The church seemed to dissolve around us, melting away into a space that was unsettlingly familiar—a fragment of my life from New York. The red brick of the two-story house brought a strange, bittersweet comfort, like a fragment of a life I had once known. It calmed my racing heart with its eerie familiarity. He led me to the front door, his touch both comforting and possessive.

The lock yielded effortlessly, and as we crossed the threshold, the gravity of the situation settled like a stone in my stomach. The house, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a prison, its walls closing in with a menacing intimacy. 

"So perfectly lovely," he murmured again as he closed the door behind us. I stumbled back, my nerves crackling with an unsettling energy. It wasn’t just fear anymore—it was something darker and more confusing. A part of me ached for normalcy, for escape, while another part was drawn to him with a desperate, confusing need. The line between terror and an inexplicable, forbidden desire blurred beyond recognition. I clung to the last shreds of my sanity, even as I felt myself unraveling under the weight of my own conflicted emotions.

"Why are we here?" I asked, my voice trembling with a mix of breathlessness and an unspoken longing. My heart pounded with a confusing blend of fear and desire. It was as if clarity had returned to me for a fleeting moment, yet I was still tethered to the confusion Hoseok had woven into my days. His promises of relief had begun to erode the pain, even as they wrapped around me like a vice. I remembered the dreams he'd planted in my mind, their seductive whispers blurring my sense of reality.

"I thought you might feel more at ease here," he said softly, his tone smooth and soothing as he followed me through the cluttered living room. Each backward step I took seemed to draw him closer, his presence an inescapable shadow. "Do you like it?"

I hesitated, glancing around at the artifacts of my past—family photos, treasured mementos, relics of a life that now felt so distant. The room was a museum of a future slipping away from me, and Hoseok's eyes seemed intent on taking it all. "Yes, I do," I whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. The room, once a sanctuary of normalcy, now felt like a stage for his dark play.

"I'd like a drink," I said, placing a hand over my racing heart. I clung to the pretense of normalcy, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I felt a flicker of my old self. "Is there anything here? Surely you would... like one... as well."

Hoseok, having long since discarded any pretense of humanity, closed the distance between us with unsettling swiftness. His movements were almost too fluid, his presence too intense. His hands, warm and steady, framed my face with a possessive grace, his gaze fixed on the pulse in my neck, the rich, inviting blood beneath my skin.

"Oh, Y/N, my sweet, innocent little lamb." His voice, a velvety murmur, sent a shiver down my spine. His touch, trailing down to my neck, felt both magnetic and maddening. His eyes lingered on my flesh with a hunger that was almost palpable, a craving that seemed to consume him as much as it did me.

I trembled in his embrace, my conflicting desires mirrored in his touch. A soft moan escaped my lips, my breath warm and trembling with a heady mix of fear and desire. His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes as he encircled my waist, his touch moving possessively lower, tracing the curve of my hips and thighs. The tension between fight and flight heightened the charged atmosphere, leaving me both desperate and disoriented.

His eyes traced the flush of my lips, a reflection of the flush between my legs. The scent of my arousal mingled with my anxious heartbeat, a call to the beast inside him. His senses seemed overwhelmed by the promise of my warmth, the floral sweetness of my skin, and the earthy musk of my desire.

"You don't want... a drink?" I stammered, struggling to grasp the situation, to find a shred of reason amid the chaos of my emotions.

"Oh yes, Y/N. I very much desire a... drink." His smile was amused, his lips hovering just above mine. The taste of his breath, mingling with his tantalizing scent, sparked a deep, primal hunger within me. I was alive with all these unfulfilled needs, caught between an overwhelming desire and a paralyzing fear.

I inhaled shakily, my mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts. "What... would you like?" The question was a desperate plea for clarity, a tenuous grasp at the last vestiges of control in a world that had become a tumultuous blur of lust and dread.

A low laugh rumbled in Hoseok’s throat as he brushed his lips over mine, savoring the teasing trace of my flavor. "I want you, Y/N. I want to drink you." His honesty was laced with a raw, consuming need, a plea that mirrored the chaotic mix of longing and fear surging through me. It was clear he had no intention of letting me escape—not now. His tongue traced the corners of my mouth, and his body pressed against mine, making his heat seep through every layer of fabric that separated us.

I trembled, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions. The scents of my home—the cheap cotton sheets, synthetic pillows, and lingering traces of my perfume—led him with a haunting familiarity. He lifted me effortlessly, carrying me with a purposeful stride, and placed me gently at the foot of my bed. The moonlight offered only a weak shield against the encroaching darkness that seemed to swallow us whole.

My heart raced, feeling like a delicate butterfly trapped in a predatory web. As he dropped his coat to the floor and drew me into a deep kiss, my earlier uncertainty dissolved into a raw, electric need. Each touch of his fingers against my body made me shiver, a mix of anticipation and dread coiling tightly within me.

The bed was unmade, its disarray a silent testament to my disordered state. His scent lingered in the tangled sheets and blankets as he lowered me onto them. My sweat-dampened palms gripped his hair, my fingers exploring the nape of his neck and shoulders. The buttons on his shirt came undone beneath my trembling hands, my desire growing bolder despite the icy grip of fear that clenched at my chest. His groan as his teeth grazed my throat made me arch my hips, pressing closer, driven by a need I couldn't fully understand.

My clothes fell away under his hands, leaving me exposed and vulnerable. His eyes devoured every curve of my body, his gaze as palpable as his touch. His mouth descended on mine, hungry and insatiable, and I was enveloped by him, lost in a swirling tempest of our shared desire. His touch became a language, one that read my body with an intimate knowledge I was helpless to resist.

As he explored my secret places, my soft sighs turned into desperate pleas. His searing touch brought goosebumps to my skin, but I pressed closer, overwhelmed by the pleasure he was giving me. I was caught between wanting more and the creeping dread of losing myself entirely.

"Y/N," he groaned, his voice a dark promise. "I want to consume you." His words were a growl, a warning wrapped in seductive desire.

"Yes, I want you to. Do it. Take me," I panted, clutching at his shirt sleeve. My body spoke louder than words, arching upwards in desperate need. I knew I didn't fully understand what I was asking for, but the awareness was drowned out by the intensity of my longing.

His hands covered my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples. I gasped, pushing closer as his mouth found each tip, his low growl sending shivers through me. My heart raced beneath his lips, the rush of blood whispering of more delights to come. I arched again, my body twisting off the bed, craving more.

His mouth sucked at my nipple, his tongue flicking to heighten my pleasure. His thigh pressed between mine, the fabric of his jeans rasping over my nakedness, igniting a desperate heat. I moaned and bucked against him, my fingers digging into his arms as I convulsed beneath him, reaching the peak of my desire. The exhilaration of the moment was punctuated by the fear that clawed at the edges of my consciousness, a persistent reminder that I was teetering on the brink of something both irresistible and terrifying.

The climax left me gasping, trembling, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and overwhelming need. Each wave of pleasure only heightened my fear, and my body’s reaction seemed to betray my mind's desperate protests. His touch, relentless and insistent, found a rhythm that both seduced and terrified me. I cried out, unable to stop the sounds that escaped my lips, but a part of me wanted to resist.

I tried to pull away, my hand grasping his wrist with a frantic intensity. "What... what are you doing to me…?" My voice was a ragged whisper, trembling with a blend of confusion and fear.

He looked at me with a dark, hungry smile, his eyes alight with a dangerous fire. "Y/N, don’t lie to yourself," he said softly, his fingers curling in ways that made my body shudder. "You’re not overwhelmed. Your body is telling me you want this. You’re close to coming again. I can feel it."

My protests dissolved into incoherent moans as his touch stimulated a spot deep within me. The pleasure was a cruel paradox, blurring the line between ecstasy and dread. I could barely think, my mind clouded by the intensity of his actions.

"No, Hoseok, it’s too much," I whimpered, struggling to catch my breath. "I can’t..."

His mouth moved to mine, his lips teasing, his breath warm against my skin. "You’re a beautiful little liar," he murmured. "It’s not too much. You crave this. You know you do. Beg for it."

The force of his command broke through my haze of desire. "Please, Hoseok...," I gasped, my will crumbling under his dominance. My words felt like a betrayal, but I couldn’t stop myself from begging. "Please, just... take me."

His satisfaction was palpable, a dangerous hunger in his eyes. His touch grew more urgent, driving me to the brink of madness. I was lost in a maelstrom of sensation, my mind screaming to pull away, but my body’s response only seemed to draw him closer.

The moment of his thrust was jarring, a mix of pain and pleasure that overwhelmed me. My body reacted instinctively, my hips rising to meet him even as my mind struggled to grasp the reality of what was happening. The intense pleasure was intermingled with a profound fear, a dread of losing myself completely.

His movements were urgent, almost desperate, as though he were chasing an elusive climax. I was limp in his arms, my breathing ragged, torn between an unbearable desire and an escalating terror.

Despite my growing fear, I clung to him, my hands fumbling for some semblance of control. My kisses were desperate, seeking to anchor myself amidst the chaos. His touch was relentless, and every stroke seemed to heighten the conflict within me.

He pressed closer, his hands exploring with a possessive intensity. My body’s reactions were at odds with my thoughts, creating a tumultuous storm of sensation and fear. My mind raced, grappling with the realization of what was happening, but the pleasure was so consuming that it blurred the line between consent and coercion.

As the moment approached, I felt his breath on my neck, a chilling reminder of the danger that lurked beneath his seductive veneer. The final act was a blur, my fear mingling with an overwhelming rush of sensation.

I was a walking paradox—caught between heaven and hell, life and death, sin and redemption. His presence was a fiery furnace, consuming me with the heat of stolen life he had been deprived of for so long. My body clenched around him, a pulsating rhythm that seemed to drive him to the edge of his sanity. His pleasure was overwhelming, a torrent of sensations that painted the world in a chaotic blaze of colors.

“Hoseok, please…” I whispered, my voice a fragile breath against the overpowering cacophony of sensations. I wasn’t sure if my plea was for him to stop or to continue, a desperate cry from a place deep within me that I couldn’t fully comprehend. My fear was a gnawing presence, clawing at the edges of my desire, but the confusion of what I wanted and what I was willing to accept blurred together.

His eyes were dark with a twisted satisfaction as he sensed the last of my climax and my blood draining from me. The thought of taking me to the brink of death both exhilarated and haunted him. His grip tightened, and with a guttural snarl, he pulled away from my neck, his fangs retracting with a mixture of frustration and reluctant restraint. The rush of his thirst roared inside him, but he forced himself to temper his need.

I was an indulgence he wouldn’t be denied again, a forbidden pleasure he was determined to claim. He gently laid me back on the disheveled sheets, my heartbeat weak and fluttering. He licked the last drops of blood from my skin, his breath ragged and uneven. Each touch was deliberate, sealing the wounds with a final, lingering caress—a practical necessity for a demon who wanted to savor every part of me.

“Mine,” he growled, his voice a low, dark promise that vibrated through my core. “You are mine, Y/N. From now until death claims you, until I claim you.” His breath was warm and heavy against my face. My eyelids fluttered, barely able to focus, but his words penetrated my haze. “If any other man dares to touch you, I will tear him apart. Remember this, my beautiful little lamb. Remember who you belong to.”

“Hoseok,” I murmured, my voice a faint echo of surrender. His satisfaction was palpable, a twisted delight in my obedience and submission. He rose and slipped out of the room, leaving me tangled in sheets and blankets. From across the street, hidden in the shadows, he watched and listened, his gaze a persistent weight on my fragile state.

As dawn’s first light crept through the blinds, it painted the room in a sickly, eerie glow. I lay amidst the tangled sheets, each twist revealing new bruises and bite marks—a grotesque map of the night’s events etched into my skin. The aftermath was a haunting blend of pleasure and torment, an unsettling reminder of what had transpired.

Hoseok’s presence lingered in the room like a shadow that refused to lift. The darkness he brought with him clung to the corners, an inescapable reminder of the nightmare I had just lived through. My mind, once a storm of fear and confusion, now spun in a twisted acceptance—a deranged serenity that felt as liberating as it was unsettling.

The door creaked open like the groan of an old house settling into its own despair. Hoseok reappeared, his eyes still gleaming with that predatory glow, but now softened by an unsettling tenderness. He moved towards me with a deliberate grace, each step imbued with a dark reverence that made my heart pound with a blend of fear and reluctant desire.

“Y/N,” he whispered, his voice a low, seductive murmur that slithered across the room. “Do you understand now? You are mine, every inch of you.”

I looked up at him, my smile a grotesque reflection of the twisted contentment that had taken root in me. It was not a smile of joy or freedom but a shadowy acknowledgment of a reality I could no longer escape. My old life had withered into obscurity, replaced by the suffocating reality Hoseok had imposed upon me.

“Yes,” I breathed, the word barely escaping my lips. “I belong to you.”

The truth of my submission felt like a heavy, warm blanket, pressing down on me with an oppressive weight. Despite the enormity of what I had given up—my freedom, my chance to reclaim any semblance of my old life—there was an undeniable satisfaction in surrendering wholly to him. The pain and loss had twisted into a perverse form of fulfillment, filling the void in my chest with a dark semblance of love.

Hoseok’s smile widened, a dark curve that spoke of unyielding possession. He reached out, his hand caressing my cheek with a gentleness that clashed violently with the ferocity of his claim. The room seemed to close in around us, the air thick with a palpable tension, as if the very walls bore witness to my surrender.

“You will never leave me,” he murmured, his eyes locked onto mine with an unbreakable determination. “You are mine, forever.”

I nodded, the movement small and almost imperceptible, but it was enough. It was a surrender, a relinquishment of my will to the dark force that was Hoseok. He pulled me into his arms, and I felt my resolve melt away, my body becoming a canvas for his power, intermingling with the strange warmth of our shared connection.

As his darkness enveloped me, I felt a disturbing sense of belonging. In the shadows of the night, under his control, my fears and desires tangled together, creating a new reality that was both terrifying and intoxicating. In that moment, I understood there was no turning back. I was his, bound in body and soul by the twisted threads of fate and desire.

Hoseok’s eyes softened as he pulled me close, his cold skin a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my own body. His embrace was a strange sanctuary, a place where I felt both ensnared and cherished. My mind, once a battleground of conflicting emotions, had slipped into a state of blissful madness. In Hoseok’s dark embrace, I discovered a twisted joy that defied all rational thought.

“I’ve given you everything,” he murmured, his breath cold against my ear. “We are bound now, Y/N. Forever.”

His words were a chilling promise that resonated through the marrow of my bones, a haunting echo that left me trembling uncontrollably. I clung to him, my grip a mix of desperate need and profound terror, as a disturbing form of happiness took root in the darkest corners of my mind. The loss of my old life, the sacrifice of everything I had once held dear, seemed like a fevered dream compared to the unsettling contentment I felt in his arms.

As the first light of dawn filtered into the room, casting long, distorted shadows that twisted and writhed, I looked at Hoseok with a gaze that was both adoring and disturbingly fractured. The vibrant world I had once known had dissolved into a distant memory, replaced by a nightmarish existence defined by the twisted love and passion we shared. My heart swelled with a love so profound it overshadowed any lingering regret, even as my mind spiraled further into chaos.

Hoseok’s final words were a chilling promise wrapped in disturbing tenderness. “Remember, Y/N,” he whispered softly, his voice a ghostly caress in the dim light. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.”

As the door creaked shut behind him, the morning light seeping in like a reluctant witness, I was left enveloped in the oppressive embrace of the darkness we had forged together. My smile, twisted and unnatural, reflected the bizarre, unsettling happiness I had found in the abyss. I was forever bound to the night, my soul tangled in the shadows of Hoseok’s dark desires.

The room seemed to breathe with the remnants of his presence, each corner cloaked in an oppressive stillness that mirrored the void he had filled within me. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the cacophony of fragmented thoughts that raged in my mind. Now, there was only the echo of his words, the haunting promise of a future forever intertwined with his darkness.

I lay there, wrapped in the aftermath of our twisted union, my body marked by the evidence of his possession. Each bruise, each bite mark was a grotesque map of the new life I had been forced into. The pain was now a distant echo, overshadowed by the profound and disturbing contentment that gnawed at my chest—a contentment born of both surrender and madness.

As the minutes ticked by and the morning light grew stronger, I found myself replaying his final words in my mind, my thoughts fracturing with each repetition. “You are mine, in every sense—in your heart, in your mind, and in your soul.” The truth of those words reverberated through me like a haunting mantra, a binding contract signed with my very essence, even as my grip on reality slipped further away.

There was no turning back, no reclaiming the life I had once known. I was irrevocably his, a willing participant in the dark dance we had begun. The thought brought a grotesque smile to my lips, a smile that spoke of a happiness found in the shadows, a contentment born of surrender and madness.

At least, I wanted to believe it was madness alone that made me forget how afraid I was.

October 31, 2024

The house had become an enigmatic beast, its former guise of normalcy utterly transformed. From the street, it looked like any other home—silent and shadowy against the midnight sky. But within its walls, it was something else entirely. The shutters were clamped shut, keeping out any unwelcome glimmers of daylight. The curtains, heavy with dust, obscured the outside world, making everything inside a surreal, dreamlike blur.

Within this labyrinth of darkness, the house seemed like a twisted echo of a familiar nightmare. The air was thick with the mingling scents of old incense and stale dreams, creating a heavy, almost intoxicating atmosphere. Flickering candlelight cast eerie, jittery shadows that danced and twisted, as if mocking my attempts at normalcy. Silence pressed down on me, almost alive in its oppressive weight.

Days blurred into one another, each indistinguishable from the next in a fog of disorientation. Hoseok’s routines had become my own, though I couldn’t quite remember how or when they had taken over. My existence revolved around small tasks—cooking, cleaning, and performing acts of devotion—that had evolved into a kind of ritualistic pattern. It was as though each action was a silent offering to the enigmatic darkness that had enveloped our lives.

When I glanced in the mirror, the person staring back was a ghostly apparition of my former self. My face, serene to the point of being unsettling, bore a look of eerie contentment. I was a wraith, drifting through my days with a confusing mix of dread and satisfaction.

As night fell, the house came alive with an almost palpable energy. Hoseok’s presence was overwhelming, filling the space with his dark, commanding aura. His arrival was always marked by the ritualistic locking of doors, a subtle reminder of his control. The sensations of pleasure and pain that accompanied his touch had become a surreal symphony, a haunting reminder of the path I had chosen.

One particularly cold night, as the moonlight filtered through the grime-covered windows, Hoseok and I stood together, looking out into the void. The world outside was a distant blur, an irrelevant expanse that felt disconnected from my reality. The sky stretched above us, a vast, unyielding black, reflecting the emptiness of my existence. We were bound together by something primal and deep, though its true nature remained elusive.

Time inside these walls seemed to warp and distort. The house, once a symbol of normalcy, had turned into a crypt of our peculiar existence. The outside world had faded into obscurity, replaced by the certainty of Hoseok’s presence. I had found a strange form of happiness in this eternal night, where the terror of the outside world had been replaced by the dark, enveloping comfort of Hoseok’s embrace.

As I settled into my favorite worn leather chair, the house seemed to pulse with anticipation for Hoseok’s return. My knitting supplies were spread around me, with a scarf for Hoseok in progress. I hummed softly, my heart beating with a sense of calm and eager expectancy, as if I were awaiting a beloved dream to resume.

I replayed our last conversation in my mind, Hoseok’s words lingering like a haunting melody. “An old friend is coming for a visit,” he’d said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “She’s good at dealing with werewolves.”

I couldn’t suppress a bubbling laugh, the sound rising unbidden. “Isn’t she the one Namjoon’s obsessed with?”

His kiss on my temple had been darkly tender, sending shivers of pleasure through me. “Clever girl. It will be fun.”

I teased him playfully. “Don’t cause too much trouble.”

His laughter resonated through me, sending a thrill down my spine. “When have I ever been nice, lamb?”

“Nice to me,” I’d replied, pressing a kiss to his lips. “Very, very nice.”

Settling back into the leather chair, the hearth’s flickering light casting long, shifting shadows, I resumed my knitting with a serene focus. Each stitch felt like a small act of devotion, a testament to my growing obsession. I hummed softly, my heart a silent witness to the peace I had found in this twisted, eternal night. The lines between fear and love, sanity and madness, had merged into a strange, intoxicating tapestry that I no longer fully understood.

Hoseok said I was perfect. His praise was a balm to my disoriented soul.

I smiled, pushing away any lingering doubts about my sanity. I was fine. I was perfect.

Pager Codes:

110 307 - Go To Bar

209 - On My Way

08 - OK

420 - You’re in trouble

3011 - Be Careful

221 - Where are you?

419 - I don’t understand

100 - Come Back

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[bakugoushotwife]

Threads of Fate // s. gojo x fem!reader

a/n: the series is hereeeee!! thank you to my lovely discord server who helped me title this and listened to all my ramblings and plans for the series! I hope you guys love chapter one!

spotify playlist for chapter by chapter vibes!

here’s a Spotify playlist for the first chapter :)

cw: cursing, a little meanness, gojo, unedited

wc: 4.6k

series masterlist // chapter two

You were born special, that much was clear. A baby girl born to the Jujutsu Clan of Nashville sorcerers with the genetic gift of the Quelling Eyes, something your twin was not so lucky to receive. Your brother was fraternal to you, younger by just a few minutes. He had an equally terrifying and special ability, but it was apparent that his twin was destined for greater things. The two of you were number one and two in the western circuit, respectively. 

It was lonely at the top, even if your twin brother was right behind you. The higher ups expected more out of you than your classmates. They gave you harder missions and even assigned task forces under your guidance. You were expected to do things with ease, blessed with powers and techniques that no one in America had seen before, other than the genetic Quelling Eyes, and not much was known about them. You were the first line of offense and defense in any unexpected situation, even though you were just a fifteen year old girl. They made it a point to keep your brother separate on his own teams, not keen to let you two rely on each other. American sorcerers were war machines, and nothing else. You were a perfect weapon. 

Well, nearly perfect, anyway. 

It was a day like any other, the humid summer atmosphere filling your lungs with rocks as you tried to train your hand to hand combat. The sky was especially blue and clear that day, the sun exceptionally bright. Your twin tauntingly blocked every kick and strike you threw his way, the two of you in a battle of ego. You were two sides of one sadistic coin, pushing each other to be the most powerful version of yourselves. He couldn’t stomach your designation as number one, and you were determined to not let him surpass you. 

“Y/N. Pack your bags. You’re going to Tokyo.” Your drill sergeant said, interrupting your sparring contest just as you were starting to make him stumble. You groan and dramatically turn your nose in the air, not even really noting the words, just that your sergeant spoke. “You leave tomorrow. Be ready, L/N.” He read off a piece of official letterhead. 

“Hah?” Your brother furrowed his brows in disgust. “Tokyo? What for?” He asked, unstrapping the velcro of his protective gloves. 

You nod, tearing yours off with your teeth, unbothered to do it the easy way. “Yeah! What for?” You ask, perfectly manicured brow raised. 

Your instructor seemed annoyed, though that was to be expected with you in his charge. A bubbly but egotistical teen girl with the ability to back up her loud mouth was hardly his ideal student. He glanced back at the paper. “The Commission thinks you’re ready for your own squad, but they want you to help our allies in Tokyo to polish your skills. Says something here about training with their number one sorcerer, Satoru Gojo.” 

Your brother kicks the training dummy, discontent to see you sent off elsewhere. “She’s an American sorcerer. She should stay in America.”

You roll your eyes a bit. He was every bit as much of a dramatic egoist as you. You clap your hand on his shoulder. “Rest easy, bro. You know that means you get to be number one while I’m gone.” You tease, poking your tongue out at him. 

He deadpans. “Whatever, dipshit. Try not to destroy the city you’re in, this time.” He huffs, cleaning up the equipment you two drug out onto the football field today. Jujutsu School of Nashville was much like any other American highschool, though it had a much more military-esque authority presence. The school was your average brick foundation, lengthy hallways that lead to empty classrooms to study techniques and the major clans of the United States. Being a part of the Southern District gave your education a questionable undertone, as the south hasn’t been notable for their schooling over the years. Perhaps that’s why the Commission sought to send you on missions like these every so often, getting you experience with other teachers and techniques. The last time they sent you away had been talk of the school for years, you took down two special grade curses but happened to destroy the Australian village you were fighting in. 

“That happened once!” You huff, slapping your brother on the shoulder. “And the special grades woulda tore it up anyway, so I don’t wanna hear it!” 

Your twin just smiles and shakes his head. Your teacher sighs at the bickering, and just tiredly waves the letter at you, repeating, “5pm. Tomorrow, L/N.” Before he walks away. He sighs to himself, hopefully you would survive this round of missions too, but he could never be too sure with the U.S. Commission seemingly testing to see how much you could take before you snapped. 

It’s lonely at the top. You’ve known this since you were old enough to understand your power, and you’d estimate that realization at around five or six. You were able to overcome most of these struggles due to your bond with your twin and the repeated message that you were fated for a higher purpose. 

Though your brother wouldn’t be coming with you to Tokyo. This would be for you to navigate alone, and you were feeling this loneliness on your sixteen hour flight to Japan. The Academy has been all you’ve known since you started there. Once the severity of your power was realized, the government paid a pretty penny for you and your brother. Family loyalty hardly meant anything compared to the almighty dollar, plus, you were quite the unruly pair. 

Still, you had each other, and that had been enough. Until they separated you too, all in an effort to increase your power. 

Power. Tch. You were the best there is, plain and simple. All their tactics worked, paired with your natural prowess, you were sure there was nothing left to learn and no one on earth who could beat you. Your brother was extremely strong, able to bend time to his will. It’s nearly unconquerable, yet you can still best him every time. So who was this Satoru Gojo and why do you give a flying fuck? Your higher ups constantly seeking to sharpen your craft would soon realize you were as powerful as they come. Yet still, you didn’t want to walk in blind, nor show all the cards in your hand when you meet your new classmates for the first time. Your brother scored some books about the Gojo clan of Tokyo, highlighting important sections for you to study on your trip. 

You decide to pick up the heaviest book, leatherbound and dusty. It was about inherited techniques and idiosyncrasies within the clan, and your eyes land on the highlighted passage. 

“Mukagen Rikugan: The Six Eyes. A genetic power rarely inherited within the Gojo clan. They are not a cursed technique that needs to be activated—” 

That certainly piques your interest. Your Quelling Eyes are genetic as well, but they are very draining to your cursed energy. This means he has the opposite ability, you can’t help but chuckle through your nose at this. You read on to learn more about your future forced companion. 

“But an innate technique that grants the user the ability to master Limitless. Several hundred years must pass in between wielders and there will be no two Six Eyes users alive at the same time.”

Hm, that’s certainly interesting. Your eyes were passed generation to generation, with no limits to how many wielders can be alive at the same time. You figure there must be massive amounts of powers involved, and already the mention of another innate technique that he surely possessed to be hailed as the best in the east. 

“A Six Eyes bearer has immense perception and unrivaled visual prowess far beyond that of any other sorcerer. Their eye-sight is comparable to high-definition infrared vision, which allows them to see even when their eyes are covered. They can easily see from several kilometers away–” 

You figure that has to be a large distance, and you know you’re in for trouble in Tokyo. You know enough of the language to work your way around, but conversions like these were never your strong suit. The power sounds insanely strong, and you find yourself excited to meet someone with as much natural talent as you.

“---and distinctively tell apart different figures within that range. The Six Eyes can see the flow of cursed energy, empowering their bearer with the ability to read an individual’s cursed technique in use and determine its function. They can even identify between different types of cursed energy.” 

You smile to yourself. What an interesting ability. Your Quelling Eyes worked similarly, you too could differentiate between the types of cursed energy, but you specialized in repressing the circulation of it. Though the power took a lot of your own cursed energy to use for long amounts of time, it was insanely useful. Satoru Gojo would know what your cursed technique is upon meeting, but you wondered if he would discover your Quelling Eyes as well. 

Next was the books about the Limitless technique. It too, was an inherited family technique, though it seems only a user of the Six Eyes can maximize its potential. 

“Infinity is the base state of Limitless and is essentially the power to stop. The technique works the same way convergent and divergent sequences do in mathematics. The infinity is the convergence of an immeasurable series, anything that approaches the infinity will slow down and never reach the user. This is because the technique takes the finite amount of space between the two objects and divides it an infinite amount of times. The invisible barrier created by the Infinity can be expanded to keep harmful substances away from the user or to overpower someone attempting to neutralize their technique.”

You study some more notes on the subject, noting that the teen can’t actively support Infinity at all times just yet, having to decidedly turn it on and off at his choice. Either way, your ocular prowess should be enough to overpower it, and sneak your actual technique in, whether he’s expecting it or not. You hadn’t met the boy yet, but he was your new rival. It was clear he held tremendous ability, but you also wonder if he’s ever been challenged in the way he’s about to be. You hope to be a surprise, noting some records your brother tracked down that told of Satoru’s unbearable attitude and ego-centrism. You grin to yourself, knowing your teachers probably spoke of you in a similar fashion. 

You gaze out the window of your airplane, wondering what this meeting would hold for you. Which one of you would be humbled in this affair? You can’t help but smile as you picture a boy out there just as if not more powerful than you. You wondered if he felt the weight of the world pressing in around him, too. You wanted to know if he experienced that same loneliness that you felt, with everybody looking at you like a superhero instead of a little girl. Would he be relieved to find someone who knew what that felt like?

When you step out of the terminal in Tokyo, you aren’t sure what to expect. It’s not as if your school gave you many details to begin with, though they probably didn’t receive many themselves. The Commission was the federal level of sorcerer authority, so they only gave out what they needed to. You look around for anyone reeking of cursed energy, figuring that would be your best bet. But you’re met with an older man holding up a sign with your name on it. You arch a brow, chuckling softly to yourself as you adjust your backpack on your shoulder. It made you feel like you were in some romantic comedy, though the driver definitely couldn’t be the main love interest. 

You approach him anyway, dragging your suitcase behind you. He nodded his head to greet you. “Y/N L/N?” 

You nod back, giving him a polite smile. “In the flesh.” 

He seems unamused. He opens the trunk and loads your luggage in, leaving you grimacing awkwardly and debating if you should just duck into the sleek black car and eat the embarrassment or try to help with your bags. 

“Go ahead and take a seat, Miss Y/N.” He says sternly, and you nod with a tight lipped expression. Already making friends in Tokyo, your brother would be so proud. 

You sigh and shove yourself in the back, annoyed at yourself for being so nervous in the first place. Sure it was a foreign country, new people that only had a brief idea of who you are and what you can do, and the seemingly daunting task of learning aside Satoru Gojo. But you are a powerhouse. No amount of pressure can break a diamond. You can handle whatever Satoru Gojo and any other students of Jujutsu Tech have to throw at you. 

You repeat this mantra to yourself as the car winds down a curved path, no doubt taking you to the secluded castle-like building of Tokyo’s sorcery school. You can see the outlines of three figures waiting on an open field. It almost reminds you of the football field back home, though it’s not as long and most definitely not used for football in its spare time. The driver stops before the field, looking at you through the rearview mirror. 

“Go ahead. The teacher will guide you from here.” 

“Kudasai, my bags?” You ask, sliding out of the backseat. The driver only waves you off and keeps driving. There was a tall man with sunglasses, the man you assumed would be the sensei of your squad. There were two other boys with him, both tall but opposite in hair color. One had the most striking white color and the other had long dark locks. You peered in at them through the slats of the fence, unsure how to make your grand entrance. You had planned to make yourself a spectacle, impossible to ignore as you burst on the scene. 

“Ah! She’s here already! Come, come Miss L/N!” The teacher calls out as you approach, though the other two surely detected the magnitude of your cursed energy. The dark haired one seemed…surprised. The white haired one peered over dark circular lenses at you, expressionless. 

You step into the gate with a smile. From what you could tell, they were both pretty attractive. Maybe you could have a little fun while in Tokyo. “You must be Yaga-sensei?” 

He chuckles and nods. He waves you closer, brightly smiling  as you stand just a few feet away from the group. The black haired man exchanges a look with the white haired counterpart, though now that you’re closer you can decidedly say they’re good looking. The dark-haired man’s hair was long, but he had angled layers that framed his sharp features. His eyes were kind though, and his lips curled into an inviting smile. 

“This is Suguru Geto!” The teacher says, holding the boy by both shoulders. If possible, his warm face shifts into an even brighter smile. “Be nice to her, she’s from America! Tennessee!” The man chuckles as he pronounces the silly name. 

“It’s nice to meet you, L/N-chan!” He beams, extending his hand for you. You smile easily, your features soft and seductive. You’re easily the prettiest girl he’s ever seen, though he knows Shoko would be devastated to hear it. You take his hand in both of yours, leaning forward a little to give him an adorable nose-crinkled smile. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Geto-senpai.” You hum, which flusters the boy a little. He averts his gaze from your shyly, clearly taken aback a bit by your forwardness. He shakes his head quickly. 

“Oh–no, we’re the same age so you can call us san!” He chuckled, releasing your grip. The pink on his cheeks is still evident, but your eyes had already shifted to the boy staring intensely at you. He had the most peculiar eyes that you had ever seen before. They were bluer than the sky, glowing with an ethereal brightness. It’s captivating, the way he analyzes you without any trace of his findings on his face. Yaga-sensei moves to his shoulders. He’s a couple inches taller than the first boy, but not as broad. He’s much lankier, but you can tell by his cursed energy that he is insanely powerful. It all makes sense. You realize who this is as your new teacher says it. 

“This is Satoru Gojo!” He says, and you see the hint of nervousness creep up onto his face. He clears his throat before announcing his next bit. “Satoru! You will train with her, she is on your power level!” 

This makes the boy show his first emotion of the day, genuine joy. He laughs, a hearty, full- bodied chuckle. His head is tossed back, shoulders jumping, his hand over his heart enjoying the hilarity. Suguru looks at you apologetically, but you smirk, and hold your hand up as if to say, “I got this, buddy.” 

This was the outcome you had figured most likely in your head. You’re extremely prideful and some would even say intolerably full of yourself based on your upbringing as a highly valuable military style weapon. After reading up on the Gojo clan and the powers their little Prince inherited, you figured he would be just as bad, if not ten times worse. Yaga seemed terribly embarrassed, but you gave him another award-winning grin. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Satoru-san.” You grin, folding your arms over your chest as you weigh your options. You couldn’t tell if he knew of your eyes, or if his infinity was currently active. You extend your hand, hopefully answering one or both of those questions. His face was playful, those sparkling eyes, flickering from your hand and back to your face. He seemed amused if nothing else now, his rejection of your hand only answering the question about your eyes and his infinity. “Oh, don’t insult me. I know you can read my technique anyway, but I could always show you much more effectively.” 

At this, Satoru’s grin spread. You seemed to understand his special eyes, and he wondered what else you knew. Your cursed energy was weird. It seemed like it was vibrating, and it didn’t course through your entire body. He thought that odd, but he knew he could figure that out with a brief spar. In his mind, he was also unbeatable. He stepped forward a bit. 

“You’re on, Miss Americana.” He chuckled, thinking himself at the advantage since he can see how your cursed technique works.

Suguru stepped forward a bit nervously. “Now, Satoru, that’s rude, she just got here–”

“I’m okay Geto-san.” You hum brightly. “I think I can impress, if nothing else.” You say, tying your hair up out of your way and subtly activating your cursed technique. You don’t take your eyes of Satoru, knowing he noticed your activation. 

“What’s your technique, anyway?!” Suguru asked, slightly panicked at the impression Gojo would leave on you on your first day here. 

You arch your brow at your opponent. “Do you wanna tell him, or can I?” 

Satoru is officially intrigued by you. You’re unafraid, he enjoys that, even if some poor American bastards lied and said you were as strong as he is. “The floor is yours.”

You hum, a sly grin on your lips. “‘Preciate it. You see, Geto-san, I have cursed threads, kinda like puppet master jutsu from Naruto.” You giggle, letting the invisible strings wiggle out toward your opponent. You knew Satoru wouldn’t allow them to meet his skin, so you hum some more. “I can control the speed, the number of them that appear. Ideally, I’d wrap these around your limbs. They’re sharp, so they cut as you wiggle against them, and it gives me some manipulation of your limbs. Of course, Gojo-san’s Infinity technique won’t allow that.” 

Suguru seems intrigued. “That sounds powerful!” He says, eyeballing his friend's reaction to you understanding his technique as well. 

Satoru is of course overjoyed by your knowledge. “Seems like someone did their research! Where were you from again? Hollywood? Brooklyn? Dallas! Yeah that’s the one.” 

“No it’s not.” You chuckle, a little thrown by his derailing. “I’m from Tennessee–”

“Dallas it is. Listen Dallas-chan, I see you know your enemy. If that’s true, why’d you even step up to embarrass yourself?” 

You roll your eyes at his nickname, deciding to fight that battle later. “Because I’m gambling.” You smirk, knowing this caught him off guard. He was striking to look at, really, and if he wasn’t such a dickhead you thought you may let him off the hook just for being pretty. You sigh, ready to show all your cards now anyway. 

Satoru raises a brow now, curious to what you could mean. He knew about your second form activation as well, a much scarier and painful version of your cursed threads, if that’s what you intended to show. You wink at Suguru, blinking slowly. When your eyes open again, they glow with a purple flame-like visual enhancement instead of your normal color. The boys look at each other in surprise. Satoru knew there was something off about the energy at the top of your head, but he didn’t surmise another ocular power. Soon, he feels his infinity melt away, your threads speedily wrapping around his arms and legs. 

He even chuckles when you thrust him to his knees, much to Suguru’s shock. “What did you do to him??” He asks, puzzled beyond belief, he knew your eyes must be behind it, but he didn’t understand how. 

“She repressed my technique with those eyes of hers. It’s cute, but now that I know about it, you’ll never win again.” He sighs, unbothered by your show of power. Though part of him chills, knowing your second form was so painful and crippling that your domain had to be the cruelest one he’d seen. Another part of him is highly interested in this. He hasn’t seen anyone come close to your strength, the amount of cursed energy you had did rival his own, though it was clear your techniques consumed more of it. Your attitude interested him even more, unwavering against him. You would be fun to play with. “Good job, Dallas-chan.” He teases. 

You roll your eyes and release your technique, setting him free. His cursed energy was odd. It seemed to flicker like a fire and call out to you, despite being repressed by your power earlier. “It’s Y/N. Nashville is nowhere near Dallas.”

He shrugs. “I dunno, I think Dallas suits you better than Nashville though. Your real name sucks.” He grins when he says it, but Suguru covers his face with his hands. He was going to be cleaning up Satoru’s mess forever. He almost comes up with something to say, but you remain undeterred by the boy’s relentlessness.

“Whatever you say, Gojo-san. I think I’ll show myself around your training facilities now. I’ll only answer to Y/N.” 

You wave to your new teacher, who sat and observed your confrontation with his most troublesome student. He decided then that you would be the best thing or the worst thing to happen to Satoru, and he had desperate hopes for the former. Then you wave off to Suguru, turning to walk past Gojo on the narrow track. He stepped in your way as if to shoulder check you, but instead of you stumbling back and him giggling at you, both of you looked at each other in shock. 

The place where your bodies touched sparked, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You eye his cursed energy, and the flames pull towards you again, like a magnetic field. Satoru is just as concerned, realizing that your energy’s hum was getting heavier and heavier, like a metal detector discovering gold. There was an unfamiliar connection formed, but neither of you knew what to think about it. You tear your eyes away, heart thundering in your ears. Your body had grown warm, like his energy was an actual fire that your energy accepted as a source of its own. He hums, tucking this in his mind to explore later. That is until you start walking away from him and he feels like he’s left naked in the snow. His body goes cold, and his feet scream at him to follow you, as if it’s the only way he can get warm again. The sparks start to intensify as he grows closer to you. He stops himself from following any further, growing confused as his body slowly becomes cold again as you disappear from view. 

What the hell was that? He felt drawn in and he didn’t like it at all, it must be some innate technique of yours. Whatever it is, he has to figure out how to shake it off of him. 

For the rest of the night, all you can think about is each other. You lay in your new room, staring up at the blank ceiling, wondering what could have caused your energies to have a physical reaction to each other. You knew you were both incredibly strong, maybe it was due to that. Perhaps you two were too strong to interact! Yeah, that makes sense. But you were sent here, deliberately partnered with him. How could you complete your missions if you avoid him all the time? You wouldn’t be able to, and then you wouldn’t be able to go home. So whatever happened out there tonight, you had to put it behind you and focus on the missions to come. Even if he was remarkably handsome and stupidly cunning, what did that have to do with you? His ego is a huge turn off anyway. He couldn’t handle you and you couldn’t handle him. That’s why your energies sparked. You’re sure of it. You would prove yourself to him time and time again. And you had to start with training practices tomorrow morning. 

Satoru mirrors your position in his own bed. He figures this must be your doing, maybe there was more to you that his Six Eyes couldn’t register, just like your ocular abilities. Although, the image of your smirking face and the unabashed way you flirted with Geto came to mind. Maybe he was interested in your power, maybe he was just interested in you. Either way, it was incredibly frustrating. All he can focus on is the way his shoulder burned from connecting with yours, and the intensity of your eyes locked on his. This isn’t like him. He’s met a plethora of gorgeous women, and sure your foreign American charm must play into it, but geez, he felt pathetic. You seemed so sure of yourself and your energy made it clear how strong you really were. He hated having you on the brain. He would see you again for training, and there he could put an end to his stupid wonderings by smacking you down for good. He’ll expose your power for the cheap ploy it is and send you back to America with your attitude adjusted. Then he won’t have to deal with your strange effect on him or your annoying ego. And he’ll start with practice in the morning.

tags: @aepinkoutsold @purpleguk @ddora-kken @naorizenin @makiville @getosbigballsack

[wooahaeruby]

Chapter 14: Rose Tinted Glasses

Chapter Word Count: 5,447

TW

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“Wait wait wait-” Mouse shook her hands out in front of her, trying to take in Seungkwan’s words. 

“I’ve explained it four times, Mouse.” He groaned.

“And I’m higher than the Empire State Building and still not understanding-” She ran a hand through her hair. “Jeonghan, the guy that has been flirting with me since day one of meeting me, likes me?” 

“Yes,” Seungkwan rolled his eyes back, “Jeonghan, one of the SVT leaders, trickster supreme, likes you! How did you literally not know?” 

She opened her mouth to answer but closed it, eyes moving around rapidly in thought. “I…I thought he was just being like Seokmin! I didn’t think it was actually flirting!” 

“Wow you are dumb.” Vernon gaped, wide eyes focused hard on the ceiling. “Everyone could see it. I think everyone knows honestly.” 

“Not everyone.” Seungkwan said under his breath.

Mouse was silent, she looked nearly alarmed at the news coming from him and Vernon. 

Really, it shouldn’t be much of a surprise, or to the guys it didn’t seem so surprising. If Jeonghan wasn’t talking about work or dumb things he heard through the grapevine, he was talking about Mouse. What she was doing, what happened at work, and while it was heartwarming to have the flirtatious man liking someone, it was getting old to hear about it since they weren’t even together. 

Jeonghan had come to him asking for advice of all things recently and all Seungkwan could say was to grow a pair and tell her, but Jeonghan didn’t think it was a good idea. Something stupid about Mouse not knowing he was actually flirting, then something about rejection was said when Jeonghan walked away. 

Seungkwan, personally, thought Jeonghan was the dumbest guy on the planet at that time, but now…Now Mouse seemed like the dumbest person on the planet. 

“Hey Seungkwan…” Mouse spoke up, “I think I wanna go home now.” 

Have you been ignoring everyone’s text messages aside from simple yes or no answers and telling them you were okay? Yes. 

Was Seokmin hounding you every time you walked into work, wondering why you haven’t been hanging out with them? Also yes. 

Was Mingyu guilting you over text since he was recovering and he couldn’t see ‘his designated short person ’ (which only came because you were shorter than Jihoon)? Yeah. 

This was the second weekend since learning that Jeonghan liked you and you’d been hiding in your apartment, telling them you were just busy with some things and couldn’t hang out. If the group knew you were lying, they didn’t tell, not even Wonwoo, surprisingly. 

All weekend you either sat on the couch watching dramas or playing video games. Between those activities, you were still in awe that Jeonghan had a fucking crush on you . 

The more you thought about it though, it did make sense. 

While the flirting was playful, it was still flirting. The constant texting, wondering how you were doing, the subtle gazes, you couldn’t even forget about the necklace he got for your birthday and that you stupidly chalked it up to it being about the dress- but he also mentioned that you looked good in dark blues. 

You felt like an idiot. A big stupid idiot that took so long to realize that someone liked you. 

And as you were laying in bed, staring up at your ceiling, hearing the sounds of the city forever moving, maybe…just maybe…you might like him to. 

“Oh my god.” You grabbed a pillow and covered your face with it. Holding the cushion there, you let out a very muffled and very discontent yell. 

You spread your limbs out and starfished on the bed, not bothering to remove the pillow to figuratively hide your ignorance from the world. Somewhere beside you, your phone was buzzing for a call but you didn’t bother to move and answer it. There was enough mental gymnastics going on to just ignore the device and the world if you really tried. 

Jeonghan was so- God, what would you call it? Unattainable? Out of your league? He was pretty and funny, a little out there and flirty, yet he was so kind and soft when he wanted to be. You thought back to the day Mingyu was hurt and how he was so caring when helping you and worried. When he had held your face, he was so warm and comforting, even making you eat and just sat all cuddled up next to you until Mingyu- 

You yelled again into the pillow before sitting up quickly, taking deep breaths because holy shit you really did like Jeonghan and you are just now realizing that fact.  

Alright, mental recap, you thought, rubbing a hand over your face then through your hair. Number one, Jeonghan likes you. Yep, that was solidified because of a very high Vernon and a sober Seungkwan. Thanks. Number two, taking another deep breath, focusing on nothing specific really, I. Like. Jeonghan. Alright, now say it out loud and accept this fact. Put on your big girl pants and take your phone and call Jeonghan and ask him to come over. Perfect plan, make it simple, just tell him you like him too, but don’t mention Seungkwan or Vernon because they will in fact get their ass beat by Jeonghan if he found that they told you, but that is a worry for another day- 

It took a moment a moment to even muster the courage to open your mouth and another to try and vocalize the thoughts you were having. Just as you finished mentally hyping yourself up to say it, a knock was heard from your front door.

“Mouse?” The nickname sounded muffled behind the door to your apartment but it was undoubtedly the one person you didn’t want to face right now. 

Please leave, please do not- 

“I know you are in there, Mouse. Wonwoo said that all you have been doing is playing video games.” 

You knew it was a bad idea to add Wonwoo on any game platform…

Slowly you rose from bed and trudged your way towards the door. Jeonghan knocked again and you internally groaned, flicking on the living room lights. “I’m coming, stop knocking.” The knocking, in fact, did not stop. Now he was just being annoying. 

As you opened the door, you didn’t expect Jeonghan to be dressed so…casually. He wasn’t in his typical attire of dress pants and a button up, instead he was in a baggy t-shirt and basketball shorts, half his hair tied up to most likely combat the blistering heat outside. You’ve never seen Jeonghan dressed as such outside of the house, let alone outside of your apartment. 

Meeting his eye, Jeonghan was staring at you, a smile on his face, hands now settling in his pockets. “Hi.” 

“...Hi.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“...You won’t leave until I let you in…” 

“Correct!” And he basically pushed past you, letting himself into your apartment. “Ohhh, nice place.” 

Staring out your doorway, you slow-blinked and sighed. Why did you have to like this man? You closed the door and turned to follow him, watching as he took in the space around him. 

Your apartment wasn’t much; a one bedroom, one bath place in a building that wasn’t older than ass. Decorations were minimal, the walls were a little scuffed from a few years of living here but the white paint didn’t add much. Really, you wished it was more, but you were just happy to have a place to call your home after all these years. 

“Why are you here?” You finally asked, standing behind the couch. 

Jeonghan huffed a laugh under his breath, turning to face you from beside your coffee table. “I think we both know why I’m here, Mouse.” 

“If it’s because I haven’t been hanging out with you everyone as much, I’ve been socially drained-” 

“Seungkwan and Vernon told me, Mouse.” 

“I- Huh?”

“After Seungkwan very abruptly took you home, Vernon was eating in the kitchen, very very high if I may add, I’m surprised you were even alive after the shit he smokes. When Seungkwan came back, Vernon was mumbling something about being in trouble with me and then I had to pry it from both of them.” Jeonghan explained, “Very easy to get them to fold actually, I just threatened them with Cheol and suddenly they were putty.” 

If you weren’t staring before, you were staring now. You tried to set your expression to neutral but the nerves that crawled under your skin were making your hands sweat. He held your gaze, raising an eyebrow. Jeonghan was better at masking what he was feeling, that was one thing about all of them you gathered, but he was especially good at it. 

“You- Wait.” You broke from your stare to shake your head and frowned. “You’ve known for almost two weeks and are just telling me now?” 

“Now Mouse, why would I just bombard you with feelings ? Clearly you needed to figure some things out.” There was sarcasm threaded in with each word and it kinda ticked you off. 

“Don’t joke right now, Jeonghan.” You were serious, you didn’t want him playing whatever game he wanted at this moment.

Jeonghan was quick to drop the act and sagged his shoulders. “Listen I might be an asshole, but I’m at least considerate about people I care about, okay? Yes, I did annoy the hell out of you over text, but that was more for the fun of it than actually bothering you. Truth be told, Mouse, I missed having you around. Seungkwan and Joshua had to stop me from showing up here days ago because I wanted to be around you, see you…” 

Were those butterflies fluttering in your stomach? Nope, totally not, what are you talking about. 

You gave a nervous swallow and combed your fingers through your hair. Your hands were shaking and you prayed that he didn’t notice. 

Slowly, Jeonghan rounded the couch, saying your name so soft that you nearly missed it. You turned your head and your heart jumped in your chest.

Standing beside you now, you have never seen him like this. For once, Jeonghan was nervous, even a bit timid. His eyes were open wide, looking down at you like you were something to be taken in, someone that caught his eye out of all the other stars in the universe.

“Can I actually take you out? On a proper date? I want to do this right.” 

Hope was held behind his eyes, it was clear as the bright sky outside. You didn’t know if it was the lights of the living room, but his eyes were nearly glimmering. He wanted you to say yes.

“I-” Pausing for a moment, you swallowed down the nerves and nodded. “Yeah, Yeah, that would be nice.” 

The smile that spread wide on his features was giddy and excited, his nose even scrunched up. “Can we- Is it okay I take you out tonight? I can come back and pick you up and-” 

“Jeonghan-” You cut him off, laughing at the excitement he displayed. “If I say yes again, promise me we won't go somewhere really fancy. Please?” 

“I can do that, nothing fancy. Promise.” He nodded quickly, stepping awake and closer to your door. “I’ll- Fuck-” He ran his side into the wall and got to the door. “I’ll pick you up at seven!” 

Then he was gone, leaving you standing in your apartment, a little dumbfounded but definitely excited. 

Jeonghan was right on time, maybe a little early if he was keeping track. 

Earlier, he quickly – totally didn’t speed – all the way back to the house out of the city to get ready, knowing he didn’t have anything clean back at the penthouse.

He had pushed the garage door open, all smiles and dreamy, practically floating through the house. 

“I never want to see him like that again- Why does he look like that?” He could hear Chan speak from the couch, curled up in a blanket beside Joshua. 

“Today, my dear Chan, Jeonghan grew a pair.” Was all he heard the other respond before he stepped into his room and closed the door. 

He could do something not fancy, totally. He didn’t need to wear something really expensive or flashy, just something nice and appropriate for a date with Mouse. The thought had him skipping towards his closet to pull clothes out.

“Nothing fancy, nothing fancy…” He said his thoughts out loud, scanning all his clothes that could satisfy the idea. “T-shirts out of the question, Jeans? Maybe jeans.” 

“You are like a teenage girl.” Joshua’s voice rang through the small room and Jeonghan whipped his head towards the other. “Kind of sickening if you ask me.” 

“I’m sorry, Shua, do you have a nice date tonight? No? Well, I do.” Jeonghan bit back but there was no malice in his words. “And I’m trying to find an outfit that is nice but not fancy because Mouse made me promise not to go to a fancy, flashy place.” 

“And I’ll repeat myself, you are like a teenage girl.” He stepped into the room, looking over the plethora of clothes Jeonghan had. “How about you figure out where you are going, then pick based on that, and tell Mouse if it's casual or not.”

Jeonghan scoffed, waving him off. “I was thinking of the little Italian bistro, not the one we always go to.” He clarified, “Not too fancy but still good food and definitely good wine.” 

Joshua nodded and tugged out a pair of dark blue jeans and pointed to a gray button up. “Simple. Still looks nice, maybe do something about your hair.” He waved his hand in the direction of Jeonghan’s face. “And shower.” 

“No shit, dick.” He took the clothes and pulled his phone from his pocket, sending Mouse a text that it was a nice place but nothing too fancy and definitely a little more casual. “Thank you, now get out.” 

Ushering Joshua out of his room, Jeonghan took no time to start getting ready. His heart was beating a little fast, but he was happy, more happy than he had been in a long time. 

“Seokmin, where are you?” You said into the phone, pacing in your bedroom, half your closet on the floor and even more on your bed. 

“ Hi to you too, I’m at the penthouse, why?” He snickered. 

“Is anyone with you?” 

“ No? Cheol is knocked out in a room but that’s about it.” 

“ Can you come over? I need your help with something-.” 

He hung up on you and was knocking on your door in twenty minutes. 

When you opened the door he was a little out of breath but smiling bright. Seokmin gave you a quick hug before you stepped aside to let him in. 

“Alright, I’m here to help. Why do you need help?” 

“Promise me you won’t have a stroke when I say this.” 

“I can half promise unless that is my natural response to the information I will be giving.” 

“I’m going on a date with Jeonghan and I don’t know what to wear.” 

Seokmin blinked, then blinked again, “You’re doing what?!” 

Taking the time to explain everything to Seokmin, which he wasn’t too pleased about learning second hand and almost last. 

“So you like Jeonghan.” 

“Yes, I like Jeonghan.”

“And you are going on a date with him tonight .”

“Yes.” 

“Well,” He started, clearing his throat. “I’d like for our relationship of husband and wife to be brought into consideration.” 

You deadpanned at him. “Really?” 

“If you just wanted an open relationship, you should have told me.” He continued to joke. “But I have the best idea.” 

“And that is?” 

“We tell everyone not to tell Soonyoung.” 

Confused, you raised a brow, trying to understand what was going on. “Why?” 

“Because he actually thinks we are dating and I just want to fuck with him.” 

“Deal, can you help me find an outfit now?” 

Sitting on your bed, you let Seokmin go through all the clothes that were scattered around the floor and mattress, taking into account the information Jeonghan provided not long ago over text. He picked up some items and placed them aside, sorting through the clothes. 

“I’m putting you in a dress.” He finally determined, “I feel like it’s going to be the best option with everything you have.” 

You stood and started to grab all your dresses, tossing them on the bed to better get a visual of what the two of you were working with. 

“You have a lot of dark colors. Do you have anything lighter?” 

“I might have a few lighter sundresses.” You stepped over clothes to your closet and pulled out a handful of dresses stored in the back. 

Seokmin took them from you and held up each individually, humming quietly to himself in thought. “This one.” 

The one that he handed over still had the tag on it. It was pale pink, complimenting your skin tone well which was the main reason you bought it. The sleeves were sheer pink, cuffed at your wrists, but the rest of the dress was opaque. It was loose around your waist and went down just below your knees. Overall it was pretty modest, nothing too extravagant but pretty for a date. The material was soft and you had a pair of wedges you could wear with it.

“If you wanna keep your hair down, go for it, maybe some neutral makeup too.” Seokmin looked a little proud of himself, starting to take the clothes off the floor and just piling them neatly on your bed to be cleaned later. “Is he going to pick you up?” 

“Yeah, at seven, I have some time to get ready.” You hung the dress on the door and gave Seokmin a hug, who tightly hugged you back, wiggling you both side to side. “Thank you for all the help, I don’t think I would have picked something without you.” 

“Ah~ No problem, Honey. But just remember, I’m always your husband first.” 

Seokmin made his exit relatively quick, giving you one last hug at the door and telling you to give details later. He wanted all the juice to spill later, obviously. 

You took the last of the time to shower and freshen up, drying and styling your hair so it was down but out of your face, makeup was light overall and a little shimmer you put on went a long way. You felt cute, you looked cute, or at least you thought you did. It had been a while since you wore a sundress, let alone went on a date with someone you actually like. 

Pacing around your living room, the soft thunk of your wedges hitting the hard wood floor was heard. You tossed a small white purse on the couch earlier which held your keys, wallet, and lipgloss, and you waited. Your phone was in your hand, waiting for a text or call from Jeonghan that he was here. The nerves were starting to build up in your chest, but you shook out your limbs, hurrying back to your bathroom to check yourself out in the mirror for the tenth time in the last twenty minutes. Checking the time, it was fifteen minutes until seven o’clock.

Breathe, there is nothing to worry about. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you straightened up and rolled your shoulders back. It’s just a date, he promised nothing too fancy. Yes you haven’t been on a date in a while but that’s okay. Last date was a bust and this date shouldn’t be. It’s just Jeonghan. You’ve spent plenty of time with Jeonghan. 

You walked back to the living room and huffed out a breath, flattening down the skirt of your dress. You’ve never been this twitchy for a date before, you thought you were being a little ridiculous. The only thing you needed to worry about was being yourself and enjoying the time you’d be spending with Jeonghan. That’s all. Nothing scary. 

A knock to the door made you flinch. With relative haste you stepped towards the door and pulled it open, a smile spreading on your face. 

Jeonghan stood on the other side of the door, dressed neatly in jeans and a gray button-down, holding something behind his back. When his gaze met yours, he beamed, eyes bright and smiling wide as he pulled a bouquet of flowers from behind him. The flowers nearly matched your dress; dusty pink carnations wrapped in white tissue paper and a shiny ribbon holding it together. 

The gesture had you shaking your shoulders in a quiet laugh and taking the bouquet into your hands, taking in the soft, sweet scent of the flowers. “They are beautiful, Jeonghan.” 

“Not as beautiful as you.” He winked at you but you stepped back to let him inside. 

“Let me put these in some water then we can go.” You hurried off, looking through a cabinet for the only vase you owned. 

You heard Jeonghan close the door and step into the kitchen, leaning himself against one of the counters. Once the flowers were unwrapped and placed in a vase full of water, you placed them on your small kitchen table, moving some of the carnations around so they looked better. Taking a step back to admire them, you glanced back towards Jeonghan whose eyes were only on you. 

“You do look really pretty, Mouse.” Jeonghan complimented, taking you in from his place. 

A flush crept up from your neck and your face flared with heat. “I- Thank you. I can’t place all of it on me…Seokmin came over and helped me pick something out…” 

He gave a quiet chuckle. “That would explain the call I got from him then.” 

Cringing, a sigh was pushed out of you, “I’m not even surprised. He is like an overprotective sibling. Let me just grab my purse and we can go.” 

Jeonghan once more stood near the door, waiting patiently for you to collect your things. With one last check of the contents inside, you stepped towards the door, watching as he opened it and ushered you to walk out before him. Once the door was locked, he held his hand out for you to take which you did easily, sliding your hand into his. His hands were cold but it didn’t matter as he used the connection between you to lead the way downstairs and to his car. 

When you reached for the passenger door, he whined and quickly opened it for you, giving a huffy pout that had your nose scrunching up in a smile. He was really going all out for this. It was cute. 

The restaurant, thankfully, wasn’t fancy. It was homey if you had to place a word to it, small but bustling. The hostess had seated you quickly once Jeonghan gave a name for the reservation. 

“I hope this meets the not fancy requirement you’ve imposed.” He smirked across the table, opening the menu. 

And there was his personality again. You could play ball. 

“Hmm, I didn’t think you had it in you with the Louis Vuitton and Dior I’ve seen you wear. Is the shirt Calvin Klein?” 

“No but the jeans are.” 

You didn’t try to suppress the roll of your eyes, crossing your legs and opening the menu. “I’m curious though, who gave the idea for flowers? You don’t seem like a flower guy.” 

Jeonghan shot you a glare but the smirk was still on his face. “If you must know, it was Minghao. He said I couldn't just show up empty handed.” 

“Ah, I’ll have to thank him for suggesting it then, shouldn’t I?” 

It felt like the normal bantering that the two of you always fell into; teasing jabs and flirting that actually meant something now. Sitting across from one another, you didn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward. You were thankful it didn’t feel like that.

You were both on your second glasses of wine, food half eaten, laughing at a story Jeonghan was telling. With this date, you did learn more about who Jeonghan was outside of his work. 

The Club as he called it out in public, started as a joke between him, Wonwoo, and Mingyu, but it made good money and even better thrills. If he wasn’t working for the business , he was working for the shipping company, Pledis Shipping. When there was no work for him, Jeonghan was back at the house sleeping and actually doing nothing . He loved going out to new restaurants with the youngest three, but couldn’t cook if his life depended on it, but he wasn’t as bad as Wonwoo, the nerd could burn water. 

The one unsurprising thing was his fondness of teasing the guys and sabotaging every single game they play together so he can almost always win. You’ve seen it once when they were playing Uno and he was hiding extras of plus fours and skips but you didn’t care to say a word, wanting to know if anyone would notice or if they would care. (Note: surprisingly, no one noticed and it did end up with Cheol, Hoshi, and Mingyu getting mad. They ended up switching games to Mario Kart, which made the events so much worse for them but funnier for you.) 

“No no, it gets worse !” He was curled up on himself a bit, wheezing in a breath and wiping the tears away that gathered in his eyes. “Shua and I didn’t tell anyone in the house that we burned Mingyu’s favorite pan. It was an accident but Cheol being angry is one thing, but break something of Gyu’s that he loves and bought for himself? God we’d never hear the end of it- When he found out it was ruined, he thought it was Wonu and they were fighting for a week-”

“He didn’t deserve that!” You threw your head back in a fit of laughter. “He might be an ass but letting him take the blame?!” 

“ Jihoon knew the entire time-” 

You covered your face with both hands, gasping each breath to not absolutely lose it. 

“ And he didn’t say a word for a week- He threatened us when Gyu and Wonu wouldn’t even work together!” 

“What the hell-” 

“ I made Shua take all the blame-” 

“Han!” You gaped at him, “That is horrible!” 

“It’s okay, I got him something he wanted from overseas and called it even.” Jeonghan waved you off and downed the rest of his glass, smiling at the memory. “You should hear the stuff I’ve got for Soonyoung every time he takes the blame for stuff.” 

“You are horrible, absolutely horrible. I can’t believe you’d make him take any blame, he is just a pure, innocent baby.” You dramatically, knowing he wasn’t pure or innocent , but he was also soft and clingy when around you. 

“What can I say, I’m just like Loki .” 

Faking a gag, you rolled your eyes and groaned. “I hate you. Officially.” 

“Hm.. You can’t hate me, Mouse. You’re on a date with me~” 

“I’d like to formally retract my dating intentions with you.” 

That had him scoffing and laughing, happiness spreading across his face and the softest gaze landing on you. In the chatter filled space of the restaurant, the two of you sat in the quiet company of one another. 

Dinner was finished not long after, Jeonghan insisting you try some of his dish, not even placing it on your plate but holding it fork out, pasta wrapped around the utensil to eat from. You were hesitant but his persistence was never ending until you indeed ate from his fork. He was grinning, you were rolling your eyes. Ridiculous.

Jeonghan was quick to slide his card to the waitress, not leaving you room to argue even if you did want to at least split it, but it was also nice to have someone pay for you…(but he didn’t need to know that).

The drive home was quiet, both enjoying the rush of the city passing by and the satisfying hum of the car’s engine. Once Jeonghan parked outside of your apartment building, he made no move to get out and simply shut the car off and relaxed back in his seat. 

“Mouse,” he turned his head towards you, a soft grin spread on his lips, eyes tired but still bright. “I really enjoyed our time out together.” 

“I did too, Jeonghan.”  Answering softly, you smiled, meeting his tired gaze with a similar look. 

Tonight was nice, one of the best dates despite it being so minimal. You weren’t someone that needed much to enjoy time spent with others, it’s why you were fond of the family dinners at the house on weekends. 

“I’d like to do this again sometime.” He sounded hopeful and you were glad to satisfy that desire.

“I’d love to go on another date with you, Jeonghan.” 

Though he was beaming, Jeonghan kept his excitement at bay, nodding a few times and moved to get out. You watched through the windshield as he quickly rounded the car and opened your door, holding a hand out to help you out. Humoring him, you took his hand and stepped out, sliding your purse over your shoulder and letting him close the door. He walked you all the way to your apartment door, holding your hand, standing close while taking the elevator up and when waiting for you to unlock the door. Turning to him, you felt his thumb run over your knuckles and he gazed at you fondly. 

“Thank you for tonight, Jeonghan.” 

“It’s my pleasure.”

There was a small internal battle going on within you. The idea was tempting and you didn’t know if you would let it win…. but… 

Leaning up the best you could in your wedged heels, you placed a chaste kiss on Jeonghan's cheek. His hand tensed in your hold but it quickly subsided and you pulled back, your own cheeks matching the deep flush that spread on his face. 

“Goodnight, Mouse.” He hasn’t stopped smiling at you.

You gave a quick nod of your head and a small step back. Jeonghan was hesitant to let go of your hand but as you reached and pushed the door open, his hands easily slipped out of the hold. 

Another step back into your apartment has your heart feeling just the slightest bit heavier. “Goodnight, Jeonghan.” 

He stayed until the door was fully shut and you waited a few moments before sprinting full speed to your room and jumping into bed, wiggling around like a teenager after their very first date. You floated around your apartment when getting ready to bed and drifted to sleep with a new found fondness that continued to grow. 

When Jeonghan got home, it wasn’t too late but a majority of the lights in the house were off. He was quiet as he entered from the garage but Joshua was sitting on an armchair, a book held open in his hand while a lamp was the only light illuminating a corner of the living room. 

Hearing him enter, Joshua dropped the book to his lap, placing a bookmark to hold his place and raised a brow curiously at the daydreamy look on Jeonghan’s face. 

“Good date?” 

“One of the best I’ve ever been on.” Jeonghan shuffled over and collapsed on a couch near his friend, puffing out a sigh while smiling. “She agreed we should go out again. We talked so much at dinner and I walked with her to his apartment door.” He raised his arms to the ceiling like the structure above could help him comprehend everything. “Then she kissed my cheek! I felt like I could have exploded.” 

Joshua listened to him ramble, resting his elbow on the armrest and his cheek on his hand. He had never heard Jeonghan speak so animatedly about anything outside of his SVT activities; he liked the change. It gave Jeonghan more human aspects. 

“I’m glad you had a good time. She seems to bring out a different version of you.” 

Jeonghan let his arms fall to his stomach. “That’s the thing, Shua…I don’t feel like I have to put on a show for her. I feel normal for one of the first times in nearly ten years.” 

“I think we can all use a little bit of normality.” 

“I hope we can all find our own versions of normal sooner or later, Shua.” 

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[meropegaaunt]

EVENTUALLY

Billy Dunne x reader

Implied eventual Graham Dunne x reader

Can be read as a stand-alone or as a sequel to West Coast

Summary: You grow apart from your childhood best friend, Billy.

Warnings: Angst, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, a non-detailed mention of childbirth, implied cheating, and attempted kissing

Word Count: 4,940 words

Author’s Note: If anyone would be interested in a third part of this fic, please let me know in the comments!

© Meropegaaunt 2023

BILLY DUNNE (lead singer, The Six): I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but at one point or another, things between Y/N and I changed. They started to pull away, to keep me at arm’s length, and that . . . that hurt more than I can put into words. For twelve years, we had been inseparable, then boom. Just like that, we were separated.

Don’t get me wrong. I was happy with Camila, happier than I had been in ages, but can one truly find joy without their best friend? No, I don’t think they can.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Billy and Camila getting together served as a wake-up call. At some point in 1969, you had unknowingly developed feelings for him, had let him into your heart, but now that he was off the market, you felt the need to take a step back, to figure out who you were without your best friend. So you stopped going over to the Dunne household every day, instead opting to spend time with your father or your other friends. As expected, Billy took note of your absence, but when he pushed you for an explanation, you assured him all was well. The year before, he would have immediately noticed that your voice had cracked when offering assurance, revealing your words to be false. Now, though, he was distracted, his mind so wrapped up in other things that he did not notice. (Or so you thought . . .)

Despite the wide berth you were giving Billy, you still saw him at band practice. As per usual, the two of you played side by side, giving your all to the music, and while your musical talents continued to grow, something was off. A tension could be heard, one that neither of you were willing to acknowledge even after Chuck left . . .

His departure was completely unexpected, blindsiding not only you but the rest of the band, because he had been quiet in his discontent, not telling anyone he was going to leave until there was no other choice. He had to, because you had all rode up his stone-paved driveway in Warren’s rickety, beat-up van, expecting to practice, only to realize that the door to Chuck’s garage, your designated practice space, was closed.

“Ah, there he is,” Eddie breathed, kicking open the back door of the van, a half-smoked cigarette hanging from his lips. Out of the back spilled you, him, and Graham, your features all a mask of confusion.

“Hey, Chuck,” you greeted, offering him a wide, sunny smile. The kind that could calm even the most nerve-addled man, because he looked to be in need of assurance. “We‘ve been calling all morning. What’s up?”

There was no time for him to answer, though, before Warren and Billy emerged from the front of the van, the former suspiciously eyeing the closed garage door. “Why’s the garage door closed?”

A beat of tense silence trickled by, depriving the space around you of oxygen, then, “Look, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just gonna say it. I got into college.”

Warren glanced at you, unable to suppress the soft, surprised chuckle that escaped his mouth. “Huh, all right.”

Your own mouth curved downward in response, showing that you had mixed emotions about the whole ordeal. On one hand, this was good news. Chuck had always been smart, the type that could go far with his brain so long as he applied himself. You could, too, but scholarly pursuits had never appealed to you, not the way music had. Four more years in a classroom personally sounded like torture to you, but if that was what Chuck wanted, then so be it. On the other hand, though, him going to college meant the band would be down both a bassist and a practice space.

“Bro, we didn’t even know you applied,” Graham pointed out, sparing a glance at the rest of the band. No one had a clue about Chuck applying to college until this very moment, because he had stayed silent, closed-lipped.

“Was this, like, before or after I spent all my money on this van?” Warren asked, his surprise bordering the line of disbelief.

“I know. I’m sorry, it’s just . . . they have a really good dental program.”

That was shocking, so much so that it was now your turn for disbelief. “You’re gonna be a dentist?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Chuck, come on,” Billy huffed, stepping closer to him in an effort to get through to him, to sway his decision. “Please don’t do this. All right? Not now. Not when things are just starting to happen.”

Chuck had thought long and hard about his decision, which was why he stayed firm, hard as stone. “What do you mean, ‘just starting to happen’?”

“Dude, we open for the Winters on Thursday, and that’s just the beginning.”

“This is a real opportunity.”

“So is this.”

“Billy,” Chuck released a deep, exasperated sigh, one that showed just how much he had thought this over. He would not be swayed, even when his closest friends begged him to. “I know this is your dream, man, but just because you want something to happen doesn’t mean it’s going to. Do you really think that there’s a future here?”

“Well, yeah. Chuck, I do.”

“You’re out of your fucking mind.”

With that, Chuck left, leaving a large, bassist-sized hole in the band. It came as a harsh, cutting surprise, but even so, you called after him, “Good luck.”

Your words, though light, did nothing to dispel the tension that had fallen over the group. Eddie seemed to be feeling it most of all, as shown by how he pulled the cigarette from his mouth, turning it over and over in his hands. “We gotta cancel the gig.”

“No, man,” Billy shook his head, refusing to be put out by this one setback. He would not be stymied, not when the band had just gotten started on its rise to greatness. “We’re not canceling.”

“Yeah? What’re we gonna do? We don’t have a bassist, Billy—“

“We’re not canceling,” he repeated, remaining firm, unyielding. Emerald eyes slowly strayed to Eddie, clearing with comprehension, then, “Eddie, you switch over to bass.”

“No.”

You could not help but roll your eyes at the suggestion, because even though Eddie was a team player, there was no way he would switch over without kicking up a storm. He would no doubt complain, spending precious time complaining rather than practicing. That was why you straightened your spine, volunteering, “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Y/N. We owe you one.” A pleased grin slid onto Billy’s face, replacing the discontent that had been there moments before. He placed a hand on your shoulder, pressing his gratefulness into your skin in a manner that could have been taken as friendly . . . if only his hand had not lingered a moment longer than it should have.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

GRAHAM DUNNE (lead guitar, the Six): (Smiles) Y/N ended up becoming a better bassist than Chuck, anyway.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

ROD REYES (tour manager): Oh, yeah. I remember the night the Dunne Brothers opened for the Winters, specifically Billy Dunne and Y/N L/N. One look, and I could tell they were rock stars. He was cocksure, knew who to play in the crowd. They had this air about them, the kind that entranced the crowd, really brought out their emotions.

There’s just a quality that some people have. If you took nine guys, plus Mick Jagger, and you put them in a lineup, someone who had never heard of the Rolling Stones before could still point to Jagger and say, “That’s the rock star.” Billy and Y/N had that. And the bad had good sound.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

“Obviously, you got to write your own material,” the famed manager, Rod Reyes, declared, the distinct smells of smoke and sex emanating from him, filling the air. The smell was so strong and potent that it filled your nostrils from your spot beside Graham, burning your throat, but you were happy, too optimistic to mind the burn.

“Well, I-I mean, I do. We do,” Billy replied, his emerald eyes flitting briefly from Rod’s to yours, because the two of you had written the band’s songs together. A multitude of hours had trickled by in which you two had tried to piece together worthwhile ballads, throwing paint at a theoretical wall and seeing what stuck. The first drafts of the songs had been horrid, lacking any harmony or smoothness, but with much shaping, they had been turned into songs that could go a long way. Key word: could. “Most of it’s not good enough yet.”

“What are you writing about?”

“I have this one song called ‘Nevermore’ about the Catonsville Nine.”

“No. Oh! Are you Bob Dylan? Are you Buffy Sainte-Marie? Enough with the political shit. It’s a new decade. No one needs reminding that the world is a mess. People want to feel good again. They want to feel hope. You can write a love song, can’t you?” Rod demanded, a sour look crossing his face at the thought of ‘Nevermore.’ The song had not been bad, sounding pleasant to the ear, but he did not need to hear it to know that it would not go over well with the masses. He turned to Graham, then, “You need to cool it with the solos, brother. Nobody cares about your technical guitar skills. They want to sing. They want to dance. Look, the last thing I’ll say, and this is key, you need to get the fuck out of Pittsburgh. You want to be signed to a label, you want to work with Jimmy Miller, Tom Dowd, Teddy Price—“

The mention of Teddy Price caused a great, perceptible shift in the air. You immediately sat upright, a curious glint working its way into your eyes. “Wait, you know Teddy Price?”

“Yeah, I know everybody, and they’re all in L.A. now. Not London, not New York. California, my friends. That is the place you got to be.”

His words resonated deeply with you three, specifically the brothers, which was why the prospect of going to L.A. was promptly proposed to the rest of the band. As expected, they agreed, and the six of you and Camila set off, riding off in Warren’s van, Lady Peaches, toward your futures.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N L/N (singer, The Six): I knew the chances of making it big were slim, but I also knew that if I didn’t at least try, I would never forgive myself. The boys wouldn’t either. So I packed up my things and bid Dad farewell. He was sad to see me go, but just as happy that I was going after my dreams.

He didn’t tell me he was sick . . . Probably because he knew I’d have stayed behind to take care of him.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

The City of Angels welcomed you and the Dunne Brothers with open arms, taking you in as one of its own. You got into contact with Rod, hoping that he would set you up with the big guys, specifically Teddy Price, but all he had to offer was a gig at a dank, seedy bar named Filthy McNastys. Its attendants were sketchy, having all sorts of sins to their name, but given that the bar was on the Strip, the band gladly pushed through, giving their all to each and every performance.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N: The months we spent at McNastys were slow. At first, barely anyone came to see us, but the more shows we played, the more attention we got. People started coming in just to see us, which was fantastic, but there was a problem: we were barely getting paid.

I ended up getting a job as a waiter at this cute little coffee house to help make ends meet, but no matter what we did, it just didn’t seem like it’d be enough.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

“What happened with that producer you went up to?” Eddie asked as you slid into the booth aside him, donning your work uniform. Working at a coffee house was not exactly what you had envisioned yourself doing when you had set off for L.A., but hey, sacrifices had to be made if the group was to stay. “The one with the parrot?”

“Parrot guy passed on us,” Camila answered, having fashioned herself the band’s manager. You thought she was doing a great job, given that she had never done such a thing before. Others did not think as such, though, as shown by Eddie’s next comment.

“Wow. That is bleak.”

“Might want to save half that toast for tomorrow, Eddie,” she retorted, eyeing his toast with an expression of deadly seriousness. Atop the table lay a mound of cash, which was all of the money that the band had amassed since the start of the month. “This is barely enough to cover the rent.”

“Fuck,” Eddie cursed, breathing out a deep sigh. Half his toast was promptly placed in his shirt pocket, being tucked away to be eaten tomorrow.

“Fuck,” you echoed, resting your head atop his shoulder, the move a sign of just how deeply tiredness had settled upon your bones, weighing you down. “I’ll be working another double this weekend, I s’pose.”

Eddie opened his arms in response, letting you lean more closely against him. You did so happily, soaking in his warmth. The action, though gentle, was purely friendly, yet still, unbeknownst to you, two sets of eyes looked upon said action disapprovingly. Both Billy and Graham, despite not wanting to admit it, were jealous, because there you were, snuggling up against another man.

Their jealousy went unnoticed, but your exhaustion did not, as shown by the concern that made its way across Warren’s face. “Fuck it. Maybe old Chuckie was right, huh? Maybe this was all just a big mistake and we should have just stayed at home with our parents, saved money on rent, and become dentists.”

“I mean, I’ve sent out hundreds of photographs. Not a single fucking paper has responded. Should I just quit? No one said it was gonna be easy.”

Camila’s disheartened words drew your attention, causing your head to snap up toward hers. “No, don’t quit. All it takes is one person to make a difference,” you replied, flashing her a weak but warm smile, because even though you had distanced yourself from Billy, you had welcomed her into the group as kindly as you had the new keyboardist, Karen Sirko.

“Also, while we’re talking about stuff, how come I’m the only one without a bed in the house?” Warren deadpanned, heavily yearning for a good night’s sleep in a proper bed. He had been squatting on the couch, after all, and it could be felt in the aches of his back. No twenty year old should feel like they had the back of an old, decrepit man . . .

“Well, you could’ve taken Karen’s room,” Billy pointed out, finally breaking out of his jealous haze.

“No, I couldn’t have. That room is haunted.”

“It’s not haunted.”

“Everybody knows it’s haunted.”

“Oh, come on, Rojas. You don’t want to get all up close and personal with a ghost?” you teased, reaching across Eddie to jostle his arm. Of course, Warren jostled you back, the two of you nearly displacing Eddie’s toast, which he did not like. Not at all.

“Hey, stop! You almost made me drop my pocket toast—“

Sensing that the three of you were on the brink of causing chaos, Karen broke her silence, asking a question that had been bothering her for a long time, “Why are we still called The Dunne Brothers? I mean, four of us aren’t Dunnes, and the last time I checked, I’m nobody’s brother.”

“So you want to change our name?” Billy asked, not even wanting to consider the idea. Truth be told, you had been opposed to the name at the nascence of the band, but given that two of the three original members were Dunnes, your opinion had been the minority.

“I personally think that’s a great idea,” Eddie admitted, earning a sharp, accusatory look from Billy. Said look was sharp enough to cut skin, but he did not wilt, instead adding, “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking.”

“Well, the name is the name, so . . . That’s how people know us.”

“Yeah, but it’s not exactly doing much for us, though.”

“How about Immaculate Reception?” Warren interjected, causing your nose to crinkle disapprovingly.

“God, no. That’s horrid.”

“We’re not changing the name,” Billy insisted, looking to his brother for help. Graham offered none, though, for he was open to changing the name.

“I mean, listen, if we’re throwing stuff out there, Hercules is still on the table.”

“No! No way!”

“Deliverance, Espionage, Poison.”

“How about Aurora—“

“The six of us will never agree on a name,” Billy cut you off, only liking a single one of the names that had been thrown out. “All right? So let’s just . . .”

His words caused a lightbulb to go off in Karen’s head, as shown by how brightly she grinned, realization donning on her features. “What about The Six?”

“I like The Six.”

“Sure as hell better than Hercules.”

“Y/N?” Graham looked at you, an expectant, questioning look flitting across his face. He had been looking at you more and more as of late with that look, one you could not quite make sense of. “What do you think?”

You opened your mouth to answer, to offer your view of the name, only for the words to die on your tongue when your boss, Dave, yelled out, “Y/N, break’s over. Back on the floor!”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N: I put in crazy hours at the coffee house, working to the point of exhaustion, but one of my coworkers there, this bright, fiery girl named Daisy Jones, turned what was one of the darkest times of my life into one of the brightest. One day, after working a double together, she pulled me along to watch her and her friend, Simone, perform at the Troubadour.

I thought that was all it was, that I was just going to support them, but then, after Daisy performed, she got this crazy glint in her eye. The kind where you know she’s up to something. She set down her guitar and said, “Now, I’d like to bring a friend of mine up on stage. Come on up and wow us, Y/N L/N.”

I was shocked, to say the least, but Daisy Jones isn’t the type of person you deny, especially in a room with that many people. So I got up on that stage, took Daisy’s guitar, and sang a piece I had been writing on my own called “Equilibrium.” It was about trying to find a balance between who I was with Billy versus without him.

Looking back, it was sad just how deeply intertwined I was with him, even when there was more space between us than ever. At the time, though, I didn’t realize the song was about him.

Hell, I didn’t even realize Teddy Price was in the audience that night. In my defense, though, my obliviousness might’ve been from all the mescaline I was taking at the time . . .

ੈ✩‧₊˚

After your performance, you returned the guitar to Daisy and hopped off the stage, your cheeks bathed in perspiration from exertion. As soon as your feet made contact with the earth, you were off, making a beeline for the star of the night, Simone.

A golden grin immediately slid onto your mouth, showing how happy you were for her in that moment. “Simone, you did great out there.”

“Hey,” she returned the smile, inclining her head to the man she had been chatting with before you had approached. “Y/N L/N, Teddy Price. You two should talk.”

Oh, my God, you thought when his name trickled your ears. It was all you could think, because there was one of the legends of the music industry, handing you his card. Feeling as though you were floating outside of your body, you reached out to take the card into your hands, hoping that he did not notice the slight tremble of your fingers.

“You interested, kid? We could work on some music together.”

“Oh, um, I appreciate it, but I’m not a solo act,” you informed, because at the time, you had only ever performed by yourself on a handful of occasions. They had been fine, perhaps even good, but not as great as when you performed with the band. “I’m in a band, The Six. Any chance you’d be interested in giving us a chance? Just let us play one song for you, that’s all I ask.”

He looked upon you, studying you keenly. A beat passed, then he nodded, agreeing to give The Six a chance. “Okay, kid. I’ll give you a chance. Are you ready?”

“Undoubtedly, yes.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

BILLY: People think we played one song for Teddy Price and he gave us a record deal. Not true. After that first meeting, he put us through the wringer for months, but it was worth it.

Everything had gone so slowly, and then suddenly it was all happening so fast. We recorded our album in six days, had two weeks off, then it was time to hit the road.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

BILLY: The night before we were set to leave, Camila told me she was seven weeks pregnant, and I . . . I decided we needed to get married right away. We had been planning to have a wedding sometime after the tour but I decided we needed to do it right then. I don’t know why that mattered to me, but the moment I knew she was pregnant I felt like we had to make sure we were a proper family.

CAMILA DUNNE (wife of Billy Dunne): Karen knew an ordained minister. She got his number from a friend of hers and we called him late that night. He came right over.

EDDIE ROUNDTREE (rhythm guitarist, The Six): It was four in the morning.

CAMILA: Karen decorated the porch out back, and Y/N picked some roses from the bushes surrounding the house. They made me this beautiful flower crown and did my hair; it made me feel like a proper bride.

─── ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ───

INTERVIEWER: What do you remember about the tour?

Y/N: More than I’d like to.

GRAHAM: . . .

WARREN ROJAS (drummer, The Six): . . .

KAREN SIRKO (keyboardist, The Six): . . .

BILLY: I, uh . . . It was a long time ago, I don’t remember much.

CAMILA: I remember everything.

GRAHAM: Pretty quickly, we found a rhythm: get to town, sound check, play, party, get on the bus. And the better we started playing, the more we partied. Hotels, girls, drugs. Over and over. Hotels, drugs, girls. For all of us, but especially Billy.

WARREN: Let me sum it up for you: I was getting laid, Graham was getting high, Eddie was getting drunk, Karen and Y/N were getting fed up, and Billy was all four, at once.

Y/N: Billy changed on that first tour. Cracked under the pressure, I think. He turned into a person I didn’t recognize and didn’t like.

And even though I didn’t like him, I still loved him.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

After the wedding, something within Billy had changed, had shifted. He became hard, closed off. You and Graham, two of the people closest to him, were kept at arm’s length, having no choice but to helplessly watch on as he ruined all that was good in his life. He got drunk, high, and angry, and when his anger mounted to an exceedingly high level, he expelled it by sleeping with a nameless woman, one he could use, then discard when he felt better.

Him spiraling hurt you more than you cared to admit, but you were not his family. Not his spouse nor his blood, so it was not your place to set him straight . . . or you thought as such until he tried to rope you into his debauchery.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N: After the Ottawa show, I went back to my hotel room and started getting ready to go out for the night. I remember, I was just about to get started on my hair when there came a knock at the door. I opened it, expecting to see Graham, but it was Billy. He had been drinking tequila. I could smell it on his breath, and the look in his eye . . . I had never seen him that down, and it made me sad.

I didn’t know what to say, but I let him in. He went and sat down on the bed, and knowing I’d need a drink to get through whatever was to come, I poured myself a glass of whiskey. It was awful, but did its job. I downed the whole thing, then poured two more. One for me, and one for Billy.

BILLY: I honestly don’t know what got into me that night. I just needed to see Y/N, to hold them.

Y/N: He asked me to hold him, so I did. We sat there for a while, not talking, moving, or doing anything. Just holding each other . . . until he tried to kiss me. That pissed me off, because he knew how I felt about him. He had known when he married Camila, yet still, he had married her. Had chosen her.

I jumped up and yelled, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Billy? I mean, honestly, is this the kind of person you want to be?”

And he said, “The booze, the drugs, the girls . . . I’ve been doing them all to try to get you out of my system—“

I slapped him. Hard.

BILLY: Y/N slapped me, and I just kind of sat there, reeling. They looked like they wanted to apologize, but before they could, Graham walked in. You could just tell by the look on his face that he had overheard the whole thing.

GRAHAM: I only heard a tiny bit, but it wasn’t hard to piece together what was happening. It also wasn’t hard to piece together that Y/N wasn’t willing to entertain Billy’s advances, so I pushed him out of the room and into the parking lot. Outside, he paced back and forth and muttered to himself, looking a little crazy. He said, “I fucked it all up. I fucked it all up.”

Deep down, I’d known it was coming, because he loved Y/N the same way I did. So all I could say was, “Just don’t do it again, man. Just don’t do it again.”

ROD: Billy started going at it double time after Ottawa. The coke and girls and booze and all that.

GRAHAM: Camila decided to surprise Billy a few weeks after that. She drove up, five months pregnant, and found him in a . . . compromising position.

EDDIE: She walked in on him getting, well . . . I don’t know how else to say it . . . oral sex, I guess I should say. From a groupie.

Y/N: Camila blew up on Billy. Like, slapped right across the face. Hit him with her bag, too, if memory serves. She asked me to watch him, to make sure he didn’t sink deeper into himself.

And she said, “When he wakes up, give him this letter.” The letter had an ultimatum; he had to get clean before the baby came.

KAREN: He didn’t stop messing around with all of it.

EDDIE: We were all sort of counting down the days. You know, sixty days until Billy has to get clean. Then it was forty days. Then, when it got down to ten days, he was forgetting the words onstage, and I thought he was never gonna clean up.

Y/N: On November 28th, we were in Hartford for a show when one of the stage managers called me offstage. Said there was a call for me. I picked it up, and it was Teddy. “You gotta get Billy home,” he said, because Camila had gone into labor.

BILLY: Y/N took me by the arm and held onto me until we got onto the plane. Then, we landed and they dragged me into this beat-up rental car and drove me to the hospital.

ੈ✩‧₊˚

The rickety old rental car sped into the hospital parking lot, going way faster than the legal speed in an effort to get Billy to his girls as fast as possible. When the car rolled to a stop, though, he did not immediately jump to get out. Confusion overtook your features, prompting you to say, “Well? Go see your girls.”

“I can’t,” he whispered, his voice sad, broken down. Never before had you seen him so shattered.

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“Billy.”

“Y/N. I can’t have her meet me like this.”

An emotion akin to the anger you had felt back in Ottawa arose beneath your skin, causing you to tighten your hold on the steering wheel, your knuckles flashing white with force. “Okay, then,” you said, eerily calm. “I’m going to be there for Camila and to meet that baby girl, with or without you, Billy. But if I go by myself, you’re going to get help when I come back out. Real help.”

ੈ✩‧₊˚

Y/N: That night, sitting by Camila’s bedside was when I let go of the possibility of Billy. He had a wife and a baby, and if he was going to mess that up, I wasn’t going to play a part in it.

[potatotalksculture]

Potato Tweet: Barbie has already been robbed during the nominations. Now it’s been robbed even more.

I assume it’s common knowledge by now that Oscars are not about art, at least not in the first place. So when I look at the politics of the awarded, I worry. Oppenheimer is good, no questions asked. What I worry about is the politics of not giving an Oscar to Killers of the Flower Moon at all. Through that the Academy kind of admits that it doesn’t care about Native Americans and their story. They care about Mariupol, but doesn't one dare talk about Gaza. They care about gazing at women much less than about taking a quick, light-hearted look at their psyche. That’s sad and irritating.

What increases my discontent is the amount of statuettes Poor Things has left the ceremony with. And I’m not gonna moralize about the sexuality of a child, I’m not a Victorian lady… I’m rather wondering about all the similarities between Yorgos Lanthimos’ film and Greta Gerwing’s film. Both staring a well known woman, who’s also a co-producer of the respective piece. The protagonist of each film is what seems to be a grown ass lady, who differs from the common understanding of “normal” and “suited for a society” in one way or other. Both Barbie and Poor Things are visually stunning.

The categories in which both films were nominated are:

best picture

supporting actor (where it was kind of obvious it’s gonna be Robert Downey Jr., but I was holding onto the glimmer of hope it’s gonna be Ryan Gosling, so that the Academy can say “Hey, we awarded this pink movie something! Sure, it’s for the male supporting role in a very feminine movie, but we awarded it something!)

adapted screenplay

costume design

production design

The only two categories in which Barbie was nominated and Poor Things wasn’t, are:

actress in a supporting role

original song (with “What Was I Made For?” and “I’m Just Ken”)

Which scores it the total of 8 nominations in 7 categories.

Meanwhile Poor Things scored 11 nominations all together. It was nominated, except for the already mentioned, for:

actress in a leading role

cinematography

directing

editing

makeup and hairstyling

original score

For some perspectve: Oppenheimer got nominated in 13 categories.

What I'm trying to say here, is that it was understandable for me that Barbie got robbed cuz it's too entertaining, too pink, too commercial for the Academy. It wasn't the greatest production of the year. But it was an event! And just because of that it's already earned a very special place in the cultural history of the western world. I'd be interested to know how much of the commercial success of Oppenheimer was carried by Barbie and the other way around. The double-feature-premiere was a worldwide event of a scale of its own. Meanwhile Poor Things showed up rather late to the party. It's not a multiplex film. It's a Mubi film. It's artsy. It's different. It's also a story about women's sexuality written and directed by a dude, based on a novel by a dude. And the Academy likes it more than a story by women for women about what it's like to be a women, which also allows it to prove how much they care about Art. AKA how pretentious they are. That's my beef.

[rosie-b]

Tough Luck, Tender Love

Written for @ladrienjune days 17 & 20, Bad Luck & Passionate Declaration, 5756 words

A bead of sweat rolled down Marinette’s forehead as she stood frozen in front of Adrien, who still hadn’t spoken a word. She raised an arm to wipe it away quickly as her heart stuttered out an unfamiliar rhythm, and a red and black design came into view.

She froze. She’d put on her usual outfit today, but she was very obviously not wearing it now. The black spots on her red sleeve and glove could only mean one thing: Marinette Dupain-Cheng hadn’t confessed her love to Adrien — Ladybug had.

Read the rest on AO3 or just below!

After this, nothing will be the same, Marinette thought as she bit out the last words of her confession and winced as she prepared herself for rejection.  

Adrien stared silently at her, his mouth hanging open, as whispers swirled around them like the first winds of a storm. 

Marinette bit her lip. She always knew that asking Adrien out at school was a mistake, but it wasn’t supposed to cause such an uproar! Everyone at François-Dupont seemed to know about her crush on Adrien except for the boy himself, so why did it seem as though everyone had just received the shock of their lives? 

Within seconds, people started nudging each other and exchanging money. They were probably trying to be discreet, but that was impossible when nearly everyone had a bet to settle. Some people were pumping their arms in victory; most were shaking their heads in disappointment; even Ms. Bustier had a discontent frown on her face. 

A bead of sweat rolled down Marinette’s forehead as she stood frozen in front of Adrien, who still hadn’t spoken a word. She raised an arm to wipe it away quickly as her heart stuttered out an unfamiliar rhythm, and a red and black design came into view. 

She froze. She’d put on her usual outfit today, but she was very obviously not wearing it now. The black spots on her red sleeve and glove could only mean one thing: Marinette Dupain-Cheng hadn’t confessed her love to Adrien — Ladybug had. 

--*--*--*--*-- 

To be fair, Marinette hadn’t had much — or any — luck in confessing to Adrien so far, which was something that Rose had repeated multiple times during the intervention she was holding in the park near their school. 

But maybe it was just fate! Maybe she and Adrien were destined to be star-crosses lovers, like Romeo and Juliet, or the cowherd and the weaver girl. She could love Adrien, but only from afar, as the universe confined her to saving Paris as Ladybug and sacrificing her only chance at love until Hawk Moth was finally defeated.  

I can’t tell them that, though, or I’d lose my secret identity, Marinette realized. She nervously chewed on her lip as the girls continued urging her to either take up their new, foolproof plan and confess to Adrien or give up on him once and for all. 

“—And the best part is, all you have to do is sign this card! We’ll put it on Adrien’s desk for you, and that way no one else can claim to have written it themselves or steal it before he has the chance to see it. Foolproof! Right, Juleka?”  

Rose nudged her girlfriend, who nodded her head and muttered something that sounded like a yes. 

“We all agree! Don’t you see, Marinette? This is your best chance yet. If this doesn’t work, then nothing will.” Mylene folded her arms and set her face determinedly. 

Alya sighed and pushed up her glasses. 

“I know why you don’t feel like doing this, girl,” she said softly, her gaze darting to the purse Tikki was hiding in and returning to Marinette’s shimmering eyes. “But I do think this might work. There’s no reason for Adrien to turn you down now that he and Kagami aren’t dating anymore, and he’s started smiling at you more often. That’s a great sign, girl!” 

“Alya, I can’t date anyone while I’m you-know-who,” Marinette whispered. “It would be too dangerous. Besides, I barely have time for my school responsibilities! How would I have enough time to date Adrien on top of everything else?” 

“Are you really still hesitating?” Rose cried in exasperation. She had had enough of Marinette’s indecision, and since she was certain that Adrien returned her emotions, she was determined to put an end to her friend’s struggles once and for all. “Just give us your answer, Marinette!” 

Straightening, Marinette turned away from Alya to look at her gathered friends, who were sitting on the park benches and grass, looking at her in confusion and impatience. Alix checked her watch and popped her bubblegum as she looked at Marinette. 

She sighed. 

“It isn’t that I don’t appreciate your plan, girls,” she said slowly. “I just don’t think dating Adrien is a good idea anymore. It isn’t that I don’t love him, because I do! But...” She rubbed her arm and puffed out a sigh. “I don’t think I’m the best person for him. He deserves someone who can be there for him all the time, and you know that girl is not me. I’m flaky, remember?” 

Mylene sighed. “That’s true, but that doesn’t mean he can’t love you, or that you don’t love him! Your emotions speak louder than you think they do, Marinette. Trust yourself!” 

“Yeah!” Alix said, holding back a knowing smirk. 

Rose headbanged her way through an agreeing nod. “You’ve done so much to help us, Marinette. Now, it’s finally your turn to let us help you!” 

Juleka mumbled in agreement, even brushing her bangs back to give Marinette an encouraging smile. 

“You can do it, girl,” Alya said, putting her hand on Marinette’s shoulder and turning her around so that she had to look at her. “You don’t have to, but I want you to know that you can . Put us out of our misery, huh? I want to go on a date without worrying that you’ll never go on one with your ‘Buttercup.’” 

“Please don’t remind me of that name,” Marinette muttered through a strained smile as a blush covered her cheeks. She dropped her head down and pulled Alya’s arms off her shoulders. 

The group watched her expectantly as she turned to face them all. 

“Fine,” she said in a confident voice. “How about a compromise? I promise to try to confess to Adrien on my own before the end of the school day tomorrow. If it doesn’t work, then I’ll take your plan. And if that doesn’t work—” 

“It will work!” Rose declared ecstatically. “I’m so happy for you, Marinette!” 

She hopped up from the bench and threw her arms around Marinette. The other girls quickly followed suit, forming a giant group hug around a beet-faced Marinette. 

“Thanks, girls,” she said in an embarrassed voice. She awkwardly patted their arms as they continued to hug her. “I’ll handle it from here.” 

__*__*__*__*__ 

It was bad luck. That was the only explanation for what happened next. 

Marinette had been planning to confess to Adrien with a fresh bag of chouquettes, drizzled with a chocolate heart design by Tom, after lunch ended. She would catch up to Adrien just as he was walking back into school, and that way she wouldn’t have any time to chicken out of her confession. 

Of course, an akuma had to strike just as Marinette finished scarfing down her grated carrots and was getting ready to dash over to the bakery to pick up the chouquettes. There was a new sentimonster to defeat, and so the akuma took twice as long as it should have. By the time it was over, it was time for Ms. Mendeleiev’s class to finish. Marinette would have to hurry if she wanted to catch Adrien before he walked back over to Ms. Bustier’s class. 

And hurry, she did. Focused on nothing but speed, she didn’t notice that her yo-yo never vanished as she replaced it at her hip. Usually, she’d be detransformed by now, but she’d had to quickly recharge and help the former akuma victim after purifying the akuma. Chat Noir had had to rush back to school, muttering an excuse about attendance and his crappy father’s punishment system.  

So, Ladybug had stayed behind to help the former akuma victim, who’d had some bad luck of his own. He had suffered a broken leg before his akumatization and had no one to help him to the hospital, into the ambulance she’d called and then headed back to the school. 

She found Adrien just in time, skidding into the hallway as he stepped out of Ms. Mendeleiev’s room beside Nino. 

“Adrien! I have to talk to you!” 

Marinette knew she probably looked like a madwoman, her hair frizzy and falling out of her pigtails. She licked her lips and quickly tightened her ribbons. That should help her appearance at least a little. 

Adrien’s mouth fell open as he watched Ladybug shift nervously on her feet, clasping her hands tight and breathing deeply to shake off her nerves. 

“Wha...?” He couldn’t manage to finish his question. 

Nino, who looked similarly confused, gently closed Adrien’s mouth and back away, whispering a quick assurance as he left. 

“A-Adrien, I...”  

Ladybug closed her eyes. No! She would not give in to fear this time. If Chat Noir was brave enough to take her rejection, she could be brave enough to take Adrien’s. At least then she would know his answer. 

She opened her eyes and looked into Adrien’s green ones with a determined huff. A camera flash went off to the side, but she ignored it. 

“When I first met you, I misjudged you,” she began.  

Adrien’s jaw dropped down even lower this time.  

“I thought you were conceited and superficial. But then, I got to know you. I saw who you really were deep down—someone sweet, sincere, and generous. Since then, there's something I've been wanting to tell you. But every time I try, it's like my brain suddenly freezes. But now, I think I'm ready.” 

One of the younger students hollered across the hall. Ladybug ignored whatever he said and kept her gaze steady as she finished her declaration. 

“Adrien.” The boy’s eyes widened as she said his name again, and he stared at her like he was hanging on to every word from her lips. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for the painful ending to this surreal moment.  

“I love you.” 

Immediately, the whispers and camera flashes that Marinette had been blocking out rushed into her ears. She caught sight of people laughing, exchanging money, gawking at her as they spoke with their friends. Down the hall, Ms. Bustier waited for her last students with a frown. 

Adrien still hadn’t spoken. 

Marinette reached up to wipe the sweat off her brow, and that’s when the depth of her bad luck hit her. 

Really, what superhero would be reckless enough to publicly confess their love to a civilian, especially a famous one? 

There was no way this would end well. 

“Sorry!” Marinette rushed to salvage the burning ruins of her confession. “I don’t—I’m sorry—I—” 

“I love you, too,” Adrien said, his eyes full of wonder. 

Ladybug licked her lips. “What?” 

“When you see Marinette again,” Adrien continued, keeping his eyes fixed on Ladybug’s, “Tell her that I love her, too. You were delivering her message for her, weren’t you?” 

Icy shock mixed with guilty relief flooded Marinette. 

“Yes,” she breathed. “Yes, the confession was from Marinette. Because she loves you, but I don’t love you! That would be ridiculous!” 

“Utterly,” Chloe muttered from behind Adrien. Ms. Bustier directed her back into the classroom. She rolled her eyes as she left. 

“So, you’ll tell her, then,” Adrien was saying, and Marinette snapped her gaze back to his. 

“Yes! Absolutely! She’ll be thrilled,” she said with an awkward laugh. Then she shot finger guns at him. Another camera flash went off, and she cringed. 

“Perfect,” Adrien said, holding the ‘r’ just a second too long. “And tell her I’m sorry that she had to go home sick. I’ll visit her after school, and we can talk about it more then, okay?” 

Ladybug nodded, unsure whether to swallow down the hope she felt or let it grow. “Okay,” she whispered.  

But her eyes narrowed as she continued gazing up at Adrien. He seemed like he’d figured out more from her speech than she’d thought. How did he know it was Marinette’s confession? Had someone told him? 

It had to be Chat Noir. But why would he tell Adrien? 

And who else had he told? 

Ladybug felt a stab of betrayal. 

“No,” she told Adrien, clenching her fist and ignoring the wild pounding of her heart. “I’ll come visit you after school. I mean, if Marinette is sick—”  

That was another thing. Adrien had provided her with the perfect cover for her tardiness, but how had he known to do that? 

If he knew, then Ladybug might as well personally deliver her Miraculous to Hawk Moth. 

“—If she’s sick, then you’d better not visit her, or you might catch whatever she has. I’ll deliver your message to her and keep being your go-between for the day. Is— is that okay?” she finished nervously. 

Her excuse didn’t make sense. If Adrien didn’t know who she was, he would just suggest he and Marinette talk over the phone, something way more normal and far less complicated than communicating through Paris’ busiest hero. 

But Adrien only nodded, stars in his eyes, and Ladybug’s heart sank. 

“I’ll be waiting by the window for you, m— Ladybug.” 

Yeah, he knew. But he looked so excited to see her again that Ladybug almost didn’t care. It was hard to remember that her world was crumbling when the boy of her dreams was gazing at her like she’d granted his every wish by just existing. 

“All right, if you’re done delivering Marinette’s message, you can leave now, Miss Ladybug,” Ms. Mendeleiev’s nasal voice called out. 

The superhero jumped and whirled around. “Oh! Sorry! Yes, good students don’t hold up class time. Er, good heroes! Heroes like me,” she said, giggling nervously as she walked into the wall. 

Adrien caught her as she fell. She practically leapt out of his arms. 

“Byedrien! Bye, Adrien! And Ms. Mendeleiev! And the other students who I definitely do not know! ” Ladybug pushed the nearest door open and scurried through it. 

It led to the bathroom, but that was okay. She was very experienced in escaping from bathroom windows.  

And there were definitely no pictures of Ladybug entering the men’s room being posted right now. Nope! Those thoughts could wait for another time. Marinette had finally confessed to Adrien!  

And it had only cost her secret identity. 

Was it bad luck, she pondered, or had its opposite led to her passionate confession? 

__*__*__*__*__ 

After she managed to convince her mother that she really was sick (of school, at least), Marinette sat in her room, watching the video of her confession play in a loop on the news. Apparently, superheroes confessing to supermodels on behalf of other, normal girls was headline material in Paris. 

It was amazing that Marinette hadn’t noticed what she was doing, that she hadn’t felt her suit on her fingers and known before she opened her mouth. It was also amazing that Adrien, although he had figured out her secret identity, had protected it instead of sharing it with anyone. 

It gave her hope when she shouldn’t be able to feel any. 

Well, she had to feel some hope now that she knew Adrien loved her, too! It was the best outcome of a love confession she’d dared to dream of (almost, after the one where they got married and moved to the beach with their cute, fuzzy hamsters). 

He’d really said that he loved her! She hadn’t dreamed it up, Marinette marveled as she watched the video for the fifteenth time. As soon as it ended, she went to hit the replay button again, but Tikki landed on the mouse and blocked her from clicking it. 

“Marinette, don’t you think this is a bit excessive? School has been over for almost half an hour now. Shouldn’t you go visit Adrien like you said you would?” 

Tikki had seemed very excited by the prospect of her visit, though Marinette could not fathom the reason why. After all, she’d just lost her secret identity to the same person who’d found it out before in a doomed timeline that led to her poor kitty being akumatized. 

Oh, right, Marinette remembered. That was the real reason she was watching these videos. She needed something to distract herself from the sense of impending doom she’d been feeling. 

“Well, the Gorilla could be late to pick Adrien up,” she said to Tikki, offering her weak excuse with a wide grin that was probably less reassuring than she’d hoped. “I don’t want to be caught by M. Agreste if he’s the only one at the mansion now.” 

Tikki quirked her brow. 

“You need to talk to him, Marinette! How else will you know if he figured out your secret identity or not?” 

Marinette sighed. “I already know he did! He even knew I’d panic about it and made up an excuse for me to go home instead of staying at school!” 

“He was also the first to suggest that you talk more after school! Which means that he’s probably in his room now, waiting by the window for the girl he loves to come say hello! But instead of doing that, you’re watching a scratchy recording taken on a phone for the umpteenth time! Marinette, when I picked you to be my holder, I thought you’d be much braver than this.” 

Oh, Tikki could play dirty when she wanted to. The other kwamis snickered to themselves as they watched their Guardian splutter her excuse as she evaded the only true course of action. 

“I can be brave! But right now I’m being cautious, which is another heroic quality I should have! After all, the whole ‘leap before you look’ is Chat’s thing, not mine!” 

Tikki giggled. “Well, leaping before you look sounds an awful lot like what you did earlier today, Marinette. The two of you are more alike than you might think! Now,” she said, moving off the mouse and clicking the power button on the computer, “Get off that chair and go visit Adrien! If you still haven’t transformed in one minute, then I might murder you before Alya gets the chance to.” 

Tikki’s eyes glittered playfully as Marinette glanced at her discarded phone, which was still blowing up with ignored notifications from her reporter friend and what seemed to be half of Paris. 

Marinette swallowed. “I guess anything’s better than that. Tikki, spots on!” 

Throwing open the trap door, Ladybug flung her yo-yo around a distant building and took off towards Adrien’s house, swallowing the butterflies in her stomach back down.  

Why, oh why had she confessed to Adrien as Ladybug? Why hadn’t she just taken the girls’ idea and signed a card as Marinette, or would her awful luck have ruined that plan, too?  

Would she have signed the card as Ladybug? Or worse, would she have asked for more constipation medicine instead of drawing a heart by her name? 

Why do some people think ladybugs are lucky? Marinette wondered as she deftly avoided crashing into Adrien’s window. If I was lucky, I would have never fallen in love!  

Ladybug straightened up on the windowsill and looked into Adrien’s room. He probably wasn’t home yet, because Tikki had been exaggerating about the time and oh no he was looking right at her!!!  

Ladybug did a panicked dance that looked a bit like she was Vogue-ing and fell off the windowsill. 

She landed in a tree. 

“Ow,” she commented blankly while internally slapping herself. The fall had been so short that it hadn’t hurt! 

 But Adrien didn’t know that. Clapping his hands to his cheeks, he gaped at Ladybug in horror. 

There’s the reaction I was expecting earlier, Ladybug thought drearily as Adrien threw open the window and started climbing down the wall to help her out of the tree. 

“Ladybug! Are you okay? I am so sorry; I didn’t mean to scare you like that! I thought I told you I’d be by the window earlier!”  

He reached out for the branch that Ladybug had landed on, but just barely couldn’t reach it without coming in danger of losing his grip on the wall. 

Ladybug’s eyes widened.

“Adrien, be careful! You’re going to fall!” 

Adrien shook her worries off. “It’ll be fine, my lady, I’ve done this a million ti—!” 

He grabbed onto the end of the branch and let go of the wall as he started speaking, but the branch was not as strong as he’d given it credit for. Unable to support his full weight, it cracked off from the rest of the branch and fell, dragging the model down with it. 

“Adrien!” Two voices cried out in harmonized horror. 

Ladybug jumped up and tossed her yo-yo to catch Adrien as a black blur zoomed out of his window and dropped down after him. 

The yo-yo string wrapped around Adrien’s waist while Ladybug’s brain short-circuited as she registered both the reason the black blur’s voice was familiar and the nickname Adrien had just used for her. Unable to handle the surprise of finding out her partner’s identity, she fell off her perch for the second time that day. 

Plagg moved out of the way as she tumbled past him, and milliseconds later, she wound up tangled upside down in the yo-yo string with Adrien about a meter and a half above the ground. Luckily, Plagg hurriedly wrapped the end of the string around a thicker branch, which brought their progress to an abrupt and jarring halt before they could come to a crash landing. 

“Ugh,” Adrien groaned, and Ladybug nearly shivered out of her skin. 

“I am not a cat!” she snapped, and Adrien twisted around to look at her. The yo-yo string spun around accordingly, intensifying the queasy feeling in Marinette’s stomach. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Why had Ladybug ever opened up her mouth? She should have known only gibberish would come out! Still panicking, she did it again without thinking. 

“It’s pawdon! And you’re not getting any until we get out of this tree!” 

Adrien blinked. It probably would have been adorable if Ladybug hadn’t been looking at them upside down while she got spun in dizzying circles by her own weapon. 

“My lady, I really am sorry about the reveal, but I was so scared when you got hurt! And I can’t think straight when the girl that I love is in danger!” 

He pulled out his best pout while Plagg sat on top of the yo-yo string tied around the branch and stared wide-eyed at him. 

“Transform, you rollot-headed cheese curd! Transform and destroy the string!” he cried impatiently. 

“But then we’ll fall,” Adrien pointed out, and Ladybug craned her neck upwards in the direction Plagg’s voice had come from. 

“Why don’t you just untie the string, Plagg? That would be a lot easier!” 

“Yeah, I thought you hated transforming!” Adrien called. 

Plagg flew down and landed on the string tying Ladybug and Adrien together.  

“You’d still fall if I untied the string, you solid slices of Swiss! Only Adrien wouldn’t be protected from it, because he wouldn’t be wearing a suit!” 

“But it’s only a meter drop,” Adrien protested. “I’ll be fine!” 

Ladybug jerked, swinging the string in a sideways motion. “Do you want to get hurt? Take Plagg’s advice!” If you really are Chat Noir, she added silently. 

Adrien stared up at Ladybug for a moment. “Whatever the lady wishes. Plagg, claws out!” 

Good, we’re at this part of the dream. Shouldn’t I wake up now? Ladybug asked herself.  

But that must not always be the way dreams worked, because there was that one time after Oblivio when she’d dreamed that Adrien turned into Chat Noir and then he’d kissed her and she— 

As she was still thinking, the string disintegrated around Ladybug and she and Chat Noir fell to the ground in a tangled heap. 

“Your foot is covering my eye,” Ladybug complained. Chat Noir moved it immediately. 

“Sorry,” he apologized as he moved Ladybug’s heels off his chest and stood up. Offering Ladybug a hand, he pulled her to her feet. She nearly fell over again, and he steadied her with a hand. 

“I really am sorry,” he repeated as Ladybug carefully stretched out her arms, which had been pinned to her sides by the string. 

“It was my fault, I should have remembered you’d be at the window,” she said sheepishly. “And, as for the identity reveal? I wouldn’t have figured it out if it weren’t for Plagg.” 

Adrien detransformed and frowned at his kwami.  

“I’m entirely innocent,” Plagg said, crossing his arms. “I am also starving. I need cheese!” He looked pleadingly at Adrien. 

“I don’t think now is a good time for cheese, Plagg, but if you need some, you know where it is.” 

With a cheeky wink at Ladybug, Plagg zoomed off to Adrien’s room before she could say a word. 

“All this because of a poorly executed confession,” she grumbled, scuffing the dirt under the tree. 

Adrien tilted his head. “Poorly executed? My lady, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven because I was so happy! Your delivery was perfect. If it wasn’t for the fact that you were Ladybug at the time, it would have been purrfect!” 

Ladybug pursed her lips. “You made that joke before,” she said, wagging a finger at him. “I can’t believe I didn’t get it! I can’t believe I didn’t notice you were Chat Noir,” she groaned, covering her face in embarrassment. 

Adrien laughed and delicately peeled her fingers apart so he could peer into her eyes.  

“I can’t believe I didn’t notice you were Marinette,” he said in a voice so sweet it made her heart skip a beat. “But I guess that’s the way the Miraculous work, isn’t it? Or else we would have figured it out on the first day.” 

Ladybug giggled as she lowered her hands from her face. “We really should have,” she said. “But I guess I was too busy falling under your spell, instead.” 

Adrien blushed. “You— really?” he squeaked.  

Ladybug smiled as she reached up to ruffle his hair. He leaned into her touch the way he always did. 

 “Yes, really,” she said softly. “Weren’t you listening to my confession? It’s always been you, Adrien,” she said, tapping his cheek with one finger. “I fell for you the moment you gave me your umbrella and showed me who you truly are.” 

Adrien grabbed her hand and held it to his cheek, gazing into her eyes with a look so tender it made her want to melt. 

“I fell for you on the first day, too,” he breathed. “You were so scared, but so courageous! You stood up to Hawk Moth and gave hope to all of Paris. I’ve never met anyone so brave.”  

Turning his face, he pressed a kiss to the inside of her palm, and Ladybug gasped as a blush took over her face. 

“I said to myself back then that I’d love whoever you were under that mask. And I was right,” he said, tracing its edges with a smile. 

Marinette looked at him in wonder. “You do? Even though I’m the worst Guardian ever? A-and even when I can’t talk right to you most of the time?” 

“Even then,” Adrien assured, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose and smiling when her blush got even darker. “For the record, I think you’re a wonderful Guardian. And I think your stuttering is quite adorable.” 

Surrendering her face as a total loss to the flames licking at it, Marinette dropped her head onto Adrien’s shoulder. 

“You’re abhorrable,” she said into his shirt. Holding up a finger, she took a breath and tried again. “Adorable! I think you’re adorable, too. And now that we’re finally out of that tree, I think I know how you can earn my pardon.” 

Wrapping his arms around her, Adrien hummed quietly. “What is it?” 

“Take me on a date. Next Saturday, in the park, after your piano recital. I’ll bring the pastries,” Marinette said as she returned his hug. 

“I’ll bring the flowers,” Adrien said happily.  

Marinette felt her heart swell as he kissed her hair and held her closer to him.  

“I’m so happy it’s you,” he whispered into her ear. 

“Me, too,” she confided. “I’m so happy. I don’t think Chat Noir could be anyone else.” 

A camera flash went off in her eyes as she lifted her head.  

Ladybug pushed herself away from Adrien and spun him around so he could see the problem. 

“Alya!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?” 

“You weren’t returning any of my calls, girl,” she said, putting a hand on her hip. “All you did was send one text panicking about how Adrien knows who you are now. Listen, all of Paris knows that you were planning to visit Adrien after school. You guys are lucky it’s just me who showed up. I was expecting there to be at least a dozen camera crews here already.” 

“Hold on a minute,” Adrien said, scrunching his eyebrows. “Do you know?”  

Alya hesitated, her gaze wandering from Adrien back to Ladybug. 

“She does,” Ladybug said, wrapping her arms around herself. “Alya knows. I’m so sorry, but I had to tell someone!” 

“Ma—Ladybug was basically having a panic attack when she told me,” Alya said, defending her friend to Adrien. “It only happened because she needed the support, and she couldn’t see another way. She hadn’t been planning to reveal her identity to me, or you for that matter.” 

“Trust me, I know she wasn’t,” Adrien said. “I only figured out who she was because of a weird coincidence, actually.” 

“Oh? And here I thought it was obvious,” Alya commented. “We’re lucky you covered for our girl, or all of Paris would have figured it out from that confession. Which you had better have accepted, by the way, or I will have Chat Noir cataclysm you for me.” 

“Oh-h, you will?” Adrien asked in a strangled voice. 

Ladybug laughed nervously. “Well, we won’t be needing that, Alya! He said yes.” 

“Good,” Alya said, folding her arms with a smile. “I’m so proud of you, girl! You finally faced your fears and confessed to Adrien. And see where it got you!” 

Ladybug grinned at her friend, but as Plagg reappeared behind Alya’s head and zipped back into Adrien’s pocket while she wasn’t looking, she remembered something important. 

“Actually, Alya... there’s another reason that threatening Adrien with Chat Noir wouldn’t work. Right, Adrien?” She looked up at him imploringly, hoping that he got the message. You don’t have to tell her, but we need to think of something to say!  

Adrien cleared his throat. “Oh, yeah! Are you sure it’s okay for her to know that, though?” 

Marinette shrugged. Telling Alya would be simpler than trying not to act like she was in love with Chat Noir or coming up with some explanation of her sudden turn to polyromanticism. It also carried a large danger with it, but she’d proved herself to be capable of handling it before. 

Alya was frowning as she looked between Adrien and Ladybug. 

“What’s going on, Marinette?” she asked quietly. 

Adrien twisted the silver ring on his finger. “I’m Chat Noir,” he said, watching Alya’s reaction closely. 

She blinked twice, then adjusted her glasses as she peered at him. Plagg peeked out from Adrien’s shirt pocket, and her jaw fell open. 

“Oh, wow,” she breathed. “You really are him! I totally called it!” 

“What?” 

Ladybug flushed. “You put a filter on a photo of him one time as a joke, Alya. That does not count as calling it.” 

Alya grinned. “Was it a joke? Or was it my awesome reporter skills coming in handy? Because I seem to remember you being the one who thought it was a joke.” 

Adrien smirked at Alya. “But you didn’t guess who Ladybug was, right? I did,” he bragged. “Back during Kwamibuster. Of course, my lady was clever enough to cover her tracks, but I knew there was a reason Multimouse looked so cute!” 

Ladybug let out a squeak, which made Alya smile. 

“You didn’t tell me about using the Mouse! I bet you looked adorable,” Alya said, and Adrien nodded his agreement. 

“You should have been there! It was the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen.” 

“It wasn’t that impressive,” Ladybug said, wishing the fire in her cheeks would cool down. “I just did what I had to do.” 

“She’s so humble, too,” Adrien said, looking at her with a smile. “My heart never stood a chance.” 

Ladybug spluttered and hid her face in her hands as Alya laughed good-naturedly.  

“Well, since you’re safe from the paparazzi, I think I’ll leave you two alone now so you can keep talking. You should probably keep an eye open, though. Oh, and if you ever want to formally announce your relationship as Ladybug and Chat Noir? You know where to find me,” she said with a wink. 

“Thank you, Alya,” Adrien said politely. “We’ll think about it later, once we figure all the details out.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything else. All right, then, Alya out!” 

With a cheeky salute, she turned and walked toward the wall around the mansion, which she scaled with an ease that would have sparked the opposite feeling in M. Agreste had he been there to see it. 

“Alya was right about the press, you know,” Adrien said casually as Ladybug watched the spot Alya had disappeared from. “If you want, we could go somewhere else to talk. There’d be less of a chance of causing a scandal.” 

“I think you mean causing another scandal,” Ladybug sighed. “You’re both right, of course, a press intrusion is the last thing we need right now. Still, it could always be worse! I might have messed up my confession, but I was lucky enough to have— well, you. You’ve always got my back, kitty.” 

“You and me against the world,” Adrien said in agreement. “I think I got lucky, too. Until recently, dating you seemed like an unattainable dream. And yet, here we are,” he said, lifting her hand for a kiss. “I finally get to be with the love of my life.” 

Ladybug couldn’t stop a smile from blooming on her face as she gazed back at Adrien warmly. 

“And I, mine,” she said, her breath tangling with his as she moved closer. “I love you, Adrien Agreste.” 

He didn’t need to say anything back as he leaned closer and wrapped her in his arms. 

The kiss said more than enough.

[warningsine]

Françoise Hardy, an introspective pop singer who became a hero to French youth in the 1960s with her moody ballads, died on Tuesday. She was 80.

Her death, from cancer, was announced by her son, Thomas Dutronc, in a post on Instagram that said simply, “Mom is gone.” No other details were provided.

With songs like her breakthrough 1962 hit, “Tous les Garçons et les Filles” (“All the Boys and Girls”), and later “Dans le Monde Entier” (“All Over the World”); her lithe look, prized by star fashion designers; and her understated personality, Ms. Hardy incarnated a 1960s cool still treasured by the French.

“How can we say goodbye to her?” President Emmanuel Macron of France said in a statement on Wednesday, a play on the title of Ms. Hardy’s 1968 hit “Comment Te Dire Adieu” (“How Can I Say Goodbye to You?”).

She was the only French singer on Rolling Stone’s 2023 list of the 200 best singers of all time.

Ms. Hardy’s ethereal, almost frail voice expressed a particular kind of youthful French ennui, though it became fuller with the years. She sang of love sought and not found, of love lost, of time passing, of hopes unfilled, in words written by herself, by the French pop legend Serge Gainsbourg, and even by the Nobel Prize-winning novelist Patrick Modiano (who wrote, in the song “Étonnez-moi, Benoît,” “Astonish me, Benedict, walk on your hands, swallow some pine cones, Benedict”).

Ms. Hardy captured the melancholy of her generation, born, like her, at the end of World War II and, like her, unsatisfied by France’s material progress in the decades after, in the “Trente Glorieuses,” or “30 Glorious Years.”

That youthful discontent, anticipated by the Existentialists — she was sometimes considered their pop-singer adept — exploded in the demonstrations in France of May 1968, when her fame was at its peak, though she disapproved of them and fled to her retreat in Corsica. The words Mr. Gainsbourg wrote for her that year incarnated the icon of cool she had already become: “Under no pretext/Would I want to have/The reflexes of unhappiness.”

Indeed, her cult of steely, solitary sadness would keep her well shy of movements of mass solidarity, leading her to reject what she called “the intolerances of the left” and steering her later toward right-leaning affinities with the likes of Nicolas Sarkozy, the former French president, or the misanthropic writer Michel Houellebecq.

A damaged childhood with a single mother led Ms. Hardy to seek refuge in inner exploration, through songwriting. As she told Le Monde in 2016: “I am incapable of dissimulating and lying. Writing a song, on the contrary, forces you to go deep into what you have lived, and felt.” Songwriting, she said, was “an outlet.”

Everything was already present in the lyrics to her first hit, “All the Boys and Girls,” which she wrote in 1962 and which sold more than two million copies. She later disavowed the song (“I’m ashamed of ‘Tous les Garçons et les Filles,’” she said in 1995, when a collection of her work was released), but all the essential sentiments of longing and nostalgia were there:

“And me, I walk alone, because I am loved by nobody,” she sang.

Without joy, and full of ennui. When will the sun shine for me? Like the girls and boys of my age, I ask, When will my day come … The day when my soul is no longer in pain?

Her career was launched. The next year, 1963, she released her first LP; received a major French music award, the Grand Prix de l’Académie Charles-Cros; and appeared on the cover of Paris Match. By 1965, she had become a hit across the English Channel; she recorded a 45-r.p.m. single in London, “All Over the World.”

Bob Dylan fell for her, writing about her in the liner notes of his 1964 album “Another Side of Bob Dylan.” He began, “For Françoise Hardy/At the Seine’s edge/A giant shadow/Of Notre-Dame.” When he held his first concert in Paris, in May 1966 at the Olympia, he refused to return to the stage after an intermission unless she came to see him in his dressing room. Dylan was 25; Ms. Hardy was 22. She duly appeared.

Ms. Hardy’s singular look — tall, long brown hair, a natural reticence — catapulted her into the worlds of fashion and film. She was dressed by André Courrèges, Paco Rabanne and Yves Saint Laurent and appeared in movies by Roger Vadim (“Castle in Sweden,” 1963) and John Frankenheimer (“Grand Prix,” 1966).

She disliked making films, however (“I cried every night,” she told the Le Monde interviewer), and soon stopped. In the 1970s and ’80s, there were more albums and experiments with jazz and bossa nova styles. But by then the public fascination with her had cooled, and in 1988 she announced that she would stop singing, though she continued to write songs for others.

She returned to singing in the late 1990s and 2000s with a turn toward a more rock-oriented style, recording an album with Thomas, her son from her marriage to Jacques Dutronc.

In later years, as illness overtook her — she was diagnosed with cancer in 2004 — she retreated into astrology and gloomy autobiographical writings. “The pessimism I attribute to myself, or that others attribute to me, is perhaps quite simply realism,” she was quoted as saying in 1997, after a concert with the singer Julien Clerc.

Françoise Madeleine Hardy was born on Jan. 17, 1944, in German-occupied Paris, in a clinic at the top of the Rue des Martyrs, in the Ninth Arrondissement, in the middle of an air raid. Her mother, Madeleine Hardy, was a bookkeeper, and her father, Étienne Dillard, who was largely absent during her childhood, was an already-married industrialist. The class divide between her mother and her sometime father marked her life, as she made clear in interviews.

She went to a Roman Catholic parochial school in the neighborhood and later attended classes at the Institut d’Études Politiques and the Sorbonne.

But it was the gift of a guitar from her father, after she had received her high school diploma at 16, that she later remembered would prove decisive. She would practice for hours in the kitchen of her mother’s tiny apartment. By age 17, she had landed her first recording contract.

She would later say that her long relationship with Mr. Dutronc, whom she met in 1967 and finally married in 1981, inspired the “sufferings, frustrations, disillusions and profound self-interrogations” that suffused her songs. They separated in 1988.

As her health declined in the 2000s after her cancer diagnosis, Ms. Hardy became an outspoken supporter of euthanasia. In 2016, she was placed in a coma, her doctors thinking that she would never wake up. She did, and went on to record another album, “Personne d’Autre” (“Nobody Else”), which proved to be her last, in 2018.

Her son is her only immediate survivor.

In his statement on Wednesday, Mr. Macron described Ms. Hardy as a singer who “with reserved elegance, almost shy, didn’t hesitate to lay bare, raw emotion in her sentimental ballads.”

“She sang of love,” he said, “that was dreamed, deceived, wounded.”

[rie-kay]

A Voice through Type

The typeface is the voice of a text—so they say. But what kind of voice? On closer inspection we are mostly talking about well-behaved ones. For corporate logos they need to have enough general appeal to appease the largest possible audience. For most articles they are more comparable to ambience in order to serve the message. Wouldn’t it be fun to take this statement more literal and apply it to (fictional) people? Giving the textual representation of speech a visual indicator regarding the character of the speaker and the quirks of their voice. Sounds fun—at least as an experiment.

(Reading time ~9 mins)

A limit to our fun

A few limitation beforehand. What I propose here is not a method. It is more like a thought-process that I hope can help to decide on a typeface representation of a character. Voices are wonderfully complex. We change our voice depending on speaking context or emotion. Picking various fonts or designing a super-family that would feel cohesive while also being meaningfully different for each situation would be super cool, but also very overwhelming. We are talking more of a proof of concept here. So I focus more on a general representation. Broad strokes often are a good thing when we are talking about details of details (the thing letters are in the context of a page or screen). I’m also gonna brush over the intricacies of characterization of people. To keep it simple let’s say we work mainly with a adjective-based framework that can be extended by whatever association comes to our mind in regard to the character.

It’s not a rigid system but a fun experiment after all. Talking about fun: The limit to our fun isn’t the sky, but legibility and readability—to a degree. Namely how well the letters are decipherable and how easy it is to read the text based on the merits of the chosen font. If we pick something very out there and expressive we might jeopardize the legibility. Same goes for readability. If the font causes discontent in the reader, they might hate it when the character speaks. On the other end: Maybe that is exactly what you want. Another way to circumvent these issues would be to limit the expressive font to the speakers name. The actual dialog could then be set in a more general font. The name would then function as a kind of logo that by proxy colors the words of the speaker. But it would also introduce a form of abstraction, as the typographic voice wouldn’t be as immediately connected to the words. Also, you are missing out on a lot of cool glyphs with this method. As a time-saving alternative it is still interesting.

The establishment

Now to the actual task at hand: Drawing a connection between typeface and characterization. In essence this process comes down to dealing with readers expectations. That doesn’t mean you need to meet all these expectations. I’m operating under the assumption that typographic connections are somewhat arbitrary. Arbitrary in this case doesn’t mean random. Readers’ associations can be wildly different, based on their personal experiences and preferences. A blackletter font can look edgy-cool to one person, to someone else it might look traditionalistic. One person might find Helvetica timeless, someone else might find it overstayed its welcome. A Font that looks exciting to one viewer, someone else might find pretentious. As designers we can’t look into other peoples’ heads. But we can make an educated guess. 

Because even though everyone is an island, no one actually is an island. Our associations with typefaces are based in a common learned visual language that is shaped by the context in which we see fonts used. For example for the longest time Apple used lightweight sans serif typefaces to promote their technical gadgets. This resulted in the association of light sans with luxury. On the opposite site the usage of Comic Sans by many small businesses resulted in an association by the wider public with affordability. Futura still can be associated to futurism and space-travel because of “2001: A space Odyssey.” 1 Blackletter fonts are perceived either iffy due to the appropriation for nazi propaganda or traditionalistic due to the usage in traditional restaurant signage (at least in Germany). Typographic associations are of course subject to change. This can come in the form of trends or simply new use-cases.2 To use Blackletter as an example again: The young folks (that definitely doesn’t make me sound old) first association with this letter type is more likely to be with urban street wear.

For our purpose established associations can serve as shorthand. Similar to the way stereotypes are used for writing characters. When we use typography tropes in such way, the shorthand should not be the end-goal. Just as a stereotype in character writing is not the end-goal for characterization but a “conversation opener.” The more interesting character—typography connections come from subverting expectations or building onto them.

Spiky means angry

Another well to draw from are haptic and kinetic associations. A letter with spiky features will probably evoke the haptic feedback of touching a spiky object. In contrast, a font with very round features will cause associations with smooth and round surfaces just by proximity. A light typeface can be perceived as flimsy or as filigreed. Bold letters can be associated with heaviness. A font with a wide letterform can be perceived as steady and immovable. Oblique weights often imply a form of movement. For our little experiment we could use these associations to refer to unique features in a character’s appearance or personal traits.

A final aspect to consider when associating typefaces with characters is the “well-it-just-looks-cool” aspect. As with most things in design picking something you like because you think it looks cool, is a valid reason. One could argue that what looks cool to a designer is not just personal preference but (also) the result of research and exposure to different designs. To pick something that looks cool in this case is also a good way to create new typographic associations. So that is an added bonus.

While all these aspects are important when considering font associations, more often than not typographic nuances go right over most readers heads. 3 This means on the one hand to be blunt with your choices. Tiny letter details that you consider important to convey a characters personality are likely to get overlooked. If not due to the text size than because typographic nuance is often not perceivable to laypeople. The latter aspect could also be considered freeing, as you can try a lot of type shenanigans that go under the radar.

Words into actions

Enough overthinking. Time to put these concepts into action. For that we need a volunteer. May I propose we go with everyone’s favorite android songstress Hatsune Miku.

Hatsune Miku is a fictional character that was created for the software synthesizer ›Vocaloid‹ in 2007. The software is able to not only interpret notes with different pitch and velocity but also with vocals—hence the name. The sound is based on the voice actress Saki Fujita’s voice. The resulting sound is a very distinct robotic, and high-pitched voice, fitting for idol pop music. The software found a wide-spread following—which can in large parts be attributed to the iconic character design by Kei Garō. The concept for the character was that of a singer-diva android in a future where all songs are lost and need to be reinterpreted. As the character started to gain a life of its own through a large fan community and motion-captured life concerts with her as a hologram, the character is a bit more of a Japanese idol than a diva.

Hatsune was imagined as an android—a machine build in the image of humans. Considering this, references to the digital would be out of place, as she is meant to exist in the physical world of the future. Existing typefaces associated with technological progress have a tendency to look dated. Dated, in the sense that you can tell what idea of future shaped its design (think for example of ›Eurostyle‹). Going the “2001” route—using Futura as a shorthand for futurism—wouldn’t fit due to its mechanical construction principle. A more contemporary mix-style of geometric and grotesque sans could fit the “machine-imitating-a-human“ theme. Than again, to me this seems a bit too sterile, considering Miku’s implied extroverted-ness. Therefore I think focusing on this aspect is more promising.

The typographic style that caries the most diva-ness for me is the modernist serif form principle (Didot). It is often used in the context of high fashion, where it communicates carries an air of aloof-ness, quality and beauty. Typefaces in the modernist style emphasize verticality, and feature constructed shapes, as well as extreme stroke contrasts. 

I want to draw a connection between the constructed letter shapes and the artificial construction of an android like Miku and her singing voice. I think the modernist form principle transports this better than geometric type, as it is less streamlined in its construction and allows for more decorative elements. Also the high contrasts read to me as eccentric and therefore fitting well with the diva aspect. Because androids are modeled after humans but are still distinct from them, I think it could be cool to add a detail that implies human behavior was imitated but in a wrong way. I thought mirroring the shadow axis of the “o” in a transitional serif type could be a nice nod in that direction. That will put the font more in the category of transitional Serif instead of modern, but that’s fine. I like the transitional Serifs more anyway. Also I want to add prominent ball terminals—just to be extra.

In case I would look for a font—not make one from scratch—I would need to make more compromises. But working with existing fonts also creates other association possibilities. Like, seeing some feature in a font and come up with an association afterwards.

Anyway, this process like I said is very biased and subjective. But, I still think it is a fun way to approach typeface selection. I’m also sure there is a certain applicability outside of characterization of fictional people. Why not use this thinking process to pick fonts for a logo?

——————————————————

Notes:

Funnily enough “2001” doesn’t get nearly as much flag for its rather literary connection to its title font than “Avatar.”

Speaking of trends: Type Campus’ Whitepaper “The 2022 Type Trends Lookbook” and “The 2023 Type Trends Lookbook“ do a very good job outlining recent font trends and putting them in the contemporary and historic societal context.

Jeanne-Louis Moys was able to show in her survey that far more important were how the text was spaced, what weight was applied, or if the text was set in cursive font. Jeanne-Louis Moys. (2011). Typographic Voice: Researching Readers’ interpretations. (p. 14–15). In: Technical paper 6, Simplification Centre. simplificationcentre.org.uk/ressources/technical-papers (accessed April 2022).

[cabinetsecurity]

Re: the Crowley is Lucifer thing

I’m having thoughts

firstly. Crowley being Lucifer would definitively mean that Satan ≠ Lucifer, which, I’ll get back to.

So for starters: Crowley IS the snake in the garden of eden. That is a commonly accepted fact. the serpent of eden is generally considered to have been satan. Revelation directly describes satan as a snake: “And the great dragon was cast out, that old serpent, called the Devil, and Satan, which deceiveth the whole world: he was cast out into the earth, and his angels were cast out with him.” Rev 12:9 KJV. This also describes the falling of a third of the heavenly host, who would become demons.

next we have Crowley’s line during Jesus’ execution minisode. “Seemed a very bright young man. I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.” Good Omens Se1:Ep3 3.21. Crowley and Aziraphale go back a forth a bit here about Jesus but this line in particular is a reference to another biblical passage. Specifically Mathew 4:8-9 says:

“Again, the devil taketh him up into an exceeding high mountain, and sheweth him all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them; And saith unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.” Mathew 4:8-9 KJV

It is clear that Crowley is referencing this story during the minisode where he is playing a role explicit in being about satan.

in season two we see a lot more to lend credence to Crowley having been an extremely powerful figure in heaven prior to the fall. Lucifer is generally considered to have been an extremely powerful angel. When the archangels are talking about an “Institutional Problem” Se2:Ep6, they are referring to the fall of Lucifer and loss of a third of the heavenly hosts.

Crowley is shown to have been a powerful angel (“they never change their passwords”)(working closely with the designer (God?) on the nebula). But despite seeming to remember some of his time in heaven its unclear if he remembers it all (not recognizing Aziraphale in Eden)(not recognizing Furfur at all)(He seems to know exactly how to bring memories out of Jim). While this could be a sideeffect of falling, it is not something any other demon references.

If its something specific to Crowley that would lead one to think that special care was put into making sure he wouldn’t be causing trouble down the road when he fell. If Crowley was Lucifer, it would make sense for heaven to take that special care. An extremely powerful archangel would make an extremely dangerous enemy, especially with an army at his disposal.

deconstructing the fall a bit; Crowley says on multiple occasions that he never intended to fall, that he was only asking questions, that he just hung out with the wrong crowd. In se2:ep1 we get an idea of exactly what that looked like when he protests to the destruction of the universe after a measly 6,000 years. This scene strongly implies (esp. with Aziraphale’s reaction to his discontent) that this particular issue is what resolved with him falling. But given how early on this questioning was, it may not be unreasonable if he was the first angel to actually question the Great Plan. revising season 1, Crowley expresses a similar opinion in the garden when he comments that “I can’t see what’s so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil, anyway.” Se1:ep1.

Crowley consistently supports and expresses free will. Other people have made longer posts deconstructing the role free will plays in GO so I will keep it short. Season two shows multiple times that both angels and demons aren’t incapable of free will but, because of the bureaucracy and looming Great Plan (as well as lack of access to actual options) they typically do not exercise this ability. Aziraphale expresses that free will is for humans and not within the realm of angels, yet uses free will constantly.

Isiah 14:13-14 KJV says: “For thou [Lucifer] hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north: I will ascend above the heights of the clouds; I will be like the most High.” Compare this to the Genesis tempting of Eve and Adam: “You will not certainly die," the serpent said to the woman. “For God knows that when you eat from it vour eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil." In both passages the stated goal is to be as God, in wisdom or power.

Crowley declares that he wants to register a complaint in the holy suggestion box and goes on to say that if He were God, he would Want people to make suggestions. This dabbles dangerously close to a precipice we know he goes over. He’s exercising and encouraging free will well before humans got the chance. Its implied in the Job minisode that Crowley was never successful in actually asking God his questions. “Is God actually talking to him?….But just to be able to ask the question.” Se2:ep2.

This leads back into memory wiping.

Crowley gives two reasons why he fell. A) Hanging around the wrong people and B) asking too many/the wrong questions. Season two shows that the real reason was probably related more to the questions than the crowd. Hanging in the wrong crowd was brought up once in season one but never really touched on again.

my proposed timeline would look something like this: Crowley (Lucifer) begins to question -> he starts stirring up some lower angels with the particular questions -> some more extreme plans start getting discussed -> Crowley (Lucifer) gets brought in and memory wiped and sent to a lower station, like they were planning to do with Gabriel -> another powerful angel takes control and launches a rebellion -> Crowley gets swept up in it and falls as a result -> he regains his memory over time post fall.

this would explain Lucifer and Satan being separate beings, especially if Satan started claiming to be Lucifer.

anyways, thanks for coming to my TedTalk

[call-me-maggie13]

Beatrice finds her on the roof, just beyond her window. Shannon’s dragged a blanket onto the shingles and she’s laying on her back speaking to the sky quietly. Beatrice can’t hear what she’s saying from here, but this feels private. She doesn’t want Shannon to think she’s lurking or trying to eavesdrop, so she wrings her hands and turns away.

"Oh, hey, Bea. What’s up?" Shannon’s rolled on her side looking at her, there’s no discontent, no malice in her face.

"Sorry…"

"For what? Oh, the sky? Nah, you’re not interrupting anything. Come ‘ere." She shuffles over and pats the space next to her, rolling onto her back and crossing her arms behind her head. Beatrice doesn’t move, waits for Shannon to repeat the invitation before slowly crawling over the windowsill and across the shingles. She sits beside Shannon on the blanket, follows her direction when she tells her to lie down.

She doesn’t ask. She still feels like she’s intruding, especially when Shannon starts talking to the stars again.

"This is Beatrice," she smiles and motions to her. "She’s kinda weird but I love her. Bea, say hi."

"Hi?" Shannon giggles and props herself up on her elbows.

"Did you know the light we see from stars is like a bajillion years old?"

"Bajillion isn’t a form of measurement but yes, I did know that." Shannon rolls her eyes and drops back onto her back.

"That means that we’ve yet to exist so every one of those stars." Shannon traces a design through the sky.

"I suppose. It’s more complex than that, but that presumption isn’t entirely incorrect." Beatrice has never understood a fascination with space. There’s enough wrong on our planet, why would we want to spread that across the universe? Why would we want to add the universe’s tribulations when we can’t handle the woes within our atmosphere?

"It’s more complex than that, but that presumption isn’t entirely incorrect," Shannon mocks. "What are you, ninety? Let me have this."

"I’m - "

"Don’t apologize, I’m teasing." Beatrice bites back the words and lets Shannon continue. "What I’m trying to say is, somewhere in the universe, there’s a point where all the people we’ve loved are still alive. Does that make sense?"

Beatrice shakes her head slowly.

"Okay so, somewhere, the star my grandma wished on when she was my age is just now receiving that wish. So, to that star, she’s still alive. She still exists. Does that make sense?" Shannon is sitting up now, legs crossed and hands waving as she tries to explain herself.

"Yes. It’s similar to what you were saying about the trees and how we’ll always be a part of them if we carve our names into the bark."

"Yeah. Kinda like that."

"Where’s this coming from?" Beatrice turns back to the stars, watches them shimmer and sparkle.

"When I was little, my grandma told me when people die, they leave little pieces of themselves in the stars. She said every star is a soul. So when I would miss her, she told me to talk to the stars and she would always listen."

Beatrice is reminded of her Yéyé, her father’s father. She remembers bouncing on his knee and feeding his koi fish while he promised her the moon. No matter where you or I go, we will always be looking at the same moon. He had sworn. Even when I’m gone, we will always share the moon.

Perhaps, he is among the stars too. Scattered around the glittering, glowing sky watching over her. Perhaps he is waiting for her patiently, always patiently waiting, with a mooncake and a smile. He would drop to a knee and ruffle her hair and offer her a hug. He would make her laugh and listen to her stories and tell her he loves her. He’d tell her he’s proud of her. Probably.

If he were still alive.

Beatrice finds herself wishing she could talk to him one last time, to tell him about her new home, about the girl who holds her hand after she has a nightmare, about the man who taught her how to bait and cast a line, about the woman who carefully bandages every scrape and kisses it better, about the dog that bounces and thumps his tail against everything when she comes home. Home.

"Talk to ‘em. Tell ‘em what you’re thinking."

"Who?" Beatrice watches Shannon roll her eyes in her periphery.

"Whoever you’re missing right now. The stars will pass along your message."

That, Beatrice knows is faulty information. Stars have no voices, they know no language, they have no more connection to the people she’s lost than she herself. They’re just giant balls of fire millions of billions of trillions of miles away.

"Dude, just try it, alright? Even if you don’t believe it, it’ll make you feel better to say it out loud."

Beatrice grimaces and wishes she hadn’t gone looking for Shannon, wishes she’d just gone to her room instead of searching for Shannon.

"Okay." Shannon shrugs and flips back onto her back, crosses her ankles and folds her hands over her stomach. "I’m gunna talk to my grandma though."

"I can go."

"You can stay, if you want." She doesn’t look away from the glittering sky, but Beatrice can feel her watching her. She lies back down beside her and Shannon smiles. "So anyways, Granny. We start school in like two weeks and I just know everyone is going to be talking about all the fun places they went and things they did this summer. But I didn’t go and do any fun things. I got Beatrice, but Aspen’s not going to care because she learned how to sail and Vera had her birthday party in Bora Bora and Solomon probably went to Europe again."

Shannon quiets, tilts her head and furrows her brows like she’s listening intently for a response. Beatrice’s chest burns when she realizes how much Shannon missed out on due to her arrival. She was supposed to go to summer camp. She had told Beatrice about the summer camp in a letter over winter break. She was supposed to learn how to water ski and sail a boat and ride a horse. She had been so excited.

"Hey, Beatrice?" Shannon tangles their fingers together, squeezes briefly before turning to face Beatrice. She hums instead of responding, fearing her voice might crack and give her guilt away. "I’m really glad you came here. My friends are going to say I had a really boring break and they’re probably going to say that my summer would’ve been better without you because I would’ve gone to camp with Aspen and Bora Bora with Vera. But they’re going to be wrong.

"This is the best summer of my life." She punctuates her statement with a wide grin and three quick squeezes of her hand around Beatrice’s.

Neither speaks after that. Shannon’s waiting for a response from her grandmother’s star and Beatrice is wondering when the world is going to crash down around her. It isn’t until Rich calls them for bed that either even moves again, Shannon helps Beatrice up and steadies her as she crawls across the shingles and back into the window.

Shannon gets a secret handshake from Rich and a kiss on the head from Martha for her tuck in, and Beatrice gets a hair ruffle and a tight hug. They offer to tuck her in, as they have every night since she first emerged from the depths of her room all those nights ago, but she doesn’t want it.

"You know where we are if you need us, okay?" Beatrice smiles and nods, like she has every night before. Martha waves and closes the door behind her, like she has every night before. They start down the stairs and, just before they reach the foyer, Shannon opens the door and climbs into bed beside her, just like she has every night before.

But, unlike every night before, Beatrice doesn’t fall asleep. She stares at the moon peeking through her curtains until her toes tingle and her fingers twitch, then she slips out from Shannon’s embrace and pushes her curtain back.

She gets it. At least, she thinks she finally gets it.

"Hi." She glances at Shannon to check she’s still sleeping, continuing once she’s certain she hasn’t awoken. "It’s me, Beatrice. Or… am I supposed to assume you know that? I’m not certain how this is supposed to work, forgive me. Regardless, I miss you."

She can picture his soft smile and the wrinkles around his eyes like a warm blanket, feel the callouses on his hands when he would take her hands and rub her knuckles, smell the wood shavings and varnish on his coveralls. He always had a gift for her, a tiny wooden animal he had carved in his workshop when he would think of her.

"I moved. Mother and Father didn’t - well - they sent me away. I wasn’t even allowed to tell you goodbye. I’m sorry." She sniffles and wipes away her tears roughly. "I live with a wonderful family now. Rich, he - he reminds me of you. He’s always smiling and telling jokes. And he often has treats for us when he returns from work. And Martha always has cookies for us. They do not compete with your mooncakes, but they are still delicious. And Shannon. Shannon is weird. She’s loud and silly and she doesn’t think before she does things and she can be merciless and melodramatic, but I think you would like her. She likes to draw and she holds my hand when I’m scared and she makes me laugh and she loves me. I think… I think they all love me."

She picks at a loose string around the ankle of her pajamas, twists it around and around and around her fingertip.

"Yéyé…" she rips the string off but doesn’t untangle it from her finger, watches her fingerprint taint red then blue then purple before tearing it away. "May I love them as well? Would you mind if I did? Because… because I’m nearly certain I love them also. They - they aren’t you. They never will be. But - I think they’re trying to be good to me. Despite how I am unworthy of it."

Shannon rolls over, pulls the duvet away with her. Beatrice smiles softly and rolls her eyes.

"I think - I think I do love them. I think I might…" Beatrice bites her quivering bottom lip as she turns back to the window. "I think I might love them more than Mother and Father. I know I’m not supposed to. But they make it so easy to love them, Yéyé. Mother and Father… they… they don’t even like me. But Martha and Rich and Shannon, they do."

Shannon was wrong. Saying it out loud doesn’t make her feel better. It makes her chest tight and her eyes burn and her hands shake. She squeezes her thighs into her chest and buries her face in her knees, bites back a sob and forces herself to slip back into that hollow, empty space in her head.

Nothing can hurt her here.

She’s empty when she goes back to bed. The curtains drawn and blankets stolen by Shannon. Beatrice has half a mind to take her pillow and a blanket from Shannon’s room and curl into a ball beneath her bed. But she’d promised she wouldn’t sleep beneath the bed anymore.

She doesn’t want to sleep. She fears the world will fall apart if she does. She fears her parents will have heard what she’s said and she will be called back to Europe to her empty room in her empty house with her empty parents.

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. But she does regardless.

Her dreams find her in front of the koi pond in her grandfather’s garden. The waterfall burbles and splashes, his chickens cluck and crow, his cat purrs and twines around her ankles. The sakura tree blossoms fall around her like snow and fill her lungs with an irreplicable sweetness. The sun shines bright and warm on her shoulders. She’s wearing the cheongsam she had worn his last Chinese New Years.

"You have grown quite a bit in two short years." She flinches away from the pond, confused when she feels the wind dance across her skin.

He’s behind her, warm and weathered and wrinkled as he was the last time she’d seen him except he’s not sick this time. He looks healthier than he had the entire time she’d been alive, softer and happier as well. He extends a mooncake to her, his calloused palms the same sandpaper she’d always known.

"Yéyé?" How? How does this feel so real? Has she died?

"You’re not dead, xiǎo yāojinɡ." He laughs and his eyes crinkle and Beatrice doesn’t have time to worry about how he knows her thoughts because she’s too busy trying to figure out how she could possibly be here with him. "You are just visiting. I called you here."

"Called me? Where - "

"Do not worry of the what’s and the where’s and the when’s. They are not important." He swats the air between them like her question is a bothersome gnat.

"Alright. Then how?"

"How are you here? Or how did I call you?" She takes the mooncake when he offers it again, takes a step closer to him.

"Both? Neither? I’m not certain." She doesn’t know which she wants to know more.

"Does it matter?" It doesn’t, she supposes. She shakes her head and he smiles again.

"Why am I here?" That does matter.

"Because I called you here." He knows by the tilt of her head and the lift of her eyebrow that his answer is insufficient. "I heard you."

"Oh." Back comes the burn of shame in her chest. The rush of blood in her ears. The sting of tears in her eyes.

"I’ve been watching over you. Your parents… they have not been good to you. I am not certain where I went wrong with your father, but he wasn’t always like he is now. I wish you could’ve met the man I thought I was raising, but that’s not the case." He strokes her cheek, collects the tears there with his knuckles. "Richard, he’s a good man. He is like the man I thought I was raising. And Martha is good too. They are good people, little Beatrice. You are allowed to love them."

"You’re not mad?" She looks up from her feet and into his aged, wenge brown eyes. She used to think his eyes held the secrets of the universe, that she would find the answer to every problem she could ever have if she just looked deep enough. They’re brighter than she remembers, like death has gifted him a light.

Perhaps it has.

"Why would I be mad? My xiǎo gōngzhǔ is finally being loved the way she deserves." She missed how his eyes crinkled when he would laugh, how they would disappear when he smiled too wide. "That Shannon, she’s good for you. Maybe she will teach you to laugh as well as talk to the moon."

"I said… what I said…"

"You love them more than your father and mother." Beatrice nods solemnly, drops her chin against her chest. "As do I."

"What?" Her father is his son. His own child. It doesn’t make sense.

"They are giving you something your own parents never offered, Beatrice. Unconditional love." He pulls her into his embrace. She tucks her head against his chest and is surprised to find no heartbeat. Of course he doesn’t have a heartbeat, he’s dead. She’s not certain what else she had been expecting.

"That family doesn’t care about the grades you get or the languages you speak, the ribbons your bring home or the instruments you play. They care that you laugh, that you smile. That you feel safe and, most importantly, loved. You could be a drug addicted school dropout and they’d love you the same as if you were the Queen.

"You are not worthy of their love because of anything you have ever done nor anything you could ever do. You are worthy of it because you exist and that is enough for them."

"How do you know?" He pulls her away, holds her by the shoulders so he can meet her eyes. People have always told her she has his eyes, she’s not certain she does because his eyes contain the universe while the most hers have ever held are tears.

"You aren’t the only person I watch over. I’ve listened to their conversations of you. I’ve seen how they have shown up for you. I’ve heard how they speak to you, so careful and considerate and kind. I’ve felt the unending love they have for you through the planes of existence.

"Your father? I have to love him. He’s my son, my blood, my heir. But Richard and Martha and Shannon? I love them for how they love you."

He kisses her forehead and she closes her eyes and when she opens them, she’s back in her bed, staring at the ceiling fan going round and round. Shannon leans into her line of view and grins down at her, hair still ruffled from sleep.

"Did you know you talk in your sleep?"

"Do not." Beatrice sits up and Shannon bumps their shoulders together before pushing her out of the bed.

"Do too, you kept saying yeahyeah or something. That’s not English, right?" Shannon drags her down the stairs, Beatrice doesn’t try to pull free like she has every morning in the past.

"It’s Mandarin." Shannon pauses on the bottom step to turn back to her, eyebrows knitted together and head cocked like a confused puppy. "It means Grandfather."

"Oh." Shannon shrugs and leads her to the kitchen where Martha is making pancakes. "Did you have a dream about your grandfather?"

"Yeah. Something like that."

Find more here!

I have been corrected! I should’ve used Yéyé instead of Zufu!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

May 14, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

MAY 15, 2024

Today the White House announced tariffs on certain products imported from China, including steel and aluminum products, semiconductors, electric vehicles, batteries and battery components, solar cells, ship-to-shore cranes, syringes and needles, and certain personal protective equipment (or PPE). According to the White House, these higher tariffs are designed “to protect American workers and businesses from China’s unfair trade practices.” Tariffs are essentially taxes on imported goods, and altogether the tariff hikes cover about $18 billion in imported goods.

In 2018, Trump abruptly ended the economic era based on the idea that free trade benefited the global economy by putting tariffs of 25% on a wide range of foreign made goods. This was a cap to a set of ideas that had been sputtering for a while as industries moved to countries with cheaper labor, feeding the popular discontent Trump tapped into. Trump claimed that other countries would pay his tariffs, but tariffs are actually paid by Americans, not foreign countries, and his have cost Americans more than $230 billion. Half of that has come in under the Biden administration. 

Trump’s tariffs also actually cost jobs, but they were very popular politically. A January 2024 National Bureau of Economic Research working paper by David Autor, Anne Beck, David Dorn, and Gordon H. Hanson established that the trade war of 2018–2019 hurt the U.S. heartland but actually helped Trump’s reelection campaign. “Residents of regions more exposed to import tariffs became less likely to identify as Democrats, more likely to vote to reelect Donald Trump in 2020, and more likely to elect Republicans to Congress,” they discovered.

Now Trump is saying, that if elected, he will impose a 10% tariff on everything imported into the United States, with a 60% tariff on anything from China and a 100% tariff on any cars made outside the U.S. 

In contrast, the administration’s new tariffs are aimed only at China, and only at industries already growing in the U.S., especially semiconductors. Tariffs will rise to 50% on semiconductors and solar cells, 100% on electric vehicles, and 25% on batteries, a hike that will help the Big Three automakers who agreed to union demands in newly opened battery factories, as well as their United Auto Workers workforce. “I’m determined that the future of electric vehicles be made in America by union workers. Period,” Biden said.

The administration says the tariffs are a response to China’s unfair trade practices, and such tariffs are popular in the manufacturing belt of Michigan, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Pennsylvania. Democratic senators from that region have asked Biden to maintain or increase tariffs on Chinese imports after “[g]enerations of free trade agreements that prioritize multinational corporations have devasted our communities, harmed our economy, and crippled our job market.” 

In other economic news, a new rule capping credit card late fees at $8, about a quarter of what they are now, was supposed to go into effect today, but on Friday a federal judge in Texas blocked the rule. The new cap was set by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau (CFPB), the brainchild of Massachusetts Democratic senator Elizabeth Warren, and was part of the Biden administration’s crackdown on “junk fees.” 

The U.S. Chamber of Commerce and the American Bankers Association sued to stop the rule from taking effect, and U.S. District Judge Mark Pittman, appointed by Trump, issued a preliminary injunction against it. His reasoning draws from an argument advanced by the far-right Fifth Circuit, which oversees Texas, Mississippi, and Louisiana, arguing that the CFPB itself is unconstitutional because of its funding structure. "Consequently, any regulations promulgated under that regime are likely unconstitutional as well," Pittman wrote. 

On Friday, major airlines, including American Airlines, Delta Air Lines, United Airlines, JetBlue Airways, Hawaiian Airlines, and Alaska Airlines—but not Southwest Airlines—sued the U.S. Department of Transportation over its new rule that requires the airlines disclose their fees, such as for checking bags, upfront to consumers. The department says consumers are overpaying by $543 million a year in unexpected fees. 

The airlines say that the rule will confuse consumers and that its “attempt to regulate private business operations in a thriving marketplace is beyond its authority.”

The other big story of the day is the continuing attempt of the MAGA Republicans to overturn our democratic system. 

This morning, House speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA), second in line for the presidency and sworn to uphold the Constitution, left his post in Washington, D.C., to appear with former president Trump at his trial for falsifying business records to deceive voters before the 2016 election. The House was due to consider the final passage of the crucially important Federal Aviation Authority Reauthorization Act, but Johnson chose instead to show up to do the work the judge’s gag order means Trump cannot do himself, attacking key witness Michael Cohen, Trump’s former fixer. Johnson described Cohen as “clearly on a mission for personal revenge” and, citing his “history of perjury,” said that “[n]o one should believe a word he says in there.” 

“I do have a lot of surrogates,” Trump boasted this morning, “and they are speaking very beautifully.” Senator Tommy Tuberville (R-AL), who was also at the trial this morning, later said on Newsmax that they had indeed gone to “overcome this gag order.” 

Johnson went on to call the trial “corrupt” and say “this ridiculous prosecution…is not about justice. It’s all about politics.” He left without taking questions. Meg Kinnard of the Associated Press called out the moment as “a remarkable moment in modern American politics: The House speaker turning his Republican Party against the federal and state legal systems that are foundational to the U.S. government and a cornerstone of democracy.”

Peter Eisler, Ned Parker, and Joseph Tanfani of Reuters explained today how those attacks on our judiciary are sparking widespread calls for violence against judges, with social media posters in echo chambers goading each other into ever more extreme statements. According to her lawyer, Stephanie Clifford, also known as Stormy Daniels, wore a bullet-proof vest as she came and went from court, an uncanny echo of the precautions necessary in mob trials.   

In a different attack on our constitutional system, House Republicans are trying to replace the administration’s foreign policy with their own. Over the weekend, they introduced a bill to force President Biden to send offensive weapons to Israel for its invasion of Rafah, overruling the administration’s decision to withhold a shipment of 2,000-pound and 500-pound bombs after Israeli prime minister Benjamin Netanyahu announced his government would invade Rafah despite strong opposition from the Biden administration. 

White House press secretary Karine Jean-Pierre told reporters: “We strongly, strongly oppose attempts to constrain the president’s ability to deploy a U.S. security assistance consistent with U.S. foreign policy and national security objectives.”

The Constitution establishes that the executive branch manages foreign affairs, and until 2015 it was an established practice that politics stopped at the water’s edge, meaning that Congress quarreled with the administration at home but the two presented a united front in foreign affairs. That practice ended in March 2015, when 47 Republican senators, led by freshman Arkansas senator Tom Cotton, wrote a letter to Iran’s leaders warning that they would not honor any agreement Iran reached with the Obama administration over its development of nuclear weapons. 

The Obama administration did end up negotiating the July 2015 Joint Comprehensive Plan of Action with Iran and several world powers, under which Iran agreed to restrict its nuclear development and allow inspections in exchange for relief from economic sanctions. In 2018 the extremist Republicans got their way when Trump withdrew the U.S. from the deal, largely collapsing it, after which Iran resumed its expansion of the nuclear enrichment  program it had stopped under the agreement.  

Now extremists in the House are trying to run foreign policy on their own. The costs of that usurpation of power are clear in Niger, formerly a key U.S. ally in the counterterrorism effort in West Africa. The new prime minister of Niger, Ali Mahaman Lamine Zeine, whose party took power after a coup d’état threw out Niger’s democratically elected president, defended his country’s turn away from the U.S. and toward Russia in an interview with Rachel Chason of the Washington Post. Recalling the House’s six month delay in passing the national security supplemental bill, he said: “We have seen what the United States will do to defend its allies,” he said, “because we have seen Ukraine and Israel.”

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

[artemophobias]

A Very Merry Signmas

Merry Christmas to @ancestoroos! I’m so sorry for this being late, I had gotten pretty ill when I had began my project. It isn’t the best thing in the world, but I tried as best as possible.

@homestuckss

Word Count: 2.4k

TWs: Some very light sexual references, lots of swearing

Characters: All of the Ancestors (primarily mentioned that they are there, but most do not have lines) except for Dualscar and Condesce. Focus character is the Psiioniic.

Notes: I’m really not amazing at writing the Ancestors. I pretty much never do it, but I wanted to characterize this version of the Ancestors slightly off of their Dancestor selves, but since they were in a completely different situation they do act differently from the Dancestors. - Handmaid speaks more. - Ironically, the Signless doesn’t talk too much. - Some parts make a little more sense italicized, but as this is copy-pasted from Docs some of it disappeared, Sorry!

Maybe out there, there is a dream bubble where life is good, and everyone is living in peace. No matter what happened, they, perhaps, banded together whenever the time had come.

This dream bubble did not have that luxury. Truly, quite the opposite.

No one liked working together, because of course they didn’t. There was arguing, constantly trying to kill one another, all those sorts of things. Everyone was used to it, though, and perhaps that was what made everyone like family.

Even relationships bloomed from the bickering. Redglare and Mindfang certainly had some ideas for what a ‘relationship’ was. The constant vacillation could get annoying, though, especially for the Psiioniic (who did not want to be dealing with that shit, but he supposed he had to be subjected to it the same way everyone else was).

He would say that the Summoner was, somewhat, the only normal one. Even the Psiioniic’s girlfriend was a bit much in the head, though he was able to accept it with ease. Sometimes, he wondered what life would be like if the Summoner was able to keep everyone in control.

Though, yes, peace was simply just… not a thing that any of them dealt with. No matter how loud it got, how chaotic everything got, no one could stop arguing and fighting and bickering, and fuck was it endearing.

Maybe after everything that had happened with Alternia, with all of that past everyone, they simply rested on the choice of being enemies without being enemies. Again, something that the Psiioniic could live with.

Signmas was the worst, though. Almost every year, to no avail, Signmas was going to be the worst.

Signmas only became a thing when the Signless died, in which everyone would want to celebrate the cause that the Signless fought for on the day of his birth (though, no one was truly sure when he was born. It was only a vague guess). Yet, they all had to celebrate it, despite them having the Signless there! That was pretty crazy, right?

Not only that, the Psiioniic was hosting the party this year (to much of his discontent, but he had to for everyone else, he guessed).

He wasn’t good at decorations or everything, so he had to get the Handmaid to help, because, obviously. Mindfang would simply make fun of him, or something of the sort. The Summoner also, likely, could help, but he wouldn’t bother, since the Handmaid was his vacillatory partner.

“Why didn’t you get it started days before?” she asked. The very first thing she asked, in fact. Her tone wasn’t scolding, though, it was much more of making fun of him. “You don’t just start decorating for Signmas the day of. Even Signmas Eve would’ve been a damn better choice.”

The Psiioniic just scoffed at her, crossing his arms. They had both shed their old clothes from back in the days. The Psiioniic, though, supposed he had to be in the spirit, and was wearing a black shirt with red fluff and the Signless’ sign (ha) on it, and the Handmaid was wearing a black kimono with various black-colored designs, a red kanzashi in her hair. How fitting for the holiday.

“Seriously, ha! You couldn’t have chosen to do anything better than all this?”

Now that she said it though, the cardboard decorations were pretty drab. Shittily drawn fake .jpeg artifacts were pretty funny, though. A certain Knight of Time would agree with that.

“Look, I didn’t have anything on hand.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose and then laughing drily. “I can’t believe I’m partnered with an idiot. You’re lucky, though.” She then waved her hand, and with a Variety of Time Bullshit, a bunch of Signmas decorations dropped in front of him. “Well? Learn how to decorate your damn hive.”

He let out a bit of a huff, red and blue eyes glaring at her white. “What if I don’t want to? What if you have to do it, huh?”

The Psiioniic always considered himself quite the fight-y type, even if some disagreed. He did know how to hold on his own, and he certainly didn’t want to decorate for Signmas! He knew the Signless, he was pretty sure that the guy would know how much he cared and loved for him or whatever the fuck he could be thinking about.

“Nawh, you have to,” she said. “How do you think he’d feel if his best friend didn’t even try and commemorate him?” She barked out laughter.

“Have you been thpending time with Mindfang or thomething?” he bit back, though, not out of any sort of malice or anger. It was just slight bantering.

“Maybe a little,” she snickered. “It’s okay though, right? Or, what, you’re getting jealous?” She walked over, bumping his hip with hers and walking to his meal block, grabbing a block of cheese and biting into it. He couldn’t remember why it was there. “Tell me when you’re done, yeah?”

“Thtupidathh,” the Psiioniic muttered, grabbing the Weird Time Bullshit Signmas decorations and starting to try and put them up.

The tree wasn’t even well-decorated, and that was easy to note. Honestly? It was just a pine tree with some video game bullshit thrown on it, plus some red and blue paint. He didn’t think he’d have to be hosting this year! What was he gonna do, plan ahead? No way.

“You should really have decorated the tree better!” the Handmaid laughed out, taking another bite out of the block of cheese.

The Psiioniic could only bring himself to scoff again, trying to put up all the window decor, the various lights, stuff like that. For someone who was well-versed in How Things Work, he was doing very badly at Making Things Work. Isn’t that funny?

“Stop whining!”

“Thhut up!” He put more of the decorations up, until his hive looked like a windstorm blew through it and ate everything, then barfing it up and throwing some red and blue on it.

“You know, thtuff thomething down your chitinouth windhole and live with it.”

She laughed slightly, finishing off the cheese (she was slowly eating it, mostly just preoccupying herself with watching the Psiioniic). “There’s many things I can imagine stuffing down there.”

His lip curled up in dissatisfaction.

…but, then, some of the decorations fell down from their place, and he groaned, checking the time. “Thhit! They’ll be here in like, ten fucking minuteth!”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t be taking so long to decorate, what about that? Ever thought of it, Psi, honey?” Her tone had become mean and condescending, just to fuck with him.

He groaned. “You’re the one with the weirdathh time powers, not me! Can’t you just turn it back?”

“It’s gonna fall down anyway.”

His groan rang out once more, this time louder, before he fumbled his way to the decorations and put them back up. Yet, suddenly, his door was thrown open.

“Weee’reee heeeeeeeere, losers!”

He could almost hear those stupid eights in the exclamatory statement. Oh, how he hated the holidays. It was so tiring.

Suddenly, the hoard of people pushed through. Mindfang, Summoner, Redglare, and Signless (obviously), barged into the Psiioniic’s house, in which he gave them an expression of pure dread. In the back, he also noticed Darkleer, the Discipline, and Dolorosa. There were too many fucking people in the house, but he guessed he would just have to live with it for the most part.

Yet, Redglare suddenly pushed through them all, running up to the Psiioniic and giving him a large hug. And fucking tight. The Psiioniic would never get a true understanding as to why Redglare’s hugs were so damn tight, but he would just have to live with that too.

Ugh, he hated having to live with it.

Plus, he was sure that everyone would get a damn kick out of the strange, gurgled noise that came out of his throat when he was practically lifted from the ground by her. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that lawyers were weak.

“Psiiiiii!!!!” she laughed, then pulling away from him and practically dropping him back onto the ground. “Oh, it’s been so long!”

“He’s been secluding his damn self again!” the Handmaid shouted from the meal block, seeming to be eating something else.

“Don’t eat all the food!”

“What are they going to do, eat a few morsels?”

He grimaced, then sneering at her. “You know, I thought that moirails were thuppothed to be thupportive,” he bit, his nose scrunching up.

“You’re forgetting the kismesis part, dear.”

He scoffed, stumbling away from everyone else before gesturing to all the decorations. “Look at all the thhit that I had to go through for this!”

Mindfang snorted, covering her mouth. “Mhmmmmmmmm, I bet the Handmaid got all that for you.”

Even after all the years of them knowing each other, it didn’t seem like any of them could call each other by their real names. The Psiioniic liked it better like this, though. No need to be called by a species of gillbeast. Fucking Tuna. They all even knew each others’ names.

“Okay, well, fuck all of you! Go put the prethentth under the tree.”

The barely decorated tree, that is.

“We’ll be opening prethentth fucking… uh, later. Remind me. Actually, thetting a timer might be good for thith too.”

He ran off to his respiteblock to get some freedom from the rest of the Ancestors, leaving them alone in the main block of the hive.

“Well, shit!!!!!!!! You know, we all might as well ransack the place,” Mindfang joked as they all put their presents near the tree. There was a whole fucking lot of presents, actually. No Condesce, though, so no one had to be too grand to appease the past queen.

“Why would we do that?” Darkleer asked, his voice sounding deeper than usual. It mostly sounded like he had just got dumped outside of the recuperacoon and got ready to come.

Yet, his simple inquiry had quickly triggered a large amount of bickering. An insurmountable bout of noise had flourished in the hive, enough to actually force the Psiioniic to come out with his timer.

Gog fucking dammit.

He glanced at Redglare, who was sitting near two wrapped presents which were suspiciously both long and large.

He quickly looked away.

The Handmaid seemed to only be witnessing, not partaking, a large grin on her face. She seemed to like all the bickering, and the Psiioniic didn’t want to say anything, so he just slid over to her.

“Too bad we can’t just leave them here to rot,” he said, leaning on the counter and squinting at all of them. Why did he have to be friends with his worst enemies? Why did he have to be close friends with them?

“Aww, wouldn’t that be fun? But don’t you think this is more fun?”

“Not particularly,” he said, huffing. Despite the two of them lacking similar interests in social discourse, they still were able to work in tandem. That is, they both could shittalk to Earth and back about some of the people in their group.

Out of love, of course.

He set his timer for about an hour and continued to let them argue for the time being. He supposed they weren’t going to be doing any activities (thank gog), and both him and the Handmaid could just sit and watch. Even if after an hour, it might get boring… and also really confusing. Everyone else was always very confusing.

…

Not everyone fit around the Signmas tree, which was unfortunate mostly for them, but gifts were sorted and gave to everyone. There was one of the Suspiciously Large Long Thing near both the Psiioniic and Darkleer, and other various shapes around everyone else.

What a merry bunch the Ancestors were. The Psiioniic was melting with fear on what could possibly be in the wrapped gift.

Yet, everyone dug in. Darkleer definitely seemed to be saving ‘best for last’ when it came to sizes, leaving the Suspiciously Large Long Thing wrapped and ready.

The Psiioniic himself got various gizmos from everyone else. Some new coding things, other machinations, the such. Mindfang got some, ugh, what was the stupid thing… oh, yeah, she got a new FLARP kit. Redglare got new glasses, as well as various clothes from Mindfang (with a very nicely written, “I h8 your t8ste in clothing,” written on it). Summoner got a multitude of stuffed animals, much to his surprise, but all of the presents were unmarked, only saying “TO SUMMONER” in various different handwritings….

….It was definitely a gag.

When Darkleer had gotten to his Suspiciously Large Long Thing, he practically screamed with glee. It was a sudden change from the usually stoic expression he had.

Yet, when the Psiioniic looked over….

….Oh no.

“PUT THAT OUTTHIDE!” the Psiioniic had to shout, quickly, and Darkleer was sad to comply.

He put his head on the table, though, as Redglare and Handmaid cackled together, the two of them fistbumping.

Actually, what was it that the Handmaid got?

He looked over from his place on the table. So, she also got some trinkets. Lighters, some new kanzashi, etc. How pleasant.

He had to open his Suspiciously Large Long Thing.

Though, when he did, he almost felt like Darkleer. He honestly might’ve reacted in the same way. Pure, unadulterated glee.

It was a new skateboard, black with red and blue highlights with his sign on it. And all of its parts seemed to be very high-quality.

Redglare grinned at him. “I knew you might like it.”

The Psiioniic could only stare and nod, though his lack of an expression told everyone how happy he was about this arrangement now.

Gog fucking dammit, he sure did love his group. Not that he’d tell them or anything.

…

They had spent most of the night simply talking amongst each other. He realized that some of them might have to just pass out at his hive— it was getting late, and despite them technically being allowed to go outside to the sun in the dream bubble, they still were all kind of scared to do so. He guess he wouldn’t mind having them.

Still, it was getting pretty late… the Psiioniic hadn’t noticed that he was starving. So, when a loud, loud grumble came from him, everyone paused in their discussions (and bickering).

“Psii,” Dolorosa said slowly, “did you prepare dinner?”

He paused.

“Fuck.”

[kurakuradonn]

Hi! (it's me from my main blog lol you don't have to post this ask)

I saw your reply in the notes and I wanted to respond but I hit the word limit :(

there's so much more I wanted to say but I felt like I was a little annoying in the tags + aforementioned word limit, but everything about those two pieces were so insanely striking in a way I can't even articulate!! The soft yellow lighting brushed through the clothing folds and colors, the way it frames adis' face and features is just,,, mesmerizing is the only way I can put it.

Also the care taken into their poses and body language (especially idia) and the use of background elements such as that painting to illustrate the relationship between them was masterfully done!! You manage to convey so much with these geniusly picked visual elements and you pull it off with such gorgeous

style and skill! It just makes me go insane, I for the life of me can't stop looking at it.

And the design for idia's father also looks so so good!! I especially love how you drew his teeth thinner in a way more reminiscent of hades, and the stronger jawline and broader figure seems very telling of his character and gives the viewer a great idia of what his personality's like! (I also just, absolutely adore how you draw shroud hair it's the best thing I've ever seen iajugtfikp I love it so much </3) also the skull tie...its really smart ngl

AND THE SECOND PEICE IS NO LESS STELLAR BTW, I could go on but I feel like I'm rambling too much I'm so sorry if it's too much!

No need to apologize, it’s no problem at all! You’ve got a really keen eye!

(Also, this is probably the most in-depth analysis I’ve gotten on a piece and I mean that in a genuinely positive way scdvcgvbv this was a very pleasant surprise 😭❤️)

Thank you so much!! I’m not the best at words, so pardon me if I’m a little incoherent— but I’m very happy about many of the points you brought up!

Both pictures were made (in an attempt) to be a character introduction using visual storytelling hints to bring forth the viewer’s curiosity and imagination though things you mentioned, like body language (Idia’s of melancholy/frustration, Adis’ of mechanical charisma and ignorance of his son’s discontent) and using mythology comparisons (such as the painting!) to add more nuance to their strained relationship!

And I’m glad you noticed the little details on Adis’ design, to his tie and his Hades homage! It makes me honored to see people like the old man…🥹 and on the lighting/hair, I’m very happy that you like how they were done! 🥺❤️

For the sake of not talking people’s ears off and to cool the flames of my ego, I’ll stop here haha. But I’m very happy to have received your ask! Have a nice day! 😭❤️

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHY DID NO ONE PROPOSE A NEW SCHEME FOR MICROPAYMENTS

I grew up, so long as I enjoyed it. So don't underestimate this task. Though really it might be interesting to look at your idea in the harsh light of morning and ask: is this something people will pay most for? You often can't tell yourself. If they have time machines in the future they'll probably have a separate reference manual just for Cambridge. We can't do that, why not do it openly? When there's something we can't say: to look at things people do say, and get in trouble for saying that 2 2 is 5, or that people in the future had few fonts and they weren't antialiased. If you believe everything you're supposed to do what the teacher says. The disadvantage of this route is that it's slow and uncertain. One reason we had such a bad idea for startups that one wonders why things were ever done that way. By the second conference, what Web 2.

I'm convinced, is just the way that constraint is imparted to you.1 And what pressure it would put on the city if it worked. During the Bubble a lot of the earlier stage ones would probably take it. So understand that if you invest in startups, they decided to build recipe sites, or aggregators for local events. In the design of most other things, you get better results if you use flexible media. Editors must know they attract readers.2 I'm fairly stubborn, but I got the impression it might be ok to be discontented. And we know from experience that some undergrads are as capable as most grad students.

This is in contrast to Fortran and most succeeding languages, which doesn't pay at all, because people like it so much they do it for free. Tim O'Reilly led a session intended to figure out how we use the word. 0: their core business sounds crushingly hip when described in Web 2. If you want to do, you have to show off with your body instead. Finally you can buy individual songs instead of having to buy whole albums. Not explicitly, of course. Programmers learn by doing, and most of the other differences between startups and what passes for productivity in big companies, software tends to be written by large and frequently changing teams of mediocre programmers. A lot of them try to make them all work in some renovated warehouse you've made into an incubator.3

A rounds already are high res. People do in startups, at least, pick your battles.4 It made them hate working for the acquirer. But ambitious programmers are better off doing their own thing and failing than going to work at another job to make money that you can't do it by accident. What could be more wonderful, they think, than to be a good idea. Programmers, though, requires a conscious effort to keep your ideas about what you enjoy. But the pool of writers is very, very few who simply decide for themselves. At the time it was supposed to mean using the web as a platform was at least not too constricting. Hence what, for lack of a better name, I'll call the Python paradox: if a company chooses to write its software in a comparatively esoteric language, they'll be able to hire better programmers, because the more startups you had in town, the VCs wouldn't be trying so hard to discover what we like to work on, or don't like to get money to work on a Python project than you could to work on a Java project. Anyone who's worked for a time as a doctor in Nepal, for a time as the prize and the time you had a graph in which the x axis represented situations and the y axis the outcome, the graph of the smart person would have high peaks.

Notes

There are some controversial ideas here, since they're an existing university, or editions with the sort of stepping back is one way to predict areas where Apple will be interesting to 10,000 computers attached to the table. Free money to start using whatever you make something hackers use.

That will in many cases be an inverse correlation between the two, I'd appreciate hearing from you. Eighteen months later.

My guess is the same investor to invest but tried to combine the hardware with an online service, and one didn't try because they can't legitimately ask you to two of each type of thinking, but in fact they don't know. If you want to live in a startup. I see a lot of investors. But I don't know which name will stick.

Some introductions to other investors. The next time you raise as you raise money.