#mini fogging machine

[awpro]

Multiple Uses of Mini Fog Machine

Introduction

When planning an event, having the right ambiance is crucial. The fog machine price in Dubai can greatly affect your decision, especially if you're on a budget. AWPRO is solving your Budget Problem By providing you with the varieties of fog machines. With mini fog machine kits available, creating the perfect atmosphere has never been easier or more affordable. In this guide, we'll explore the best options for fog machines in Dubai, including the best wireless fog machine.

Understanding Fog Machines

Fog machines are devices that produce artificial fog or smoke for various purposes, such as enhancing stage performances, parties, or even in photography sessions. They use a fog fluid that, when heated, evaporates to create fog. Understanding the types of fog machines available can help you make a reasonable decision for your event needs. Shop Fog Machine From Best Camera Accessories Store in Dubai AWPRO.

Best Wireless Fog Machine Options

Wireless fog machines offer the flexibility needed for growing events. They are easy to transport and can be operated from a distance without the clutter of cables. And You can find the best fog machines and other photography accessories on AWPRO. Investing in these machines could set the right mood for your gatherings without the hassle of complicated setups. Some of the best wireless fog machine options include:

Lensgo Smoke S Mini Fog Machine

Ulanzi FM01 FILMOG Ace Portable Fog Machine

Lensgo Smoke B  Mini Fog Machine

Mini Fog Machine Kit: Features and Benefits

A mini fog machine kit is an ideal choice for small events or personal use. These kits often include:

For Photography, Film, TV Special FX

Cinematic Atmosphere in Your Pocket

Dense Fog, Dry Ice, and Steam Effects

Up to 25 Minutes of Smoke Output

Battery-Powered, Battery Included

Includes Six Bottles of Smoke Fluid

Includes Wireless Remote Control

Includes Hose, Tube, and Nozzle Kit

Includes USB-C Charging Cable and Case

Benefits of Using a Mini Fog Machine

Fog Creates Drama

Fog Creates a Memorable Launch

Fog Improves Lighting 

Fog Adds a Spooky Element Fog is Versatile

Keep an eye on the mini fog machine kit prices in Dubai; you can find options starting from AED 150 to AED 400.

Multiple Uses of Mini Fog Machines

Mini fog machines are versatile tools that can enhance any occasion, making them a worthwhile investment. The multiple uses of mini fog machines can add a unique visual element to various events, including:

Weddings and Parties: Create romantic or festive atmospheres.

Theatrical Productions: Enhance scenes with special effects.

Photography: Add depth and mood to photoshoots.

Halloween Events: Create spooky effects for decorations.

Conclusion

Whether you are considering the fog machine price in Dubai, exploring mini fog machine kits, or seeking the best budget fog machine, there are a variety of options to meet your needs. Awpro Dubai provides you with a wide range of Fog machines that not only enhance the visual aspect of your events but also create an immersive atmosphere that your guests will remember.

Visit Now and shop at AWPRO and get your fog machine which is more suitable for your photography. Lensgo Smoke S Mini Fog Machine, Ulanzi FM01 FILMOG Ace Portable Fog Machine, Lensgo Smoke B Mini Fog Machine these all three best compact fog machines which are available at AWPRO

[03jyh23]

🌷⌇where we left off finding our way back part 15; a choi jongho mini-series

ex-boyfriend! idol! jongho x ex-girlfriend! single-mom! reader

│ series masterlist│ next │

│synopsis: five years have passed since jongho last saw you. your lives have taken drastically different paths, with jongho achieving fame and you focusing on raising your daughter, nari, in quiet anonymity. when jongho discovers he has a daughter, he's determined to be a part of her life.

│genre: a slice of life, romance, fluff, some angst

│trigger warnings: sexual content, adult themes, physical Intimacy

│words: 11.7k

│reminder: what you're about to read is purely fiction, so let's keep it separate from reality.

!minors do not interact!

ahem. so 👉🏻👈🏻 this chapter… yeah. things get a little spicy. that said, it's not smut-smut—there's intimacy, there's feelings, there's probably blushing (from both the characters and me writing it). so please enjoy this tender, slightly spicy, emotionally-loaded reunion of two dummies in love. hydrate. deep breaths. try not to scream into a pillow (or do, i won't judge).

!spoiler!

basically: they did it. but with love.

as always,

love, mon ♡

│taglist: │ @seventeenthingsblr │@DALSUWAHA │

│ @ateez-atiny380 │ @yoonshiiu │ @sndeoki │ @bomi-ja │

│ @vixensss │ @all-fandoms-rise │ @finnydraws │

│ @jonghosbrainrot │ @ateezswonderland │ @stayatinykatsy

│@chickenscoups │ @ana-stasssiaaa │ @starryunho │

│ @originalcupcakenacho │ @ultrapinkvoidbouquet │

│ @sweetinsaniiity│ @jennifermakmur│ @mitchii │

│ @hannah-97 │ @hyuckiesgf │ @treehouse-mouse │

│ @eternoange1│ @ultrapinkvoidbouquet │ @jycas │

│ @velvetskize │ @dumplingsyum │

│ @daisiesandtea123 │ @taegi1016│ @misshella│

│ @e3ellie │ @staytiny94 │ @everglow98 │

│@thedistractedwriter  │ @satans-arse-crack │ @soreberry │

│ @domfikeluva │ @ccoristu │@betda│ @xryusarax

│@lveegsoi │@ahuiahoe │ @kukkurookkoo │

│ @gyusbabydoll │ @bluewolf2003 │

│ if you wish to be tagged let me know here! ♡

As Jongho drove home, the city blurred past his window—soft summer hues of green trees and busy sidewalks barely registering in his mind. The keys you had given him sat in the center console, catching the sunlight with each turn, glinting like a promise.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he waited at a red light, replaying your final words in his head. Take her shopping. She'd love that. It wasn't that you were wrong—Nari would love that. But it felt like a patch. A placeholder for something bigger. He didn't want to be just the "fun" house. The weekend parent. The emergency contact with conditions attached. He wanted to be home.

And maybe he wasn't ready to say it this morning, with his heart still raw from Miss Kim's dismissal and his pride bruised by the bureaucratic gap in his title. But the ache had settled now, transformed into something clear and solid.

He found himself pulling into the parking lot of a Cafe, a quaint little shop he'd passed by countless times but never visited. The sudden need for caffeine—and maybe a moment to gather his thoughts—felt overwhelming. The bell chimed softly as he pushed open the door, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans enveloping him immediately. While waiting in line, he absently watched the barista's practiced movements, the steam rising from the espresso machine like morning fog. When his turn came, he ordered an Americano, his voice carrying the weight of his distracted thoughts.

"Name for the order?" the barista asked, marker poised over the cup.

"Jongho," he replied, then stepped aside to wait.

Finding a quiet corner by the window, he pulled out his phone, thumbs hovering over the screen. The morning sun filtered through the glass, casting warm patterns across the wooden table.

Without thinking too hard about it, he pulled up Wooyoung's contact and hit call. The line rang once, then twice. Finally, on the third ring, there was a soft click that broke the mounting tension.

"Hey," Wooyoung answered. It was barely a word—just breath and syllables stitched together with exhaustion. His voice was hoarse, frayed at the edges like he'd been screaming into a pillow or swallowing sobs for hours. Jongho sat up straighter, instinctively alert.

"Hey," he said gently, carefully measuring his tone. "I'm taking Nari shopping today. Thought maybe you'd wanna tag along. We could grab lunch somewhere nice, watch her explore the stores, make a whole day of it." For a second, the silence was so complete, Jongho wondered if the call had dropped.

"I can't," Wooyoung managed, his voice cracking painfully on the second word. Jongho remained perfectly still, creating space for whatever might come next. "I'm—" Wooyoung attempted again, but the words dissolved into nothing more than a shaky breath. "I'm not really good company right now. I don't think I could handle seeing her smile. Or you. Or even the sun. It's all just... too much."

"Woo..." Jongho said softly, concern settling in his chest like weight.

"I'm fine," Wooyoung lied, but everything about the way he said it—the artificial tightness in his voice, the slight tremor in his breath, the way his words caught at the end—made Jongho's throat constrict with worry.

"No, you're not," Jongho said gently. The silence stretched thin, taut like the moment before glass shatters. Wooyoung didn't respond. Jongho could hear the faint rustle of fabric—maybe the shift of blankets or the brush of fingers across his face—as he probably wiped away the tears he swore he wasn't crying. Jongho hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "You know how San is. He'll—"

"Jongho," Wooyoung cut in, his voice suddenly hard, fractured. "Please. Don't." It wasn't angry, not really. It was pleading. Tired. The kind of tired that comes from hoping too hard and being let down too many times.

Jongho's throat tightened. "Okay," he said quietly, "I won't."

Another pause on the line, then Wooyoung's voice returned—quieter now, like words being dragged from the bottom of a well. "I can't hear excuses for him right now. I can't hear how I should understand or be patient or wait until he's ready." His voice wavered, then steadied with effort.

A heavy pause followed. Jongho didn't ask what had happened—he didn't need to. The raw ache threading through Wooyoung's voice told him everything he needed to know. "Do you want me to come back home?"

"No," Wooyoung responded with startling quickness, then softened his tone: "No. I don't want anyone to see me like this. Not now."

"You don't have to talk. Or move. I could just sit there and be annoying until you get frustrated enough to throw a pillow at me."

Wooyoung released a tiny breath that might have transformed into laughter under different circumstances, but instead came out drenched in sadness. "Not today."

"Okay," Jongho said, infusing the word with understanding and acceptance. "Tomorrow, then. Or the day after. Just... promise me you won't disappear into yourself."

"I won't," Wooyoung promised, though the words seemed to drain what little energy he had left. "I just need time."

Jongho nodded, forgetting for a moment that Wooyoung couldn't see the gesture. "I'll tell Nari you said hi."

There was a long pause, heavy with unspoken emotion. Then, barely above a whisper: "Thanks."

The line went dead a moment later, leaving Jongho alone with his growing concern.

A second later, Jongho collected his coffee—black, no sugar—and made his way to the farthest corner table. It was quiet there, tucked beneath a flickering overhead light that barely reached the table's edges, far from the murmured conversations and hissing espresso steam. He sat down, cradling the cup between his hands, its warmth grounding him. He reached for his phone, tempted to lose himself in the mindless comfort of social media, but instead he opened his browser and typed: apartments and houses for sale, near parks and elementary schools.

The results loaded slowly. Jongho stared at the screen like it had the answers to questions he hadn't dared ask aloud yet. Two-bedroom, three-bedroom, quiet neighborhood, child-friendly… he clicked on a few listings without even reading them. But nothing felt quite right. Too far from the company. Too far from the park. Too small. Too sterile. Kitchen too big, rooms too narrow, not enough light, or too much light— He couldn't picture Nari's drawings adorning any of those fridges, couldn't imagine her curled up on those pristine couches. With each swipe, his frustration mounted until his thumb hung suspended, uncertain what he was searching for anymore. Staring at a polished kitchen island in a glossy listing photo—cold and empty—he muttered, "Maybe it's not meant to be." The words escaped before he could catch them, leaving a bitter taste. With a defeated sigh, Jongho closed the browser. The café corner that had promised solitude for thinking now felt too quiet, yet somehow filled with an unnamed noise. This wasn't just about finding a house—it was about building a life that didn't exist yet. One that still needed space to grow. Not yet.

Jongho stared at the screen of his phone, thumb hovering over the call icon. Then, with a heavy sigh, he hit it.

Hongjoong picked up right away. "Hey, is it important? I'm recording with Seonghwa."

"I can't find anything," Jongho said, his voice flat and quiet in that way that made Hongjoong immediately sit up straighter. "Every listing feels wrong. Too far, too cold, too not right. I don't even know what I'm looking for anymore."

Another pause. Then Hongjoong asked gently, "Is this really about the houses?"

Jongho's jaw clenched. "I want it to be. I want to be excited, want to do this the right way, but..." His voice cracked slightly. "It just feels like I'm chasing something I'll never catch."

"Hey," Hongjoong said, tone low and steady, "breathe."

Jongho spoke, quieter this time. "What if... I do everything right—and Y/N doesn't want it?"

Hongjoong paused, voice soft. "You mean the house?"

Jongho exhaled sharply. "I mean all of it—the life, the label, the...family. What if I show up with everything—keys in hand, rooms painted in warm tones, and she looks at me like I've built a stranger's future? Like I'm still temporary, even after building something permanent?"

Another silence. Not because Hongjoong didn't have something to say—but because he was weighing his words. "Don't bring it up on the first real date."

Jongho blinked. "What?"

"Take her out. Just... take her out. A real date. No contracts, no promises, no blueprints for a life she hasn't signed up for yet." He paused, then added, with that familiar steady cadence that always cut through Jongho's chaos: "You're overthinking this. Get to know each other again—not as who you were, but as who you are now."

"Let it breathe," he said. "Let yourselves breathe."

Jongho pressed the edge of his fist to his lips, eyes stinging. The ache in his chest didn't ease, but it shifted. Reformed into something quieter. Something bearable.

"You want this so badly," Hongjoong continued, "that it's becoming a burden instead of a gift." The truth of those words struck Jongho deep in his core. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but there it was. "There's nothing wrong with dreaming," Hongjoong said. "But you have to let her dream, too. Give her the time to imagine it with you. That's how you build something together."

"I've been looking at rings," he admitted after a beat. "Not seriously, but... seriously enough. I keep thinking maybe if I show her I mean it—if I prove it with structure, and space, and permanence—then maybe she'll believe I'm in this for real."

Hongjoong let out a slow, audible exhale. "Jongho."

"I know," Jongho said quickly, already anticipating the scolding. "It's insane. We're not even—she's not even—we're co-parenting more than we're dating."

"Exactly," Hongjoong said firmly but not unkindly. "So maybe before you go picking out engagement rings, you should start by asking if she wants to be your girlfriend."

The line went quiet. Jongho blinked.

"I mean it," Hongjoong continued. "You're jumping twelve steps ahead because you're scared you missed the first ones. But that's not how this works."

"It just feels like I'm running out of time," he whispered. "Like if I don't fix it now, I'll lose the chance to fix it at all."

"You're not running out of time," Hongjoong said gently. "You're running out of patience—with yourself. You love her. You love your daughter. That's already something real. But you can't guilt someone into permanence. You have to let her choose it. Choose you."

Jongho's breath stuttered. "What if she doesn't?"

Hongjoong didn't hesitate. "Then at least you'll know. And yeah—it'll hurt like hell. But that kind of pain's cleaner than the ache of pretending everything's fine when it's not."

Jongho closed his eyes, leaning against the café wall as if it were the only thing holding him up. Outside, a car honked. A bus rolled by. The world kept turning. "I'm scared," he admitted, voice nearly gone.

"I know," Hongjoong said. "But rushing won't fix the past. It'll just make the future blurry. So slow down. Breathe. Take her on a real date. Talk. Listen. Figure out who she is now, not who you remember her being when you were seventeen."

Jongho nodded slowly, the lump in his throat finally starting to dissolve. "So... no ring?"

"No ring," Hongjoong confirmed. "Not yet."

"Maybe I'll just ask her if she... wants to be with me. For real this time."

"Exactly," Hongjoong said. "Ask like it's the beginning, not an apology."

Jongho smiled despite himself. "You always this wise?"

"Nope," Hongjoong said. "Just allergic to drama and excellent at babysitting emotionally unstable bandmates."

Jongho huffed a laugh, rubbing at his eyes. "Thanks, hyung."

"Anytime. Now go be awkward and sincere. That's your strong suit."

Jongho hung up, not feeling fixed—but finally, finally, feeling clear. And maybe that was enough for now.

The rest of the day passed in a gentle blur, time slipping through Jongho's fingers like water—ungraspable and fleeting. When he picked up Nari from preschool, her face brightened instantly with that sunshine smile that always made his heart tighten, a sudden ache of love and protectiveness blooming in his chest. She chattered nonstop as they walked hand in hand to the nearby park, her small palm warm and steady in his. For a while, he let himself drift into her world—a realm of finger paintings, playground triumphs, scraped knees, and the intricate politics of sharing swings and secrets.

The sun was glowing warmly as he watched her climb up the jungle gym. Her laughter rang out—clear, untethered, pure—and filled the space around them with a kind of magic that no grown-up worries could touch. He'd meant to stop at the store on the way home to stock up on essentials for her overnight stays—a new toothbrush, soft pajamas, a nightlight to chase away shadows, even a tiny stool for reaching the sink. But watching her now, so alive and present in this moment, he knew today wasn't for errands. Today was for this—just her, the park, and the quiet tether of their connection.

Later, when they pulled up to the underground parking lot of the apartment building, Nari practically bounced in her car seat, eyes sparkling with excitement. "Uncle Hongjoongie and Uncle Hwa!" she squealed, spotting the two familiar figures waiting by the entrance.

"Ready for your movie adventure, princess?" Seonghwa asked, already reaching to lift her from the seat. Nari didn't hesitate—she launched herself into his arms with the pure trust only a child can offer, melting away Jongho's lingering doubts.

"And ice cream!" Hongjoong added with a sly grin, shooting Jongho a knowing look over Nari's head—an unspoken we've got this, go figure yourself out.

"Be good for your uncles, okay? Don't let them spoil you too much." The last part was half-joking, aimed more at his hyungs than his daughter.

"Too late," Hongjoong called back with a grin, already leading Nari toward his car. "Wave bye to Daddy!"

Jongho watched them go, their laughter trailing behind like a soft melody. An odd mix of gratitude and anxiety settled in his chest—gratitude for these moments of care, anxiety for the evening ahead. Now, there was nothing left but to face it—and hope, quietly, not to mess it up.

Jongho closed the door to his apartment with a soft click, the quiet stretching out around him like a sigh. He stood in the entryway, keys still in hand, the place was still, eerily so. Usually, music would filter through the walls, accompanied by the faint hum of a game console or Wooyoung's laughter echoing from the kitchen while he made messes he had no intention of cleaning anytime soon. But now—silence. Jongho crossed the apartment with slow steps. He stopped outside Wooyoung's door, lifted his hand to knock, hesitated for a second, then tapped lightly, just once. No answer. Frowning, he pressed his palm flat against the door, as if he could feel something through the wood—grief, maybe, or just the kind of tiredness that sinks too deep for words. Slowly, he turned the handle and pushed the door open just a crack. The room was dim, curtains drawn, casting everything in a soft, dull gray. It smelled faintly of herbal tea and the salty edge of dried tears. Wooyoung lay curled on his side, back to the door, blanket pulled tightly around his small frame. His shoulders were hunched, his breathing slow but uneven—too light for deep sleep, but too still to be anything else. Used tissues littered the nightstand and floor, a mess that Wooyoung normally wouldn't tolerate. His phone lay forgotten, screen dark. On the pillow beside him was a damp patch, not fresh but recent enough. Jongho's heart twisted. For a moment, he just stood there, one hand still on the door, unwilling to breach the small haven of stillness Wooyoung had wrapped himself in. But seeing him like that—so quiet, so small—brought something tender and protective crashing over him like a tide. He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside without a word. He knelt beside the bed, watching Wooyoung's lashes twitch slightly with each breath, caught somewhere between dreams and exhaustion. Jongho stayed there for another breath, then two, his eyes tracing the rise and fall of Wooyoung's shoulders. He looked so much younger like this—tucked in on himself, buried beneath the blanket as if it could shield him from whatever had worn him down. With practiced quiet, Jongho stood and began to move around the room. He didn't rush. He gathered the tissues first, careful not to disturb anything else, dropping them gently into the wastebasket. A discarded hoodie on the floor was folded and set neatly on the nearby chair. The half-finished mug of tea—cold and forgotten—was taken out and placed in the sink. He returned to Wooyoung's side and tugged the blanket up, just a little, so it rested comfortably beneath his chin. As he did, Wooyoung stirred faintly, a small sigh escaping his lips—but he didn't wake. Jongho froze, just long enough to make sure he hadn't disturbed him, then smoothed the edge of the blanket with careful fingers.

It was a simple gesture. But it felt like sealing in warmth. Like saying I see you. Even when you're silent. Even like this.

Jongho lingered for one more moment, eyes soft. Then he stepped back, moving toward the door. He opened it slowly, casting one last glance over his shoulder before pulling it shut behind him.

Jongho glanced at his phone—just enough time to get ready. He headed to his room, stepping carefully to avoid making noise that might wake Wooyoung.

He stood in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection like it might change if he glared long enough. Then, with a deep sigh, he opened the closet. After rummaging through clothes, he draped two shirts over each arm while a quietly escalating sense of panic built in his chest. He glanced at the shirts again. "This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself, tossing both shirts onto the back of the couch and dragging a hand down his face.

It wasn't like he hadn't gone on a date before. He had. But this—this-this wasn't just a date. This was the date. The one he should've taken you on years ago, before life and circumstance tangled everything up. Now here he was, standing in his apartment—his place, not yours—where Nari's toys were freshly scattered across the floor from yesterday's playtime, and her purple bag hung neatly by the door.

Jongho… was sweating. Not visibly, not enough to ruin his shirt (he hoped), but he could feel the nervous energy in his limbs. It buzzed beneath his skin, making his movements too careful, too calculated. Every step felt like it might be the wrong one. He was minutes away from calling his stylist and a hairdresser, pacing his apartment with his phone in hand, thumb hovering over the screen. It was insane—he knew it was insane. This was just dinner. But something about tonight felt monumental. Maybe it was because it wasn't just dinner. Not to him. Not when it had taken this long to get here, not after all these years he spent without you.

So yes, he was tempted to call backup. A full glam squad for a restaurant date—laughable, really. Still, he stared at the phone like it might save him from himself. Then he sighed, dropped it onto the bed, and walked to his closet again. A moment later, he pulled the door open and reached instinctively toward the end section, where a row of garment bags hung untouched for weeks. Pieces from photoshoots, promotional events, things his stylists had sent, and he hadn't returned. His fingers trailed over the bags, pausing on one marked with a tag he remembered instantly—Dazed, December Issue.

The outfit inside had felt like him. Not the stage version, not the carefully curated idol look, but him. Comfortable. Confident. Still clean-cut enough to show he put in effort, without looking like he was trying too hard, so he unzipped the bag. He dressed slowly, tucking the turtleneck just right, adjusting the collar of the blazer twice, brushing imaginary lint off the slacks. His hands moved automatically, muscle memory from countless fittings and mirror checks, but tonight it felt different. More personal. Every movement said: I want this to matter.

At the mirror, he hesitated again, running a hand through his hair. It still held the shape from this morning—fluffy, slightly tousled, annoyingly charming—but he debated reaching for the product anyway. In the end, he just smoothed the sides with his fingers, letting the volume sit naturally, slightly wind-swept, a little imperfect. He looked at himself for a long moment. His reflection didn't look like a man preparing for war, or a photoshoot, or some over-produced romantic gesture. He looked like someone trying. Trying to be present. Trying to show up fully. Trying not to mess it up before it began. And beneath all of that, he looked hopeful.

He stepped into his shoes, and walked out the door—heart steady, palms only slightly sweaty.

The familiar weight of anticipation settled in his chest as he walked to his car, checking his phone one more time—not that he needed to, he'd memorized the time and address already. Jongho sat in his car, adjusted the mirror, and checked his reflection once more. Still fine. Hair a little too fluffy. He tapped the screen on the dashboard, scrolling through music. Nothing felt right. Every song either too upbeat or too melancholic, too romantic or too sterile. Eventually, he just settled on a quiet instrumental playlist—soft piano, the kind of music that let his thoughts breathe.

The drive wasn't long, but every red light felt like an invitation to overthink.

What if you were nervous too? What if you weren't? What if this changed everything, or nothing at all? What if he said the wrong thing? Did too much? Not enough?

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

Then he laughed softly, shaking his head. He wasn't a teenager. He'd performed in front of tens of thousands of people, stood on stages under blinding lights, faced interviewers and fans and pressure. But this slow drive to pick you up, this anticipation coiled quietly in his chest, felt like one of the most vulnerable things he'd ever done.

As he turned onto your street, his heart did that familiar skip—the same one he'd felt years ago, the same one he still felt every time he saw you. He pulled up to your building, put the car in park, and took a deep breath. For a moment, he just sat there, letting the engine idle, gathering his courage. Then he reached for his phone to text you that he'd arrived—but before he could, he spotted you stepping out of the building entrance. His breath caught slightly. You looked beautiful, of course you did, but it was more than that. It was the way you carried yourself, the slight smile playing at your lips, the quiet confidence in your steps.

Jongho quickly got out of the car, moving around to the passenger side to open the door for you. As you approached, he felt himself smiling—not his practiced idol smile, but something softer, more genuine. Something that said: I've been waiting for this moment.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer than intended.

You looked up at him, your eyes catching the last of the daylight, and suddenly everything else—the nerves, the pressure, the overthinking fell quiet. There was only this: the narrowing space between you, the scent of your perfume carried on the breeze, the small sparkle in your gaze that told him maybe you'd been just as nervous, just as hopeful.

"Hi," you replied, and the way you said it—soft, familiar, as if the word had been waiting on your tongue—made something in him settle.

He held the door open with a slight bow, playful yet courteous, his hand brushing along the top of the car to steady it, though really, it was to hide how his fingers trembled. When you slid into the seat, he closed the door gently, as if you were something precious.

As he circled back to the driver's side, he couldn't suppress the grin tugging at his mouth. He was still nervous, yes, but it was a good kind of nervous—the kind that made the world feel like it was holding its breath for the next moment.

Once behind the wheel, he glanced over at you, already buckled in, already looking at him.

"You ready?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

You nodded. "More than ready."

And with that, Jongho shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb. The hum of the engine was soft, steady, like background music to the moment that had settled between you, quiet, charged, expectant. Jongho stole a glance at you while waiting at a red light, the golden evening glow catching the edges of your profile. You were looking out the window, fingers idly tapping against your thigh in an absent rhythm.

As Jongho pulled onto the main road, with city lights scattering like fallen stars along the skyline, he glanced over at you with a soft smile. "Nari's with Hongjoong," he said casually, easing into the turn. "And Seonghwa. Wooyoung... couldn't stay with her today, but I'm sure she'll have—"

"Maybe..." you cut in gently, turning toward him with an apologetic look. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about Nari today?" There was no sharpness in your voice, just a quiet sort of plea—tender and careful. Not because you didn't want to talk about her, but because you wanted this moment, just this one, to be about you two.

Jongho blinked, surprised for a beat. But then he nodded once, understanding sinking into his features with a slow breath. "Right," he said softly. "Yeah. Of course. Just us tonight."

You smiled, eyes flicking back out the window. The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was calm. Something freshly drawn. "I'm nervous," you admitted, then gave a small, almost embarrassed laugh. "Isn't that silly? I mean, it's just dinner. We've had dinners before. But this... this feels different."

Jongho's eyes flicked to you, something easing in his chest at your honesty. He laughed too, low and genuine, the kind of sound that softened his whole face. "You're not the only one. I changed my outfit three times before settling on something my stylist picked two months ago." He shot you a quick grin. "I haven't been this unsure about an outfit since… ever." That made you laugh more, the sound rich and unguarded. And with that, the pressure cracked, like glass easing under warm water. The night found its rhythm. The space between you filled with something easier, and something undeniable.

Just you. Just him. Finally.

You gazed at him for a moment, taking in the carefully chosen outfit that suited him perfectly. "You look great," you said softly, meaning it. "More than great, actually. The stylist knew what they were doing."

Jongho glanced at you, momentarily flustered, the tips of his ears turning pink. A quiet, bashful laugh escaped him. "Yeah, well... technically I picked it," he said, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. "Just... recycled the look from a magazine shoot a couple months back."

You smiled, your gaze lingering on him. "Well, you made a good call. It suits you." Your voice softened, gentleness threading through each word. "You always look good, but tonight... I don't know. It's different."

He didn't respond immediately—just exhaled slowly, the corners of his mouth curling into a smile he was trying not to let grow too wide. "You're going to make it hard to focus on driving," he murmured, drawing another laugh from you.

The traffic light ahead turned red, and as the car slowed to a stop, Jongho found himself stealing another glance at you. The way the city lights played across your features reminded him of all those nights years ago, when everything felt both simpler and impossibly complex. Now here you were again, the same but different, like a familiar song played in a new key.

Jongho let out a quiet sigh—a mixture of nerves and something else, something harder to name. "I was minutes away from calling a whole team," he said, half-laughing. "Stylist, hair, even one of our photographers, just in case this night needed to be documented."

You turned to him, laughing. "You're ridiculous."

"I am, aren't I?" he said with a grin. "But it's been a long time since I did something like this. Not just a date—but one I actually care about. I wanted to get it right."

The confession landed with a gentle tenderness, and something in your chest softened. He meant it—not just the words, but the intention behind them.

"So," you began lightly, drawing out the word as you toyed with the edge of your sleeve, "how many dates have you been on since we broke up?"

Jongho blinked and turned his head toward you, his brows rising with a touch of confusion—then amusement. "Wait—what?"

You smirked. "I mean, you're all dolled up, pulling out magazine shoot fits, opening car doors like a gentleman. Makes a person wonder how rusty you actually are."

He let out a surprised laugh, his head tilting back as it echoed through the quiet car. "Wow. I see how it is. We're going there, huh?"

"Just curious," you teased, resting your chin in your hand. "Girlfriends? Flings? Anyone else get the honor of hearing your weird vocal warmups?"

Jongho looked at you, his lips twitching into a smile he clearly tried to suppress. "For the record, those warmups are essential, and they sound amazing."

"Mmm, debatable."

He shook his head, grinning now. "Honestly?" he said after a pause, his tone softening. "Maybe two dates. Definitely no flings. Nothing serious. I think... after everything, I wasn't really interested in someone new. Not when I couldn't stop thinking about—well. You know."

The joke dissolved quietly between you, leaving something gentler in its wake. The kind of honesty that lived just under the surface until moments like this brought it to light.

You looked at him for a moment longer, the teasing in your eyes softening. "I was joking," you said quietly. "You didn't have to answer seriously."

The GPS chimed just then. Jongho pulled into a small parking lot tucked beside the restaurant, the warm glow of string lights spilling through the windows of the building. The place wasn't flashy—just cozy, intimate, all wood and warm tones, exactly the kind of spot that promised long conversations and easy laughter.

"I wanted to," he replied simply, meeting your gaze. "But hey—if we're trading questions... how many broken hearts have you left behind?"

You laughed, the tension breaking again like sunlight through crystal. "Wouldn't you like to know."

He grinned, opening his door. "I would, actually."

"Oh yeah, I'm sure the whole single-mom-with-luggage look is very in right now." you joked, your voice carrying a hint of self-deprecation. "Especially after all that pregnancy weight and stretch marks."

You'd delivered it like a joke—light, deflecting, with that familiar half-laugh in your voice. But beneath it, something tender flickered. Vulnerable. Honest.

Jongho closed his door softly and rounded the car to your side as you stepped out. His eyes met yours—not with pity or discomfort, but with that same quiet, steady warmth that always made you feel truly seen.

"If it’s you? Then yeah, it’s absolutely in." he echoed with a gentle laugh.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile wavered slightly. "You don't have to flatter me."

"I'm not," he said firmly, leaning against the car beside you. "You carried a whole person. You raised her. You still smile through things I don't even know you've been through. That's... beautiful. Strong." You glanced away, blinking hard at the streetlights. He nudged you gently with his elbow. "And for the record? The pregnancy weight, the stretch marks—none of that makes you less desirable. It just makes you real. More real than most people ever let themselves be."

You swallowed, your voice barely above a whisper. "You always knew how to say exactly what I didn't know I needed to hear."

He shrugged, a soft grin playing at his lips. "Old habits."

You nudged him back, the tension dissolving into slightly uneven but sincere laughter. "So you do still think I'm hot."

"Absolutely," he replied without hesitation. "But if you need more convincing, I can make a PowerPoint presentation. Charts. Graphs. Footnotes."

You laughed again, fuller and freer this time. And as he opened the restaurant door for you, his hand lightly brushing your back, it was clear: he wasn't just showing up for dinner. He was showing up for you.

The restaurant was softly lit, tucked into a quiet street that buzzed gently with evening life. Inside, the atmosphere was warm, amber lights glowing against rustic wood, the quiet hum of conversation wrapping around you like a comfort.

The host greeted Jongho with a familiar smile, clearly recognizing him, and led you both to a private table near the window. Jongho pulled out your chair for you before settling across the table, shrugging off his coat. He looked comfortable, but there was still that trace of nervous energy in the way he tapped his fingers lightly against his thigh under the table, the way his eyes scanned your face between glances at the menu.

You caught it. "You okay?" you asked, resting your chin in your hand. "You seem… fidgety."

He smiled sheepishly. "I'm not usually this nervous."

You raised a brow, amused. "Really? Jongho—the guy who performs in front of thousands?"

"That Jongho's different," he replied, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Stage Jongho doesn't have to figure out how to tell you he's been thinking about this—about you—for a long time."

You blinked, the honesty of it knocking gently against your chest. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then you leaned in a little, voice quieter but playful. "Well, you're doing okay so far. A little awkward, but cute."

He chuckled, relaxing slightly. "I'll take cute."

"And… I get it," you said after a pause, fingers tracing the rim of your water glass. "It's weird. Being here. With you. Like this. It's different from before. I'm nervous too."

"Yeah?" he asked gently.

You nodded, lips tugging into a small, wry smile. "But not the bad kind of nervous. Just… the kind that makes your hands a little sweaty and your heart weirdly loud."

Jongho laughed, leaning back in his seat, relief washing over his features. "Same."

There was a beat of silence, but it was a good one—full of shared breath, old familiarity, and something new beginning to quietly bloom between the lines.

You glanced around, taking in the soft setting, the warm clinking of silverware and glasses, and then looked back at him. "This place is really nice."

"I thought you'd like it," he said. "It felt like the kind of place where maybe… we could talk."

You smiled, settling deeper into your seat, into the moment. "Then let's talk."

"So... do you kiss on a first date?" Jongho asked, his voice carrying a mix of playfulness and genuine curiosity. His fingers drummed a gentle rhythm against the tablecloth, betraying a hint of nervous energy.

You smirked, settling your elbow on the table and resting your chin in your palm, studying him with amused eyes. "My, my... jumping straight to the important questions, aren't we? Not even going to ease into it?"

Jongho laughed, the sound warm and rich as his ears flushed a delicate shade of pink. He leaned back in his chair, absently fidgeting with the corner of his napkin. "What? I figured I'd cut through the small talk. Why dance around what we're both thinking about?"

"We haven't even gotten to look at the menu," you pointed out with a teasing lilt to your voice. "At least pretend to ask about my day first."

His face broke into that familiar grin that always made your heart skip. "Okay, okay. How was your day?"

You tilted your head thoughtfully, letting out a small laugh. "Oh, you know... the usual chaos. Spilled coffee on my dress, had to change, then burnt my forehead with a hair curler right before leaving. Considered canceling. But then I remembered this really persistent guy who used to text me lyrics until I forgave him."

Jongho winced playfully, though his eyes sparkled with fond memories. "Guilty as charged. Though in my defense... did it end up being worth it?"

Your eyes met his across the table, and something warm and familiar settled in your chest at the earnest look in his gaze. "Yeah," you admitted softly. "Definitely worth it."

A comfortable silence fell between you, filled with the gentle ambiance of the restaurant and that peculiar electricity that seemed to hum whenever you were together.

After a moment, he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping to that low, gentle tone that always seemed reserved just for you. "So... circling back to my original question - about first date kisses?"

You matched his posture, leaning in with a playful glint in your eyes. "Depends."

"Care to elaborate on these mysterious conditions?"

A smile tugged at your lips as you replied, "On whether the guy keeps making me laugh like that… and if dessert's good."

Jongho's resulting laugh was rich and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that way you'd always found endearing. He straightened in his seat, shoulders squaring with mock determination. "Now those are terms I can work with. Challenge accepted."

The waiter arrived with the menus just as Jongho was about to say something more, forcing both of you into polite thank-you's and glancing awkwardly at your plates. You caught his eye once, across the flicker of the candle between you, and he smiled—a quiet kind of smile, the kind that lingered.

"So…" you said once the waiter left, flipping open your menu. "Are you going to try to impress me with your wine knowledge, or are we both pretending we still don't really know the difference between a cabernet and a merlot?"

Jongho chuckled, tapping his menu like it might give him answers. "I’ve had exactly three wine lessons. One with a sommelier for a reality show, one in Italy from Seonghwa when he was tipsy, and one from a YouTube video I forgot ten minutes in."

"Sounds like a solid education."

"Thank you, I'm now certified in pretending to swirl and nod thoughtfully."

You grinned. "Well, good news is I'm easy to impress. Just don't order something with 'notes of tobacco' and we're good."

Dinner unfolded gently after that—little jokes, bites shared across the table, your knees brushing under the table once or twice, neither of you moving away.

He asked about your job, not the surface-level questions, but the ones that made you pause—what you liked about it, what you missed before motherhood changed your world. You asked him about touring, about the quiet spaces in between the chaos, about the songs he wrote but never released.

There was a rhythm to it now—an easy ebb and flow that felt surprisingly natural. Like picking up a melody you'd once memorized by heart.

By the time dessert came—chocolate something or other you couldn't pronounce—he hadn't asked again about the kiss. But the energy between you was different. Closer.

As you leaned over to take a bite from his fork, your eyes locked. There was no pretending then. Just a brief, breathless silence as your lips closed around the fork, and he watched you with a kind of stunned, reverent amusement.

"Okay," you said, licking a bit of chocolate from the corner of your lip, "dessert's good."

Jongho smiled, slow and certain. "So that's one condition met."

You raised an eyebrow. "Guess we'll have to see if the laughing holds up."

He leaned in just a little. "I'm very consistent."

You both lingered at the table longer than necessary—plates cleared, wine half-sipped, the low hum of the restaurant easing into a kind of late-night intimacy. The candles had burned lower, casting golden shadows across Jongho's face. You found yourself studying the curve of his jaw, the way he tilted his head slightly when he listened. He did that a lot tonight—really listened.

"So," he said eventually, resting his chin on his palm. "If this were a movie, this would be the part where the camera cuts outside, and we're laughing as we walk off into the night."

You smiled. "And there's some indie song playing, probably with a ukulele and weird reverb."

He grinned. "Exactly. Fade to black, roll credits."

You tapped your nails on the edge of your wine glass. "But this isn't a movie."

"No," he said softly. "It's better."

You held his gaze, heart thudding just a bit too hard. "You always were good at the lines."

"They're only lines if I don't mean them."

That made you quiet for a moment. You looked down at your napkin, folding the edge of it absentmindedly. "You really mean to try again, don't you?"

"With you?" he asked, no hesitation. "Yeah. I do."

You didn’t answer with words—just reached out, letting your fingers graze his across the table. He turned his hand over, gently linking his pinky with yours. No rush. No pressure. Just that small, steady promise.

He glanced at your hands, then back up with a smile. "So what do we do next?"

You stood, picking up your coat. "We walk out into the night like we're in that movie."

He laughed, standing to help you into your coat. "Indie song and everything?"

"Oh, definitely."

As you stepped out of the restaurant, the air was cool but soft, early summer. You walked slowly, your shoulders brushing. The sidewalk was quiet, dimly lit, and for the first time in a while, you felt that settled feeling in your chest. No performance. No act. Just the steady, warm buzz of something familiar beginning again.

"I like this," you said softly.

"Me too."

A few steps later, he paused and looked at you. "Hey… so do you kiss on first dates?"

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to think. "Depends."

"On what?"

You tilted your head toward him, smiling. "On whether the guy drives me back home or not."

Jongho laughed, but took the cue—his hand brushing yours again before slipping down to rest lightly at your lower back as he led the way. You were both grinning like teenagers. When you reached the car, you turned to face him, and the moment hovered, delicate and full of breath.

You slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the faint aroma of the car's leather seats—a quiet comfort wrapped in a moment you hadn't quite expected. The engine hummed softly beneath you as he started the car, and the city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white through the windows. You watched his profile in the dim dashboard glow—the way his jaw clenched slightly as he concentrated on the road, the soft crease between his brows that always appeared when he was lost in thought.

"Thanks for dinner," you said quietly, your fingers brushing against his thigh, before settling gently on it.

He glanced over and laughed, a low, warm sound that made your chest flutter. "You make it hard to focus, you know."

You smiled, a spark of mischief lighting your eyes. "It's my specialty."

As if reading your thoughts, Jongho's hand moved from the steering wheel, finding yours. His fingers intertwined with yours naturally, thumb brushing softly against your skin. The simple touch sent a familiar warmth through your body, and you couldn't help but smile at how perfectly your hands still fit together.

"Your hands are still as warm as I remember," he murmured, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze. The tenderness in his voice made your heart skip a beat.

You watched as his thumb traced small circles on the back of your hand, the gesture both soothing and electric. "And yours are still surprisingly soft for someone who plays guitar," you teased, earning another of his rich laughs.

"I have a very extensive moisturizing routine," he replied with mock seriousness, though his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Can't disappoint my fans... or you."

The car rolled smoothly through the quiet streets, the steady hum of the engine a comforting backdrop to your shared silence. Soon, Jongho slowed and pulled up in front of your building, the soft glow of the streetlamp casting long shadows across the parking lot.

Without a word, Jongho eased the car to a stop, then smoothly stepped out. His footsteps were soft on the pavement as he crossed to your side, where he gently opened the door and offered his hand. The warmth of his palm met yours, grounding you in the moment, a silent invitation that spoke louder than words. You hesitated just for a second, caught between the gravity of everything and the fragile hope blossoming inside you, before slipping your hand into his.

He lifted your hand to his lips, brushing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. The simple gesture sent a shiver of warmth spiraling down your spine.

Jongho pulled back just enough to look at you, a slow, teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips. "So... about kissing on the first date?" he murmured, his voice low and playful.

You blinked, surprised by his lighthearted tone but unable to stop the grin spreading across your face. "What about it?"

He leaned in closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Are you the type to kiss or keep me waiting?"

You raised an eyebrow, matching his playful tone. "Depends. Are you going to make me want to?"

He chuckled, a warm, deep sound that made your heart flutter. "I think I'm already halfway there."

You shook your head, smiling softly. "That's a dangerous thing to say."

"Maybe," he admitted, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper, "but I'm willing to take the risk."

The space between you suddenly felt charged—electric yet fragile. His gaze locked with yours, searching, inviting. Your breath caught as the world narrowed to just this moment.

"You know," you whispered, your voice barely more than a breath, "I'm not usually this easy."

His smile softened, losing its playfulness but gaining something warmer. "Good. Because I'm not here to make things easy. I want to make them real."

You swallowed, your heart beating harder against your ribs. For a moment, silence stretched between you, comfortable and full of possibility. Then, slow and sure, Jongho closed the distance, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss was gentle at first, tentative, like a question asked in the quiet night. When you didn't pull away, it deepened—a tender promise, full of hope and new beginnings. Your fingers found his jaw, tracing the line of his face as the warmth between you grew. When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling.

Jongho's eyes sparkled with mischief as he grinned. "So… how was it?"

You laughed, reaching up to playfully tug at his collar. "Well, felt more like a practice round to me.”

He laughed softly, his breath warm against your skin. "A practice round, huh? Guess I'll have to make the next one count."

You nodded, your smile softening. "Better be good… I have high standards."

Jongho's gaze dropped to your lips before meeting your eyes again, full of promise. "Then I'd better start practicing for real." Without hesitation, you reached up, fingers curling gently around the back of his neck. Drawing him closer, you bridged the small space between you, your eyes meeting his in silent challenge. Jongho's grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Impatient, are we?"

You shrugged with a sly smile. "Maybe a little. Can you blame me?"

He chuckled softly, his breath warm against your cheek. "No, I can't." His hands found your waist, steadying you as the world around you faded into soft focus. The playful teasing dissolved into something tender, something electric and real.

Then, with deliberate grace, he claimed your lips again—this time deeper, more certain. You melted into the kiss, the warmth of his hands anchoring you to this moment that felt like a beginning. The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, each second stretching into something timeless. Jongho's hands slid from your waist to your back, pulling you closer as if he wanted to erase every inch between you. Your fingers tangled in the soft hair at the nape of his neck, anchoring yourself to him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own. Around you, the quiet night seemed to hush, leaving only the sound of your breaths mingling and the faint rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle breeze. Your senses sharpened—the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way his eyes fluttered closed as if surrendering to the moment. When he finally pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, you both stayed caught in that fragile space where words felt unnecessary.

His eyes opened slowly, a smile tugging at his lips. "I think I'm getting better at this," he murmured, his voice carrying that familiar warmth that made your heart flutter. You couldn't help but smile back.

"Do you… Want to come upstairs?" you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement sparkling in his gaze. "Oh, so I'm this good already?"

You laughed, then playfully pushed him back just enough to break the closeness, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. "Don't get too cocky. You're not off the hook yet."

Jongho chuckled, eyes gleaming with challenge. "Not off the hook? Guess I'll have to keep trying then."

Your heart quickened, the playful banter melting into something softer. His hand found yours again, fingers intertwining naturally as he pulled you toward the building entrance. The familiar weight of his touch sent warmth spiraling through your chest, a gentle reminder of all the moments that had led to this one. Under the soft glow of the entrance lights, you couldn't help but marvel at how perfectly the night had unfolded—like a scene from one of those indie movies you'd joked about earlier.

The door to your apartment clicked shut behind you, sealing out the world. Your hands moved instinctively, fingers threading through the soft strands at the nape of his neck, drawing him close. This kiss was different—urgent and fierce, as if every year apart had been stored up for this one. His hands found your waist, strong and steady, pressing you back against the wall with a possessive certainty. Your fingers tangled deeper in his hair, holding on as if you might never let go.

"God, I missed you," he breathed against your lips, his voice thick with longing. The words hung heavy in the air, vulnerable and true, before your mouths met again in a desperate, searing kiss. His hands traced your sides, trailing heat along your skin, sending sparks through your veins. You arched toward him, a soft gasp escaping as his body pressed fully against yours, every space between you vanishing.

When his lips traced down your neck, leaving a trail of fire, you tilted your head back against the wall, eyes fluttering closed. "Jongho," you whispered, the name barely more than a prayer.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark and intense, yet softened by something deeper and unspoken. In the quiet glow of your entryway, time seemed to hold its breath, suspended between the past and the possibility of everything that could be.

"Are you sure about this?" he murmured, his thumb tracing gentle circles on your hip. You didn't hesitate. Drawing him back to you, your kiss spoke your certainty, unwavering and fierce. His grip tightened as he lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist. Your last clear thought was how utterly right this felt, like finally coming home after a long, winding journey.

Jongho's breath was warm against your skin as he carried you deeper into the apartment, every step deliberate and unhurried despite the fire burning between you. He settled you gently onto the floor, fingers still tracing slow, featherlight patterns along your arms as if memorizing the feel of you. Your hands slid up to his face, cradling his jaw, drawing him back into that kiss

His fingers found the hem of your dress, hesitating for just a moment before slipping beneath the fabric. The warmth of his touch against your bare skin sent shivers down your spine. You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his hands traced higher. "Can I?" he whispered against your neck, tugging gently at your dress. You nodded, lifting your arms as he slowly pulled the fabric over your head. His eyes traced over you with such reverence that it made your breath catch.

Jongho paused for a heartbeat, fingertips lingering on your bare shoulders, as if committing every curve to memory. "You’re beautiful," he murmured, voice low and filled with awe. Your pulse quickened beneath his gaze, warmth flooding your cheeks. With a slow, deliberate motion, his hands slid down your sides, tracing the line of your waist before moving higher, gentle and reverent. "May I?" he whispered again. You nodded, heart pounding, as his hands moved to undo the clasp of your bra, fingers trembling ever so slightly.

His eyes met yours, dark and steady. "Thank you for trusting me."

You swallowed hard, feeling the weight and sweetness of those words, and whispered back, "I'm yours. I always was."

You felt his breath hitch as your fingers slipped beneath his turtleneck, skin warm and inviting beneath your touch. Each muscle flexed under your palms, strong yet familiar. The turtleneck slid off easily under your touch, revealing smooth skin that seemed to glow in the dim light. His muscles rippled beneath your fingertips as you explored, memorizing every curve and plane. The way he shivered under your touch sent a thrill through you, knowing you could affect him just as deeply as he affected you. Your hands wandered lower, fingers tracing the defined lines of his abdomen before finding his belt. With deliberate slowness, you worked the leather free, each movement accompanied by his sharp intake of breath. The metal clinked softly as you pulled it loose, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. His skin was warm beneath your palms as you slid them up his chest, memorizing the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. When your fingers brushed a sensitive spot near his ribs, he shivered, a soft sound catching in his throat.

"Ticklish?" you teased, voice barely above a whisper.

He caught your hands in his, bringing them to his lips. "Only for you," he murmured against your fingertips, before guiding your hands back to his waist.

You worked the button of his jeans free, the zipper sliding down with tantalizing slowness. His breath hitched as your fingers brushed against him through the fabric. With gentle urgency, you helped him step free of the slacks, leaving him in just his fitted boxer briefs.

Your eyes traced over him appreciatively, taking in the strong lines of his thighs, the subtle flex of muscle as he moved. In the soft glow of the bedroom lights, everything felt familiar yet new. Your bodies remembered each other like a song half-forgotten—the melody still there, waiting to be rediscovered. His touch was reverent, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment was real.

With a slow, deliberate movement, your fingers slid beneath the waistband of his boxers, easing them down his hips. Then, your fingers hooked under the delicate lace of your panties, sliding them down your thighs as Jongho gently guided you onto the bed. His lips never left yours, the kiss deepening with each passing moment. The soft fabric fell forgotten to the floor as his hands traced up your legs, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. Your breath caught in your throat as he pressed closer, the weight of his body against yours.

His hands caressed your thighs with gentle reverence, spreading them wider as he positioned himself. The anticipation built between you, electric and intense. When he finally pushed inside, it was with careful restraint, giving you time to adjust to his size. Your breath caught at the familiar yet overwhelming sensation of him filling you completely.

As you took him deeper, a soft moan slipped free, raw and unguarded. Jongho's forehead pressed against yours, his breathing ragged. "Are you okay?" he whispered, concern evident in his voice despite the desire in his eyes. You nodded, wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him deeper.

His movements started slow and deliberate, each thrust drawing soft gasps from your lips. Your fingers traced down his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath your touch.

"Oh god, Jongho," you moaned, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. Each movement drew increasingly desperate sounds from your throat, your pleasure building with every deep thrust. "Please... don't stop..." His pace quickened, driven by the urgent need in your soft moans. The familiar rhythm built between you, each movement drawing you closer to that perfect edge. Your fingers tangled in his hair as the pleasure mounted, his name falling from your lips in soft moans. His grip on your hips tightened as he drove deeper, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you. Your back arched off the bed, pleasure spiraling through your entire body as you felt yourself getting close.

Jongho's movements became more urgent, more desperate as he felt you tightening around him. His breath came in ragged pants against your neck, punctuated by deep moans. Your nails dug into his shoulders as the pleasure built to an almost unbearable peak.

"I'm close," you gasped, feeling the tension coiling tighter and tighter inside you. His response was to drive even deeper, the angle perfect, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

When your release finally crashed over you, it was intense and all-consuming. Your body arched against his as waves of pleasure coursed through you, his name falling from your lips in a breathless cry. You felt him follow shortly after, his rhythm faltering as he buried his face in your neck, groaning your name like a prayer.

For several moments, you both lay there, hearts racing, bodies intertwined. His weight pressed you into the bed, comforting rather than crushing. When he finally lifted his head to look at you, his eyes were soft with wonder and affection.

"You're incredible," he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple. You hummed contentedly in response, too blissed out for words, simply running your fingers through his sweat-dampened hair.

"So much for the third date rule," you teased, snuggling closer to his warmth, your fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest. The familiar comfort of his body against yours made everything feel right in a way you hadn't experienced in years.

He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, vibrating against your palm. "Well, technically, if we count all our dates from before..." His voice carried a hint of nostalgia, memories of countless shared moments floating between you.

"Oh, is that how we're counting now?" Your laughter faded into something softer as you continued tracing patterns on his chest, each touch a reminder of the history you shared.

The playful mood gradually shifted as a shadow crossed your face, your fingers coming to rest over his heart. "Actually..." you paused, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm. "The last time we..." Your voice trailed off, heavy with meaning. "That... that was when Nari happened. You know, that night..." you trailed off, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

Jongho's breath caught, his arms tightening around you instinctively, protectively. The weight of that memory settled between you like a familiar blanket—not painful anymore, but profound. Sacred, almost.

"I know," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering there as if trying to convey everything words couldn't express.

You squeezed his hand gently, intertwining your fingers with his. "I'm scared. Not just about tonight, but what comes next. What if we mess it up?" The vulnerability in your voice echoed in the quiet space between you.

Jongho's thumb brushed your skin soothingly, tracing small circles that seemed to speak of patience and promise. "Hey, nobody said this would be easy. But we're here. We've got Nari, and we've got each other… and maybe that's enough to start." His words carried a quiet certainty that seemed to settle deep in your bones.

You smiled, feeling the vulnerability in your chest slowly melt into something warmer, more hopeful. "So, does that mean we're officially in the 'awkwardly figuring each other out' phase again?" The question held both lightness and weight, dancing between jest and genuine inquiry.

He laughed, a sound full of warmth and relief that seemed to fill every corner of the room. "Absolutely. But I'm pretty good at awkward." His eyes crinkled at the corners, filled with that familiar mix of mischief and tenderness.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, fitting perfectly into the space that seemed made for you. "Guess I'm stuck with you, then." The words came out soft, wrapped in affection.

"Lucky you," he murmured, pulling you closer, his arm tightening around your waist as if to anchor you both in this moment.

Jongho pulled back just enough to look at you, his usual confident gaze softening into something more uncertain. He cleared his throat, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of the blanket draped over you both. "So… uh, maybe—would you, I don't know, consider dating me? Like, officially? You know… be my girlfriend?" The words stumbled out, awkward and unpolished, completely unlike the Jongho you knew — and that made your heart twist with something tender. You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden, sincere vulnerability in his voice. Then, despite yourself, a warm laugh bubbled up from your chest, bright and genuine. He scratched the back of his neck, cheeks flushing a soft shade of pink. "Hey, I'm serious! I just wanted to ask, properly this time. Because, you know… last time we weren't exactly great at this."

You smiled wider now, the warmth between you both growing thicker than the summer air. "You're adorable when you're nervous," you teased, reaching up to cup his cheek gently. Your thumb brushed lightly over his skin, memorizing the subtle warmth, the familiar roughness that always made you feel safe.

"Well, I figured if I'm gonna mess this up, I might as well do it with full honesty," he admitted, his voice low, almost shy.

Your eyes searched his — the same eyes that had held your heart all those years ago, now layered with experience, with all the unspoken apologies and hopes neither had voiced. "Honestly?" you whispered, your voice soft but sure. "I think I might just say yes."

Jongho exhaled, a breath you hadn't realized he was holding. He smiled, genuine and open, the kind of smile that made everything feel possible again. You rested your head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear—a steady rhythm that somehow made the world feel less chaotic. Jongho's arms wrapped around you protectively, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.

"So," you murmured, voice soft but teasing, "does this mean I get to hold you accountable for that 'official girlfriend' title now?"

He chuckled, a low, warm sound vibrating through his chest. "Oh, definitely. I'm counting on you to keep me in line. No slacking off."

You laughed, the sound light and easy. "Good. Because I plan on being very demanding."

Jongho's fingers found yours beneath the blanket, intertwining them with gentle assurance. "And I plan on meeting every single one of those demands," he promised, his voice carrying a playful determination that made your heart flutter. The comfortable silence that followed felt like coming home, like every piece of your complicated puzzle was finally falling into place.

♡│if you enjoy my writing please consider supporting me by tagging and reblogging│

[boybandbaby]

A Love Like This (Evan Buckley x SingleMom!Reader)

word count: 2149

warnings/tags: scary Halloween decorations (monsters), motherly insecurities, sick child, as always if I missed anything please let me know

note: part of my single mom reader universes which can be found here

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

5 times your daughter prefers Buck, 1 time she prefers you

1️⃣

It was a nice summer day, good for a picnic at the park. Buck had the day off and promised to spend some time with you both this weekend as he’d been so busy all week.

You packed a large blanket and a cooler of sandwiches, snacks and drinks for a few hours at the park. Buck had even brought some slices of cake he had made.

Evie helped you set up the blanket on a fluffy patch of grass while Buck carried all the other items.

“Do you want to play for a little bit then come and eat?” You asked, sitting down and kicking your shoes off.

“Yes! I’m not hungry yet.” She claps her hands.

“Alright, put on some sunscreen and you can go.” You beckon her forward. She groans, hating the feeling of the sticky lotion on her skin.

“Come on kid, sunscreen isn’t so bad.” Buck laughs, handing you a water from the cooler. “Make sure you stay close by, we’ve got to see you at all times.” Buck reminds her as you slather lotion on her face and arms.

“Do you want to go on the swings?” You ask, rubbing her arms. “I can come push you for a bit.”

“I want Buck to do it.” She demands, not unkindly.

“Hey! Why not me?” You pout.

“Buck has bigger arms and he’s stronger so he can push me higher and faster.”

“That’s probably true.” He shrugs.

“So mean you two.”

“Awe, don’t get jealous.” Buck teases, leaning down to peck your forehead. “Can’t help that I’m the favorite.” He shoots before picking Evie up and running off.

They’re both laughing as they run to the swings.

2️⃣

Buck had been lucky enough to get Halloween off this year. Most of the 118 decided to spend the night together and take the kids trick or treating. For most of the night Evie stayed by Jee and Mara’s side but when a particular house with some scary decorations came up, she refused to go up.

A soundtrack of eerie sounds, a fog machine, and all types of mannequins replicating movie monsters littered the yard.

“Babe, they’re just decorations. It’s okay to be scared but I promise nothing bad will happen.” You rub her back.

“Why don’t you walk between me and Chris?” Denny offers.

She shakes her head quickly and clings to your leg. “Do you want to skip this house?”

“I want to go with Buck.” She grabs his hand, leaving no room for argument.

Buck grins and holds her little hand in his. She stays behind his leg as she shuffles up to the door. Buck can see the bowl of candy on the floor in front of the monster on the rocking chair.

“Okay, keep your eyes closed and I’ll guide your hand to the bowl.” Buck kneels down and guides her hand into the bowl. Her other hand holds her bucket. She grabs a mini candy bar and throws it in her bucket. She finds Buck’s hand again as she pulls him in a jog back to you.

Buck lets out a dramatic breath, “That was so scary, he almost got us.”

“Did he really?” You raise a brow, laughing at him.

“No, Buck scared him away!” Evie looks through her candy bowl.

“With that face, I bet he did.” Eddie jokes causing Chris to laugh loudly and Buck to nudge his shoulder.

3️⃣

“Can we read a book tonight?” Evie slips off the couch and slips her feet into her slippers.

“Okay, go brush your teeth and pick out a book, I’ll be there in a minute okay?” You begin to fold the blanket as you stand.

Buck takes two corners and brings them together. You bring your side to meet his, receiving a cold, chocolatey kiss from him as he grabs the blanket and finishes folding by himself. He tosses the blanket onto the back of the couch.

You collect the bowls and spoons from the coffee table and began heading to the kitchen. Just as you’re washing the residue from your sundaes, you hear Evie’s feet pattering back into the living room.

“I got my book!”

“Alright babe, I’m almost done!” You shout back.

“Can Buck read to me instead?” You peek your head from around the kitchen wall.

“But I always read to you.” You don’t conceal your hurt this time.

“I know mommy but I like when Buck makes his funny faces and voices.” She hugs the book to her chest.

“Oh, okay. Go ahead then. I’ll be there later to kiss you goodnight.” You duck back into the kitchen to dry the dishes. You hear Buck telling Evie to go get settled and he would be there soon.

You then hear and feel him creeping into the kitchen behind you. His arms wrap around your waist and he rests his chin on your shoulder.

“Baby…”

“It’s fine, Buck.” You lean your head against his. “Go read, I’ll get our bed ready.”

“You know she loves you and only wants me because she doesn’t get to see me all the time.” He ignores your previous comment and kisses your neck.

“You’re stealing all my mom duties!” You pout. “It’s not funny! You wormed your way into her little heart and she’s forgotten all about me.”

Through giggles he says, “That’s not true. You’re literally her entire world she just likes having me around. And I mean I’m really funny when I read to her.”

“Funny looking, yes.” You agree.

“Hey! Don’t be a jerk. Would you rather her absolutely hate me?” He pokes your sides.

“I guess not.” You sigh, “you better get in there before she comes back out and asks why you’re taking so long.”

“I know, she gets bossy like her mom.” He sticks his tongue out, the tip pressing to your cheek.

“You’re disgusting and I’m not bossy. Now go.” You push his stomach and swat his butt with the hand towel.

4️⃣

You’re spreading the Nutella onto the piece of bread when Evie comes out of the bathroom. She is already changed into some comfy sweats as she climbs into the seat.

“What worksheets do you have today?” You slide over her toast and cut up strawberries and bananas. “I have to do a math sheet and some reading.”

“Okay, which one are we doing first?” You sit beside her, stealing a piece of her fruit.

“Can Buck help me with my math?”

“He’s at work babe.”

“Can we call him?”

“We can try but he’s usually really busy. Don’t be upset if he can’t talk okay?”

She nods.

You: hey, are you super busy right now? Evie would like your help with her math homework 🥹

Buck: give me 5 minutes and I’ll give you a call

Buck: also hi gorgeous, I miss you ❤️

You: miss you too, can’t wait to see your cute face even if it’s through a screen 🥰

Buck gives you a FaceTime call a few minutes later. You scoot closer to Evie and prop your phone up so they can see each other.

“Hey kid! How was school?”

“Buck!” She says through a mouthful. “I made a new friend today.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about it.” He grunts as he slumps into a chair.

“Mommy says you’re busy.”

He chuckles and nods, “okay, what’s the first question?”

She reads off the question and you can see him leaning forward to grab a pen on the table then a napkin.

Buck watches as she holds up her fingers and counts. She reminds him to hold his fingers up too.

“You’re super smart, Buck.” She mentions as she finishes the last few questions.

“Takes practice.” He shrugs.

“Or getting struck by lightening.” You raise a brow.

“What do you mean mommy?”

“Nothing, she’s just making a joke.” Buck gives you a look. Buck had mentioned getting stuck under the fire engine once while giving you two a tour and Evie refused to go near the engine. It took Bobby carrying her and letting her wear his captain helmet for her to finally sit inside the truck.

You hear the chimes and bells signaling Buck has to go for a call. “Be safe, we love you!”

“I will, I’ll call you before bed okay? I love you.” You can see him rushing downstairs and grabbing his gear with one hand.

“Thank you, Buck!” Evie shouts before the call hangs up.

5️⃣

“How’s my girl?” Buck says through the screen.

“She’s sleeping now but still has a fever and tummy ache.” You run your fingers through her hair as she rests her head on your thigh.

“Did you tell her that I’m coming over later?”

“Of course.” You roll your eyes, “she’s refusing to eat the canned noodle soup.”

“I can’t help that she likes my cooking.” He laughs.

“You got everything you know from Bobby.” You bite.

“Yeah whatever, she still likes my cooking better no matter where I learned it from.” You can see him pulling items from the shelves as he swerves through the grocery store.

“You don’t make me soup when I’m sick.”

“Oh come on, that’s not fair. You’ve been sick once since we’ve been together and you wouldn’t let me come see you.” He shakes his head.

“Is that Buck?” You hear from below you.

“Yeah baby, he’s at the store.” You feel her forehead.

“Evie!” Buck cheers through the phone. “I’m coming over to make my magic soup.”

“Can you hurry?” She whispers. “My tummy hurts.”

“I’ll be there soon, try to sleep some more okay?”

She nods and rests her head back down.

By the time she wakes up again, Buck is carrying her to the table.

“Buck? When did you get here?”

“A few hours ago, can you sit?” He kisses her forehead before setting her in the chair.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” She rubs her droopy eyes.

“Because you looked so cute sleeping.” You smile, setting her bowl in front of her. “It’s hot so don’t eat it just yet.”

“Do we have crackers?”

“Yup, made sure to get you the little ones you like.” Buck sits beside her, feeling her forehead.

“Can I have some water?” She shivers, scooting closer to Buck for warmth.

“Of course babe, how are you feeling?” You rush to the cabinet to pull out a cup.

“My tummy still hurts.” She curls in on herself. “And I’m hungry.”

Buck gives her a few crackers and spoons some soup onto the plastic Bluey spoon. He blows twice before bringing it to her lips.

“Good?” He searches her face.

“I feel better already.” She smiles, brushing her hair out of her face.

“Told you the magic soup always works.” He gives you a wink.

*️⃣1️⃣

“Where’s mommy?” Evie asks, skipping into the bedroom. Buck sits on the bed scrolling through the tv.

“She’s in the shower. What’s up?” Buck pats the bed. She walks over to the side he’s on and lifts her arms. He leans over to pick her up.

“Just want a hug.” He sits her in the middle of the bed, pulling the blanket over her lap.

“I’ll give you a hug.” He opens his arm.

“I want a hug from mommy. She has the best cuddles.”

“I can attest to that.” Buck smiles over at her. “I’m sure she’ll be out soon. Want to watch something with me?”

“Okay.” She nods and lays back against the pillows. Buck watches as she looks to the bathroom door several times.

“You okay?” He pats her knee.

“Yeah, mommy is taking a long time.”

“She’s just having some mommy time before bed.” He assures. “You sure you don’t want to snuggle with me? I can keep you warm until mom gets out.”

“No, that’s okay.” She sighs before resting her head back onto the pillow.

She lifts her head a few minutes later when the bathroom door opens and steam drifts out.

“Hey girly, what are you doing up?” You smile, adjusting your towel around your body.

“I want cuddles.” She pleads.

“Is that so?” You smirk at Buck as you trail over to the bed. “Guess, I’m good for something.”

Evie bolts up onto her knees and wraps her arms around your shoulders, climbing into your lap.

“I’m still a little wet on my shoulders, you might get cold.” You wrap your arms around her waist.

“Don’t care, just want a hug.” You smiles into your neck.

“Okay, whatever you say.” You kiss her cheek. “Feeling lonely over there Mr. Buckley?”

“Yes.” He immediately says.

“Come join our mommy cuddles!” Evie exclaims. Buck doesn’t hesitate to scooch up against your back and hug the both of you.

“Best cuddles ever.” He whispers into your ear.

─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───

[iyoonjh]

Beyond Plus Ultra! – The anatomy of falling in love

Chapter 16: From Dungeon to Deck Chair: The Fellowship of the Beach

wc: 2082 words

The apartment smelled like pizza, bad decisions, and the faint threat of Monster Mango Punch.

Soobin sat cross-legged on the carpet, pencil tucked behind one ear, a character sheet half-filled beside him, and a bowl of pretzel sticks within reach. Beomgyu had a bandana tied around his forehead for “battle energy,” Hueningkai was double-fisting Capri Suns like a sugar-fueled druid, and Taehyun—eternal Dungeon Master and occasional monk—sat at the head of the table with a mini fog machine and actual laminated maps.

“I cast Charm on the goblin guard,” Beomgyu declared, holding up a sparkly d20. “And then I ask him if he’s emotionally fulfilled in his job.”

“I’m going to scream,” Taehyun said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re trying to seduce the goblin again?”

“I’m trying to connect with him,” Beomgyu shot back. “Consentually. And with vibes.”

Sunghoon was perched on the edge of the couch in a hoodie two sizes too big, the sleeves swallowed his hands completely, giving him the appearance of a moody High Elf who’d been hexed into eternal comfort. He held a spell card up in front of him with the seriousness of a Shakespearean lead about to deliver a monologue in Act III of a drama no one else had read.

“By the celestial light of the twin moons,” he intoned, squinting dramatically, “I summon the sacred winds of Elarion—wait, wait, do I add my modifier to this?”

“Yes, but only if you’re not holding a cursed item,” Taehyun said without looking up.

“I’m literally holding a cursed item,” Sunghoon sighed. 

Beside him, Heeseung sat cross-legged with perfect posture, playing a kazoo version of The Lord of the Rings theme song like it was his druid-bardic duty. He was wearing a DIY cloak made from an old blanket and had penciled a tiny mustache onto his upper lip with eyeliner.

“I’m adding ambiance,” he said cheerfully, ignoring Yeonjun’s fourth aggressive glance.

“I will snap that kazoo in half like a breadstick,” Yeonjun hissed, glaring at him from across the table.

Yeonjun himself was the most overdressed person in the room—tight black jeans, silver rings on every finger, and a velvet choker that absolutely did not match his wizard robe but somehow still worked. He had two sets of dice laid out on a silk cloth like a tarot reading and a single tealight candle flickering dramatically beside his character sheet.

“You don't understand the mood,” he said when Taehyun asked if the candle was really necessary. “Besides, my dice roll better when they feel respected.”

Hueningkai was lying on his stomach across a bean bag, sketching an anatomically incorrect dragon with sunglasses on the back of a pizza box. He kept muttering things like “do goblins wear shoes?” and “how much emotional trauma can one elf carry before he becomes a bard?” Every few minutes, he’d gasp, snap his fingers, and write down notes for his future webcomic.

“Did you know octopuses have three hearts?” he said suddenly, looking up. “Imagine breaking all three. That’s so dramatic. I want to play a sea creature who just got ghosted by a mermaid and now he haunts tide pools.”

Leehan sat cross-legged by the window, furiously scribbling in a weathered field journal labeled Tidal Lore: Volume II. He wore a “Support Your Local Fish” T-shirt under a faded zip-up and had five different highlighters spread around him like a ritual circle. Occasionally, he’d whisper something to himself and nod solemnly, as if communing with the spirit of Poseidon.

It was chaos. Beautiful, stupid chaos.

Soobin had barely spoken in the last ten minutes. Not because he wasn’t having fun—he was, truly—but because his phone kept lighting up with new messages. From Y/N.

He couldn’t stop smiling.

That, of course, was his first mistake.

“Okay.” Yeonjun narrowed his eyes across the room like a hawk with better fashion sense. “Why is Soobin smiling like he just got kissed under a rainbow?”

Soobin blinked, thumb still hovering over his screen. “What?”

“Bro’s been checking his phone every six seconds,” Hueningkai said through a mouthful of gummy worms. “You’re glowing. Like, that glow people get when they are pregnant. It’s alarming.”

“I am not—” Soobin started.

“HE’S SOFT-LEANING,” Beomgyu gasped, pointing. “That’s the ‘I’m flirting with my crush and pretending I’m not panicking’ posture. Boobie, know your worth my boy.”

Sunghoon leaned forward. “Did Y/N text you?”

Soobin hesitated. And in that half-second of hesitation, the room exploded.

“Oh my GOD,” Heeseung howled. “She did!”

“Okay spill” Taehyun demanded, slamming his dice bag on the table with the weight of a federal agent.

Soobin sighed, but he couldn’t fight the grin crawling up his face. “Okay, fine. She invited me. Well, us.”

A beat. A pause so sharp you could hear the dramatic swell of nerdy destiny approaching.

“To…?” Hueningkai asked.

“Jake’s beach house,” Soobin said. “This weekend.”

The room erupted.

“WE’VE BEEN CHOSEN!” Beomgyu shouted, throwing his arms into the air like he was being knighted.

“We beat the social game,” Yeonjun said in awe. “We’re getting a beach episode.”

“I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life,” Heeseung whispered, dramatically clutching his character sheet to his chest.

Sunghoon rolled off the couch entirely.

“I can’t go to a beach,” he groaned from the floor. “I’ll burn. I’ll melt. I’m pale and emotionally fragile.”

“I don’t own a swimsuit that’s not from middle school,” Hueningkai added. “It has Charizard on it.”

“BRING IT,” said Beomgyu immediately. “I’m wearing my sailor moon rash guard. We go down together.”

Leehan looked up from his sketchpad, completely serene. “Do you think I’ll be able to identify local tidepool species from the balcony?”

“Leehan,” Yeonjun said gently, “please do not give the crabs names again.”

“I only named five.”

“They followed him back to the Airbnb,” Taehyun muttered.

“THEY UNDERSTOOD ME.”

“Can we focus?” Soobin said, cheeks warm, eyes wide. “She invited us. That means we have to—like—be normal like we were at the party.”

Beomgyu laughed so hard he choked. “Yeah, right. Bro, you summoned a ghost in the last campaign by accident and apologized to it for interrupting her grave nap.”

“I’m just saying,” Soobin said, flustered, “this trip is kind of a big deal.”

“Because of Y/N,” Taehyun smirked.

“Because of—shut up. SHUT UP IMMEDIATELY.”

Yeonjun tossed a chip at him. “Just admit you’re already imagining a slow-motion beach kiss while a ukulele plays in the distance.”

“I—”

“And then you trip on seaweed and try to play it cool but she has to help you up,” Hueningkai added.

“And then you say something like ‘You’re prettier than the moonlight on the tide’ and we all die,” Beomgyu finished.

Soobin covered his face with both hands. “I hate all of you.”

“No, no,” Yeonjun said, leaning forward with a sparkle in his eye that could only mean chaos. “Important question. Who’s going?”

Soobin peeked out between his fingers. “I don’t know. Y/N said her whole group. Probably Jake, Jungwon, Yunjin, Sunoo, Jay—”

Yeonjun’s head snapped toward him. “Jay?”

“Oh god,” Soobin mumbled.

“JAY,” Yeonjun repeated, gripping the back of the chair. “My nemesis. My forever enemy. My beige counterpart. I must prepare.”

“Your what now?” Taehyun asked flatly.

“Listen,” Yeonjun said, standing up as if that would make his next sentence make sense. “We’ve spoken, like, three times ever. But every time he says something, I feel personally attacked. At the party he called my necklace ‘dramatic.’ Dramatic! It was a minimalist silver dagger!”

“He said in a fun way, he was trying to be social with you’” Beomgyu added helpfully.

“And yet,” Yeonjun said with a finger in the air, “Yunjin laughed.”

“Ah,” Heeseung said. “There it is.”

Yeonjun flopped dramatically back onto the couch. “If she’s there, I have to look good.”

“I saw a guy on instagram selling a cologne he promised to be aphrodisiac” Sunghoon offered from the floor. 

“And that's a pyramid scheme” Leehan told him.

“I’ll bring backup necklaces,” Yeonjun muttered to himself. “Statement pieces. Ones that scream ‘I'm in a band and also collect knives.’”

“You're in a band with Hueningkai” Heeseung mocked.

“Why do your accessories have backstories?” Soobin asked.

“They’re part of my lore.”

Meanwhile, Hueningkai, who had been very quiet until now, looked up with wide eyes. “What if we see dolphins?”

Everyone paused.

“I mean, yeah,” Soobin said slowly. “That could happen.”

“No. Like, what if they’re watching us?” Hueningkai whispered. “From just below the surface. Judging our land-walking rituals. Like, ‘look at these fools and their SPF 30.’”

Beomgyu gasped. “Kai. Have you been reading dolphin conspiracy blogs again?”

“I haven’t stopped,” he replied solemnly. “Also, fun fact: dolphins are one of the few non-human species that can recognize themselves in a mirror. So I’m gonna bring one to the beach. Just in case.”

“So what?” Heeseung asked, grinning. “You’re gonna walk up to the water, hold up a mirror, and wait to vibe-check the ocean?”

“Yes,” Hueningkai said without hesitation. “And if they wink at me, we’ll know. We’ll know.”

“You know what?” Taehyun muttered. “I’m not even gonna stop you. I want to see how that plays out.”

“Can I help?” Leehan asked, folding his crab journal closed with reverence. “I can chart dolphin reactions based on lunar phase and water clarity.”

“You’re all unhinged,” Soobin said, somehow fondly.

“Wait,” Yeonjun interjected, suddenly serious. “What are you wearing?”

Soobin blinked. “What?”

“To the beach. You’re the romantic lead now, remember?” Yeonjun leaned forward again, eyes gleaming, Heeseung shook his head. “You need to serve something soft. Boyfriend at golden hour. Wind in your hair, gaze full of longing.”

“He can wear that light blue hoodie,” Sunghoon offered. “It's very boyfriendable”

“Oh my god, I’m not—” Soobin buried his face again, this time in the nearest pillow.

“We are styling you for your beach romance,” Yeonjun said proudly. “This is our Clueless montage. I will not be denied.”

“Just don’t let him wear that one shirt,” Beomgyu said. “You know. The cursed one.”

Soobin looked up. “What cursed shirt?”

“The minions one.”

“I like that shirt.”

“We know,” everyone said in unison.

And then—

A beat of silence.

Soft. Happy. The kind of pause that felt like a smile exhaled into the air, filling up all the little spaces between them. Outside, the hum of late-night traffic drifted past Taehyun’s apartment windows. Inside, the glow from the string lights made everything look golden, like this wasn’t just another weekend but the beginning of something else entirely.

The map on the table was still spread open. The dice lay scattered, untouched for once. And around the room—this warm, weird, chaotic room—sat seven boys who had started this campaign as just friends and had somehow become their own little universe.

Taehyun looked around, his gaze quiet but steady, a knowing softness in his eyes. “You know…” he said, voice low, like anything louder might scare the feeling away, “I think we’re gonna have a good time.”

He wasn’t talking about D&D anymore. And everyone knew it.

Because this wasn’t just a trip. It was them, getting to be part of something. Getting invited. Getting chosen.

It was walking into a party and not standing in the corner.

It was laughing too loud and being laughed with, not at.

It was the quiet victory of being seen—the kind that doesn’t need a trophy or a big speech, just a look across the couch and a shared bag of snacks and someone saying, “You’re coming too.”

Soobin hugged the pillow tighter to his chest. He didn’t say anything right away. Just let the feeling sink in—the one that made his chest ache in the nicest way. The one that said this was all real.

And in his head, looping like a secret, was the image of Y/N’s smile.

That look she gave him whenever she teased him.

He hadn’t even told her how he felt yet.

But he would.

God, he would.

And maybe, when he got there, and the sun was setting, and she was looking at him like that again—

Maybe he’d finally kiss her without a dog interrupting.

And if not?

Well.

At least he’d have his friends. His party. His chaos.

And a beach full of crabs, apparently.

Not bad, for a bunch of kids who used to watch from the sidelines.

Not bad at all.

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profiles: d&d saturday mass group | bling bling losers

author's note: SURPRISE! updating twice this week! hope you guys like it and look foward to the next chapter! as always, let's chat, please tell me what do you guys think in the comments ( i do not think aquarius are dumb, i'm an aquarius moon and we are elite). ALSO what do you guys think it's gonna happen at this beach trip? hehe thank you so much again <3

taglist: @heejamas @mingyustar @wintereals @mimimiloomeelomi @wonderstrucktae @delirioastral @gomdoleemyson @i03jae @irishspringing @bunniwords @kirbrary @sirenla @saladgirl @beomieeeeeeeeeeees @uvyuri @imlonelydontsendhelp @haechology @sanriwoozzz @stormy1408 @soobinieswife @ijustwannareadstuff20 @soobskz @jkeydiary @imnotsureokay @nyanzzn @lostgirlysstuff @lilbrorufr @beomgyusluver@lveegsoi@pagesoobinie @catpjimin @t-102 @sh0dor1 @i-am-not-dal @bbeomgyucafe @damn-u-min-yoongi @https-yeonjun @booksxandxlace @kookssecret

[vikwrites]

Playboy - Tony Stark

Summary ➣ Tony Stark invites you into his Rolls Royce. Pairing ➣ Tony Stark x Reader Word Count ➣ 2.5k words Warnings ➣ 18+ / Car Sex / Power Imbalance / Age Gap. Author's Notes ➣ The first full Tony Stark oneshot! Comments are highly appreciated <3 Requests are also open!

You didn’t know exactly how you ended up here. 

The events leading up to your current situation were a blur, like trying to see through thick fog. 

Here you were, seated in the plush backseat of Tony Stark's lavish Rolls Royce Phantom. A variety of crystal glasses in all shapes and sizes were scattered haphazardly, some full, most empty. The rich aroma of Macallan 1926 filled the air. A bottle had been tipped on its side, its deep tones spilling onto the seat and seeping into a crevice of the leather, leaving behind a multitude of stains, You wonder how many times Tony had to pay someone to clean up these messes.

The past few hours were a hazy mix of neon lights and blaring speakers, the repercussions of Shoot to Thrill by AC/DC filling your ears.  

Then you recalled that Tony had spotted you at Stark Expo, at the Arc Reactor exhibit, standing in front of the machine, mesmerized by the pulsing reactor and the hypnotic hum that filled the room. 

Tony had made the first approach and talked to you for a while, although most of the conversation consisted of you awkwardly sucking up to him, while another part of you was afraid of saying something embarrassing or coming off as too eager.

You never thought you'd be graced with the opportunity to even be in the same room as Tony Stark, let alone talk to him face-to-face. But as the conversation went on, you felt more and more intimidated. You had always admired Tony and maybe even had a bit of a crush on him, but now that he was standing in front of you, you didn't know what to say or do. 

However, when you were invited to his limousine, you couldn't resist. He had lured you in like a moth into flame. 

The air was thick with tension, your fingers found themselves subconsciously fidgeting, you were sitting mere inches away from Tony after all; who was currently fiddling with a Cuban cigar. Your heart raced with a cocktail of excitement and fear - after all, this was the Tony Stark, one of the most influential figures in the world, and you were just a mere woman-in-the-street. This man probably had more money in his wallet than you’d ever have in your entire life. 

Tony seemed to have picked up on your nervousness, reaching over to the mini-fridge and picking up another bottle of liquid courage. The cigar had found its way in his mouth, and is currently hanging from his lips.

“Mr Stark—” You stuttered, trying to reach for the rear-hinged doors of the car, “I’d think it would be best if I left, it’s getting late.” 

“Relax, honey.” As Tony's hand unexpectedly settled on your wrist, pulling you back, the sudden weight caught you off guard. You couldn't help but flinch when you felt his fingers close around your wrist. His touch gentle yet assertive, a delicate balance that leaves you feeling conflicted. He takes another drag of the cigar.

Internally, you battled with conflicting emotions, but externally, you remained still as his hand steadily guided another crystal glass into your grasp, the weight of the cold drink dragging you back to reality. Initially you wanted to refuse, but you didn’t want to let Stark down, or seem ungrateful—downing the whiskey, you felt the liquid burn your throat.

His hand on yours caused a weighty pause in your conversation, Tony smirked, finding it amusing how tense he made you. Eventually, he breaks the silence by redirecting the conversation towards you. "So, tell me about yourself," he prompts, his tone casual and easy. Another cigar made its way into his mouth. 

You took a moment to recollect your thoughts before answering. "I'm studying at MIT," you replied, "I'm pursuing my degree in Nuclear Engineering." As soon as the words leave your lips, you notice Stark raise an eyebrow in surprise, seemingly impressed by the mention of your alma mater.  

Tony leans back in his seat and exclaims, "Impressive, I’m going to assume I’ve probably funded one of your projects, you’ve been to the September Foundation Grant presentation right?" He turns to look at you, as if trying to make a connection. You nod and continue to take small sips of your Macallan whiskey. 

After a few more rounds, you found yourself becoming less tense around him. 

“—and he’s now the forehead of security, get it?” Tony giggled, clapping his hands at his own joke, his laughter was infectious, and you found yourself laughing along with him, feeling a sense of camaraderie that you hadn't experienced in a long time. He takes another puff of the cigar, attempting to blow smoke rings but failing horrifically, the supposedly circular puffs of smoke coming out in flattened, unidentifiable shapes.

"Mr. Stark-" you began, but were quickly cut off by the man himself.

"Please, dear," Stark offered with a shake of his head, "just call me Tony."

You took a deep breath, trying to muster up courage (as much courage as you could get while being mildly to severely intoxicated, you couldn’t tell at this point), and corrected yourself. "Tony," you said firmly, hoping to sound more confident than you felt. "Why did you invite me here?" The question hung in the air amongst the clouds of smoke.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Tony raised an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I think you’re cute.” 

Your heart skipped a beat at his bold statement. Did Tony Stark really just say that to you?

“Fuck, Tony Stark thinks I’m cute, never expected that, ever.” But before you could fully process the unexpected compliment, another thought crossed your mind. “Looking past the obvious," you continued, "why isn’t there some Playboy supermodel in my position? Aren’t you just slumming it?” 

“Your expectations of me are too high, darling,” Tony drawled, his voice dripping with charm and confidence. “Honestly, I’d call Playboy right now and make you a model right away. You’ve got the face for it,” he paused to rake his eyes over your body, biting his lip, “—and the bod.” 

A rush of heat spread through your body at his words, igniting a spark of desire that you couldn't deny. The atmosphere became charged with tension, but this time, in a good way. The constant pet names and lingering gazes from Tony were stirring you up, and you could feel something else crackling in the air between you two.

You wouldn't say no to his advances, not when his gaze was so intense and his touch so electric. After all, who would say no to Tony Stark? His smooth words and charming smile were enough to make any woman weak at the knees, and you were no exception.

“I just think that you could do better.” You muttered, all the confidence draining from you the moment he tries to make a move, you cursed yourself for it. 

“Quit being self conscious and just kiss me.” Tony's words were like a soothing balm to your inner turmoil, urging you to let go of your self-consciousness and just give in to the moment. As he leaned in, his lips met yours in a swift motion that caught you off guard. 

Your hands instinctively found their way to his cheek, pulling him closer to you as you melted into his embrace. While his hands grabbed at your hair, caging you in between his body and the leather seat. The taste of his lips and the warmth of his body enveloped you, drowning out the nagging voice in your head reminding you of all the reasons why this could be a mistake. Tony moaned into your mouth, you took a mental recording of that, hoping to replay it in your head later.

In this moment, nothing else mattered except for the feel of his touch and the heat that pulsed between the two of you. You surrender yourself completely, allowing yourself to be swept away by his kiss.

The cigar was carelessly discarded from his trembling hands, the smoke swirling in lazy wisps around the ash urn. The taste of tobacco still lingered on his lips, a bittersweet reminder of his vice. Your senses were heightened as you pulled away from the kiss, your hair tousled and wild from the frenzied grabbing. The two of you shared round after round of kisses, each one more desperate and passionate than the last till Tony decided to go further.

Tony pushed you down onto the seat, his movements were rough and uncoordinated, but it only added to the thrill. Your body responded to his manhandling, and you could feel yourself getting turned on. You laid horizontally on the car's leather seats, taking in the sight of stars twinkling on the headlining, but your attention was quickly diverted as Tony's lips crashed onto yours once again.

"You look so good underneath me, baby." he whispered in that seductive low tone of his, his mouth mere millimetres from your ear. The warmth of his breath sent shivers down your spine and each vibration of his words seemed to make you even wetter. 

Your breath hitched in surprise as Tony's hand traveled down to your core, his fingers grazing the hem of your dress and revealing more of your skin. You were startled by the sudden move but couldn't deny the heat that pooled between your legs. His touch was tentative, tracing circles over your clothed clit with a slow, teasing stroke. Your moans grew louder as he continued, each touch feeling foreign yet undeniably pleasurable.

"F—Fuck," you gasped as his piercing gaze met yours, those maroon eyes no longer their gentle brown hue.

"God, you're so wet for me," Tony's eyes locked onto yours as he brought his glistening finger to his mouth, savouring the taste with a low moan. Just the sight of it nearly sent you over the edge. "And you taste even better." Your eyes rolled back at his declaration, you’re so close and he hasn’t even started yet. 

Your fingers trembled as they reached for the button of Tony's Tom-Ford dress pants, fumbling with it in a desperate frenzy. In this moment, your entire existence seemed to depend on getting his pants off and feeling his naked skin against yours. Tony's hands were still on your clit, his skilled fingers teasing you mercilessly.

You could barely focus on unbuttoning his pants as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with just two fingers, god he was good. Every touch from him felt like electricity pulsing through your body, igniting every nerve ending and making you forget everything else except for the pleasure he was giving you.

"Please, Tony," you pleaded, your voice breathless and desperate. Your body quivered as two fingers slipped into your slick pussy, the wet sounds echoing in the confined space of the car.

At first, Tony's movements were slow and deliberate, teasing and tempting every inch of your sensitive walls. But he knew how to push all your buttons and soon, you were clenching around his fingers, begging for more.

"I'm gonna come," you gasped out, feeling your orgasm building with each thrust of his fingers.

"Come for me, baby,” Tony growled lowly, his voice making you even more wet. "I wanna see you falling apart on just my fingers." And with those words, you unravelled in a mind-blowing climax, your body trembling and shaking against his skilled touch.

As you came down from your high, you felt a new sensation. You realized you had squirted all over the interior of the car, but at that moment, you didn't care. All that mattered was how good Tony made you feel.

You were dazed and lost in the haze of pleasure when you felt him shuffling over you. His pants were unbuttoned and his cock was in his hand, slowly stroking as he took in the sight before him: your flushed skin, your heaving chest, and the evidence of your pleasure coating the seat beneath you.

You let out a soft gasp as he playfully teases you, running his member along your slit. With regained control over your limbs, your hands find their way into his once-slicked back, now ruffled hair. Your legs lock behind his lower back, pulling him closer to you in an attempt to deepen the connection between you two.

His voice is low and husky as he groans, "Your tight pussy feels so good, darling." As he pushes into you, you feel a fullness that you've never experienced before. The initial sting of pain quickly gives way to a deep pleasure that radiates through your entire body.

"Fuck, I love you, Tony." The words escape your lips before you even have time to register them. The intensity of the moment sparking a declaration that surprises even yourself. But before you can worry about whether it was too soon or not, Tony returns the sentiment.

"Love you too, baby," he whispers as he bottoms out inside of you. You can feel every inch of him inside you, and the sensation causes you to writhe beneath him. His chest is pressed against yours, and you can feel his heart beating through the fabric of his suit that was yet to leave his figure, but you figured you’d see him without the suit another time. 

“Fuck, gonna be a good girl and take my cum?” Tony's deep, ragged breaths spurred you on as his orgasm neared. You could feel your own climax building, your body shuddering in anticipation. Unable to form coherent sentences, you nodded in response.

Your back arched off the leather couch as you reached your peak, crying out in ecstasy as Tony's movements became even more frenzied. "Yes, gonna come so hard, Tony. Need you so bad." Your words were barely audible through your moans as he grunted and thrust into you one final time before the both of you came. 

Breathless and spent, Tony's lips crashed down on yours once again.

The heat between your bodies was almost suffocating as you rode out your high. He remained inside you until he was soft, and when he finally pulled out, a trail of your arousal leaked onto the leather beneath you. A groan escaped him as he took in the sinful sight, but you were too lost in your pleasure-drunk haze to fully register it.

You're too spent to move, but from the hazy corner of your vision, you see him in front of a mirror slicking back his disheveled hair. Still dazed and caught up in the aftermath of your orgasm, it took you a while to gather yourself and get dressed. But as soon as you did, Tony turned to you with his trademark smirk. 

"So, about that Playboy call?"

⎊ back to masterlist

[honeydippedfiction]

Pretty When You Scream {LSU!Joe x Angel}

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Synopsis: At LSU, Halloween isn’t just a holiday—it’s a full-on lifestyle, and no one embraces it harder than Angel. Between slutty group costumes, haunted house décor, and fog machines galore, she’s got big spooky season plans—and she’s dragging her long-suffering boyfriend Joe along for the ride. But when a certain slasher mask enters the mix, their playful banter turns into something a lot darker… and a whole lot hotter.

Warnings: Suggestive/Spicy Scenes, Explicit Sexual Content (18+), Roleplay and Consensual Power Dynamics, Includes sexually charged horror-themed roleplay (e.g., “Ghostface” stalking), Objectification and Sexualization of Characters, Mild Violence (Fictional/Thematic), Alcohol References. MDNI🔞

WC: 13.2k

A/N: Someone take the movies away from me

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

It was finally October at LSU—Angel’s favorite time of year, hands down. The brutal Louisiana heat had finally backed off just enough to invite oversized flannels, ankle boots, and the occasional cozy beanie. The sidewalks were littered with crunchy leaves, the smell of pumpkin spice danced from every coffee shop within walking distance, and the entire campus buzzed with the electric promise of game days, tailgates, horror movie marathons, and—most importantly—Halloween.

Spooky season wasn’t just a vibe for Angel, it was a lifestyle.

She thrived in October, the way some people thrived in summer or spring. Her dorm was already decked out with twinkle lights shaped like bats, mini pumpkins lined her windowsill, and her iPhone wallpaper was a rotating slideshow of her favorite horror movie villains. She’d had her Pinterest board of costume ideas locked and loaded since mid-June, and it was bursting with slutty group theme concepts, pose references, and potential couple’s looks that she’d half-jokingly, half-seriously hoped to rope Joe into.

So when she and her best girls, Monica, Kelsey, and Rae, decided to go full-throttle this year with multiple group costumes (all of them sexy and slutty, because duh), there was only one place worthy of their chaos: Spirit Halloween.

And Angel, naturally, dragged Joe along for the ride.

“Just one couple’s costume,” she’d bargained that morning, wrapping her arms around his waist while he brushed his teeth, her cheek pressed to the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “One. You can even pick it if you want.”

Joe had grunted through a mouthful of toothpaste foam, not committing to anything, but Angel had taken that non-answer as a yes. She always did.

Now they were knee-deep in seasonal madness, wandering through the cavernous warehouse-sized pop-up store that smelled like fresh plastic, rubber, synthetic wigs, and a faint hint of fog machine oil. Chaotic Top 40 remixes pulsed through crackling speakers overhead. Kids darted past in pirate hats and witch capes. Animatronic clowns screeched in corners every time someone walked by.

Angel was in her element.

She wove expertly through the glittering aisles of devil horns, rhinestone fishnets, and scandalously short hemlines, her wire shopping basket already half full. Joe followed behind her, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his hoodie, wearing the unmistakable expression of a man who had lost all control of his afternoon.

“You look like a lost dad at Disney,” Angel teased, glancing over her shoulder with a grin.

Joe raised a brow. “You dragged me into a war zone.”

She blew him a kiss and kept walking. “For a noble cause.”

They passed a rack of latex catsuits and cleavage-baring angel dresses, then a display of extra-short nun outfits that had made Monica snort so hard she’d nearly dropped her purse earlier. Somewhere between the pleather and the fishnets, the group had split up—Kelsey and Rae off in search of fairy wings and whip props, Monica debating whether to go full commitment with gold body glitter for their Teen Titans night.

Angel had her sights on something else entirely.

She tugged Joe’s hand and led him to the darker, quieter corner of the store—the horror section. The shelves dimmed, the pop music faded into a spooky ambient loop, and the merch shifted from sparkle and scandal to gore and grit. Rows of classic slasher masks, fake blood kits, animatronic ghouls, severed limbs in bins, and creepy dolls with cracked porcelain faces filled the space.

Angel’s eyes sparkled as she made a beeline for a particular display.

“There it is,” she murmured like it was a sacred relic.

Leatherface. Freddy. Jason. Michael.

And Ghostface.

She stopped in front of the wall, reaching up to pluck the iconic Scream mask from the hook with careful fingers. She turned it over in her hands, brushing a thumb along the edge. The white face leered back at her, vacant and eerie.

Then she looked at Joe, and a mischievous smirk curved her lips.

“You’d make a hot Ghostface, Joey.”

Joe gave her a skeptical look, then glanced at the mask. “That’s... not a sentence I expected to hear today.”

Angel laughed. “I’m serious! Tall, broody, and lethal with a sexy voice? You’d kill it. Literally.”

He blinked. “Did you just flirt with me and threaten me in the same sentence?”

“Maybe.” She grinned and tossed the mask into the basket. “We’re buying it.”

“Are we?” he asked, watching her like he already knew there was no point in resisting.

“We are,” she said simply. “I have plans. You’ll see.”

Joe sighed but didn’t argue. He didn't reach to take the mask out either, which to Angel meant she’d already won.

They walked again, fingers laced. Angel leaned her head against his shoulder, still giddy as she scanned the shelves with a strategist’s eye. “Now I just need some spiderwebs, a fog machine, maybe a skeleton or two for your couch…”

Joe glanced down at her. “You’re not turning my apartment into a haunted house.”

Angel looked up at him with a sweet, wicked smile. “Oh, baby. That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

He groaned again, but this time there was a faint trace of laughter under it. “Should’ve known better than to bring you.”

“You love it,” she sing-songed, standing on her tiptoes to snag a pack of battery-powered candles.

“I love you,” Joe corrected, “even when you’re out here plotting my decorative downfall.”

Angel kissed his arm. “That’s the spirit.”

Just then, Monica’s voice echoed from across the store. “Y��all better hurry up—Kels is trying to convince Rae to be a slutty frog!”

Angel cackled, already pulling Joe toward the group’s laughter. “Okay, we gotta go save her. Then you’re helping me hang skeleton lights over your TV.”

“I regret everything,” Joe muttered—but followed without complaint, the Ghostface mask bouncing in the basket between them.

They kept moving through the store, Angel practically vibrating with excitement as she tugged Joe deeper into the chaos. He trailed behind her, his long, slow strides a contrast to her quick, purposeful ones, but he didn’t resist. His fingers stayed loosely tangled with hers, and the basket in his free hand was noticeably heavier now—weighted down with plastic pumpkins, string lights shaped like tiny bats, a roll of caution tape, fake cobwebs, and the fog machine Angel had insisted was absolutely essential for “ambience.”

“Trust me,” she’d said, dropping it into the cart with a dramatic flourish. “A little dry ice magic never hurt anybody.”

Joe had grunted, unbothered but skeptical. “I’m starting to think you’re turning my apartment into a haunted brothel.”

“Exactly the vibe,” Angel replied, chipper.

Now, they were slowing in front of one of the more ridiculous aisles—an entire section of couples’ costumes, with rows and rows of clear plastic bags holding outfits that ranged from absurdly wholesome to downright unhinged. Oversized cartoon props, food pairings, matching superheroes, punny visual gags.

Angel turned, planting herself in front of the wall like a game show host.

“Okay, okay,” she said, gesturing grandly with one arm. “This is the moment, Burrow. Pick your poison.”

Joe stared at the selection, unimpressed. His mouth opened, then closed again in disbelief as he slowly took it all in. “You’re joking.”

Angel didn’t even try to hide her grin. “Come on. Some of these are fun.”

He stepped closer to inspect the wall, muttering under his breath. “Fun for who? The people judging us on Instagram?”

Angel swatted his arm lightly. “You promised one couple’s costume. A man of your word, remember?”

Joe gave her a long, withering look, then began reading the labels aloud in deadpan disbelief. “‘Plug and Socket’? ‘Milk and Cookies’? ‘Avocado and Toast’?” He turned toward her with raised brows. “Who actually buys this crap?”

“Drunk girls,” Angel replied sweetly, “and their patient, wonderful boyfriends who love them.”

Joe made a show of sighing deeply. “Please tell me we’re not seriously considering ‘Peanut Butter and Jelly.’”

Angel snorted. “Only if you want me to dump you in front of everyone at the Halloween party.”

“Tempting,” he said under his breath, still scanning.

They continued down the aisle, past pirate duos, matching astronauts, vampires with plastic capes, a cowboy and saloon girl combo, even a baffling ‘sexy beekeeper and honey pot’ pairing that made Joe physically recoil.

He paused, lifting the honey pot costume with two fingers like it might sting. “There are children in this store.”

Angel giggled, dragging him farther until something caught her eye. Her hand shot out toward a black-and-red pair of costumes displayed on a higher hook—something with more edge, more drama. She tugged it down and held it in front of them with excitement gleaming in her eyes.

It was a Vampire Queen and her Gothic Consort—hers a corseted, high-slit dress with sheer black sleeves and blood-red velvet; his a long black velvet coat with silver trim, paired with leather-look pants and a high-collared shirt underneath.

“Ooh. This is hot,” she said, holding the packaging up for him to see. “It’s sexy without being corny. And you’d look good in this coat. Like, suspiciously good.”

Joe studied the image, nodding slowly. “It’s not terrible.”

“Not terrible? That’s basically a rave review coming from you,” she teased.

He leaned down, close enough that his breath tickled the shell of her ear. “I’d rather be Ghostface,” he murmured, voice low and wicked. “No talking. Just watching you scream.”

Angel froze for a second, breath catching hard in her chest. Her spine straightened. Her fingers gripped the costume tighter.

“Okay, damn,” she whispered, shooting him a wide-eyed look. “You can’t just say stuff like that to me in public, I'll jump your bones.”

Joe smirked, unbothered.

She blinked, recovering. “We’re buying both. That’s non-negotiable now.”

Without waiting for a reply, she dropped the Vampire Queen costume into the basket next to the Scream mask.

Joe chuckled, the sound warm and a little dangerous. “You’re gonna make me wear eyeliner, aren’t you?”

“Oh absolutely,” Angel said brightly, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Smudged and smoky. I’ll do it myself. Maybe throw in a little fake blood on your collarbone for effect.”

He gave her a sideways glance, somewhere between amused and aroused. “Why do I feel like this is less about a costume and more about a kink reveal?”

Angel just shrugged, totally unbothered. “You say that like those things are mutually exclusive.”

Joe only laughed, shaking his head and following as she tugged him farther down the aisle, a proud smirk curving her lips.

“C’mon, baby. I still need to find glitter for our rave night,” she said over her shoulder. “And—oh my God—is that a fog bubble machine?”

He didn’t even ask.

They were leaving with it.

Before Joe could get a word in, a familiar voice rang out from two aisles over.

“Bitch, we found the costumes!”

Angel’s head snapped up like a bloodhound catching a scent. “Come on.”

Still gripping Joe’s hand, she tugged him toward the source of the chaos. They rounded a corner into what could only be described as a fluorescent-lit war zone of tiny skirts, lace-up bodysuits, and glittery accessories. Monica, Kelsey, and Rae stood in the middle of it all like witches around a cauldron, holding up outfit pieces with the seriousness of curators designing a museum exhibit—if that museum only displayed “slutty but iconic” looks.

“We’re doing slutty Scooby-Doo,” Kelsey announced, lifting a purple crop top and matching mini skirt triumphantly above her head like Simba on Pride Rock.

Monica was already halfway into character, slipping a lilac headband over her curls and adjusting an imaginary camera-ready smirk. “I’m Daphne, obviously.”

“Rae’s Velma,” Kelsey continued, jerking her thumb toward Rae, who held up a red-orange pleated micro skirt and a cropped turtleneck that would’ve made the cartoon version combust.

“And I’m Fred—slutty Fred, don’t ask,” Kelsey added with a dramatic hair flip.

Angel blinked. “Wait. Then who the hell am I?”

All three turned toward her in synchronized delight.

“You’re Scooby,” Monica said, smug.

Angel’s jaw dropped. “You made me the dog?”

Monica nodded proudly. “The hot dog. It’s a serve, I promise. Ears. Tail. Booty for days.”

Joe let out a choked laugh behind her that he barely managed to muffle with the back of his hand. His shoulders shook with the effort.

Angel slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Not. A. Word.”

Joe held both hands up in surrender, lips twitching. “Didn’t say a thing.”

Kelsey, unfazed, handed Angel a brown velvet two-piece trimmed in teal-blue, complete with a pair of scooped dog ears and a tiny fuzzy tail. “It’s cute. Trust. And your ass’ll look phenomenal in it.”

Angel held it up, inspecting the pieces like a fashion judge. The cheeky cut. The soft texture. The way the top was clearly engineered for cleavage.

“…Okay. Yeah,” she finally said, lips curling. “Yeah, I’ll eat this up.”

The girls erupted into cheers like they’d won a playoff game.

“And we’re doing sexy firefighters for the frat crawl,” Rae announced, fishing a red suspender set out of their cart. It came with fishnet tights, a cropped patent jacket, and what looked like a plastic toy axe. “Matching accessories and all.”

Angel cackled. “That’s so trashy. I love it.”

“Oh, we’re not done,” Monica chimed in, holding up a hot pink velvet mini coat trimmed in white faux fur. “For my birthday pregame? We’re going full pimp mode. Heels, gold chains, go-go boots. No bras. Just chaos.”

Joe arched a brow. “So… a ‘Pimps and Hoes’ party where y’all are just the pimps?”

“Exactly,” Kelsey said, adjusting her invisible crown. “Equality, bitch.”

Joe ran a hand down his face. “You’re all menaces.”

“And for the Halloween rave,” Angel said with a dramatic flair, “we’re doing Twisted Fairytales. I’m gonna be undead Red Riding Hood.”

She held up the costume, spinning it slightly to show off the tattered mesh, black and blood-splattered hood, corset lacing across the front, and a dagger-shaped thigh strap.

Joe stared at it like it had personally offended him. “Jesus.”

“And then,” Monica added, eyes gleaming, “Teen Titans for the Instagram drop. Group photo. Full beat. Filters ready.”

“I’m Raven,” Rae said, clearly thrilled. She held up a tight black bodysuit and a purple cloak with a high collar.

“Beast Boy, baby,” Monica said, grinning like the devil herself. “Green body glitter everywhere.”

“Slutty Robin,” Kelsey said, holding up a red-and-yellow corset and black micro skirt with fishnet sleeves. “No explanation needed.”

Angel tilted her head, eyebrows raised. “Wait. Who am I?”

Without missing a beat, Monica tossed a bundle toward her—a flaming orange and violet two-piece with matching glittery arm cuffs and thigh-high boots. Angel caught it midair and held it up.

“Starfire, duh,” Monica said. “You’ve got the tits for it.”

Joe took one glance at the outfit and blinked like he’d just been hit in the chest. “That’s not a costume. That’s lingerie with space boots.”

Angel snatched it back and winked. “And I’m gonna look amazing.”

Joe muttered something under his breath—probably a prayer or worse.

“And last but not least…” Kelsey dug through the growing pile of chaos and pulled out a fan-adorned blue mask. “Mortal Kombat night. Sexy ninja edition. I’m Jade. Rae’s Mileena. Monica’s obviously Scorpion because she wants to breathe fire on men.”

Angel’s mouth dropped when Rae handed her the matching costume—deep blue, barely-there, with silver accents and detachable fans.

“Wait—am I Kitana?”

“Absolutely,” Rae said. “You with those fans? It’s over.”

Joe crossed his arms, brow raised. “So y’all are dressing like deadly lingerie models and going to war.”

Kelsey winked. “Exactly.”

He squinted at the costume. “Do any of these come with pants?”

All four girls turned in perfect sync. “No.”

Angel’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been waiting to be her. Say less.”

Joe looked like he was already preparing himself for battle. “Y’all are gonna get kicked out of every party.”

“Or win best group costume and score free drinks,” Angel said, striking a pose and snapping her fan open with a dramatic flick. “And if I end up on LSU Barstool, so be it.”

Joe groaned like he was in pain, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. “You’re gonna turn my apartment into a glittery war zone.”

Angel leaned up and kissed his cheek sweetly, patting his chest. “Your sacrifice is appreciated.”

They spent another twenty minutes diving deeper into what could only be described as Halloween mayhem. Wigs were tried on and tossed aside like fast fashion, tiaras were compared with the intensity of Olympic judging, and a heated debate broke out over glitter spray versus body shimmer.

Angel held up two different chokers—one with a tiny red vial of “blood” and the other decked out in rhinestones shaped like bats. “Which says sexy but might kill you more?”

Joe, trailing behind them like a battle-worn bodyguard on his last nerve, gave a quick glance before muttering, “The vial. More murder-y.”

“Perfect,” Angel said, tossing it into the cart.

Joe texted Ja’Marr under the table of costume wigs.

'deep in the trenches. send help. they just debated glitter particle sizes. Send the military.'

Monica popped around the corner holding up a rainbow afro wig. “Be honest. Would this ruin the slutty firefighter vibe?”

“Yes,” Joe deadpanned. “Immediately.”

Angel doubled over laughing, then tugged him toward the next aisle. “Come on, we still haven’t picked devil horns!”

He groaned softly but followed anyway, only to find himself being used as a mannequin two minutes later.

“Hold these,” she said, passing him a pair of red glitter devil horns and a matching pitchfork. Then a feather boa. Then a corset.

Joe looked down at himself—half-dressed in accessories he didn’t ask for—and blinked. “How did I become the group’s overworked stylist?”

“You’re tall and handsome with great shoulders,” Angel replied, digging through a bin of mesh gloves. “You're made for this.”

Occasionally, he offered input—grudging but useful.

“Yes, the boots match. No, you don’t need glow-in-the-dark nipple pasties.”

“I could need them,” Angel said defensively, folding her arms.

Joe gave her a look over the rim of his sunglasses.

Angel smirked. “Don’t stifle my sparkle, Burrow.”

The chaos only escalated. Rae had opinions about fake blood textures (“If it looks like ketchup, I swear I’m walking”), Monica nearly started a turf war over the last bag of webbed stockings, and Kelsey insisted on testing different body shimmers on everyone’s forearms like she was prepping for a runway show.

They argued over wigs in the mirror. Rae looked surprisingly good as a platinum blonde. Monica discovered her inner redhead. Kelsey nearly bought a mullet “just for vibes.”

Joe stood silently behind them, now holding six costumes, two wigs, a glittery sword that doubled as a broomstick, and a fake butcher knife Rae had used to poke him in the back for fun. Angel made him wear a witch hat for no reason. He didn’t take it off.

“This,” Angel said proudly, patting his chest as she tossed a bag of glow-in-the-dark body glitter into their basket, “is what love looks like.”

Joe didn’t respond. He was too busy readjusting the stack of plastic tiaras digging into his arm.

By the time they finally made it to the checkout counter, their cart looked like a Halloween tornado had spun through the store, picked up everything sparkly and vaguely demonic, and dumped it all in one spot. The cashier blinked twice, clearly overwhelmed.

Inside the avalanche: Costumes for every event. Masks. Fishnets in every imaginable color. Fake fangs. Glow-in-the-dark chokers. Black lipstick. Two candle holders shaped like skeleton hands. A mini cauldron Rae swore she needed for shots. A “Sexy Pumpkin Spice” costume that Monica promised she’d wear ironically (but everyone knew she meant it). And nestled at the very bottom—almost reverently placed—was the Ghostface mask Angel had been grinning about for an hour straight.

Joe eyed the mask, then Angel. “You’re gonna make me regret that one.”

Angel leaned in, whispering low against his ear, “No, I’m gonna make you suffer in the best way.”

He swallowed hard and paid for everything without a single further complaint.

The sun had started to dip when they pushed their overstuffed cart across the cracked parking lot, their shadows stretching behind them as dusk crept in. Angel looped her arm through Joe’s, practically glowing.

“This is going to be the best spooky season ever,” she declared, sighing in satisfaction as the breeze fluttered her hoodie.

Joe glanced down at the overflowing bags in their hands—costumes spilling from tissue paper, glitter dusting the edges, something suspiciously sticky oozing from a plastic fangs package. “It better be. I think we just personally funded the entire Spirit Halloween corporation.”

Angel smirked. “Spooky season is my Super Bowl, Joey. You knew what this was.”

“I thought I knew,” Joe said, bumping his shoulder lightly against hers. “I didn’t know y’all had military-level strategy.”

Angel winked and lifted a bag like a trophy. “Consider it my love language.”

He groaned but didn’t argue.

Because despite the glitter. Despite the plastic weaponry. Despite the fake blood and devil horns and body shimmer smeared across his hand—

She was right.

He did know what this was.

And secretly?

He wouldn’t change a damn thing.

After they checked out, the girls spilled into the parking lot like glitter-dusted chaos, arms full of bags and already halfway into planning round two.

“I’m calling first dibs on the living room mirror for selfies,” Rae said, adjusting her ponytail as she balanced a giant Party City bag on one hip. “That lighting is elite.”

“You mean my mirror,” Kelsey corrected, unlocking her car. “And Rae, don’t forget to clean your lash glue off it this time.”

“I’m not making promises I can’t keep,” Rae shot back, smirking.

Monica huffed, tossing a plastic pumpkin bucket into Kelsey’s trunk. “You better not ditch me halfway through Target, Kel. I still need black-out curtains, makeup drawers, and—oh yeah—a lamp.”

“Why didn’t you get a lamp weeks ago?” Angel asked.

“I don’t know, bitch, I’ve been prioritizing things like fishnets and glitter body oil!”

Angel cracked up, stepping in for a round of goodbye hugs that turned into a tangled, giggly mess of “Text me later,” “Send pics when you try it on,” and “If you lose your fishnet gloves again, I’m not lending you mine.”

By the time Rae peeled off to go crash at her boyfriend’s, and Monica and Kelsey headed out bickering toward Target, Angel turned back to the only person still standing beside her.

Joe.

He was leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed, one brow raised like he’d just survived a war zone. Angel popped the trunk with a smug smile and started loading in their shared haul.

“Alright, Joey,” she said brightly, tossing in a bag labeled Aesthetic Shit Only. “You’re coming with me.”

Joe slid her a look that said he wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not even a little,” she replied sweetly, slamming the trunk shut like a period at the end of a sentence.

He just grunted in mock defeat and climbed into the driver’s seat. She followed a second later, sinking into the passenger side with a satisfied sigh as her phone buzzed—another group chat lighting up over what Monica was calling “Pimp Coat Rehearsals.” Joe didn’t even flinch. His hand found her thigh without thought, resting there like it belonged, fingers brushing absent circles over her skin.

And like always, Angel leaned into the contact, settling in as she launched into a rambling, excited monologue about playlist ideas, party themes, potential backup costume choices, and whether Rae’s cousin Jaylen was actually a decent DJ or just hot with an aux cord.

Joe listened quietly, offering the occasional grunt or snort, letting her fill the space with her voice. It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested—he just liked watching her in her element, bubbling with chaotic joy over something as simple as Halloween decorations. She was the storm. He was the anchor.

By the time they pulled into his apartment complex, the sun had begun to dip below the skyline, casting everything in a dusky violet haze that felt more October than the calendar ever could.

Angel was already out of the car before he cut the engine. “Okay, bring in the bags marked vibes and aesthetic,” she called over her shoulder, struggling to unlock the front door with her elbow while balancing a cauldron under one arm. “Not the costume ones—we’re saving those for later.”

Joe popped the trunk and grabbed a bag stuffed with a plush ghost pillow, fake cobwebs, and what appeared to be a glittery tombstone. “You labeled the bags?”

“I’m organized,” she shot back.

“You’re a menace,” he muttered, following her inside.

“Same thing,” she tossed over her shoulder with a wink.

Inside, Joe’s apartment was still very much a blank slate. Warm neutrals, clean corners, barely a whisper of Halloween spirit. Angel stopped in the entryway and clicked her tongue in disapproval like a disappointed interior designer.

“This is unacceptable,” she said, dropping her load on the couch with dramatic flair. “It looks like October skipped your entire floor.”

Joe shrugged as he toed off his sneakers. “It’s a football apartment, not a haunted mansion.”

“Not for long.”

She turned to face him, hands planted firmly on her hips, dark eyes glittering with mischief. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Joe narrowed his gaze immediately. “I don’t like your deals.”

“You’ll like this one,” she purred, stepping forward until they were nearly chest to chest.

He instinctively slipped his hands to her hips, pulling her a little closer. “Convince me.”

“If you let me decorate this place”—she raised a single finger—“and help me without complaining, you get a private preview of all my costumes. Every single one. Before anyone else sees them. Before the girls even try them on. Before Rae takes her dramatic-ass mirror selfies.”

Joe’s jaw twitched. “All of them?”

Angel nodded, slow and deliberate. “Every. Single. One.”

There was a long pause. The kind where you could practically hear the mental math happening behind his eyes.

Then, without a word, Joe dropped the bag he was holding, turned on his heel, and walked to the closet to grab the step stool.

Angel grinned, victorious. “Knew you were smart.”

What followed could only be described as organized chaos. For two hours, they transformed his pristine apartment into a haunted hideaway. Angel directed with the precision of a general, flitting from room to room with string lights draped over one shoulder and plastic spiders clutched in one fist.

Joe followed orders like a good soldier, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic comment.

“Why are we putting a skeleton in the pantry?”

“So it can greet you every time you get your protein powder.”

“Fantastic. Can’t wait to scream for no reason before a 6 a.m. workout.”

She hung cobwebs across the upper cabinets, placed tiny skulls between his sports trophies, and perched a black cat statue on the toilet tank like a watchful Halloween sentinel.

They argued over which shade of purple string lights looked less “tacky rave” and more “haunted chic,” and Angel made him take down and rehang the paper bats three times until they looked “properly menacing.”

Joe’s favorite part was the ten-foot inflatable pumpkin Angel made him set up just outside the balcony.

“For the vibes,” she explained, fluffing its hat.

“For the HOA violations,” he countered.

But he didn’t stop her. Not even when she added a fog machine next to it and squealed in delight as it puffed out its first cloud.

By the time they were finished, the apartment looked like a Spirit Halloween exploded inside a Pinterest board.

Joe stood in the middle of it all, hands on his hips, surveying the glittering chaos. He should’ve been annoyed by the sheer amount of fake blood, sparkly pumpkins, and unnecessary skull candles…

But then Angel turned to him, cheeks flushed, curls tied back with a black satin bow, and a tiny smear of glitter clinging to her collarbone.

And he smiled.

Because damn it—she was right.

This was what love looked like.

And he’d let her turn his apartment into a haunted house a hundred times over just to see her this happy.

The lights were dimmed, casting an eerie glow over the purple string lights framing the TV. The fog machine let out a satisfied hiss, releasing a puff that curled like ghostly fingers into the living room.

The candy bowl on the coffee table—currently empty except for a single, sad roll of Smarties—was surrounded by a circle of tea light candles and mini plastic rats. Angel swore it was “for ambiance.” The couch was now home to three plush skeletons she’d insisted on adopting from the store and naming on the spot.

“Bones, Bonita, and Larry,” she said proudly as she arranged them in various lounging positions. “Larry’s the quiet one.”

Joe dropped onto the couch beside them with a long, exaggerated sigh, stretching out his legs and letting his head fall back against the cushion. “Is this everything? Or is there like, a Phase Three I don’t know about?”

Angel didn’t answer. She simply turned, straddled his lap without warning, and looped her arms lazily around his neck.

“Almost,” she said, voice all honey and heat.

Joe raised an eyebrow, not trusting that glint in her eye one bit. “Almost?”

Her lips hovered just above his, so close he could feel the warmth of her breath. “You still haven’t gotten your reward.”

That got his attention.

His hands slid to her thighs automatically, fingers pressing into the soft skin beneath her shorts. “Yeah?”

Angel gave him a wicked smirk, her voice lowering to a sultry whisper. “I’ll let you pick which one you want to see first…”

Before he could respond, she was up again, grabbing his hand and tugging him off the couch. “Come on,” she said, already halfway to his bedroom. “Sit your ass down.”

Joe let out a breath that was half a groan, half a laugh, and let himself be dragged, his legs suddenly a little wobbly. “Yes, ma’am.”

He sank onto the edge of the bed like a man preparing for battle, eyes locked on her every move.

Angel dropped the bags at the bedroom door and turned back, shooting him a dangerous smile. “Ready for your private fashion show?”

Joe leaned back on his palms, trying to look cool, even though his pulse was definitely speeding up. “Hit me.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, door clicking shut behind her.

Ten minutes passed. He could hear the shuffle of hangers, the rustle of plastic bags, the soft thud of makeup bags and costume boxes being opened and rearranged. His leg bounced restlessly. He didn’t know if it was nerves or anticipation—or both.

The door creaked open.

Angel stepped out slowly, one hand braced on the doorframe, the other resting on her hip, smirk already in place.

Joe’s brain short-circuited.

Blue. Leather. Cutouts. High slits. God help him.

The Kitana costume clung to her like sin—sleek, form-fitting halter crop top with sharp black piping that drew his eyes to her waist and shoulders. The matching high-cut bottoms left most of her thighs exposed, black leg straps hugging her curves like weapons in disguise. Her long curls had been pulled up into a slick half-ponytail, and in one hand, she casually spun a plastic fan that looked like it could decapitate a man on sight.

“Finish him,” Joe whispered under his breath.

Angel twirled slowly, giving him a 360-degree view of every lethal curve, then stalked toward him with deliberate grace, like she was hunting something. “So?” she asked, stopping right between his knees. “Think I’ll win the Mortal Kombat group contest?”

Joe blinked, completely gone. “I think I just lost my will to live unless you sit on my face immediately.”

Angel laughed, straddling his lap just long enough to kiss his cheek before hopping off again. “You can’t touch. That was the deal.”

He groaned, like her words physically hurt. “Why do I agree to anything you say?”

“Because I’m cute and manipulative,” she called over her shoulder, already vanishing back into the bathroom.

Joe let his head fall back with a soft thud against the wall. “Angel,” he called after her, voice strained. “You are actually trying to kill me.”

“Good!” she yelled. “Means I’m doing it right!”

Minutes passed.

Joe rubbed his hands over his face, breathing through the chaos in his chest. The anticipation was killing him. He’d never wanted to break a no-touching rule so badly in his life. He heard the door open again—and this time?

He genuinely almost choked.

Angel strutted out in a cropped firefighter jacket, unzipped and hanging off her shoulders like it had no business covering anything. Her matching red mini skirt was more suggestive than functional, showing off miles of leg wrapped in black fishnets that crisscrossed up into glossy, thigh-high boots. A plastic firefighter hat sat tilted on her head like a dare.

Emblazoned across her cleavage in bold white letters were the words: EMERGENCY SERVICE.

Joe blinked slowly. “Someone call 911,” he muttered, eyes trailing every inch of her. “There’s a fire in my pants.”

Angel gave a playful spin, striking a pose as she adjusted the hat. “I could’ve brought the hose,” she said, tossing him a wink, “but I thought that might be overkill.”

Joe’s fists clenched on his thighs. “I know a hose you can play with. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Angel leaned down, kissed his forehead like he was a sick child, and whispered, “You’ll survive. Maybe.”

And then she vanished again.

Joe sat in stunned silence, eyes wide and unblinking, mouth dry. He wasn’t sure if this was heaven or hell. All he knew was that he was sweating and there was no AC malfunction to blame.

The bathroom door opened a third time, and this?

This was criminal.

Angel stepped out in a velvet bodysuit patterned with $100 bills—tight, high-cut, and deeply disrespectful. White faux fur trimmed the deep V neckline and cuffs, matching the oversized pimp coat draped dramatically over her shoulders. Her legs sparkled with white fishnets dotted in rhinestones, and the shiny white go-go boots on her feet clicked against the hardwood as she sauntered forward like she owned the whole apartment.

Joe’s mouth dropped open. He didn’t even speak—he just grabbed a pillow and flung it at the floor with a frustrated yell, like that could express the internal scream in his soul.

“Nope. I’m done. I can’t. You win. Take my money. Take my soul. Take everything.”

Angel planted her hands on her hips, one brow arched high. “You like this one, baby?”

Joe looked at her like she was made of gold, like God had carved her out of his fantasies and added a white fur collar for drama. “I am this close to breaking our no-touching rule and risking death by horny.”

Angel stepped between his knees, leaned down until their noses nearly brushed, and whispered, “Then I guess you better behave… if you want to see Starfire next.”

Joe groaned—loud, desperate, and honest. “I hate you.”

She kissed him once, soft and fleeting, just enough to ruin his composure. “No, you don’t.”

And before he could respond, she was gone again, hips swaying like a slow curse as the door clicked shut behind her.

Joe let out a strangled noise, buried his face in his hands, and dragged his palms down his cheeks like he could physically cool himself off.

October was going to kill him.

And he was ready to die.

Joe was still mentally recovering from the pimp outfit—heart rate beginning to stabilize, breath no longer caught in his throat, thoughts just starting to find their way back through the fog of lust—when he heard the soft, mechanical click of the bathroom lock turning again.

He froze.

His hands curled into the comforter beneath him, every nerve in his body snapping back to attention like a soldier hearing a war drum. He looked up, already bracing himself for impact. Angel had been steadily escalating all night, and by now he knew better than to underestimate her. But nothing—not the Kitana slits, not the firefighter cleavage, not the velvet pimp coat—could have prepared him for what stepped through that door next.

Angel emerged slowly, like a vision carved out of light and fantasy.

The costume shimmered—metallic purple that glinted under the warm glow of the bedroom lamp. A two-piece so tight it looked airbrushed onto her skin, as if she’d been dipped in molten chrome and pulled out just in time to destroy him. The top was a halter cut that bared her shoulders completely, the collar hugging her throat and lifting her breasts into view with unapologetic power. The bottoms rode dangerously low on her hips, cut high at the thigh and somehow connected to lavender thigh-high boots that turned her into something not entirely human. Something celestial. Something lethal.

Her hair had been brushed out into long, glossy curls, tumbling over her shoulders like cascading fire. Her lips shimmered with glossy pink, and her eyes—Jesus. She’d put in green contacts. Bright, alien, glowing green.

Starfire.

Sexy, dangerous, invincible Starfire.

Joe's jaw dropped. It wasn’t even dramatic. His body simply stopped functioning. Mouth open. Lungs paused. Brain completely unplugged.

“You’re not real,” he said, the words escaping in a reverent breath, like a prayer he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

Angel cocked her hip and raised her arms in a theatrical ta-da gesture, her smile radiating wicked glee. “Surprise. I’m your intergalactic baddie.”

Joe whimpered. Actually whimpered.

That sound shocked even him, but there was no taking it back now. He was on the ropes, and she was loving every second.

Angel started toward him slowly, her boots clicking against the hardwood with deliberate seduction, each step a countdown to destruction. The sway of her hips was hypnotic. Her smirk? Criminal.

Joe’s eyes never left her. He tracked every movement like she was some kind of rare cosmic event—one he wasn’t meant to survive.

“You okay, baby?” she asked sweetly, tilting her head as she approached, the green of her eyes glowing beneath thick lashes.

“No,” Joe said immediately. No hesitation. No façade. Just raw, desperate truth. “No, I’m not.”

Angel bit her lip like she was trying not to laugh, her expression full of faux concern. “No?”

“I’m not okay,” he repeated, voice fraying at the edges. “I am not mentally, emotionally, or physically okay.”

She was standing between his knees now, tall and powerful in her boots and glowing eyes, all confidence and control. She bent slightly, hands sliding up his chest as she climbed into his lap like a queen taking her throne, straddling him with slow, deliberate weight.

“So…” she purred, trailing her fingers up his neck, “is this your favorite?”

Joe couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t look anywhere else. The shimmering purple clung to every curve, her thighs bracketing his like temptation incarnate. His hands gripped the edge of the bed so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

“I swear to God,” he whispered hoarsely, throat thick with restraint, “if you don’t get off me right now, I’m going to ruin this costume.”

Angel leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, “That’s kind of the goal, Joey.”

He let out a strangled groan, his head falling back, neck tense with effort. “Angel, please,” he muttered, like he wasn’t even sure what he was begging for—mercy, relief, permission, salvation.

She giggled, feather-light and unbothered, and slowly peeled herself off his lap with a sensual roll of her hips. The shimmering fabric glinted under the bedroom light as she turned, giving him one last look over her shoulder.

“I told you,” she said, sashaying back toward the bathroom. “If you helped me decorate, you got a private show.”

“That wasn’t a show,” Joe called after her, still breathless. “That was psychological warfare.”

Angel turned at the doorway, one hand on her hip. “You say that like you didn’t love every second of it.”

“I did,” he admitted, dragging a hand down his face. “And I think I have a boner-induced concussion.”

Angel cackled, her laughter echoing through the room like a taunt. “Good. That means I’m just getting started.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Joe sat in stunned silence for a few moments, then slowly collapsed backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling like he’d just lived through a natural disaster. His chest rose and fell in deep, heavy breaths. He was sweating again. His heart wouldn’t slow down. His pants were criminally tight.

He groaned into the nearest pillow.

It was officially spooky season.

And Angel? Angel was the scariest, hottest thing he’d ever survived.

And she wasn’t done yet.

Angel emerged from the bathroom one final time—no costume this time, no exaggerated theatrics or flashing lights of glamour, but somehow this version of her hit Joe even harder. She was dressed in the aftermath of all that teasing, and the impact was nuclear.

Black fishnets clung to her legs like a second skin, the soft diamond weave disappearing into a pair of tiny, worn cotton shorts that rode up the curve of her thighs indecently. Her plain black bra—the same one she’d had on earlier when the try-on marathon began—had transformed. Maybe it was the context, maybe it was the confidence she wore like perfume, but it now looked like the most sinful thing Joe had ever seen. Her skin held the faint shimmer of exertion, a post-costume-glow that made her look kissed by starlight. Her curls were tousled, framing her face with just the right amount of chaos, and her smile—lazy, lethal—spoke volumes. Mischief danced in her eyes like a dare.

Joe was still perched on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped, breathing like he’d just survived a ten-round fight. Emotionally, he was wrecked. Physically? Wrecked again. Spiritually? Teetering somewhere between heaven and hell, barely tethered to Earth. His gaze locked on Angel as she sauntered over, her hips moving with slow, devastating intent.

He looked up at her like she was salvation wrapped in temptation. Like she was the only thing still holding his fragile self together.

Angel stopped just in front of him, her hands on her hips, a devilish glint in her eye. “Your turn, Burrow.”

Joe blinked, still trying to reboot. “I didn’t get anything?”

His voice came out rough, husky, like desire had permanently scarred his vocal cords. He raised a tired eyebrow, suspicious but curious, too far gone to be anything but utterly hers.

Angel’s grin stretched wider, and before he could process what was coming, she climbed into his lap with practiced ease, her thighs hugging his hips like she belonged there. His hands flew to her waist automatically—muscle memory, instinct, obsession. He didn’t even think. His body knew hers like it knew gravity.

“You didn’t,” she murmured, voice like warm honey and sin, “but I did.”

From behind her back, she pulled out a black-and-white plastic mask.

Ghostface.

Joe’s eyebrows lifted as his lips parted, recognition flashing across his face. His amusement sparked like a fuse, but right behind it came something darker—something interested.

“Guess you’re about to get your costume after all,” Angel whispered, inching closer, pressing her body flush against his. Her fingers curled around the mask as she guided it into his lap, right between them, right over where he was already hard and aching for her.

Joe inhaled sharply, and his grip on her hips tightened. That was all it took for the air to change—again. One moment, playful. The next? Thick. Tense. Charged with electric anticipation. Her hips rolled slowly in his lap, teasing him through the layers, and he felt it down to his bones.

“I did say I had plans for you, didn’t I?” she asked, voice a silk ribbon winding around his spine, her curls brushing his jaw as she tilted her head with dangerous sweetness. Her eyes sparkled with too much heat for something innocent.

Joe looked down at the mask now resting between them, turning it over slowly in his hands. He ran his thumb along the edge like he was committing it to memory, as if it were a weapon he was about to wield.

“And what plans are those, exactly?” he asked, his voice lower now. Darker. Intrigued. Wanting.

Angel leaned in until her lips hovered at the shell of his ear, her breath warm and tantalizing.

“Well, Mr. Ghostface…” she whispered, her fingers dancing down his chest like a countdown, slow and deliberate, “…why don’t you catch your willing victim—and find out?”

Before he could even blink, she placed a kiss at the corner of his mouth—a featherlight promise—and slipped off his lap, giggling as she bolted toward the bedroom door.

Joe stared after her, still holding the mask in both hands like she’d just handed him the keys to the kingdom and told him to come take it.

For a beat, he didn’t move. Just processed. Let it sink in.

And then he stood.

The transformation was instant. A grin curled at his lips—hungry, unhinged, unholy. He was smiling like a man who had just been dared to sin and couldn’t wait to get started.

He dragged the mask up to eye level, considering it for a second longer. Then, slowly—purposefully—he slid it down over his face.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered behind the plastic, already heading toward the door with a predator’s gait, dark laughter bubbling in his throat.

Angel wanted to play?

She had no idea what she just started.

And Joe? He wasn’t just going to play Ghostface.

He was going to make her scream.

“Angel,” Joe called out, his voice low, gravelly, and dangerous as he stepped into the hallway, the black-and-white mask dangling from one hand. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t run, baby.”

Her laughter answered him from somewhere near the kitchen—bright, breathless, and wicked. Taunting. Daring. Inviting.

Joe’s lips curled beneath the mask as he slid it over his face and adjusted it into place. His entire body shifted with it. Gone was the tired, overwhelmed boyfriend recovering from a costume-induced fever dream. In his place now stood something far more dangerous.

Ghostface.

And Ghostface was coming for her.

The hunt had begun.

Angel tore through the apartment, feet slipping slightly in her socks as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. Her chest heaved with laughter and adrenaline, not fear. Not even close. It was the thrill of the chase—the electric, full-body high of knowing he wanted her, was hunting her, and was close.

She ducked behind the island, heart racing, crouching low to the cool tile as she tried to stifle her giggles. She peeked around the edge cautiously, her breathing shallow and quick. The bedroom door creaked shut somewhere behind her.

Then… silence.

It stretched. Too long. A beat. Then two.

Her smile faltered.

“Joe?” she whispered into the quiet, her voice barely audible. Her eyes darted down the dim hallway.

No response.

Her skin prickled.

Then—

BANG!

A loud, jarring thud hit the wall, and Angel yelped, her whole body jerking as her hands flew to her chest. She slapped a palm over her mouth, trying not to laugh—or scream. Her giggles trembled with anticipation.

Heavy footsteps followed. Slow. Deliberate. Unhurried. Each one echoed through the apartment like a countdown.

And then… he appeared.

Joe stepped into the kitchen shadows, cloaked in dim light, tall and broad and fucking terrifying in that mask. The blank expression, stretched wide in its frozen scream, made her skin prickle. But what really sent a shiver down her spine was the way he moved—smooth, slow, loose. Predatory. His head tilted slightly to one side, like he was studying her. Or deciding what to do with her once he caught her.

“Shit,” Angel whispered with a giddy grin, ducking lower behind the counter, trying to catch her breath.

She could hear the swish of his sweatpants, the faint creak of the floor beneath his weight. Every move calculated. Intentional.

And silent.

Until he spoke.

“Come out, come out…” Joe sing-songed softly, his voice muffled and distorted behind the plastic, making it all the more haunting. He dragged his fingers slowly across the kitchen island’s edge as he moved, the tips tapping gently in rhythm. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna chase you?”

Angel bit her knuckle, eyes wide and glittering. She had to bite down hard to keep from moaning. Her body pulsed with the tension, the fearlessness of his confidence making her blood pump faster.

She stayed quiet. Didn’t give herself away.

Then—creak. A floorboard betrayed her.

Joe paused. Tilted his head again, listening.

He moved toward the pantry, creeping forward with theatrical menace. Her giggles froze in her throat as he reached for the handle and—

Pulled it open.

Empty.

He smirked beneath the mask. Smart girl. Playing with him now. Making him search. Making him want.

Then he heard it. The faintest shift of movement behind him. Too late.

She darted past him like a shadow, brushing against his chest as she laughed and sprinted back down the hallway. Her shorts rode high, her laugh turned feral, and her hair bounced behind her in a blur of motion.

Joe whipped around with a growl. “You are so dead.”

“JOSEPH!” she squealed through a cascade of laughter.

She turned into the living room, trying to leap over the back of the couch for cover, but Joe was faster now—driven by something deeper than the game. He caught her mid-jump, arms wrapping around her waist and yanking her clean off the floor like she weighed nothing.

“AHH!” she shrieked, legs kicking, giggling uncontrollably as he spun her around.

Then he dropped with her onto the couch cushions, his weight pressing her down, his body caging her in as she writhed beneath him.

“Gotcha,” he breathed, voice low, calm, and dangerous. A predator satisfied.

Angel tried to wiggle free, still giggling. “Oh my god—Joe!”

He didn’t answer. Just lifted her like a prize, throwing her over his shoulder as she yelped, laughing and pounding playfully at his back.

“You’re really committing to this bit, huh?” she teased, her voice breathless, muffled by his shoulder.

Again, he didn’t answer.

Instead, he kicked open the bedroom door and marched them inside.

The door slammed shut behind him with a final, decisive thud.

He tossed her onto the mattress like a wolf tossing its prey, then climbed over her slowly, deliberately, the Ghostface mask still covering his face. He crawled up her body, planting a knee on either side of her thighs. His chest rose and fell with shallow, heated breaths. The way he loomed over her, silent and imposing, made her heartbeat thrum in her throat.

Angel looked up at the mask, her legs spread beneath him, arms falling over her head. Her lips curved. “I thought Ghostface only used knives.”

He tilted his head again, just like in the movies, and even with the mask on, she could feel him smirking beneath it.

“That’s not my weapon of choice.”

Her breath hitched. Her thighs clenched.

“Joe…”

He leaned down, slow and heavy, the cool rubber of the mask brushing the curve of her ear.

“Scream for me anyway,” he whispered, voice barely audible but dripping with hunger.

Angel gasped—sharp and soft—and that was it.

She was done.

And Joe? Joe hadn’t even started.

Angel’s breath caught in her throat.

The room felt hotter now, though a chill swept down her spine. Joe’s voice was low—teasing, dark with promise, and distorted just enough behind the mask to send goosebumps racing across her skin. The air between them pulsed with anticipation, thick enough to taste. Her fingers curled into the sheets beneath her, anchoring herself against the pull of everything he was doing to her without even truly touching her yet.

His body hovered above hers, a solid wall of heat. She could feel it rolling off him, even through the soft fabric of his t-shirt. The Ghostface mask hung inches from her face, its smooth, emotionless surface both unsettling and thrilling. The hollow, black eye sockets stared her down, and still—still—she found herself unable to look away.

She swallowed hard. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

The question was barely a whisper, a breath between them, but the way her voice trembled betrayed her arousal.

Joe didn’t answer at first. Instead, he let the silence hang between them, heavy with tension. Then, wordlessly, he trailed one hand up the outside of her bare thigh. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, dragging over the textured pattern of her black fishnets until she shivered beneath his touch. Every nerve ending came alive beneath his palm. His thumb brushed just beneath the hem of her shorts, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

“You said I’d make a hot Ghostface,” he murmured, his voice muffled behind the mask but still dark and velvety. “Thought I should give you the full fantasy.”

Angel let out a breathless laugh, trying—failing—to keep the upper hand. “You’re lucky I like scary movies.”

“You’re lucky I don’t make you sit through one first,” he replied smoothly, his fingers drawing small, slow circles just above her knee. “Tie you up. Make you wait through all ninety minutes. Touching you just enough to drive you fucking insane.”

Her thighs parted on instinct, a desperate little whimper caught at the back of her throat. His words—his tone—his control… it all clawed at something primal inside her.

“Joe—”

“Not Joe tonight.” He adjusted the mask with one hand, tilting it downward so it sat perfectly over his face, like it was never meant to come off. “Ghostface, remember?”

Angel bit her lip, her smile crooked and full of heat. “Alright, Ghostface,” she whispered, reaching up to trace a fingertip along the edge of the mask. “What happens next?”

He didn’t answer.

He acted.

With slow, deliberate precision, he reached down and hooked two fingers into the waistband of her shorts. His eyes never left hers, not that she could see them—but she could feel them, heavy and focused beneath the mask. In one long, maddening motion, he tugged her shorts down her hips, dragging them past the swell of her ass and down her thighs.

Her breath caught when the cool air kissed her heated skin. She was soaked already—shamelessly so—and from the way his masked head tilted, she knew he saw it. Knew he felt it in the air between them.

A low sound escaped him. Pleasure. Possession.

“Now I hunt,” Ghostface said, voice rough and sure.

Angel barely had time to react before he slid down her body. His hands gripped her thighs firmly as he kissed along the inside of one, then the other—small, teasing presses of his lips through the fishnets. Every pass of his mouth was fire and friction. He didn’t lift the mask higher than the bridge of his nose, and somehow that made it worse. The anonymity of it. The performance. The way it twisted something sweet into something dark and filthy.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured against her skin, “you gonna be a good girl for me?”

His voice was lower now, gravel and sin. The kind of sound that slithered straight to the base of her spine.

Angel gasped, her back arching off the mattress. “God—Joe—”

“I said that’s not my name.”

Her eyes flew open. She looked down at the mask looming between her thighs, the blank mouth hovering above her skin.

She swallowed. “Ghostface.”

He hummed in approval. “Mm. That’s better.”

With that, he slid his fingers beneath the edge of her fishnets and tugged them aside with one practiced motion. His gaze dropped. He paused, just for a second, like he was admiring the view. Then his fingers found her—slipping between her folds, slow and easy, like he already knew how badly she needed him. The pad of his thumb brushed her clit, and her entire body jolted beneath him.

The other hand pressed firmly on her hip, holding her down. Claiming her.

Controlling her.

He knew exactly what he was doing. The same control he’d shown earlier was back now, only this time it was his fingers, his heat, his hands making her fall apart.

Angel tried—desperately—to hold herself together. But the rhythm of his touch, the way he filled every space between them with the threat of more, the promise of worse… it was too much. Every time his fingers curled inside her, her vision blurred. Every teasing graze of his tongue through the torn edge of her fishnets made her thighs quake.

She was unraveling. Fast.

And he was loving it.

“You feel that?” he rasped. “How fucking wet you are for me?”

Her lips parted in a breathless moan, her chest rising and falling with ragged urgency.

“You like being hunted?” he taunted. “Tied down? Stretched out?”

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Yes—yes, I—God, please—”

“Please what?”

She whined, twisting beneath his grip, toes curling in the sheets. “Please, Ghostface—don’t stop—”

His fingers moved faster, tighter. His mouth replaced them suddenly, tongue flicking expertly across her clit while two fingers curled deep inside her, coaxing, demanding, destroying. The mask framed his movements like something out of a fever dream—her worst nightmare and her hottest fantasy all in one.

Angel cried out, the sound raw and high and broken. She wasn’t pretending anymore. She wasn’t playing.

She was gone.

And Ghostface?

Ghostface hadn’t even shown mercy yet.

His fingers didn’t slow.

In fact, they drove deeper, stronger—two thick digits stretching her in a rhythm that had her thighs shaking and her hands fisting the sheets like they were the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

Joe—Ghostface—hovered above her, the mask making every movement feel more intense, more surreal. That smooth, expressionless face was all she could see when she opened her eyes, all sharp angles and black holes for eyes. It should’ve been terrifying.

It was terrifying.

And she loved every fucking second of it.

He leaned in close, breath hot behind the plastic. She could feel it fan across her cheek even through the shallow mouth opening of the mask. Her own breath came fast, her chest rising and falling beneath her black bra, the cups slightly askew from how much she’d writhed beneath him.

Then, in that low, gravel-slick voice that made her toes curl and her stomach flip, he asked:

“What’s your favorite scary movie?”

The question rolled from his tongue like a threat, raspy and deliberate.

And then his fingers plunged deeper—curling, thrusting, pressing in just the right spot that made her cry out, the sound strangled and unfiltered.

“Fuck,” Angel gasped, heels digging into the bed. “Oh my God—”

But he didn’t stop. Didn’t falter.

If anything, the growl that vibrated in his throat told her he was just getting started.

Before she could catch her breath—before she could process the way her body was beginning to fray at the edges—he ducked his head low between her thighs. Still wearing the mask. Still deep in character.

And when his mouth found her again—tongue flicking mercilessly against her clit, hot and wet and focused—she didn’t stand a chance.

Angel screamed.

A real one. Sharp, high-pitched, echoing off the walls of the bedroom. Her back bowed off the mattress, her hips fighting the pressure of his hold on her waist, but he kept her pinned with one arm and never let up.

His tongue was unrelenting. Flicking. Circling. Flattening and dragging in maddening strokes. The plastic mask shifted slightly against her inner thigh as he moved, the sensation a strange mix of smooth and jarring. He moaned low into her, the sound vibrating straight through her core like a shockwave.

Every flick of his tongue felt like punishment and reward all at once.

“Jesus Christ—Joe—Ghostface—I—” She couldn't even finish the thought. Her mind scattered like dry leaves in the wind.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled back just enough to rasp, “One scream down, baby. Let’s see how many more I can get.”

Angel whimpered, her head thrashing against the pillow, curls spilling wildly across the mattress. “You’re insane.”

“No,” he murmured darkly. “I’m obsessed.”

And he dove back in.

This time, he sucked her clit between his lips, tongue working in tandem with his still-thrusting fingers, the pressure sending her careening toward the edge again. Her hands flew down, grabbing at his hair, at the mask, at anything, but he was locked in—focused, precise, relentless.

The orgasm built in slow, relentless waves. Pressure coiling low and tight in her belly, heat radiating out to every trembling limb. Her body bowed again, legs closing in around his shoulders as she chased the edge.

Then he crooked his fingers just right—and she shattered.

Angel’s second scream was louder than the first. Rawer. A sound born from deep in her chest, pulled from a place only he could reach. Her thighs shook around him as her climax ripped through her in wave after wave, drowning her in heat and static and sensation.

And still—he didn’t stop.

He licked her through it, gentle now but still thorough, easing her down only after every tremor had wracked her body, after every breath was spent and every thought wiped clean.

Finally, finally, he lifted his head.

The mask stared up at her, gleaming in the low light. And behind it—Joe’s eyes burned. Even if she couldn’t see them, she could feel them.

Predatory.

Proud.

Possessive.

Angel lay there, panting, utterly wrecked. Her chest heaved, the black bra a twisted mess, her skin damp with sweat, thighs still twitching from aftershocks.

She blinked up at him with a dazed smile.

“Well…” she breathed, voice hoarse and trembling. “That’s definitely top five.”

He chuckled—low, dark, and satisfied. The sound made her core clench all over again.

“Good,” he said, sliding the mask off slowly, revealing his flushed face and swollen lips slick with her. His eyes locked onto hers, hungry and electric. “Because we’re not done.”

Angel’s lips parted on instinct, her body already rising to meet him as he leaned over her again.

The hunt?

Far from over.

Joe’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as he hovered over her, the Ghostface mask still clinging to his face like a second skin. His eyes, dark and sharp behind the hollow black sockets, bore into hers, demanding submission and promising pleasure wrapped in delicious danger.

He didn’t give her a moment to catch her breath before his hands were firm on her hips, gripping tightly as if reminding her who was in control tonight.

“Did you think this was just a game?” His voice dropped to a low growl, the rasp behind the mask sending a thrill straight to her core. “Ghostface doesn’t play nice.”

Angel’s breath hitched, a mixture of excitement and challenge flashing in her eyes. “I’m your willing victim,” she whispered, voice trembling with anticipation. “Try me.”

Joe’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, his grip possessive, not cruel but commanding. He pressed down harder, pinning her to the bed as he shifted his weight over her, muscles taut beneath his shirt.

“Good girl,” he murmured, teeth grazing the shell of her ear, his breath ragged and hot. “But don’t think you get to decide everything.”

Joe didn’t hesitate. His hands traveled over her body with purpose—rough, demanding—skimming the curves, tracing the outline of her ribs, cupping her breasts firmly through the fabric of her bra.

He yanked the straps down in one practiced motion, baring her to him completely.

Angel gasped at the sudden chill, the feel of his warm hands on her skin igniting sparks that roared through her veins.

“I always get what I want,” he whispered darkly, trailing kisses along her collarbone, biting lightly as he made his way down the expanse of her neck.

His hands roamed lower, fingers trailing teasing patterns down her stomach, before hooking into the band of her bra and pulling it free.

Joe’s mouth descended onto one breast, tongue flicking over the hardened nipple while his other hand tightened on the other, pinching and rolling the sensitive skin between his fingers.

Angel’s head fell back against the pillow, a moan slipping from her lips, raw and unguarded.

“Say my name,” he demanded, voice thick with authority and desire.

Angel swallowed hard, eyes fluttering open to meet his masked gaze. “Ghostface.”

“Good.” His grip on her tightened just enough to make her gasp again. “Because tonight, you belong to me. Every scream, every shiver—it’s mine.”

The mask made every touch feel electric, every sound a whisper of danger. It freed Joe to be bolder, rougher—the perfect predator to her willing prey.

And Angel? She was lost in it—wild and free under his control, craving the delicious torment only Ghostface could deliver.

His voice was a growl as he pulled back just enough to speak, breath ragged and heavy.

“Ready for the finale, baby?”

She nodded breathlessly, voice barely a whisper: “Always.”

He paused for a heartbeat, eyes dark and focused, before reaching up and tugging at the hem of his shirt. The fabric slipped over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the taut planes of his chest and the defined ridges of his abs. The soft overhead light caught the sheen of sweat on his skin, highlighting every muscle as it shifted beneath her touch. Then he pulled the mask back to cover the lower part of his face.

Angel’s nails traced a slow, deliberate path down his torso, dragging lightly but leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. He shuddered under her fingers, a low growl vibrating in his throat as the delicate scratch of her nails ignited sparks along his skin. The tension in his body thickened, every breath growing heavier, more deliberate.

His cock sprang free of his sweats as he pushed them down, the head red and slick, dripping with pre-cum. He fisted it tight and rubbed it through her folds, the friction and heat making her hips buck up off the bed, seeking that final connection.

“Scream for me, baby,” he growled before pushing into her—slow at first, then in one hard, deep thrust.

The force of it knocked the breath out of her lungs, her walls tightening around him, adjusting to his size. She was already sensitive, still pulsing from her first orgasm, and the feeling of him filling her, stretching her, was almost too much to bear.

Her back arched, nails digging into his shoulders as he set a punishing pace. Each thrust hard, deep—hitting that spot inside her that made her vision blur at the edges.

“Please—” she gasped, her voice breaking on a ragged cry as he angled his hips differently, grinding against her clit with each drive.

“Please what?” he taunted, slowing his pace just enough to make her whine, hips chasing the release that was so close, so close.

Her hands scrambled down his back, nails leaving red welts along his skin, gripping his ass and trying to pull him deeper—harder—faster.

“Say it,” he hissed, his control clearly slipping, sweat slicking his back as he fought to hold back, to make this last. To give her everything she needed.

“I need—”

“More?” he offered, hips snapping faster, cock throbbing as he felt her pulse around him. “You want more?”

“Yes!” she cried, her head thrashing against the pillows, hair wild around her flushed face. “God, yes, please—”

He didn’t make her ask again. He drove into her with a ferocity that bordered on animalistic, teeth bared, the mask still hiding his face as he pounded into her, chasing his own release while driving her higher and higher.

He reaches up and wraps a hand around her throat, watching as her eyes roll. "Feel good? Yeah you love being taken like this don't you Angel? Say it." he demanded and squeezed feeling her pulse thrum beneath his touch. "Yes--fuck--yes I love it Mr. Ghostface." she cried out and he smirked, his pace slowing once more.

He could see the frustration in her eyes as he slowed, that edge just out of reach. She squirmed beneath him, trying to find that friction, that release. But he held her firm, hips grinding against her slowly, torturously.

“Look at me,” he growled, his voice thick with lust, his own control barely hanging on. “Fucking look at me when I take you.”

Angel’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze through the holes of the mask. The intensity there was electric, consuming, and she felt herself falling into it, drowning in the dark promise of release.

He released her throat and leaned forward, his hands pinning hers beside her head as he drove into her with deep, powerful strokes.. “Mine,” he snarled against her lips, his thrusts growing erratic, harder, as he felt himself barreling towards the edge. “You’re fucking mine.”

Angel nodded frantically, her own climax coiling tight and hot in her core. “Yours,” she gasped, her legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him in deeper. “Always yours.”

That was all it took.

His control snapped.

Joe’s hips snapped forward once, a sharp, powerful motion that sent a surge of heat coursing through them both. Then again, twice—each thrust driving him deeper, closer to the edge he’d been holding back for too long. His body tensed, muscles coiling like springs ready to snap. With a final, shuddering pulse, he buried himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself, spilling into her with a raw, primal force.

The suddenness of his release sent a jolt through Angel, igniting a fire she couldn’t hold back. Her body clenched around him instinctively, squeezing tight, the rhythm of her own climax crashing over her in waves. She gasped, nails digging fiercely into the flesh of his back—hard enough to draw faint, sharp lines of pain that mingled perfectly with the pleasure. The sensation sent him even further over the edge, a low groan escaping past the mask he still held loosely in one hand.

Then, without hesitation, Joe dropped the mask, pressing his lips to hers in a deep, searing kiss. Their mouths moved together—hungry, searching, desperate. The world shrank down to just the two of them, breath mingling, hearts pounding in sync beneath sweat-slicked skin.

For a long moment, they stayed locked like that, tangled in the aftermath of their storm, neither willing to break the connection. The room was silent except for the soft sounds of their ragged breathing and the occasional creak of the bed beneath them.

Slowly, carefully, Joe lowered his weight onto her, mindful of her smaller frame beneath him. His chest pressed against hers, still warm and rising with heavy breaths. His lips found the sensitive skin of her neck, nuzzling and kissing lightly, as if afraid to let go.

“Fuck, Angel,” he murmured, voice rough and hoarse, fingers tracing lazy circles along her spine. “Every time with you is…” He faltered, searching her eyes for the right words that always seemed to escape him.

Angel smiled softly, curling a hand in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, feeling the tremors still rippling through his body. “Life-changing?” she offered gently, her voice husky and full of affection.

Joe chuckled, a deep, vibrating sound that settled warmly in her chest. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice low and sure. “Something like that.” He lifted his head just enough to look into her eyes, his gaze steady and fierce. “I love you, you know that?”

Angel smiled softly, curling a hand in the thick curls at the nape of his neck, feeling the tremors still rippling through his body. “I know,” she said gently, her voice husky and full of affection. “And I love you too.” She smirked playfully, brushing a finger teasingly against his jaw. “I can tell you don’t regret buying that mask.”

Joe’s lips curved into a slow, mischievous grin before he bit her playfully on the finger, a low chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. “Not even a little,” he teased, voice rough but tender.

Angel laughed softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement. “Good,” she whispered, drawing him closer.

Angel barely had time to catch her breath before she felt him move again—Joe’s hands dragging slowly up her thighs, rough palms gliding over sweat-damp skin and grazing the curve of her ass like he was rediscovering her all over again. The heat of him radiated down her back, seeping into her bones. She shivered, a tremor passing through her limbs despite the sweltering aftermath of what they’d just done. Her body was still trembling from the aftershocks, thighs sticky, muscles twitching, breath coming in shallow pulls.

“You good?” Joe’s voice was low, gravel rough from exertion and desire, but laced with something gentler underneath. Something tender. Protective.

Angel turned her head on the cushion, her cheek pressed against the cool fabric, curls sticking to her temple. She smiled, hazy and breathless, but her eyes were sharp with mischief. “Better than good,” she said, dragging her fingers down his arm. Then she cocked a brow and added, “But I think you forgot something.”

Joe blinked down at her, confused for half a beat—until she reached out lazily, fingers fumbling over the side of the bed until they closed around something plastic. She pulled it up between them with a dramatic flourish.

The Ghostface mask.

She dangled it from one finger, the black hood swaying beneath it, and bit her lip through a grin. “No, please don’t kill me, Mr. Ghostface,” she said in a mock-panic voice, eyes glinting. “I wanna be in the sequel.”

Joe huffed a short laugh, one side of his mouth lifting into a wicked smirk. “Oh no,” he said darkly, taking it from her hand. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

He sat back on his knees, still straddling her thighs, and raised the mask with deliberate slowness. The second he slipped it over his head, the energy between them shifted like a dropped match in a gas leak—igniting something dangerous and electric in the air. The white, grinning leer of the mask turned him from her sweet, playful boyfriend into something else. Something rougher. Wilder. More dangerous.

Angel’s breath caught hard in her chest. Fuck.

Joe leaned over her slowly, the black hood of the costume hanging like a veil over his broad shoulders, his bare chest framed by shadows. When he spoke, his voice was distorted, hollow and low behind the plastic. “What’s your favorite position, baby?”

Angel’s pulse fluttered. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, but it was too late—he already knew. Her body betrayed her every time. “Surprise me,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and thick with anticipation.

He didn’t waste time. His hands gripped her hips roughly, possessively, flipping her and pulling her up onto her knees. Her elbows gave a shaky bend as he pushed her upper body forward until her cheek was flush against the pillow, back arched perfectly for him. He swept her curls out of the way in a single, fluid motion, exposing the elegant slope of her neck. She gasped as his fingers slid between her thighs again—still soaked, still throbbing—and a low, filthy groan rumbled from behind the mask.

“You really are a dirty little victim,” he rasped, fingers dragging slowly through her folds. “Still this wet? You like getting hunted, Angel?”

“And you’re a sick bastard,” she breathed, flashing a grin even as her legs trembled. “Why is that turning you on?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.

He gripped her thighs tighter, held her steady, and pushed into her in one slow, deliberate thrust. She cried out, her mouth falling open as he filled her again, every inch sliding in like he was carving his name inside her. Her body clenched around him, still hypersensitive, but still so fucking ready.

This time wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t fast or chaotic.

It was worse.

Joe stayed deep, hips rolling in slow, devastating waves that had her gasping, moaning, clawing at the cushions. Each grind of his hips pressed right against her sweet spot, and the weight of his body behind her made it impossible to escape. She didn’t want to. She wanted to drown in it. In him.

One of his hands slipped beneath her, fingers finding her clit and circling it with maddening precision. The other slid up the back of her neck, fingers wrapping around her throat—not enough to choke, just enough to hold her still, to remind her who was in control.

Behind the mask, his breathing was ragged. “You love this, don’t you?” he growled. “Knowing I’m behind you, hard as fuck, mask on… knife in hand.”

“Fuck,” she whimpered, body buckling beneath him. “Yes. Yes, Joe—”

He squeezed just enough to make her gasp. “That’s not my name.”

She choked out a laugh, breathless and ruined. “Ghostface. Fuck, Ghostface…”

“Mm.” His thrusts picked up just slightly, harder now, deeper. “You’re my favorite victim, Angel.”

That broke her.

She moaned so loud it echoed off the walls, her knees slipping against the sheets as her body struggled to keep up with the brutal pleasure building again. Joe didn’t let her fall—he held her firm, relentless in his rhythm, burying himself deeper, his control slipping at the edges.

And when he leaned down, chest slick against her back, lips brushing her ear beneath the mask, his voice turned velvet and venom.

“You gonna scream for me, pretty girl?”

Angel shattered.

Her orgasm hit like a freight train—violent, all-consuming, ripping through her body like fire. Her muscles locked, her cry sharp and broken as her whole world splintered into heat and light. Her hands scrambled for something to hold onto, nails dragging down the couch as she shook around him, spasming in wave after wave of release.

Joe groaned low and dark, stuttering inside her as he came too, spilling into her with a final, savage thrust that had both of them gasping. He stayed buried deep, his body slumping over hers as the tension bled out of him all at once.

They lay there for a moment—silent, trembling, breath catching like hiccups in the thick air.

Joe’s hand splayed across her stomach, anchoring her to him, unwilling to let go.

Then, slowly, he reached up and peeled the mask off, dropping it onto the floor with a dull thud. His forehead pressed to her shoulder as he let out a breathless, shaky laugh.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

Angel grinned, turning her head just enough to kiss the corner of his mouth. “And you love it.”

He kissed her back—slow, deep, and tender in a way that made her heart ache. “That was fucking wild.”

She smirked. “You still have all of October to survive, baby.”

Joe groaned, collapsing onto the cushions beside her. His cock twitched where it rested between them, already showing signs of life again. “Angel…” he warned, but his voice cracked with exhaustion and want. “I’m gonna die tonight.”

She giggled, licking the edge of his jaw with mock sweetness. “Then scream for me, Mr. Ghostface.”

And from the way his hand slid down her thigh again, the hunt wasn’t over yet.

[boss-poss]

See, Lethal Company's real genius is that it somehow marries two normally opposed genres, those being horror and comedy together into something greater. Mechanically it's a multiplayer looter extraction survival type game. It's designed to create stressful and scary situations by forcing you to speedrun mini randomized dungeons while monsters hunt your character to meet a certain quota (our asses are not making quota). That's not the clever part though, no, that's giving the players the ability to fuck themselves over and the hilarity that comes from it.

Anything you say into your mic is said in the game world and can be heard by certain monsters. Many items, similarly, can be used to make noise and you can bet there is little impulse control when a player finds an air horn or gets a walkie talkie. The sound of a distant honk somewhere out of nowhere is not something most players are prepared for while in a pitch black maze. Sound in this game has a doppler effect, which makes it harder to hear the further away the source is, allowing screams to fade into nothing and unintelligible yelling heard for a second before vanishing. You must rely on your senses but those are, by design, limited and regularly tricked.

Because level layouts, monster locations, and item spawns are all random, it's insanely easy to get lost or lose track of thigs, especially in the dark and especially when panicking. Seeing a bracken for the first time will almost certainly send a player running in the opposite direction and get lost, if they even see it all. No one is prepared to have a hand wrap around their face and snap their neck in an instant. It's utterly shocking and will leave you gasping in surprise to first time you experience it.

Certain weather patterns make levels harder, some even nearly impossible (looking at you eclipse), and sometimes your options are avoiding deadly lightning or not being able to see due to fog. High level moons have excessively valuable loot but also feature the worst foes and cost a fee to access, forcing a compromise between greed, ability, and resources.

Dying, likewise incurs a penalties. Your team is fined for dying and not bringing the bodies back but if you all die, all your collected loot goes poof. Gone. A team wipe can and will effectively end the run in an instant if you do something stupid like stick around when you hear "pop goes the weasel" or try to pick up that funny looking roomba. You can almost feel the pressure weighing down on your shoulders when you realize you're the last one left and you need to get back to the ship or miss the quota.

The monsters likewise, are engines of terror that are comically effective killing machines with no cohesive theme to help anticipate them. The already mentioned bracken is one of the scariest things I've seen in a game, and those technically aren't even that bad. They're completely manageable if you keep your head on a swivel and pay attention to your surroundings. Coilheads are these mannequins with bobble heads that will path to and kill you in a microsecond the moment you aren't looking at them, weeping angel style. There's a thing called the ghost girl that I have yet to see but is apparently one of the most terrifying critters in the menagerie. Forest giants. If you know, you know.

All these little mechanics, these choices that are made by and for the player, create a maelstrom of unpredictable chaos that, like a buxom blond transforming into an orgasming pooltoy, turns what would be strictly serious horror into a unique form of dark comedy that layers over it like jelly on peanut butter. You are scared, you are on edge, and it only gets worse when you know what these things are capable of, but the sheer hopelessness is something you all have in common. It's funny how little hope you have. You will die. A monster will wipe your team. There will eventually come a quota you can't beat. You were doomed from the start.

So why not get silly with it? Why not try to fight that bracken with shovel? Fuck him. Why not just run past a turret and try to nab that fat jar of pickles? Why not wander off from the group? You're just as likely to come back with arms loaded and the quota met as you are likely to not come back at all. You're already dead, so take the gamble, do stupid shit, repeat this hell until you can meet its horrors with grim determination and put in the effort to afford that goddamn boombox. Dance. Just press 1 and dance the fear away.

You are all united in your mortality and duty, fragile sacks of flesh working to break even at the behest of perhaps the greatest horror of all: The company you work for. You are so preposterously fucked beyond all belief from every angle there really isn't enough adjectives to describe it. And that's comedy baby, when things are so bad all you can do is laugh.

[ariadne-mouse]

I wonder if a Predathos mini already exists. What does it look like. Is it even a mini. Is it a macro. Is it a red fog machine

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

Can you do Josh headcanons of being a dad to a boy that’s really into horror?

(A mini pete

Josh Levy as a Dad to a Horror-Loving Son: Headcanons

He tries to hide his discomfort—but he’s so weirded out.

The first time his son says, “I like the monster more than the people,” Josh nearly chokes on his cereal. He stammers something like, “That’s… deeply concerning, but okay! We all have… tastes!”

He desperately tries to redirect the interest—at first.

“Hey buddy, instead of watching The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, how about we explore sci-fi horror? Like Alien! It’s scary, but there’s space!” His son just goes, “Okay. But only if we watch Hereditary after.” Josh turns pale.

Eventually, he caves and leans into it—but with heavy supervision.

“You can watch Poltergeist, but if you repeat one creepy line at bedtime, I’m calling a priest.” He ends up sitting through half the movies with a pillow over his face while his son is laser-focused and totally unfazed.

He 100% buys him horror merch and pretends he understands it.

“You wanted... the guy with the pins in his head? Sure, that’s not horrifying at all. Do you want the plushie or the mug?”

He accidentally bonds harder than expected.

They start watching horror classics together, and suddenly Josh finds himself getting into it. He’s overanalyzing symbolism and camera angles and ranting about practical effects like it’s his passion now.

He becomes the most defensive parent on Earth.

If another parent judges his son for being into spooky stuff? Josh goes on a long, mildly aggressive monologue:

“Maybe if your kid had a creative outlet, he wouldn’t be biting other kids during recess, Linda. Let mine paint his little zombie apocalypse in peace.”

He draws a HARD LINE at anything too gory.

“You’re not watching Saw until you’re, like, 25. I don’t care if you say it has ‘good traps.’ You can trap your imagination. That’s what you can do.”

Halloween becomes their Super Bowl.

Josh lets his kid go nuts with decorations—fake guts on the porch, sound-activated screams, the whole works. He acts annoyed, but he always wears a dumb themed costume like “sexy Dracula cape dad.”

They do horror movie marathons with “Dad-safe” zones.

The living room gets split into “Kid Zone” and “Josh’s Coward Corner,” complete with snacks, commentary, and a plushie Josh throws at the screen when jump scares happen.

He starts bragging to people about his “creepy little horror genius.”

“My son made a stop-motion zombie movie in third grade. Did your kid do that, or does he still just eat paste?”

He supports him, even if he’s not totally sure what’s going on.

Whether it’s helping build a haunted house in the garage or cheering at a school talent show where his son performs a dramatic reading of The Raven, Josh always shows up—nervous, confused, and wildly proud.

Absolutely! Josh Levy raising a horror-loving son? That’s a perfect mix of neurotic theater kid meets little weirdo energy. Here are some headcanons that show the chaos, heart, and slightly unhinged love:

He was not prepared.

Josh expected to raise a mini Trekkie or a comic book snob—not a six-year-old asking if they can “watch the one where the girl’s head turns all the way around.” He starts with “classic horror” like he’s teaching a film class.

“Okay, kid—if you must enjoy terrifying media, you’re gonna do it right. Black and white. Practical effects. No jumpscares-for-likes garbage.” They watch Creature from the Black Lagoon together. Josh pretends it’s boring, but secretly? He’s loving this little bonding thing.

He goes way too hard on Halloween.

Once he realizes this horror thing isn’t a phase, he leans in way too much. Their house becomes the house on the block. Fog machines. Props. An animatronic witch that made the neighbor’s toddler cry. Josh is proud.

He absolutely gets peer-pressured into horror cosplay.

His son: “You have to be Frankenstein. I’ll be the mad scientist.”

Josh: “Why can’t I be the scientist?”

Son: “Because you’re taller and have bolts in your neck emotionally.”

He has to learn to balance boundaries and weirdness.

Like when his son brings fake intestines to school or draws “a haunted daycare full of ghosts who can’t escape naptime.” Josh is like, “Okay, cool creative expression—but let’s maybe not show that one to your teacher yet.”

He starts writing horror parody bedtime stories.

Like Freddy Krueger But He Works at Trader Joe’s, or Jason Voorhees Goes to Therapy. His son howls with laughter. It becomes their thing.

He lowkey starts loving horror through his kid.

He still covers his eyes sometimes, still over-analyzes everything (“There’s no way that chainsaw would rev underwater”), but watching his son light up during a zombie makeup tutorial? That’s everything.

He gets protective about how his son enjoys horror.

He makes sure it never becomes mean-spirited. “Scary is fine. Cruel isn’t.” He teaches him to root for the Final Girls, to appreciate atmosphere over gore, and to never be that guy online.

And he’s so proud of how weird and specific his son is.

Even if he has to say things like,

“No, you cannot bring fake blood to show-and-tell again,”

or

“Yes, I do think your drawing of a vampire accountant is technically accurate.”

He’s still the dad in the theater aisle, whispering movie trivia and sneaking snacks, just as in love with this strange, spooky kid as he was the day he first held him.

[spirit-lanterns]

I for real thought of something. You know how us anons said that Xilonen would fuck us to music..? I was thinking about it the same way for Rappa. Rappa generally putting on some of the raps she created and fuck us to the beat of it

I can never escape the music fucking. I brought it up once with Kafka, and now it has come back to haunt me on several occasions 😨 /lh

But Rappa fucking you to the beat of her own raps is so in character. Why even focus on her thrusts when you could focus on the absolute concert she’s giving you during sex. Rappa seems like the type to put on a whole light show and everything, maybe even some fog machines so it’s like you’re getting fucked in a rave.

Of course, she wouldn’t do this if you get overstimulated easily, but Rappa does seem like the type to tamper with sounds and lights to make sex a real show to you. Imagine whenever your house starts emitting neon lights from the window, your neighbor across the street is like “oh. They’re fucking again” even though they can’t hear any moans or bed squeaks. They just know from the mini light show in your house that Rappa is ravaging you as we speak 😭😭

[dearstvckyx]

Flufftober | 10.29 |

Trick Or Treat - Quinn Hughes

Halloween night falls over your neighborhood with a cool breeze, and you’re all bundled up to start trick-or-treating: you, Quinn, and your two little ones, Finn Jackson and Genevieve Ellen. It’s one of those perfect fall evenings where leaves crunch underfoot, and the glow of jack-o’-lanterns lights up each doorstep.

Finn, your 7-year-old “superhero”, is wear a Deadpool costumer with so much enthusiasm it’s infectious. “Mom, Dad, I have the plan,” he says, leading the way. “We start at the house with the skeleton, skip the house with the lame candy bowls, and finish at the haunted mansion.” He nods as if he’s cracked the candy code.

Genevieve, your 3-year-old princess, clings to Quinn’s shoulder, gazing wide-eyed at the decorations. Her pink dress sparkles under each porch light, and she’s holding onto her mini pumpkin bucket like it’s her treasure. “Daddy, scary!” she whispers when she spots a particularly spooky skeleton, hiding her face in his sweater.

“Oh, no need to worry, Princess Vivi,” Quinn assures her, brushing her hair from her face. “Daddy’s here. Skeletons don’t stand a chance against us.”

At each house, Genevieve waits until Finn makes his bold superhero moves, showing off his “dance” to the neighbors, which always gets laughs and an extra piece of candy. Then, with a shy little voice, she whispers her own “trick or treat,” holding out her bucket before scampering back to Quinn, who gives her a wink and a reassuring pat on her tiny tiara-clad head.

Meanwhile, you’re holding onto the extra candy bag Quinn insisted on bringing “just in case,” but you both know it’s for his late-night snack stash. “Not stealing from the kids, are you?” you tease, nudging him. He gives you a mock-offended look, pretending to guard the bag with exaggerated seriousness. “Hey, I’m just making sure it’s all safe.”

As you make your way down the block, Finn makes a running dive towards a house with inflatable ghosts, shouting, “Don’t worry, everyone! I’ll protect you!” Genevieve gasps and claps, fully believing in her big brother’s “hero” powers. The house owners laugh, dropping an extra candy bar into Finn’s bag.

When you reach the last house—the famous “haunted mansion” Finn had on his map—Genevieve clings to both you and Quinn, giggling nervously as she watches Finn bravely approach the door. Quinn leans down, whispering, “We can do this, right, Princess Vivi?” She gives a big, brave nod and clutches her pumpkin bucket with a determined look.

The door creaks open, revealing an impressively spooky setup with fog machines and cobwebs galore. Finn takes it all in stride, flashing his best superhero smile as he collects his candy, while Genevieve holds Quinn’s hand tightly but manages a tiny “trick or treat.”

As you all head home, Quinn wraps an arm around you, glancing at the kids—Finn recounting his “heroic” moments of the night and Genevieve, still marveling at the treasures in her pumpkin bucket.

“Think the sugar rush was worth it?” Quinn murmurs, pulling you a bit closer.

You chuckle, watching your little superheroes and princesses make their way down the street. “Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

[goose-consumer]

Nephrite Lore + Personality

And her timeline sheet

Nephrite as I mentioned in the mini post is a gremlin without her limb enhancers. When stripped of them, she turns much more feral and aggressive, completely losing her unamused mask that followed her around with the enhancers. The truth is that under the 'capture' of the Crystal Gems, Nephrite was akin to a cornered animal. She lashed out and bit, clawing at any who dared to get too close. It is only when she establishes a tenuous allyship with Steven does Nephrite begin to calm down. From there, Nephrite begrundingly begins to develop respect for not only Steven but the rest of the Crystal Gems. Only after calling White Diamond a self-entitled goober does she truly flip sides and become part of the Crystal Gems, their first fresh member in centuries.

Nephrite never returns to being quietly grumpy and calculating, but that is because she never really was that way. The real, unfilitered Nephrite is loud, angry and not-so-secretly clingy. The 'worse' she treats you, the closer Nephrite feels to you, and her many insults never pack the punch they used to. It is all meaningless fighting for the sake of fighting, because that is essentially her love language. This is most seen in her relationship with the gem she mutually pines for, Sapphire. When Sapphire first invaded the cabin, Nephrite was enraged to say the least. The two would constantly clash, with Nephrite yelling at Sapphire for hours while she would coldly reply or ignore the other. The only real development in their relationship would be when Sapphire pushed through her mental fog and managed to predict that homeworld gems would be coming to Earth. Nephrite was completely caught off guard by this and from there their relationship bloomed. Nephrite and Sapphire still appear to be in the exact same cycle, but the dynamic is born of pure affection now. Each retort and insult doesn't hold any weight, even though from an untrained eye it would seem they hate eachother.

Today, Nephrite teaches meep morps at little homeschool via legos, as Steven introduced her to them when she first settled in and she has been obsessed since. She is a strong member of the CGs B team, and alongside Pumpkin, Sapphire and Bismuth make sure that everything goes smoothly at little homeschool while Steven and the others are away. She is the rabid gremlin chiwawa of the CGs and their most trusted pilot, engineer and lego aficionado.

Next up will be Prasiolite, the machine of brute force and violence. After this I will have finished introducing all the characters for now. The Diamonds have been designed but I plan on introducing them in the future so there is some mystery and hype around em. The Blue Steven Au is almost going to be officially kicking off, and with that will come the dedicated blog and more fun content! I'm thinking of maybe making it one of those ask character blogs that tumblr used to have tons of since it sounds super fun, feel free to share your thoughts on that in the comments. The asks would be outta canon but I still think it could be a lot of fun to have alongside the official story.

[pokidot]

HALLOWEEN PARTY 😣 with anyone idk Mandela scara and yn dress up silly, yn outfit so low budget no one can tell who or what they’re dressed as 🤓

OMG!!!!!! 😄 THANK YOU SAUR MUCH NI

“Just stomp your feet, and clap your hands,” Venti slurred on his words, swaying back and forth to the music as he clapped his hands together on cue in his own drunken rhythm, “C’mon everybody, it’s the hamster dance! Dibidi di dibi do do…”

“Maybe I’ve gone insane and this is the last semblance of sanity.” Aether muttered, half to himself.

The ghost club's Halloween party was held in the dimly lit basement of the old building on campus, ironically enough. But the eerie charm of it was perfect considering everybody wanted a cheap thrill. Faded brick walls lining up with the ill-assorted, weathered posters from previous meetings in here of some obscure club loomed over. The lights they painted with highlighters flickering in the glow of cheap looking orange and purple fairy lights.

Every now and then, there would be a shadow that would tango across, thanks to this ancient disco ball that would creak as it spun, broken pieces of light across the space. Decorations were even funnier, because nobody had the money to get them except Kuni (and they had too much pride to ask him).

Plastic skeletons, some with missing limbs, this old Freddy Krueger mannequin from 1997, and worn rickety tables filled with party food and a punch bowl that was probably laced.

In one corner, the mini fog machine Heizou brought with him sputtered every now and then. It sent sporadic clouds that mixed with the scent of incense wafting from the air, insisted by him to "enhance spiritual ambience". But because of how dusty the area already was, it didn't really do anything to cleanse and everyone opted to coughing anyway.

The costumes were equally as awful; Venti was a very biblically accurate King Julian, complete with a makeshift crown and painted-on stripes, Xiao cut holes into a sheet and went as a ghost, Kazuha went as Little Red Riding Hood, alternatively Heizou went as the Big Bad Wolf...? Aether came as a vampire, and Hu Tao came as herself! She was scary enough.

There was low-budget charm when Kuni, who was dressed at Ghostface, came in with you...a misfit among misfits. "You guys need to do your part and drive them next time, I'm tired of them fucking with my radio."

"I wanted to play spooky music! Is that a crime?!" You put a hand on your chest in an offended manner, your costume so haphazardly thrown together that you pieced together whatever odds and end you found.

He sighed, tone laced with a weary patience that somehow managed to carry a warmth. "There's a difference between spooky music, and playing Crazy Frog on blast while I'm trying to drive through an uncontrolled intersection."

"Crazy Frog is spooky if you have a 101 degree fever and chug Nyquil," You shot back, crossing your arms in faux conviction. "You have no idea what I've been through to survive that niche."

"I'm sure." Kuni gave a resigned snort, muttering something smart under his breath as he turned his gaze to the others. "This party looks like shit, but this is exactly what I expect from you lot."

"Excuse you!" Aether gasped, he mock-scandalized as he adjusted his vampire cape, trying to salvage some dignity. "We were actually on a budget, so unless you're willing to get down on your knees and start begging for forgiveness, I'd keep your wits to yourself!"

Kuni's eyes gleamed with hints of snark. "And you thought that something that looks like a kid's birthday party where all the parents are divorced and on bad terms was the vibe you wanted to give off?"

"Well, when you put it that way, it sounds like you want to be the only single dad." Heizou grinned, but his eyes held a more teasing leer. "Too bad, that's my role here."

Kazuha's eyebrows raised. "And who are the kids? The rest of us?"

You narrowed your eyes, your lips curling into a smirk. "He won't be a single dad for long with how bad I'm seducing him with my costume right now. Look at him. Can't even stay off of me."

"Can't stay off you..?" Kuni echoed dryly, his eyes moving to your shoddy costume as he pursed his lips, trying to make out something in his head. A single brow arching behind the mask. "Who are you even supposed to be?"

"Tinker Bell, obviously!"

The entire room went quiet, the basement inhaling the collective silence at every head turned, eyes blinking in a blend of restrained words. Hu Tao's mouth dropped at your response. "...But avant-garde, right?"

"That was my last guess." Xiao said.

Your big smile dropped, and you threw your hands up, adopting a comically dramatic attitude. "Guys, I have a WAND. Who else has a wand with green clothes on?!"

"Smells a lot like Slytherin." Heizou whispered, squinting.

The green top that didn't match the skirt, the DIY wings held together by duct tape, vaguely sparkly sneakers you decided were close enough to fairy shoes. You looked accomplished standing there in your glory, "I'm pushing boundaries. Redefining what Tinker Bell is, anybody can be the Big Bell, even me!"

Venti started crying immediately, tears welling in his eyes. "Amazing!" He shouted. "A true artist in the rough! A groundbreaking interpretation! We need to ship you off to art school, you don't even need this shoddy college!" He raised an invisible bottle in his hand that was confiscated by Kazuha about 13 minutes ago.

"Finally, someone who APPRECIATES a good costume. I don't see any of you actually trying to look original, so I'm not intimidated."

"You look like Tinker Bell stranded at a yard sale." Kuni deadpanned, voice oozing with playful skepticism.

You flashed a mildly displeased scowl at the witticism, but even though you knew they were being half-hearted and didn't really care that much, YOU WERE STILL granted the name 'Budget Bell' the entire night. They refused to call you by your actual name. And since that Halloween party, it became a running joke and a strange point of ego...the legend that you were.

Safe to say, you knew the exact people you were going to sacrifice to the Lochness Monster once you find him.

[cleolinda]

I grew up in a haunted house and I didn’t notice

This is not a story about boo ghosts or shadow people. If it were, I would have figured it out, at least.

When I say "I grew up in a haunted house and I didn't notice," you have to understand that there was a lot going on with this house. It's not the house that I've written about currently living in, the one with newspaper and soda cans stuffed where insulation should have been, the one with constant home-repair calamities. No, my childhood home was a crumbling pile of red brick built in the 1920s. Narnia was in the backyard, and the back deck was my ship on the high seas. The house was surrounded by banks of flowers, lilies and irises and roses, and it was full of creepy shit I didn’t even blink at. I loved it.

It didn't look haunted, or even particularly historical. It was almost disappointingly normal—I lived on a street with a house that had a turret, for God's sake. No, it was just old and small. There's a lot of pre-Depression houses getting torn down in these suburbs; my town has been awash in construction for the last 20-30 years as people buy up cheap old houses, raze them, and squeeze mini-mansions onto their tiny lots, all to get their kids into a good school system. It gives me a chill to think of it, but yeah, that might happen to my childhood home someday, small and plain and unassuming as it is. My pirate ship has already been renovated into an extra bedroom, the new owners told us.

When we moved into the house in 1983, though—it had clearly been renovated in the '60s or '70s; the wallpaper was hideous, and the upstairs bathroom was carpeted. Shag-carpeted. The house had closets the size of shoeboxes; my bedroom, the one with the peach wallpaper, didn't even have one. The room down the hall had four, including one cut into the wall, under a slanted ceiling tucked beneath the roof, that looked like you'd stash a witch there when the Salem HOA came by. There was a fan in the attic—well, first of all, the attic was just one more room on that upstairs floor. It was directly across from the (carpeted) bathroom, and that room (lit by one ominous, hanging bulb) was just a short corridor with storage spaces on either side, hidden behind big sliding doors. And the fan at the very end was built into the brick outer wall of the house. Like our house was functionally open to the elements, between the blades of that fan. I have no idea what the fuck anyone was thinking when they built that, and how the fuck anyone kept the wildlife out.

We certainly couldn't. Squirrels lived in the roof and bowled with acorns. It was like listening to a pinball machine at night. I have an abject horror of cockroaches because sometimes an adventurous one would fall off the ceiling in the middle night, onto me, while I was trying to sleep. (Like, try to imagine that—you’re awakened from a dead sleep by a vague, paper-light skittering sensation up and down your arm. When Pennywise comes to me, he will show up as a cockroach.) But wait! There was more! We had herds of crickets in the basement that felt compelled to jump at people. Sometimes there were centipedes! Those were polite enough to only come out at night. In the dark.

By the way, that basement was totally unfinished. I don't mean that it just had exposed beams or concrete walls. I mean that the basement had uneven, mostly shoulder-high masonry walls, and then it was just open on three sides, extending under the rest of the house. Like just dry red Alabama earth and rocks and grainy dust tumbling around in this vast, dark—it wasn't even a crawl space, a child could have stood upright in it. This child? Oh fuck no. And the washer and dryer were down there. I had to creep down there, down a rickety plank staircase, past the staring dark caverns of my own basement, through a low-lying fog of aggressive crickets, go BEHIND THE STAIRCASE, and then do my laundry there. There was also a firewood pile by an old fridge, and only God knew what was under that.

None of this was haunted. All of this was completely normal to me. This isn't even the haunted part.

So let's go back upstairs. The ground floor was lovely, homey, fine except for the time the living room ceiling fell out due to water damage. Upstairs was where it got weird. I've talked about being mildly bullied as an unknowingly autistic child; home was where I felt safe. In my bedroom upstairs, I had all those My Little Ponies and my easel with all my crayon-drawn fantasy maps and all the stories I wrote. It didn't matter if roaches fell on me in the deeps of the night; home, that's where I was happy. So when I was a young kid and I felt like a vampire was following me down the hall at night, I assumed I was just being silly.

I was aware of vampires in the 1980s as, like, the Count on Sesame Street (ah ah aaah), and Count Chocula, and Count Duckula on Nickelodeon, and the Bunnicula books that I loved. As a kid, I wasn't aware of movies like The Lost Boys or Near Dark, or any vampires that weren't broad caricatures of the Bela Lugosi look. I loved Spooky Stuff—I'm from the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark generation—but vampires didn't scare me.

But when I had to get up in the middle of the night to go down the hall to the (carpeted) bathroom, I always had the sensation that something was following me as I was going back to my room. Something Dark. Not terribly tall, maybe not even much taller than me. And somehow, I visualized this deep in my mind as a vampire. Kind of a silly one, you know, the white-tie formal wear and the ribbon medal and the cape. I wasn't desperately scared that a Chocula was behind me, but I knew that I needed to get back to my room quick, and, at all costs, I must never look back. I must never look over my shoulder or else I would See It, something silly massing in the dark—and, brother, Eurydice would have been safe with me. Never stop running, never look back.

And I'm sure all kinds of kids develop little superstitions like this. It's probably a developmental thing, like having an imaginary friend (which I also had at some point). Even as a seven year old, I was thinking, This is silly, I'm just making it up (but not looking back costs nothing. Not looking at monsters is free). And I continued to think this, until I laughingly told my younger sister this at Sunday Family Dinner one night. We were both in our thirties at that point. And my sister started crying. Like just staring at me in wide-eyed horror, her eyes filling with tears. And she told me that when she had a bedroom upstairs, there was Something in there.

I won't belabor the exact setup, but at one point, we got it into our heads that we'd like to switch bedrooms, just for a change. I was 14, and I moved to her ground floor bedroom with the flowered white wallpaper and the big bright windows, and she went upstairs and took my room with the peach wallpaper and the cool slanted roof-ceiling (and no closet).

There were three other rooms on that upper floor (and I promise you this is important):

1) One was a small, windowless room that we used as a playroom, with weird cerulean blue carpet and sky blue wallpaper, one dim light fixture, and a little door in the wall that led to dark nothing. Like, you opened it, and you were confronted by a mass of pipes and machinery and just enough space to edge leftwards in the dark. Towards what? Fuck if I know, I sure as hell wasn't going in there. I think it was supposed to be for access to the HVAC system. I don't know. It was fucked. But when I was a young child, I had cooked for my baby dolls at our plastic play kitchen right next to that door, nbd, because apparently you put me in a creepy situation and I just go, yeah, we live like this now.

(I had not ever felt alone in that playroom, but I had also been too young to articulate that. Of course I wasn’t alone! I was with my dolls!)

2) The next room was the (shag-carpeted) bathroom. It had a big mirror over the sink counter, very typical, facing a vertical mirror that was behind the bathroom door. I've heard two mirrors facing each other can create a portal for the spirits, if you believe in that kind of thing. I once did the "Bloody Mary" thing there and nothing happened, idk.

3) The next room was the bedroom with four closets, where an older family member lived with us, and when she moved out, my sister moved to that room.

?) The fourth room, not really a room, was the dark, narrow attic.

So, Grownup Family Dinner at my current house, a few years ago: my sister told me that Something had lived in the Four Closets Bedroom with her. I'm not sure if she actually said it lived in the little Hide A Witch closet or if it was just kind of... ambient. I don't know what it looked like, or if we're talking about ghosts or Something... Darker, or what. I don't think she's entirely sure herself. She doesn't like to talk about it in detail a whole lot. What I know is that she felt it was there, and she had chosen that room to sleep in as a young teenager, and not a lot of sleep was to be had.

"I never really sensed anything, like… demonic," I said, puzzled. "Just the Chocula that followed me." And my sister was like, ARE YOU LISTENING TO YOURSELF??

"What about Rebecca??" she sputtered.

Oh, yeah: Rebecca. (A name I've changed at my sister's request.) I had a friend as a teenager who liked to mess around with ouija boards (AM I LISTENING TO MYSELF?), and we did a session at her house one time wherein we discovered that the ghost of a girl? young woman? named Rebecca lived (so to speak) at my house, and she had been murdered by her boyfriend. How we arrived at these specifics, I don’t remember, but I had told my sister about it because I thought it was interesting, and also, I was kind of a shit. My friend also decided she had her own ghost named Dusty. It was all one big [citation needed, footage not found], but it was also part of our family lore.

So, many years later, my sister told me that she had long felt—without knowing about the Chocula—that there were two spirits on the upper floor of our childhood home: the dark one, and a younger, lighter one. I sat there at the kitchen table and thought about it.

"You know, I did kind of feel like there was someone up there, when I was a kid," I said. "Sometimes I would go into the attic, and it felt scary, but like there was something there watching that was okay? Like having a lamp on in a dark room, kind of. It’s weird, because it’s just a feeling, I remember it very clearly, but I didn’t really question it or wonder."

I thought a bit more.

"Oh yeah—there was also the time I just really felt compelled to go color in the playroom by myself at midnight, and it kind of felt like someone was there."

My sister stared at me, saucer-eyed, pale. Like I'm not sure I had ever seen anyone "go white" until that moment.

"Yeah, I just woke up and had this idea—I was maybe nine years old? That it would be super cool to do stuff at night when I was supposed to be asleep, so I got a flashlight and went into the playroom—"

"IN THE DARK??"

"Well, yeah. If I had turned on the light, someone would have seen it and told me to go back to bed. So I set this flashlight on the floor and got out the crayons and colored in one of my coloring books a while. Maybe the She-Ra one?"

Thinking back on it now—of course I was sitting right by the scary door. I think we all, you and I, saw that coming.

"And I had the same feeling I had in the attic. Like someone was sitting on the floor across from me, friendly, I guess I would say female, and it was cool. Like, it was chill."

My sister looked like she was about to pass out.

"I don’t really know how I could sense this then but not really say anything about it, or even think about it, until now," I said, shrugging. "I’m probably imagining it."

I’ll throw in here that one of the dolls I had in that room was a Raggedy Ann. Like, just for extra hilarity, Wee Cleo is hanging out, coloring, at midnight, with a ghost and a fuckin’ Annabelle.

So: My sister is adamant that our childhood home was haunted. And apparently I was entirely blasé about it (maybe possessed?), but then, I was dealing with a lot of suburban wildlife. My problems with that house were far more immediate. And crawly. Nor can we prove that the house was haunted—I certainly haven’t looked up any homicide records—and I don’t think that Vibes, In Retrospect, are valid evidence on my part. But I find it interesting that I knew what she was talking about. I find it interesting that I was like, "Yeah, that was chill." And I find it interesting that when I went away to college, and I lived in a dorm suite where sometimes I’d be the only person there while my roommates were out,

I remember noticing that it was the first time I’d ever felt alone in a room.

Who was that imaginary friend I'd had?

--

I asked my sister to read over this, partly because I wanted to see if she’d be willing to describe the Something Dark.

"Oh, I’ll tell you anything you want," she texted back, "but that’s not how it happened."

[theteasnake]

The Entity: Spider plant thing

Pronouns? Gender doesn't apply to her, but the survivors and killers refer to her as she/her, and she doesn't really care. (She won't admit it, but it is growing on her).

Tired mom vibes, honestly. If she had a brain, she would have 24/7 migraines. Thank God she doesn't.

She technically has a physical form outside of the spider claws. I like to think she stays in the core or center of where the fog is and is just in a comatose state, kind of? Like in order for her to have control over the whole realm, she can't be in control of her physical form. She can only focus on one or the other.

She managed to learn almost every human language to better understand the survivors and killers. She still prefers to talk in her native tongue, tho.

The survivors are kept in a camp in one corner of the realm, far away from where the killers stay. The killers have their own areas, which are mini versions of their maps with a house of some kind if the map doesn't have one.

She has favorites and she has... unpreferred ones. The Trapper is on the second list. She doesn't like him. Or Freddy. She doesn't like Freddy either, but at least he feeds her well.

She gives gifts to those that do well, like cosmetics, charms, or even stuff from their worlds that can't be taken into trials.

She has serious rbf.

Has a phobia of Michael Myers. Myersphobia if you will.

She's hot. No, not sexy hot, she's really warm. The basements probably feel like saunas and smell very misty, like those fog machines.

Depending on how good certain people are, they'll be gifted with technology from their time, it would just be altered a little. For phones and consoles, the Entity made bootleg versions of apps/games, online games are only with fellow people in the realm. The only thing they have access to that's not from the fog is music, cause that's too bothersome to cover.

Despite being known as the Entity's least favorite, the Trapper's realm is the largest compared to the other's. The other's realms had to have some stuff removed from the map to be mini, but the Estate has all of its features from the maps, just smaller. Why? The Entity won't say. Maybe she doesn't dislike him as much as she says. He is the killer that's been there the longest.

It's always nighttime in the fog, making it hard to tell time. The fog does have seasons tho.

She once gave roller skates to the survivors and killers just to see what would happen. So many broken bones. Good meal, but too much cleanup. Only a select few kept their skates.

The ice skates were worse. Blood everywhere. Delicious, but omg she couldn't get the maps cleaned up in time between trials and everyone kept slipping on the blood, and holy shit, it was a blood bath. Not practical.

She's constantly experimenting with things to see what would make the trials more effective.

The Legion was one of her regrets. At this point, the survivors are just annoyed with them and not scared. She should've taken them when they were older.

She feels like it would be pleasant to have tea with Pyramid Head. Too bad she can't eat human food. Also, Michael hangs around PH from time to time.

Has never said a curse word, there isn't one in her native tongue. But she has internally said almost every curse word in every human language. Her favorites are the French ones.

She gets freaked out whenever anyone starts dating. Like, she cringes when it happens. She doesn't understand it and gags when there's pda.

She can change how her voice sounds to others, she tries to make it as creepy as she can for trials.

She used to punish friendly killers, but has since given up and realized it would just lead to a better meal next trial.

Somehow. Some fucking how. Michael just popped up behind the Entity's physical form and it almost killed her. She just sensed a disturbance in the core and just woke up, then turned around. And boom. He was there. Just watching. Staring. He can't hurt her, they both know that, but that fact did not ease any fear she had in that moment. She screamed. She's not proud of it, but she did scream.

Ghostface is a comfort person to her. For some reason. Maybe it's because he treats her as an equal. Or maybe it's cause he's one of the very, very few people who talk to her. Or maybe it's cause he feeds her well. Who knows. All she knows is that she likes spending time with him.

Aroace queen. Cause ew romance and ew sex. Just ew humans.

She likes ribbons or anything resembling ribbons. Why? She doesn't know, she just likes how they look.

Every human that enters the fog immediately gets their reproductive rights removed. Everyone is infertile cause the Entity does not want to deal with babies. Cause ew children.

She thinks it's interesting and weird that there are people that worship her. She would take them, but she has a feeling they would enjoy it too much. Freaky.

Is she a plant? Is she a spider? She's both. Spider plant. At least that's the closest description to what she is for humans.

She finds humans both adorable and disgusting.

[unsaccharine]

I AM NOT GOOD. I AM NOT VIRTUOUS. I AM NOT SYMPATHETIC. I AM NOT GENEROUS. I AM MERELY AND ABOVE ALL A CREATURE OF INTENSE PASSIONATE FEELING...

stats.

full name: maki matsui. age: 28. birthday: august 10th. gender: cis woman [she/her]. orientation: idk man. as long as you're pretty, she'll bite. family: motoi matsui [father], hiroko matsui [mother], miwa matsui [older sister, deceased], name tba [nephew]. occupation: seamstress + designer + perfumer/online business owner? height: 5'1". hair: dyed brown, mid-back length, typically curled or in waves. tattoos: none. style: pretty in pink. pastels, mini skirts, tights, leg warmers, knee high boots or strappy heels, complementary jewellery and nails.

character info.

if her family loves her, maki can’t tell. her parents have no expectations of her, don’t care what she does with her time or her life, their eyes too busy chasing after miwa. how is your sister? have you talked to her lately? tell her to call us back more often. we worry, you know! and her sister, miwa, is nice, is lively, is more important than maki could ever be. to everyone else, maki orbits miwa like an insignificant star. if her sister loves her, she should do it in a way that hurts less.

maki grows up hungry, the black hole in her stomach aching for the love she thinks she’s been deprived of. she kisses people like she’s trying to find something, and when they inevitably disappoint her, unable to fill that pit in her stomach, she finds someone else to try and satisfy that monstrous hunger. she leaves behind a trail of broken hearts, but only a select few in marrow can tell maki is driven not by her hunger, but really her greed. the rest see only her sweet smile, her syrupy words, the shiny pink of her lips, and think she’s just a girl with a want for love. who could blame her for that?

to most, maki is characterised by her sweetness. not especially kind, like her sister, but sweet. flattering. charming. when she curls her lips and bats her lashes, she is the picture of innocence. her fickle nature should get her in trouble more often, if not for her ability to charm her way out of consequence. and if you look hard enough, deep enough, it won’t be difficult to find the rot under all the perfume and the lip gloss. maki just knows how to tame the beast of her anger into something palatable, the monster of her hunger into something pretty. all the pink is a disguise as much as it is armour.

seamstress/designer/perfumer/entrepreneur?: while she doesn't have an office or proper working hours, she has her sewing machine and an eye for aesthetics. what started as a hobby when she was young—altering her own clothes to look cuter, to fit the image of what she had in mind perfectly—turned into something of a skill. she starts with the town, fixing up the holes in her dad's sweater, patching up her mom's old dresses, tailoring trousers for a classmate when they don't fit right, before she eventually ventures online. now she has her own website where she sells not only custom pieces of clothing, but also homemade fragrances like perfumes and essential oils. it's not enough to say she's making a fortune, but she's definitely making more than enough to be comfortable (and to afford to splurge on designer clothing once in a while).

extras.

[the initial reaction to the resurrection.]

under the horror, there was a surfacing dread that wore the face of maki’s sister. they buried her just before the new year, just before the deaths started in earnest, before maki started pencilling in funerals to attend every other day. when the dead came back, maki’s heart stopped for one brief moment. not you, she thought, as she stared out into the fog that blanketed the town. not you not you not you not you. her parents clutched each other’s hands like a lifeline, alternating between praying and begging for the daughter they preferred to crawl out of her grave. the anger simmered under maki's skin, disfiguring her grief into something unrecognisable. she kept visiting her sister’s grave, not out of love, like the town thought, but to tell her stay in there. stayintherestayintherestayinthere. miwa matsui died too early, to no one but maki’s relief.

[a significant loss faced.]

maki was a sister the moment she was born. it was a title she never asked for, shackles she would try to break free of for the rest of her life. maki was younger and sweeter and prettier, but what did that matter when miwa was older, and kinder, and braver? maki learned to be jealous of her sister before she learned to love her, so maybe that’s why when the world took miwa on a cold, winter night—maki’s first, most traitorous thought, was of relief. miwa matsui, beloved daughter, sister, mother and wife—dies in december. she leaves behind her parents, her younger sister, her husband, and her son. be careful what you wish for. maki’s parents can’t stand to look at her; she, who seems to blossom in the absence of her sister. the town keeps its eyes on her, not knowing what to make of this girl who used to be one of two, this little sister who they barely noticed from under the shadow of the older. (at night, maki keeps waking up from dreams where she is the one driving the car, where she sees her sister standing in the middle of the road and presses down on the gas. in the morning she wakes up with tears in the corners of her eyes, the guilt overwhelming the grief, but not enough to cover up the relief that still beats so steadily under her breastbone.)

miwa matsui.

the matsuis were told their chances of getting pregnant were slim to none on a friday. a month later, hiroko finds she's somehow, impossibly, with child. not only is motoi overjoyed, but so is the rest of the town after having seen the matsuis through their harrowing journey of starting a family. when the baby is born, she's dubbed miracle miwa matsui, the gift that no one saw coming. (when maki follows two years after, there is less fanfare, less applause. she wasn't the miracle baby, after all.)

miwa grows up gleaming, grows up laughing. miracle miwa matsui, who tries to rescue every stray cat she comes across, who can befriend even the most prickly of children, who shines so brightly not even her little sister can come close. (someone tells maki once, when she is seven, that she is lucky to have miwa as a sister. lucky. no one has ever told her parents they were lucky to have her. no one.)

the town cheers when miwa is born, and the town cries when miwa dies. to maki, it looks as if the entire population of marrow has shown up to her sister's funeral. she sobs miserably, heart wrenchingly, unpretty in a way she usually refuses to show, because she understands her own funeral could never look like this, because under the heartbreak there is the inferno of her anger.

the last thing miracle miwa matsui does is step in front of a car to protect her son. she dies a hero, she dies loved, and leaves behind a little sister who could never ever hope to fill her shoes.

wanted connections.

got a page set up here :3

other links.

pinterest.

playlist [still very much a wip!].