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imagine-it-was-us · 2 days ago

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when am I gonna lose you? || Lando Norris

Inspiration: Local Natives "When am I gonna lose you?"

Author's note: Had a real block – purely because I wanted to write something about love. Not the meet-cute. Not the breakup. Just that heart-wrecking, honest kind of love where you’re so happy, you almost can’t believe it’s real. And trust me, it was a struggle to find a song in my playlist that captured just that. But I found it – so here’s a little glimpse into my mind (and my playlist).

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Warnings: some angst and one swear word.

Summary: A quiet evening on the coast turns into something deeper when two anxious hearts confront their shared fear. It's not a story about falling in love – it's about choosing it, keeping it, and learning to trust that it’s real.

Word count: 1.4k+

She felt it mid-movie – his hand suddenly tensing around her thigh, even though the scene on the screen wasn’t meant to stir anything dramatic. She turned to him, catching him stealing a glance her way before he quickly snapped his gaze back to the TV, a cheeky smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“What?” she prodded, half-laughing. It wasn’t often she caught him staring. Whenever she did, it always set off a cascade of anxious thoughts. Maybe there was an eyelash on her cheek. Maybe her mascara had smudged, and she looked like a raccoon. Maybe–

He gave a tiny shake of his head, eyes still trained on the screen. “Nevermind.”

“Nah, you’re not doing this to me,” she said, laughing as she reached for the remote and paused the film. These kinds of quiet, uninterrupted moments were rare. Even rarer was Lando choosing silence over commentary. He always had something to say – a thought, a theory, a stupid pun. So when he didn’t speak, it meant something. It meant everything.

With the screen frozen in mid-frame, he leaned back against the sofa and turned his head slightly toward her. And there it was again — the exact moment that had caught him off guard before. The sun was melting into the sea, casting golden slits of light through the blinds, painting lines across her face, her collarbone, her shoulder like some divine stencil.

He let out a quiet breath. “Don’t you ever get that feeling… when everything’s perfect, and you just know something’s going to come along and fuck it up?”

The words hit her like lightning out of a clear sky – sudden, sharp, strangely poetic. But she didn’t flinch. She just nodded slowly, like some part of her had always been waiting for this exact question.

“I do, sometimes,” she said softly. “But… why now?”

“I don’t know. I just love this moment.”

His hand found hers, fingers gently fidgeting with hers — not restless, not anxious, just… soothing. Like the motion might slow his thoughts down enough to catch them.

He was used to his mind running laps. Constantly. Overthinking things that didn’t need thinking about. Race results. Snide comments online. Whether thirteen spring rolls were the magic number to feel full or just too much. The cute golden retriever he saw at the paddock last weekend, the one he’d probably never see again. He’d gotten used to that kind of mental noise – the static that never turned off.

So when there was stillness, when there was peace – real, earned, golden-hour kind of peace – his brain didn’t quite know what to do. It reached for the nearest thing to worry about. And it always landed on her.

What if he lost this? What if he lost her?

She was more like him than he ever expected. A year in, long-distance and late-night calls, airport reunions and sleepy goodbyes, and somehow they’d figured each other out pretty well. They both had restless minds – sharp, hungry, buzzing. They could spiral in sync. They could reassure each other just by existing. It made their bond easier in a way. But it also meant that peace felt like walking a tightrope, always half-waiting for the fall.

“But…?” she said, already sensing it. There was always a “but” with him.

He glanced sideways at her, cheeks slightly pink now in the fading light.

“But I was sitting there, just looking at you… thinking about how pretty you are. How lucky I am that you chose me – even with everything that comes with me. All the noise. And then I thought–”

His voice faltered for a second.

“–when am I gonna lose you?”

Her heart shuddered at the words he said. She hadn’t expected that kind of vulnerability from him tonight – not here, not now, with the ocean humming outside and the world finally leaving them alone. And yet, she knew exactly where it came from.

Because she had felt it too.

Their relationship, from the outside looking in, probably never should have worked. On paper, it was ridiculous. She was – for all intents and purposes – a nobody. Just a student who’d gotten separated from her university tour group while wandering through the endless corridors of MTC. He’d been on a break, taking a breather from a wall of sponsor commitments. She’d made some half-sarcastic remark about the building layout – something like “Hard to believe you’ve got all these engineers and no one thought of a better floor plan.”

He laughed. Not just a polite chuckle. A real, head-tilted-back, god-I-needed-that laugh.

He helped her find her coursemates. They walked maybe ten minutes, tops. But in those ten minutes, something clicked – fast, easy, effortless. By the time they reached the others, he was practically pleading for her number. Just in case, he said.

Now here they were, a year and a half later. Sitting in a cabin tucked between the trees and the sea, miles from anyone, basking in quiet. Days of decompressing behind them. Long talks about futures they both secretly hoped would intertwine. It was surreal.

She looked over at him. His hand was still playing with hers absentmindedly, his eyes on their fingers instead of her face – like he wasn’t sure he could handle eye contact after saying something that raw.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” she said gently.

He glanced up, cautious hope flickering across his features.

She exhaled. “But I get it. I do. Sometimes when you call me after a race and you’re so tired you don’t even sound like you – I get this ache. Like, what if this life of yours pulls you so far away I can’t reach you anymore?”

He opened his mouth to protest – to say no, never, that’s not how it’ll be – but stopped himself almost immediately. Because how could he argue against what he’d just admitted feeling himself? It would’ve been hypocritical. Even worse – unfair. Her fear was valid.

Their worlds had collided in the most unlikely way, and he was still keeping her tucked away from the spotlight – not because he was ashamed, but because he wanted something that was just theirs, untouched by the noise.

“But we keep showing up for each other, yeah?” she went on, voice steadier now. “In the little ways – the answered calls, the random surprises I hide in your luggage. The voice notes when the time zones don’t match up. The flowers that you order every time an older bouquet starts to waste away. Every person we let into our shared world.”

He looked at her then, how her face softened when she talked about them, how she said “shared world” like it was sacred.

“There’s this thing about people like us,” she continued. “We expect good things to vanish. We prepare ourselves for it. But maybe… maybe this is one of the rare things that’s actually built to stay.”

For a moment, all he could do was sit with it – the weight and the lightness of her words, the quiet miracle of being known so well. Then, he squeezed her hand, gently but with purpose.

“You know what I think?” he murmured.

She tilted her head toward him, a question in her eyes.

“I think we don’t give ourselves enough credit,” he said. “This? What we’ve made – it’s not just luck. It's an effort. Intention. It’s staying up at 3 a.m. just to hear your voice, even if I’ve only got five words in me. It’s you reading the same boring post-race summary just to tell me I sounded confident. It’s both of us choosing this. Every day.”

Her lips parted slightly, the corners lifting, and he could see the words landing – not as a grand gesture, but as truth. And the most amazing thing for her was how in reality he was talking himself out of the spiral.

“I’m not afraid of losing you because something out there takes you away,” he added. “I’m afraid of losing you by accident. Letting something slip. Not fighting hard enough.”

“But you are,” she whispered. “Fighting for it, I mean.”

She cuddled into him, light slowly slipping away.

“And if we keep doing just that, we will never lose each other. So let’s keep it that way. And whenever that curly little head of yours starts telling you these kinds of things, remember us here,” she murmured.

He couldn’t stop smiling, even as he gently kissed the top of her head.

“I will.”

Neither of them said anything else for a while. She unpaused the film, and they eased back into the cushions, limbs tangled, breaths in sync. The dialogue from the screen filled the silence between them, but something had shifted – something small, steady, and unshakeable.

They watched the rest of the movie just like that: closer, lighter, stronger. And this time, neither of them was waiting for the other shoe to drop.

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frostgears · 21 hours ago

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summer on Kepler-452b means painting rainbow stripes on the side of your medium enforcement mech and supplementing the Willy Pete with glitter.

you're new. you were a stationer, an orbital kid raised on scant oxygen, and you fuss about operational efficiency. "don't worry about it," everyone explained. "it's tradition." Command authorizes it every year. a company mechanic read you the bulletin for this local year. the bulletin says the same thing she did: it's a chain of tradition stretching centuries and thousands of light years back to a holiday on the motherwell. Old Terra herself.

"but why? what does it all mean? why rainbows? why glitter?"

"don't worry about it, kitten. nobody really knows."

"Handler!" you gasp. you didn't hear him come in. you're so lucky to have him here. he's always so busy, but if he's willing to make time for you despite your silly questions, maybe your secret goal isn't as unrealistic as it seems sometimes.

he gently ruffles your hair. "all we know is, for as long as mankind has been settling the scattered worlds, in the summer, we wear rainbows, and we say the words. it's a celebration of everything we have to be proud of. happy pride, kitten. just say it with me."

"happy pride," you say, smiling, as you fall into his warm and comforting lap and get comfortable with a bit of strategic wiggling.

you still don't know what the deal is, but if he doesn't care, you suppose you don't need to either. you'll pack your incendiaries and tracers with sparkly multi-hued foil bits and have the maintenance crew update your paint scheme, just like everyone else does. whatever gets you through your tour in his good graces so you can settle down to the real work: getting out of the cockpit, bearing the next generation of pilots, and raising them to someday work with handlers nearly as good as yours.

you briefly look over, smug, at the mechanic. this is your handler, not hers. mechanics don't have handlers; how would that even work? whatever the hell "happy pride" means, you're almost certain you'll be having a happier pride than her. □

#microfiction #mech pilot #pride month

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pinkpurplesunrises · 1 day ago

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Letters to No One - Chapter 2: The Space Between Answers

Pairing: Alexia Putellas x Reader (wlw).

Theme: Ghostwriter x Athlete | Slow Burn | Angst | Emotional Intimacy | Happy Ending.

POV: 2nd person (you), emotion ally immersive.

Setting: Barcelona, Present Day.

Previous chapters: chapter 1,

ACT: I

Writer's note: wow, such kind comments from the first chapter. It made me so happy! This will be a series full of small chapters. I'm so quite excited to share what's next. Enjoy reading!

You fall into a rhythm.

Tuesdays. Always late afternoon. Always somewhere quiet.

Sometimes it’s a tucked-away café with mismatched chairs and windows that catch the gold light just right. Sometimes it’s a park bench with her hood pulled low and a take-away cortado clutched in her fingers. And sometimes... on the stranger days... it’s her apartment.

You still don’t know why she invited you in the first time.

You’d assumed you were just going to walk her to the street. But she’d paused outside her building. Keys in hand and said without looking at you:

“You can come up if you want. It’s quieter.”

You didn’t ask questions. You just nodded and followed.

Her place is minimal. Not cold. Just efficient. Sparse furniture. A few plants. A Barça jersey framed but hung in the hallway like an afterthought. The walls are white. Blank. As if she’s waiting to decide what kind of life she wants to paint.

She brews coffee without asking. Sets a cup in front of you and gestures toward the couch.

No words. No warmth. But no walls either.

Just her.

And in these quiet sessions, you start to see her not as a headline, but as a woman full of fault lines.

It starts with a question you didn’t expect her to answer.

“Do you ever feel like people confuse strength with silence?” you ask, recorder on but forgotten between you on the couch.

She’s been staring at the rain outside her balcony. Her hair is damp from the walk. She looks younger today. Or maybe just softer.

She doesn’t speak for a long time. Then:

“They want you to be tough,” she says. “But they only let you be tough in ways they can celebrate. Not in the ways that make you real.”

You turn your head slowly. “What’s real for you?”

She hesitates.

Then she meets your eyes. A direct, still kind of terrifying gaze. And says, “Pain. Sacrifice. Wanting something so bad it makes you cruel.”

You blink. “Have you been cruel?”

She looks away. “Haven’t we all?”

You learn to let her answers hang in the air like mist. Not everything needs to be followed by another question.

Sometimes you just sit there together. Silence stretching out like a string between you. You sip coffee. She scrolls through her phone. You glance at her lips when she’s not looking.

Once, when she laughs... genuinely... because you told her a story about accidentally submitting a first draft to your editor with an accidental Taylor Swift lyric left in, it feels like watching sunlight ripple across water.

“God,” she says, head falling back against the couch, “that’s so painfully you.”

You smile. “Painfully?”

She shrugs, smirking. “I don’t know. You’re just... not like other journalists.”

“I’m not a journalist,” you say.

She nods. Then like it means something: “I know.”

Later that week, you meet in the Parc de la Ciutadella.

She’s in joggers and a windbreaker. Hair pulled into a loose braid. You’ve long stopped being surprised when people walk past and do double takes. She never reacts. Just lowers her gaze. Keeps walking.

You sit on a bench. Side by side. Not quite touching.

You ask her about identity. What it means to be Alexia Putellas to the world and what it means when she’s alone in her flat. Unwashed hair. No crowd to clap for her.

She thinks for a long time. Then:

“Sometimes I feel like people love the mirror of me. Not the actual girl. Just the echo.”

You pause. “And who is the actual girl?”

She exhales. A soft, tired sound. “I’m still trying to figure it out.”

You say nothing. You just look at her.

And she looks back. Really looks. Like she’s realizing something. Or fighting it.

Her eyes flick to your mouth for the briefest second.

Then she stands. “Let’s walk.”

At one point she says your name. No question. No sentence. Just your name. Quiet. Like a touch on your wrist.

You look up at her. Her gaze doesn’t move.

And something in the way she says it. The shape of it in her mouth. Makes you ache.

Not with lust. Not even love. With recognition.

That night, you add a new entry to Letters to No One.

She answers the questions she can. And gives me the rest in silence. I’m starting to think that’s her way of trusting me. Not with what she says, but with what she doesn’t have to.

I’ve stopped wanting to write her story. I want to be part of it. And that terrifies me.

You save the file. You don’t re-read it.

You tell yourself it’s just writing.

But when you close your eyes, you swear you still feel the way she said your name.

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Chapter 3: The Things We Carry

#woso community #woso writers #woso x reader #woso #woso fanfics #fc barcelona femeni #fc barcelona femeni x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas fanfic #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader

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fallenbratfiction · 1 day ago

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artist reader & wood carver joel

joel loves spending quality time with you; it's one of his favourite things to do.

your shared studio is quiet, save for the rhythmic scrape of joel's carving knife and the soft drag of your brush.

everything feels golden, slow.

your side of the studio smells like turpentine and acrylics, while his side smells of cedar shavings and linseed oil. there's an overlap in the middle where your supplies end up on his desk and his gloves find their way to your cart. neither of you seems to mind, as everything is easy to find.

you change sitting positions often, unable to stay still, or when you need to find a different angle to keep going. you sit cross-legged on the floor, paint smudged on your hands and your forehead from running your hand through your hair, but you haven't noticed that yet.

he's focused on carving an owl. you're sketching him in silence yet again — he always says he doesn’t like being drawn, but you catch him peeking, watching how your eyes trace him before you commit to paper. you think he doesn’t even realize how gentle he looks when he works. sometimes you pause just to stare at him. his hands are strong, worn and calloused, the frown on his face, his focused face, and the way he hums quietly to himself.

you could paint or draw anything you wanted to, but he always ends up being your favourite subject.

he glances up when he feels your gaze.

"what?" he asks amused.

"you've got shavings in your hair, hold still" you say with a soft smile, setting the canvas aside before getting up and walking towards him. he doesn't look up, his mouth twitches as he watches your footsteps get closer to him. he leans into your touch as you brush them off. "there you go, better now." he wraps his hand around yours gently and presses a kiss to your paint-stained palm of your hand before going back to carving.

there's a shelf in the studio that holds your shared works; it's where your worlds meet. around the room, there are portraits put up by joel himself of his favorite paintings that you made, and wooden figures that decorate the house. your favorite figure is a deer on your nightstand that he made just for you, and the horse he gifted ellie. his favorite paintings are the intimate ones, colorful sketches of nature, people you love, friends, and animals, horses. lastly, a few quite personal ones that he refuses to let you put away.

sometimes, when his hands are too sore or his mind too cluttered to focus on carving, Joel still comes into the studio with you. He won’t say much—just slips inside with his guitar slung over his shoulder and a mug of tea in hand, settles into the couch by the window, and watches you work. you’re standing at your easel today, barefoot, shirt streaked with paint, hair pulled messily back. the room smells like linseed and paint, your palette lies open on a wooden bench next to you.

joel would tune his guitar slowly, deliberately, the soft twang of strings breaking the quiet in a way that somehow fits—like it’s part of the rhythm of your brushstrokes. He starts to play something gentle, a little folk. not demanding attention, just filling the space between you. You glance over your shoulder at him, your smile small but warm.

you turn back to your canvas, letting the sound of his music settle into your spine, guiding your movements without thinking. There’s something about the way he plays—steady, raw, a little unpolished—that makes your painting come easier. and he just watches.

some days, this is enough. You, him, a quiet room, and the shared act of creating. when you finally set your brush down, you stretch your arms over your head and he pats the empty space beside him with a lazy smile.

"c’mere, artist.”

when the sun dips low and both of your hands are tired from carving and painting, you boil water, make some tea for both of you, and curl into his lap as if it is your throne. joel wraps an arm around your waist and takes your tired hand in the other, thumb pressing carefully at the aching tendons in your wrist, massaging with care, soothing the ache from the long hours of sketching. "too much drawin' again," he mutters, concerned.

you hum and nod as you melt further into his warmth, cheek pressed against his shoulder. his flannel shirt smells of cedar and soap, and your eyes flutter shut, enjoying the moment. when your eyes are open again, you catch the way his glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose—like they always do when he forgets he’s wearing them. you love how he looks like this. so settled, so deeply himself. so yours.

likes, reblogs & comments are always appreciated 🧡

don't copy, translate or claim my work as your own. thank you

#joel miller drabble #joel miller x reader #fallenbrat drabbles #fallenbrat writes joel #joel miller tlou #joel miller x you #joel miller thoughts #joel miller the last of us #joel miller

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jerryandersonsdaughterinlaw · 10 hours ago

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gf!abby comforting you on a bad mental health day headcanons/blurb ❀

You hadn’t eaten much, and hadn’t really wanted to talk either. Abby noticed. Of course she did. She’d give you space. Wait a little. Then pad into the room with a glass of water and the softest sweatshirt she owns, carrying it over her shoulder like a peace offering, crouching next to the bed. “Want something warm?”

She’s already helping you sit up, steady hands careful as she pulls the sweatshirt over your head and guides your arms through the sleeves. She’d sit beside you and gently coax the glass into your hands. “Drink a little. You haven’t had much today.” She brushes her thumb over the edge of your knee, quiet, anchoring you there without demanding anything. “Do you want company, or just quiet?”

She’d curl up together with you in bed, your head tucked under her chin, rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding, steady. No pressure to talk. Just presence, murmuring things like, "You're okay." "I'm right here." "You can stay like this as long as you want."

Later, she’d offer to help you into the shower. No expectations, just a soft "Come on, I'll turn on the water for you" kind of support. She might stand outside the curtain and talk softly while you wash up. Or if you wanted a bath instead, she’d climb in right behind you. Warm water and soft touches as she helps wash your hair when your arms are too tired.

She’d comfort you— in the Abby way. She might tease a tiny bit, soft smile, "Coddled, huh? That the official request?" but she immediately makes good on it.

She brings you chamomile tea with honey, and leaves you little post-it notes. Scribbles and drawings or single phrases like "I'm proud of you," "you're safe," sometimes just a hand drawn heart.

Puts on your favorite comfort show or movie you've both seen a hundred times, without you even having to ask. Something like Pride & Prejudice, Howl's Moving Castle, or Planet Earth (because she secretly finds David Attenborough's voice comforting). She climbs onto the couch with you and bundles you both in a blanket cocoon, even if it's warm. For safety. Containment. Holding you like something precious.

Abby's not a gourmet chef, but she'd make soup, grilled cheese, or even just heat up leftovers without being asked. She knows what you can manage to eat when your appetite is low, so she’d make something simple and warm. She’d keep a heating pad ready if you have body aches, placing it gently against your back without a word. Bring you meds or water without prompting, memorizing which ones you might forget on rough days.

She’ll sit beside you in silence, letting you lean into her whenever you need. She’d pull out her laptop and browse, occasionally showing you funny animal videos or cool science facts without expecting a big response, just to share a little spark. She’d read aloud to you— quietly, just until you fall asleep on the couch or bed. Abby's voice is low and steady, perfect for it.

She offers her lap or shoulder to lie on, adjusting pillows so you don’t have to move much. Softly rubbing your back or stroking your hair with slow, steady movements that don't require conversation. Brushing your hair gently while you’re lying down. It's one of those quiet things that feels safe and grounding.

Paints your nails while you rest, just for the soft tactile care of it. Maybe tiny stars, or a shimmer she knows you like. She gives your hand something to hold— sometimes her own, sometimes a small tangible object (Abby's learned what helps you self soothe).

Gently pulling you into her lap, strong arms wrapping completely around you like armor. Not letting go. Resting her chin on your head, murmuring, "I've got you," into your hair. She sways a little while holding you, like muscle memory from dancing without music. Calming. Subconscious.

And if you needed more head rubs, kisses to your temple, soft affirmations, Abby would give it freely. Earnestly. Even if it doesn't come naturally to her in everyday moments, she's incredibly intuitive when it counts. If you want to be coddled, Abby will make that space. No teasing, no weirdness. Just warmth. Abby isn’t one for many words, but her actions fill every silence, cradled in quiet devotion.

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jjwolves · 3 days ago

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INSIDER TRADING 𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ𒀭ⵌ

What: 5 Yandere ENA the Worker X Reader Headcanons Where She’s Delusional

Who: ENA the Worker from ENA Dream BBQ (By Joel G)

How Much: ~1100 words, ~6 mins

Credits: Image Banner -> Joel G

Warnings: Toxic/Abusive Behavior

ENA does everything a little too much, even if she’s trying to be friendly. She smiles too wide when she finally gets to shake your hand, gripping it with both and over-eagerly examining it. “This sort of deal is rarer than you’d formulate! I need to take this opportunity before it slips away.” She scowls too deeply when another person talks to you, enviously wringing her hat as she stews in the distance—from which divine blood is squeezed out and dribbles onto the ground. On top of all that, she gets way too intimate with you than what’s normal. It’s not unusual at all for you two to complete a job and find a place to recuperate when ENA suddenly sits as close as she can, triangular eye pointing downwards with a passing sense of scorn for everything around her. But one day, she takes it too far.

One day, when you were sitting next to ENA, she turned to you and gave you an ill omen of what was to come. “Tell me. Have you ever had something you ought to trade away, which you refused to part with because of how valuable it was?” You had to admit that no, you didn’t think that you were too attached to any of the things you’ve sold before. She sighed a long breath which distorted and got louder the longer it hung in the air until vanishing completely. “Treasured customer. Loyal affiliate. That’s not what I’m gesturing towards.” Then what was she getting at? “My new offer… Is this.” Planting her hands on either side of your hips, she crawled forward slowly, deliberately, as her eyes fluttered closed. Her flat mouth parted just slightly as she now revealed her hand—she was obviously about to kiss you. Confused, you put your hands on her shoulders and kept her in place. A look of surprise, and then a turn of the head so that the other side could take its turn. “Don’t chicken out now, bug!” You kept her where she was and tried to explain to her that you liked her, yes, but that you two would need to work into that in the future, if it would ever happen at all. You weren’t ready for that yet. “What are you blabbering about?! You’re MINE! END OF STORY, NOW BURN THE BOOK!” Your ears rang from the beating ENA’s voice gave them and your body hurt from the rough embrace that ENA now had you clenched in. This was going to be a complicated situation.

She doesn’t mean to, but ENA embarrasses you a lot in front of customers. Sometimes the entities that you sell to can get a little handsy and overly friendly, at which point ENA feels the need to assert your status while wrapping a free-floating arm around your waist. “Apologies, there seems to have been a miscommunication. Allow me to clarify: No touching. Dearest is my intellectual property, after all!” ENA turns her head to you with a wide smile like you’re in on the joke, but you’re not. You’re the butt of it. Afterwards, she complains about the lechery of such a rude customer in a rough voice that bounces around in your head once your ears are done taking a beating. “Who do they think they are?! Who do they think you are?! Who do they think I am?! No, seriously, who? Because I keep forgetting our vows!” You do your best not to facepalm. You’re not even dating, let alone married. How far was ENA going to take this weird fantasy of hers?

As far as she has to, apparently. When work is finally over and you round the corner to head home, ENA surprises you. You yelp, which is particularly embarrassing, but could anyone blame you? She stands still with her often-default vacant, smiling expression. When she takes a step forward, you take a step back, bumping against an ancient stone wall which looks like it was painted by cavemen. Her arms are out like she’s struck a deal blessed by the gods, but as for what she’s selling you have no idea. “I’ve been rotating you in my mind, darling! And I’ve come to a startling realization: I never sold you a commemorative ring! I have one, see?” She floated her arm over to you and made a dainty gesture to show you the ring she was wearing on one of her pointed fingers. It was like the crest of an ocean was compressed into a circle and wrapped around her finger, thrumming to the heartbeat of someone else. She moved it in front of her to better inspect it. “I came to an interesting understanding. All this time, I thought you were mine…” You shiver, but that’s because it’s cold, probably. It’s definitely not because this is a little terrifying. “Yet I forgot to Ring you. Ha! Silly me. I suppose there’s a price to being such a busybody—you forget the recipe! Ahem. Anyways. About our loyalty program...” ENA’s face did something weird when she reached into a pocket to retrieve a ring for you. It flashed pale, like she did when she was yelling, but there was no red. No slick salesperson. Just blackness and a signal that dropped out a long time ago. She presented a glowing, orange ring which which brightened the area like neon. “J-just put this on… S-so I can be sure. T-that I was right.” ENA’s darkened eye buzzed with anxiety.

You couldn’t really say or do anything. As much as you didn’t want to hurt ENA’s feelings, all of this intimacy and commitment was in her head. You were friends, sure, but you weren’t… on the level that ENA thought. And you said so. “W-what? You’re saying I m-made it up? That… can’t be right…” She looked very un-ENA like for a moment. Not like her geometry reconstructed or anything like that, but she looked hurt, and confused. And then her geometry did change. Putting her head in her hands, defiantly shaking her head ‘no’, she exploded into a tangle of branches and vines like it was a sacred unspooling into nervous thread. You startled and fell back. The branches and strings that were ENA solidified for a moment into a tree, which grew a fruit and dropped onto the ground, and then burnt away. The fruit grew into ENA. You were so confused. “Apologies, dear. I had to get my head back on my shoulders.” A crack. “NOW PUT THE DAMN RING ON AND SAY ‘I DO’!” You were starting to think that there was no way out of this.

#ena dream bbq #ena dream bbq x reader #dream bbq ena x reader #ena x reader #ena headcanon #ena fandom #x reader #imagine blog #imagines #writeblogging #writers on tumblr #writeblr #dream bbq ena #ena #ena dbbq

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hannie-bees · 1 day ago

Text

𝟹:𝟺𝟽 ᴀᴍ

The clock on your laptop screen glows faintly in the corner:

3:41 A.M.

Your fingers move steadily across the keyboard, the gentle tapping the only sound besides the occasional rustle of paper behind you. Your code is coming together — slowly, stubbornly, like a puzzle with pieces that resist being found until just the right moment. Your eyes sting a little, but your brain’s still running, still chasing logic through the loops.

Across the room, Woozi sits hunched over his desk, headphones loosely hanging around his neck, a pencil tapping lightly against a notebook filled with scribbles only he can decipher. A soft glow from his desk lamp paints the slope of his nose and the curve of his cheek in gold. His laptop screen illuminates bars of audio waves, tiny dots on a timeline, the heartbeat of whatever melody he’s birthing tonight.

He doesn’t look tired.

You don’t say anything, and neither does he. You don’t need to.

It’s been this way for the past few hours — maybe longer. You’d both drifted into your respective work zones sometime after midnight, playlists overlapping, snacks forgotten on the table between you, the room growing still as the rest of the world fell asleep without either of you noticing.

Now, at 3:41 A.M., it’s just you two and your projects and the quiet hum of comfort that lingers between people who don’t need to fill the silence to feel close.

Woozi shifts in his seat, stretching one arm overhead with a little groan. The chair creaks. You glance over your shoulder at him.

He meets your eyes for a second. No smile, no words. Just the soft recognition that you’re still here. He nods once. You nod back.

He goes back to his melody.

You go back to your code.

The lamp beside your desk flickers for a second. You tap it gently, and the light steadies. Woozi notices but doesn’t comment — just quietly pulls the blanket draped over the couch and tosses it toward you without looking away from his screen. It lands half on your head, half on your laptop. You blink at it, then tug it down and wrap it around your shoulders with a huff that makes him smirk faintly.

It smells like him. Soft detergent and a little like coffee.

Another hour passes. Maybe more.

At some point, Woozi gets up, walking barefoot and quiet toward the kitchen. The fridge hums. He returns a moment later with two cold water bottles, one of which he places silently next to your elbow. You murmur a soft “Thanks,” not bothering to look up from the lines of code you’re debugging. He doesn’t respond, just rustles back into his chair with the kind of peace that says he didn’t do it for praise.

Outside, the sky is still dark, but it’s the kind of dark that’s about to be broken — a soft hint of something bluish grey at the edge of the window. Dawn is flirting with the horizon.

You finally push back from your desk and stretch, groaning with a satisfying crack of your spine. Woozi’s pencil has been replaced by a midi controller. His headphones are on now, bobbing slightly to a beat you can’t hear, fingers tapping keys, head tilted. You could watch him like this forever — so quietly brilliant, so wrapped up in his own world, but still so tethered to yours.

Your chair rolls slightly as you stand up and pad over to him. You don’t say anything. You just lean down and rest your chin on the top of his head. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pause — just reaches up absently and laces his fingers through yours where your hand drapes down.

A few seconds pass. Then a quiet, raspy whisper:

“Almost done.”

You nod against his hair, then yawn.

“You should sleep,” he adds gently.

“I will,” you mumble. “You too.”

He doesn’t argue. Just squeezes your fingers once and keeps working.

Eventually, you crawl onto the couch, blanket and all, and lie facing his direction. You leave the lamp on — he doesn’t like working in the dark.

Somewhere around 4:20 A.M., you fall asleep to the soft clicks of his keyboard and the muffled melody of a song only he knows the ending to.

He’ll join you later. Maybe in ten minutes, maybe in two hours.

But it doesn’t matter.

You were together. Working. Dreaming. Existing.

In the same space. In the same silence.

And that was enough.

🌸 Masterlist 🌸

#svt #seventeen imagines #seventeen x reader #svt fluff #svt x reader #seventeen #svt imagines #svt woozi #woozi x reader #lee jihoon #jihoon x reader #woozi fluff #woozi imagines

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xnackery027 · 26 minutes ago

Text

(Firstly, that was great! Love Moon’s flawed yet sympathetic perspective!)

So, Moon and Solar agree to supervised visits to Nexus. Sun brings the usual board games and treats, making Nexus’ favorites to hopefully soothe him before he tries to smite the two. He convinces Moon and Solar to stay back for thirty minutes. Just so he can explain the situation before they come in.

It’s been nearly four months since Sun last saw him. He was worried. He should have been more than worried. Sun stepped through the portal, and stepped on something. He pulled back, and saw one of Nexus’ painted pots shattered on the ground. In front of him was the remains of every project they had worked on together. Every novel Sun had lent out to him, shredded. He held his breath, tiptoeing around the debris. On the edge of the destruction was a path leading away, marked by yellow grass and wilting flowers. He had seen how Nexus killed living things with his touch. He followed the trail deeper into the forest, and found his brother laying under an upright, rotting tree. Curled up like a dying animal.

“Nex?”

It could be hard to tell, sometimes, whether Nexus was sleeping or just laying down. His face didn’t give away much. But even Sun could tell he was awake. He expected a hissed out insult, maybe even an attack. Nexus just laid there. Sun crept closer, sitting just outside of the circle of dead flora. “I didn’t mean to stay away for so long.” Sun whispered. He slid a coffee cake towards him, trying to bridge the gap. Nexus didn’t take it.

“Moon found out I’ve been coming to see you. He locked the portal down. I couldn’t leave.” Nexus’ face twisted, as though Sun had spit at him. “You… let him do that?” His voice was strained, like how it sounded when he was struggling not to attack a stray animal on his property. “And… you didn’t destroy-“ He voice went harsh, then he went quiet again, looking just past Sun. He took that as a sign to continue. “No, I didn’t. I couldn’t unlock the portal if I tried. But I was able to make a compromise.” He sighed. Nexus seemed to snap back, eyes softening. “Will I be able to see you again?” His voice was quiet. Lonely.

“Yes- well, maybe. Listen. I need you to listen. They want to come here and make sure you’re not dangerous or anything, okay? They’ll be here in a few minutes. J-just, y’know,” He gestured vaguely as Nexus. “Stay like that. Do the soft voice thing. Don’t hurt them. Then, we can hang out again. I promise!” He smiled. Nexus didn’t return it. In fact, his face hardened. “Don’t… hurt… them?” Nexus hissed, getting worked up all over again. “Don’t HURT them?! You should be worried about Moon hurting ME!” He got up, and Sun was suddenly very aware of how in-stomping-range he was. He scrambled backwards, into another tree. Nexus’ face fell, watching Sun run from him. Again. “You think I’m going to hurt you!” He trembled, raking his hands down his face. “You think I’m crazy!” “No, No! Nexus, they’ll be here any minute, don’t do this now-“

“Do what, now?! What do you think the crazy monster will do now?” He seethed, “Am I gonna bite?! Should I go ahead and rip your head off-“

“Sun!”

I can’t take it!!! I can’t!!! I need Sun to sneak back into Nexus’ dimension, without Moon knowing. Finding Nexus in a wasteland miles wide, where the pretty forest used to be. Catching him at just the right time when he’s mellow enough not to attack immediately. Sun would bring a picnic. Not to convince him of anything, not to get forgiven then leave again. Just to be with Nexus. Maybe they play a card game, with Sun sometimes having to leave halfway through because the voices get too aggressive and Nexus starts to collapse on himself again. But, slowly, Nexus starts looking forward to Sun’s visits, and Sun can’t wait to go to Nexus’ peaceful dimension after the end of a long day. Every time Sun comes back, Nexus has something new he made. A grass doll. A clay pot. A basket made out of willow. Projects that took him weeks to make. Projects that he destroyed over and over in the name of the void when his frustrations got high. Sun brings more food, blankets. Nexus likes it best when he reads novels to him.

And then, Nexus slips. He’s hanging out with Sun, when he shows a picture of Daisy and Earth to him. He’s reminded of the afterlife, of Earth, of his fate to be stuck. here forever. And he gets mad. Furious, even. He screams, knocking over fir trees and smashing his projects into pieces. He stomps around, all claws and teeth and destruction. It lasts hours.

But, unlike before, Sun is still there. Untouched by Nexus’ rampage. Arms outstretched. And Nexus collapses into his touch and cries.

#Superhell AU #Xnack Says #Uh oh #Tsams nexus #tsams moon #tsams sun #Moon coming in at a comedically bad time

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kanescrochet · 3 days ago

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A Quiet Life

Captain John Price X Younger!Reader

Fluff

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

The late afternoon sun filtered through the kitchen window, painting golden lines across the worn countertops. You stood barefoot on the cool tile, sipping lemonade while flipping through a recipe book you didn’t plan to follow. The silence in the house was warm, familiar. You’d grown to like it. But you also knew what was coming.

John came in through the back door, boots heavy, jacket slung over one shoulder. He kissed your cheek on his way to the fridge.

"You didn’t have to cook tonight, you know," he said, grabbing a beer.

You shrugged. "I didn’t. I was trying to figure out what the hell ‘braising’ means."

He chuckled and leaned against the counter, watching you. You felt it before he spoke again — that shift in the air when he was about to say something that mattered.

"You ever think about settling in? Like... really settling in?"

You raised an eyebrow. "We live in a house, I cook sometimes, and we have throw pillows. That’s pretty settled."

He smirked. "You know what I mean."

You set the book down and turned to face him fully. "You want me barefoot and pregnant, don’t you?"

"Christ, no," he said, laughing. "I just think... maybe you don’t need to keep working those late shifts. You don’t owe anyone that dive bar anymore."

You crossed your arms. "I don’t owe you, either."

He looked away for a second, then back to you. "No. You don’t. But I’d like to give you something better than sticky floors and drunk Marines asking if you’re single."

You softened a little, the tension easing in your shoulders. "I liked that job. It’s how I met you, remember?"

He smiled at that, stepping closer, voice lower now. "I remember thinking the bartender had better situational awareness than half my squad."

"And you still flirted."

"Didn’t say I was smarter than them."

You let him pull you close, his hand resting at the small of your back. He kissed your forehead, lingering there like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.

"I just want you safe," he said. "Happy. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone."

You looked up at him. "And what would I do, then? Sit here all day waiting for you to come back from wherever the hell you go?"

"I’m trying not to go anywhere anymore," he said. "That’s kind of the point."

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. The idea of staying home, of soft days and quiet nights, still felt foreign—but less so with him in them.

"I’ll think about it," you said.

"Good," he murmured. "Start by helping me burn whatever dinner you weren’t actually making."

You laughed, and this time it reached your eyes.

Maybe peace didn’t have to be boring. Maybe it could be... him.

#cod #call of duty #call of duty ghosts #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod warzone #cod wwii #cod mwii #call of duty price #captain john price #captain price #john price #captain johnathan price #call of duty captain price #cod fandom #cod fanfic #call of duty fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic

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yuurayuura · 2 days ago

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all the things we never said

🌙 reader struggles to come to terms with the enormity of her feelings for gunwook.

PAIRING ✨ gunwook x fem!reader GENRES & AUS ✨ non idol!au, established situationship?, angst??, fluff, happy ending WORD COUNT ✨ 3.1k WARNINGS ✨ sex - MDNI, im part of the gunwook noona lover agenda (sorry not sorry) SOUNDTRACK ✨ supernatural - ariana grande AUTHOR’S NOTE ✨ i haven't written smut for years and years, so i hope this is okayyy

"Close your eyes," you say, smiling to yourself when he does it immediately.

You shift your weight, straddling him, and his hands tighten on your hips.

He giggles when you start brushing his cheek, his eyes crinkling. "Tickles."

"It's blush," you say. "Not that you need it."

"Ha—you love it when I blush," he protests. And he's right, of course.

"Yeah. I do."

He sits still and lets you put blush and eyeliner on, with minimal protest. When the eyelash curler comes into play, he tackles you to the couch, pinning you down.

"Do not use this torture device on me," he smirks, fingers finding the sensitive spots at your sides, making you squirm.

"Alright, I give," you laugh breathlessly, and he lets you move back to the previous position.

You dab his pretty lips with tinted lip balm, and as much as you would have loved to see him looking ridiculous, he's annoyingly gorgeous. If a little more feminine looking.

"Done," you say, and Gunwook blinks up at you, pulling you closer.

"Am I pretty now?" he jokes, batting his uncurled lashes, making you laugh quietly.

"Honestly, yeah, you are. I wish I had gone for a more clown-ish look."

He smiles as you wipe the makeup off in soft strokes, looking content and predictably a little flushed. In a few minutes, he has to get in the shower and get ready to go out with the gang, which is what prompted the improvised makeup session in the first place. You can't go out tonight because you have work in the morning.

It doesn't bother you at all that he's going; it'll be fun, and it's important that you do things separately sometimes.

But a part of you wishes you could keep him for the night, all to yourself.

"I can't believe you let me put makeup on you," you say, your voice laced with more fondness than you want to admit. "Can I paint your nails next time?"

Gunwook looks at you, with his eyes half-open, leaning into your touch.

"Noona, I think I would let you do almost anything," he says, earnestly, making you slow to a halt.

The makeup's gone at this point, and he looks so beautiful, soft and blushing in the low light. Bare, in an almost vulnerable way, and you're so grateful to see him like this. The urge to kiss him becomes overwhelming, and he smiles into it, his hands moving to press you into him.

He inhales through his nose, humming against your lips. You break it to place kisses all over his face and throat, making him gasp and giggle, and eventually bury his face in the crook of your neck.

"You have to go," you mumble, threading your fingers through his hair, just the way he likes it.

"Join me," he says, lips on your skin.

"You're already late," you smile. "Otherwise, you know I would."

He pouts when he pulls back, and it's too tempting not to kiss him again, so you do.

"Your words and your actions don't match," he teases.

"I'm crazy like that."

When he gets out of the shower, even the faint hint of eyeliner is gone completely. He looks at you surprised, in the reflection of the mirror, when you come in and hug him from behind.

"You really don't want me to go, huh?"

You shake your head no, with a brief kiss to his shoulder. "I want you to, really."

He looks at you in the mirror while putting something in his hair.

"I like when you're clingy."

"Am not," you say, making no move to let him go. Eventually, though, you have to, so he can get dressed.

When he's finally about to leave, you can't help but thread your fingers in his belt loops. He looks so good, it's unreal.

"Come find me later?" you say, half joking, since he really has no choice when you're in his apartment. But he sees through it, like he does so often. When you sleep on his side of the bed when he can't be there, like you will tonight. When you leave little notes in his bag, even if the wording is casual enough. When you try not to show too much, but end up showing your hand anyway, one way or another.

"I can't wait to find you," he smiles, warm hands on the skin of your hips, under the shirt.

"I'm not waiting up," you say, stubbornly, pulling him in.

"Mhm," he smirks, and kisses you goodbye like he has something to prove.

If it were up to Gunwook, he would have liked be your boyfriend. Officially.

He knows not to push it, though. You're easily spooked, and the nameless, undefined thing you two have going right now seems to be working fine. He's okay with it, even if he knows deep down—and has for some time now—that he loves you.

He's young, of course, and he can't ever forget that, because it's your biggest insecurity around him. But he knows, in some primal and pure part of himself, that he truly loves you. Even if it's stupid, naive, and reckless.

Matthew smirks at him when he finds them at the bar. "Leave the missus at home today?"

And Gunwook doesn't even want to fight it, he wishes he could tell the whole world that you were his and he was yours. So he goes 'yup', with a shameless little smile, and Matthew laughs happily.

Your common friends already know that you two are going out, but it hasn't been put into such precise words. It's a thing. It's happening. But you're still so hesitant, and it's frustrating for Gunwook, because he wants it all.

Also, you seem to be holding back for his sake. Somehow. He follows the logic, but it doesn't matter to him that there's an age difference. If anything, he kind of likes it.

Maybe he enjoys a challenge and getting to prove himself to you.

"Ukie, back to earth," Matthew grins, poking his side. He must have been spacing out again.

It's hard not to have drifting thoughts when he knows you're in his apartment right now, sleeping in his bed. He loves his friends, and it's always fun to hang out with them, but the way you were acting tonight made him fall even harder. He almost can't wait to come back home and find you in his sheets, like a present just for him.

He wants to hold you in his arms and smell your hair and your addicting perfume. Feel the curves of your body, like you were made for him to wrap himself around and hold close.

"Guys," he says, after two rounds of pool and what feels like a lifetime of hours. "I'm calling it a night."

The statement is met with mild protests, but he waves at them on the way out and sees it in their eyes; they all know why he's leaving. It's lucky they're drunk and nice enough not to tease him about how he's a simp and too far gone.

He finds you in his bed, as promised.

You're on his side, holding onto a pillow in your sleep, and when he puts his phone very quietly on the nightstand, you blink up at him sleepily.

"Ukie?" you say, your voice rough with sleep, and he didn't want to wake you but relishes in these moments.

"Baby," he whispers, undressing unhurriedly. "Sorry, I tried to be quiet."

It's so domestic, it makes Gunwook's heart ache with longing. You stretch out in the bed, hum contently, and reach out for him.

You're so much more unrestrained when you're sleepy, like you forget all the things that normally hold you back.

For Gunwook, it's easy. He looks at you with unbridled love, the glow of your skin in the dark room, the soft rise and fall of your body as you breathe.

Tomorrow you'll leave for work (it's closer from Gunwook's apartment), and you get to pretend that the reason you stayed over was mostly practical. But you both know the real reason.

"Hey," he says, voice low, after climbing into bed and finding the soft dip of your hips under the covers. "Come here."

He almost can't see it in the low light, but you smile at him, like a cat in the sun, relaxed and happy. You find his hand and hold on to it, still smiling when he presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

He's not even drunk, but his senses feel so heightened. You pull him closer in the kiss, hands running up his sides and legs intertwining with his. If you didn't have work in the morning and get up in just a few hours, Gunwook would have fucked you how you deserve, deep and hard and loving, and made you forget all your doubts and worries, at least for a while.

Instead, he melts into your embrace, and is grateful that he gets you like this, for a few hours until you have to go.

In the morning, you almost can't tear yourself away.

You wake to the feeling of Gunwook's strong arms around you and his soft breaths on your neck. It's too hot, borderline uncomfortable, and you're usually not the type to cuddle in bed because of this.

Gunwook must be the exception though, because you find yourself curling into it, hands on top of his under the covers. It's nice, and you gets lost in the smell of him all around you, spicy and warm.

"Morning," comes his gravelly voice, as he pulls you to him and smiles into your neck.

"Morning, babe," you say, squeezing his huge hand.

He kisses the back of your neck and your shoulder, hooking a leg over yours. His hands travel until he's cupping your chest, and groans in that way he does. Hoarse from the night and soft from the morning.

You twist in his grip to face him, and can't help the way your body reacts to him instantly. Gunwook has never tried to be less than he is, for better or worse he never hides what he's feeling. His eyes show everything, and his cheeks always give him away, especially like this, flushed down to his chest with desire.

"Want you," he says, plainly, pulling you against him again. "So much."

He's hard under your fingers. His pupils are so big, tracking your lips when you say it. "Fuck me. Please."

Maybe he knows that the only way you can cope with all the affection he displays is if it precedes sex, so you can pretend that still is what this is about.

He smirks at the request, confident and bashful simultaneously. A Gunwook staple.

"Come here."

Then he's on top, moving you gently to the middle of the bed and letting your lips melt together in a kiss that's much too tender.

It's early, so maybe you don't think that much; just let him take care of you like the romantic he is.

He knows your body well enough now that it's easy for him to get you weak, with his stupidly large hands and pink cheeks, pressing himself against you so you can feel all of him.

"Gunwook," you sigh, in a plea to get him to stop teasing, making him smile and kiss you again.

"What's the rush?" he mumbles, fingers finally finding their way to where you want him most, snickering at the moan that follows.

"Have to get to work," you remind him, pulling at his hair and making his eyes close in pleasure.

"You're so..." you start, gasping at the pressure of his hands.

"So...?" he teases.

"So good at this."

It's true, and it has the intended effect; the slow spreading smile on his lips and visible pride in his eyes, hips stuttering against your thigh.

You don't have a lot of time, and you know he would have loved to drag this out, but he understands. So he tugs his boxers off and gives himself a few strokes, looking at you intensely.

"You're beautiful," he says, dipping down for one more kiss before he pulls your panties to the side, and feels your wetness all over his fingers.

"Fuck," he mumbles, experimentally pushing one finger into you.

You gasp at the sensation, and Gunwook's eyes darken further, pushing another finger to follow.

"God, you drive me crazy," he breathes, withdrawing his hand and positioning himself between your legs.

It's far from the first time you have sex, so one would think you would have gotten used to his size at this point. You haven't. It's the same delicious stretch, and you moan when he finally bottoms out.

The look of restraint on his face could almost make you come then and there. His brow is furrowed, hair hanging over his face, necklace glittering in the faint light. The span of his wide shoulders and the tremble across his skin as he breathes, trying to steady himself, is so goddamn sexy. You feel yourself flutter around him, and he groans, fluidly dragging himself out and pushing in again.

He moves so controlled and beautiful, rolling his hips like a wave crashing to the shore, and it feels fucking incredible.

"Fuck, Gunwook," you breathe, desperately clinging to his bicep. "You're perfect."

You don't know what possesses you to be so honest in the moment, but it makes his rhythm stutter, and he falls over you, moaning into your neck.

"N-Noona," he gasps, almost a whine, increasing his speed, hitting your g-spot in the new angle. He's everywhere, crowding all your senses, hands gripping you so hard it might leave marks later. It's everything you want, so you cling to him, arms around him to ground you both.

You shudder as one of his hands finds your clit, circling it in torturous precise motions.

"Ah–just like that," you gasp, bucking into him, right before white hot pleasure explodes in your body, and all you can do is chant his name in broken moans.

Gunwook fucks you through the orgasm but soon can't hold out any longer, groaning into your neck as he reaches his own climax inside of you.

He pants as he comes down, before pushing himself up on his arms to look at you, fucked out and so beautiful that it hurts a little.

You can't believe that the most gorgeous guy you've ever seen wants you like this, and sometimes it hits extra hard.

"You really have to go?" he says, making you groan and pull him to you again.

"Don't remind me," you reply, to Gunwook's soft laugh in your ear.

"I'll miss you," he whispers, kissing your collarbone.

You go to take a shower, now short on time, and when you finally emerge from the bathroom, the sight in front of you makes you stop in your tracks.

Gunwook sits on the edge of the bed, still just in his boxers, head in his hands. When he looks up at you, his eyes are suspiciously red around the edges.

"Ukie?" you say, confused and suddenly a little scared. "Are you okay?"

You go over to him and gently push him to lie back with you. Your hair is still wet, and he smiles sort of wistfully when a droplet hits his throat.

"I'm..." he starts, swallowing. Blinking. Avoiding your eyes.

"Talk to me," you plead, hugging him to your chest and threading your fingers through his hair.

"You'll miss work," he mumbles.

"Whatever," you retort, "I'll call in sick. Please tell me what's up?"

Gunwook sighs and sniffles a little.

"I can't say everything I'm thinking because no matter what, it comes back around to the fact that you think I'm too young for you. If I say too much or too little, I fear you'll turn it into a negative that reinforces that idea. It doesn't feel fair."

His words hit you like a punch to the gut.

"I want to be honest, I want to tell you how much I really like you and care for you, but I'm scared that you'll run away because you think it's too much or immature."

He braves a look at you, and now you can really see the sadness in his eyes.

"I want to be perfect for you, but I can't do anything about my age," he finishes. "I guess it just hit me after... What you said before."

K.O.

"Fuck," you breathe, quickly grabbing his hand to offer some reassurance. "I'm so sorry Gunwook, that's so unfair of me."

You realize now how, in your own worries and insecurities, you failed to consider how he would feel when you were so hesitant and unsure. It breaks your heart, and your chest tightens at how much thought he must have given it for him to spill everything like this.

"Hey, don't cry," Gunwook whispers, sitting up to wrap his arms around you.

"I really didn't mean for it to get like this," you say, voice thick and broken. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Gunwook says, squeezing you in his arms. "Thank you for listening."

Somehow, after all that worrying, it was Gunwook who managed to be mature and speak his mind, not you. If he hadn't spoken up, maybe you would have lost all of this.

The thought is unbearable.

"Can you forgive me?" you whisper, and Gunwook gives your neck a quick peck.

"Of course."

You sit back, and you feel like you could lose yourself in his eyes and that little hint of a smile on his lips.

"Noona, listen. I really like you. And I think it's scary too, but this is what I want. Us."

You swallow, almost about to cry again. "Me too. I like you so much. It scares the shit outta me."

Gunwook laughs, and it heals you, piecing you back together.

"Okay, well. If you don't want me to call you my girlfriend and stuff, I won't do it, but–"

"Please do," you say, feeling yourself blush. "I'd love that."

He grins, pulling you into his lap. "Really?"

"Really."

He looks so happy it's ridiculous, and it's not like this fixes everything, but it's a great start. Time to get serious.

First though, you have some making up to do.

"I was kinda thinking that my perfect boyfriend could join me for another round in the shower," you smirk, giggling when his whole face flushes immediately. "If he'd be into that."

"I know for a fact there's nothing he wants more," Gunwook grins, in his classic cocky yet bashful fashion.

Maybe having a younger boyfriend isn't that bad.

#gunwook #zb1 #yuurayuura #my works #zb1 x reader #zerobaseone #zb1 smut #zb1 gunwook #gunwook x reader #park gunwook #gunwook smut #zerobaseone smut #zerobaseone x reader #zerobaseone hard hours #zerobaseone scenarios #zerobaseone fic #zerobaseone fanfic #zerobaseone fluff

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lib-to-conned · 24 hours ago

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Hello. I’m a 26-year-old white liberal, physically disabled, gay, and gender-queer community advocate. My job right now is entirely focused on community outreach so the town government can better understand and assist those in town who are struggling the most but refusing any assistance. So I reached out and contacted my former now Trump voting, culturally conservative, macho, manly, ultra-masculine , high testosterone, red-pill, MAGA, redneck, and traditionalist friends from high school to ask them what it is about the government that makes them so distrustful of our help, and how and what do I specifically need to change about my approach and attitude to be acceptable to their values now that MAGA conservative values are soaring in popularity after the presidential election. The only thing my old school acquaintances and estranged family members sent me back in response to my genuine outreach was a link to this website I have never heard of. #RedWaveRapture

Can you tell what would happen if I click this link?

You’ve always believed that hope is an action. Maybe that’s naive. Maybe it’s the one thing you cling to, even when your hands tremble and your jaw aches from clenching. Even now, midnight crawling toward morning, your fingers glow in the blue-white light of your laptop, the screen painting tired half-moons under your eyes. Your apartment is a lived-in cave of city council handouts, rainbow pins, commemorative mugs, and empty soda cans. The radiator chugs and ticks as if grumbling along with the storm outside, a backdrop to another night where your mind refuses to shut down.

You stare at the city beyond your window, orange sodium lights reflected in glass streaked with rain. Somewhere, a siren wails, low and distant, and you remember how, as a child, you’d watch police cars fly down these streets and feel safe. Now, every time you hear that sound, your chest tightens and your palms sweat. You know the statistics. You know who’s on the wrong side of the badge these days. But you still hope (maybe foolishly) that this place can be better, that you can be a part of that.

You’re a lifer here. Born in the city hospital, raised three blocks from the courthouse, you’ve watched the skyline change, old diners close, new condos rise, and the sense of community fracture year by year. The town was never utopia, but you remember neighbors who brought casseroles when your dad got sick, the barbershop that doubled as a polling place, the way people used to talk—face to face, even if they didn’t agree. The old men at the corner store would argue for hours about politics and then share a bag of pretzels on the curb, grumbling but grinning.

Now, everything is brittle and sharp. People cross the street to avoid each other. Arguments escalate into threats, and sometimes into violence. Yard signs are torn up, or worse, booby-trapped with nails. You’ve seen friendships dissolve on Facebook over a meme or a campaign sticker. You know kids who won’t come out to their families, elders who stay silent about their politics, parents who keep their heads down at PTA meetings. You see the fear. You feel it too.

You’re the only openly queer, nonbinary, physically disabled employee at city hall, and most days, that’s a badge of pride. Some days, it feels like a target on your back. You’re a “face” for the town’s PR materials, the “heart” of every outreach campaign, a symbol that makes people feel better about themselves. But you know how they look at you, how they talk when the microphones are off. At the grocery store, someone will compliment your courage, then whisper that the world’s gone mad when they think you’re out of earshot.

You took this job because you believe in bridges. Not the literal bridges crumbling over the river, though you care about those too, but the metaphorical ones - connections, trust, understanding. You want to be the person who makes a difference. Sometimes you convince yourself you’re making headway: an angry parent calls back to thank you, a protest wraps up peacefully, a neighbor offers to drive someone to a clinic. But the victories are small, fragile, and drowned out by the endless churn of outrage. Some nights, like tonight, it feels like the city’s barely holding together.

Tonight, your dread is sharper than usual. Overnight, you've found that the town now has the phrases “red wave” plastered everywhere - news, memes, even scrawled in Sharpie on the bathroom wall at the library. People say it like it’s inevitable. You worry what it means: more bans, more hate, more lives quietly snuffed out. You worry that there will be riots, or mass celebrations, or both. You fear for your friends, your elders, the teens who DM you at two a.m. begging for advice, the families you see clinging to hope and guidance at every city meeting. You worry for yourself, that someday someone will decide you’re a symbol that needs to be erased.

And still, you hope. You hope that talking - real talking, with people you don’t agree with - might soften some edge, slow the violence, remind people what it means to be neighbors. Maybe that’s all outreach is, now: a plea not to go down swinging.

Tonight, in the glow of your desk lamp, you draft a Facebook post, weighing every word. You rewrite it a dozen times, reading it aloud, wincing at how earnest you sound:

“Why are so many Republican voters distrustful of the government, and why do you think Trump was the solution? What can someone like me, who doesn’t share your values, do to better understand and accept them?”

You almost delete it. But if you can’t ask the question, what’s the point of this job? What’s the point of any of it? You hit “Post,” heart thudding like you’ve just leapt from a precipice.

The replies come fast. Some are jokes - memes, “cry harder,” someone pasting your face on a melting snowman. Others are worse. Your cousin Greg, always the family clown, posts a video of drag queens with a barf emoji. You try to laugh it off, but it lands hard. These are people you’ve known your whole life. You keep scrolling, desperate for sincerity.

That’s when the private messages start - first from old classmates, then from strangers, all sending the same link: RedWaveRapture.com. The name is a punchline. Or a threat. “You want to know what we think?” “You want a real bridge?” “This is what you need to see.” It’s almost mechanical, but each message is just different enough that you know they wrote them themselves. You hesitate, but the links pile up, insistent. You copy it into a new tab, finger hovering, pulse fluttering.

You try to talk yourself out of it. What if it’s a virus, or worse? What if you end up on a list? But you can’t help yourself. You need to understand, even if you hate everything about their politics. You don’t get how anyone can believe in policies that punish the vulnerable, that roll back rights, that punish difference instead of celebrating it. Isn’t the whole point of society to progress? To move forward, to learn, to open doors? You can’t imagine why anyone would fight for the opposite.

You think about your city, about the kids and elders and neighbors who still believe things can change, about the fragile peace you try to hold together. You remember being told, “You can’t fight hate with hate.” You hope that’s still true. That’s why you keep going. That’s why you reach across the aisle, even if your hand gets slapped away.

You return to your desk. You stare at your reflection in the dark screen - a face tired but defiant, jaw set, eyes searching for answers, for hope. You take a slow breath, copy the link, and press Enter.

You hit Enter, expecting maybe a clunky homepage, a wall of text, or some pixelated right-wing meme hell. Instead, the moment you press the key, the room is swallowed in sound and color. The laptop’s speakers burst to life with an overdriven, looping national anthem—so loud, so full of static, you have to physically flinch away. Red, white, and blue explode across the screen in jagged strobes, like emergency lights pulsing in your skull. For a split second, you swear the radiator hum, the tick of your wall clock, even the city’s faint nighttime growl, all vanish. There’s nothing but the throb of your heart and the relentless surge of the website’s “patriotic” chaos.

Your cursor vanishes. The window force-maximizes itself, swallowing every other tab. The RedWaveRapture logo splinters and reforms in the center of the page, all gothic fonts and American flags fluttering in slow motion behind it. Underneath, a ticker scrolls by at lightning speed: “Faith. Freedom. Family. Firearms. Power. Order. Restore.” Each word hammers at you—short, final, absolute. You try to blink the glare away, but it’s everywhere - even the afterimage is burned red and blue behind your eyelids.

Pop-up windows spiral outward, overlaying one another: police badges, squad cars barreling down highways, men in uniform with squared jaws and arms folded. In one corner, an endless slideshow of American muscle cars, pickup trucks, gym bros flexing, AR-15s gleaming on velvet, the glossy shine of a bald eagle’s wing. Another window streams a parade of beauty queens in flag bikinis, waving and blowing kisses to an unseen crowd. In the center, a countdown timer begins - ominous, digital, faceless. “Preparing True American Experience. Please remain seated.”

Your jaw sets. This is a caricature, you think, half in disbelief, half in contempt. It’s like someone scraped the bottom of every Fox News segment and squeezed it into a fever dream. Your stomach churns at the sight of so many guns, all those hard-faced men staring out of the screen with smug certainty. You catch yourself muttering, “Jesus, it’s all just violence and muscle and—” but the sentence fizzles, the sound swallowed by the anthem and the noise.

You reach for the trackpad but your hand feels numb, like you’ve slept on it wrong, nerves slow and rubbery. No matter where you press, nothing closes, nothing responds. The audio shifts - the anthem into crowd noise, then to a deep, staticky voice that you can’t quite place: “If you want to know what makes this country strong…if you want to belong…open your eyes. Let yourself see what’s REAL.”

That line sticks. Something inside you bristles, a reflexive rejection - real? You want to snort, but as you stare at the parade of muscle and order, you feel a weird little spark in your chest. A stray, insistent thought flickers across your mind - No, maybe this is what men should want. This is power. This is respect. Isn’t this the kind of life you always admired, somewhere deep down? You try to squash it, horrified, but it’s there now, persistent and faintly thrilling.

Your chest is tight, your mouth gone dry. You try to steady your breathing, but the lights flicker and warp, the entire room seeming to pulse in time with the music. The scrolling ticker now flashes phrases like “Obey,” “Serve,” “Join,” interspersed with video loops of people cheering, cops tackling protestors, flags unfurling in slow, almost hypnotic motion.

You grip the edge of your desk, anger mixing with a kind of morbid curiosity. This is what they want the world to be? This is what passes for strength? The stray voice, quieter now, pipes up again: Better than weakness. Better than all that whining and softness. You blink, shaking your head, but the words leave a greasy aftertaste, clinging even as you try to push them out.

There’s a part of you - buried under years of training, self-defense, online etiquette - that starts to panic. This can’t be just a website. It feels like a virus, a hypnosis, something actively crawling into your brain. You want to scream, to reach for the power button, to look away, but your eyes are pinned to the screen. You think of those warnings about brainwashing and “psychotronic” ads, and for a split second, you wonder if you’re really safe in your own room.

But your curiosity is still there, tangled with fear. Maybe, you think, this is just the price of understanding. Maybe you need to let yourself feel the discomfort. Maybe you have to step into the storm if you want to help anyone out of it.

Then the lights intensify. The countdown reaches zero. The anthem blares again. And for a heartbeat, you feel something click deep in your chest - a thump, a ripple, the sense that you’re about to be changed by what comes next.

For a few seconds after the countdown, nothing happens, just the flicker of the flag, the echo of the anthem, and the faint burn of colors behind your eyelids. You try to move, to close the lid or wheel yourself away, but your limbs refuse. Even your breathing is shallow, as if the air in the room is heavier now. The screen pulses, and with each surge, you feel your pulse syncing, heart thumping to some silent, insistent rhythm you can’t escape.

Then the website comes alive, its code unspooling in new, unsettling ways. Text scrolls across the banner: “Welcome, True American. Prepare for your Realignment.” Below that, a video window expands, swallowing the cursor, the browser bar, the clock. There’s nowhere to look but forward.

The feed is a dizzying, fast-cut montage - grainy home movies of backyard barbecues, Fourth of July parades, gleaming patrol cars, and sunburned men wrestling on football fields. The images flicker so quickly you can’t focus on one before the next slams into your vision: a squad of cops posed in front of a courthouse, fireworks, a mother weeping with pride as her uniformed son hugs her, a shirtless man deadlifting in an iron gym, his muscles corded and shining. Each image lands like a slap, too raw, too forceful, almost parodic in its testosterone-soaked Americana.

The soundtrack is a relentless assault: the national anthem gives way to the roar of engines, the static crackle of police radios, the boom of fireworks, the echo of a coach shouting, “Push it, son! Make us proud!” The volume dips and swells, a wave of adrenaline that worms its way into your skull. You grit your teeth, trying to filter out the worst of it, but there’s no reprieve. Every sound feels surgically chosen to jar you, to summon up memories you don’t want: your dad’s voice at Little League games, the sermons you half-listened to in your aunt’s church, that stifling, masculine pride you always resented.

As you watch, your disgust boils. The muscle, the guns, the flags, the smug grins - they’re a weapon meant to bludgeon you into submission. You try to remind yourself it’s all an act, a performance, a digital shrine to some lost world that never existed. But it’s hard to hold on to that certainty when the images move this fast, when the website’s algorithm seems to know exactly what you fear and despise. A scroll of headlines flashes by: “Family Is Everything,” “Respect Is Earned in Blood, Not Words,” “Strength Over Sensitivity.” The words burn, crawling behind your eyes.

You try to laugh, but your mouth is dry. What is this, brainwashing for dummies? The joke falters before it reaches your lips. There’s an ache starting at the back of your skull, a cold, coiled pressure that grows with every second. In the pit of your chest, something else stirs - something darker and heavier. A seed of envy? Admiration? You don’t want to name it.

On the margins of your mind, that other voice returns. Quiet, but sharper now, slicing through your skepticism: Isn’t this what men are supposed to be? Strong, proud, respected. Not whining. Not apologizing. Just… in control. You try to shove the thought away, but the next montage lands - a cop dragging a protester in cuffs, a stadium packed with roaring fans, a thick-armed man holding up a “World’s Best Dad” trophy, flanked by adoring blond children and a wife in stars-and-stripes denim. Your skin prickles, both in anger and something you don’t want to admit - longing for simplicity, maybe. Or to be the one cheered instead of the one jeered.

The feed shifts again, now focusing on the rituals of the job: uniform pressed and buttoned, boots polished, badge glinting in the sunlight. Over and over, hands holster guns, slap backs, hoist beers, shove suspects against walls. For every image of camaraderie, there’s a punchline - a weakling ridiculed, a protester mocked, a rainbow flag trampled into the mud. The website’s cruelty is casual, practiced, precise.

The ticker at the bottom starts to include your name, as if the website knows you: “You could be stronger, [Your Name]. You could be proud. You could be respected.” You blink, a chill running up your spine. You try to wheel away again, but your body is stiff, heavy. You clench the armrests, nails biting into the vinyl.

Every muscle in your body is tense now, the pressure in your head building with each frame. You try to focus on your own beliefs, to recall your friends, your city, your reason for doing all this. But the images keep coming, faster now: hazing rituals, police graduations, more flag-wrapped women, more flexing, more men standing tall and smirking. Every second, the voice in your mind grows bolder, more insistent: Wouldn’t it be easier? Wouldn’t it feel good to stop fighting and just… belong? Just be strong?

You want to scream, to curse, but the words catch in your throat. The anthem starts up again, a low, reverberating growl, and the screen pulses with every beat. The website’s colors leak into the room - red and blue glowing on your walls, your skin, your reflection. You wonder if you’ll ever be able to scrub the sound from your head.

As the barrage intensifies, you realize with a spike of dread that this isn’t persuasion. It’s programming. It’s preparing you for something you can’t fight. And in the darkness between images, the alien thought finally whispers, low and eager: Let go. Let us show you how much better life can be… on the other side.

You barely register the shift at first - a twitch in your fingers, a pulse in your temple, the odd pressure of blood pounding through veins you never used to notice. But then the sensation blooms, hot and alien, as if the very air has thickened into syrup, pushing against your skin. Your spine tingles. Your grip on the armrests tightens as your palms start to itch and swell, bones popping with a series of sharp, relentless cracks. You stare at your hands, blinking, willing the hallucination to fade - but your fingers start thickening and lengthening, knuckles are ballooning out, and your skin is roughening and growing callused as if you’ve spent years gripping iron.

Your breath goes shallow. A sudden, wrenching spasm ripples up both arms at once. You gasp, clutching the armrests as your biceps knot and swell beneath your sleeves, veins surfacing and writhing, muscle growing with a slow, perverse logic. The transformation snakes up into your shoulders, the fabric pulling tight as your deltoids swell and broaden, upper arms ballooning in mass and definition. You feel the seams of your shirt protest, cotton stretching across a new, thick upper body you don’t recognize. Both forearms thicken, tendons surging up like steel cables, wrists beefing up to match hands that are now too big, too blunt, too powerful.

The burning pressure rolls across your chest. Your ribs creak, spreading, as your torso widens, pecs surging forward. The shirt you wear feels suddenly several sizes too small, seams groaning as your body stretches the limits of what cotton can take. Your sternum aches, bones shifting and locking into a broader, more masculine shape. Your lungs feel huge - each breath flooding you with oxygen, making your vision swim. For a second you glimpse your reflection in the black glass of the laptop and don’t recognize the barrel chest, the heavy, athletic shoulders, the thick column of neck rising from between monstrous traps.

Then comes the heat in your face - a tingling along your jaw, as if invisible hands are molding you like clay. Your chin juts out, jawline hardening, cheekbones lifting. You hear a faint grinding sound from inside your own skull. Your teeth clench, and suddenly your cheeks feel hollowed, your whole face sharpening and maturing into something angular, handsome, and unyielding. A shadow grows along your jawline - at first just a stubble, but then a dense, rough pelt of blond bristles that itch maddeningly, demanding to be touched. You rake your hand over your chin, and the sensation is electric: your skin is no longer smooth, but covered in golden, wiry stubble, thick and masculine, catching the light in ways that make you look older and tougher than you ever were.

There’s a fizzing, almost pleasant warmth on your scalp. Your hair thickens, lightening shade by shade, roots bleeding from brown to gold. Strands multiply, shifting in weight and texture, sliding into a classic, professionally styled wave - sides cut short, top swept perfectly back, just unruly enough to scream virility and styled just enough to command a room. You realize, dimly, that it matches the hair of one of those men you saw flashing across the site - a cop, maybe, or a model of authority. Your old self would never bother, but this new hair, this uncanny new look, feels inevitable - like it’s always been yours.

Your eyes sting and water, irises shifting, blue blooming outward until your gaze in the monitor is sharp, commanding, cold. You blink, but your own reflection holds steady: not the tired city worker, not the battered activist, but a mid-30s man built to intimidate, to protect, to control. Your face is almost unrecognizable - handsome, mature, unyielding. You stare, wide-eyed, both appalled and fascinated.

The change moves lower. Your stomach tightens, abdominal muscles stacking beneath your skin, forming not just a six-pack but a thick, armored core. Your hips shift and flare, thighs bulging, calves hardening, the disability in your legs dissolving beneath new strength. Your knees crackle, bones resetting. For the first time in years, you feel your feet solid on the ground—powerful, stable, hungry for action.

You try to stand, but your body does it for you. You rise with a smooth, predatory grace, six inches taller, shoulders squared, back straight, every muscle flexing in a silent boast. Your old clothes strain, seams biting into your flesh, but nothing tears... yet. You stare down at yourself, at the breadth of your chest, the swelling of your arms, the sheer physical weight you now command.

You stagger to the mirror, jaw slack. Every step sends a wave of muscle and mass rolling through you. Your legs, once spindly and unreliable, are now tree trunks, with thighs bursting with sinew and calves roped and solid. Your glutes swell behind you, denim stretched to the limit. You flex, just to feel it, and watch in awe as your shirt fills with muscle, pecs rounding out, biceps peaking, stubble glinting gold. You don’t look like you; you don’t even look possible.

But there’s a hunger now - a restless, animal urge that surges with every heartbeat. Your hands ball into fists, your lips curl into a smirk. You catch yourself swaggering just a bit, with hips rolling forward and shoulders wide. For the first time, you feel the want to be seen, to be admired, to be feared.

You try to call out for help, but your voice cracks, then deepens, a booming, masculine growl. The sound is obscene—raw power, pride, and contempt for anything weak. The old part of you recoils, but the new part flexes, delighted.

Fuck, look at you. Finally built like a real man, whispers the voice in your head. It’s less foreign now, more like a memory you forgot, or a hunger you buried. This is what power feels like. This is what respect feels like. You can take whatever you want - nobody laughs, nobody doubts, nobody dares.

You close your eyes, chest heaving, every nerve on fire. The last of your old body - old pain, old shame - melts away in a flood of heat and pride. You are changed. You are ready for whatever comes next.

You then stare at the mirror, panting, hands shaking as you try to process the brute masculinity staring back at you. But even as you reel, another wave of change hits - less painful, more insidious. It starts with your shirt: you feel the fabric constrict and thicken, cotton toughening and blending into a heavy, woven synthetic. The seams pull tight, reshaping themselves with eerie efficiency, until buttons pop into existence down the front - gleaming, metallic, each one stamped with an unfamiliar insignia.

A dark navy blue spreads across your chest and arms, swallowing up any sign of your old life. The collar stiffens and sharpens, growing up around your throat with suffocating authority. Epaulettes bulge onto your shoulders, pressed with crisp creases and bearing shining pins that you don’t recognize, but that feel right. You try to peel the shirt off, fingers clawing at buttons, but your hands are thick and clumsy, every move hampered by the growing bulk of muscle. You fumble, but the shirt wins, swallowing your protests and locking itself in place.

A patch swells into being on your left shoulder—a badge-shaped emblem with a shield and eagle, gold thread catching the light. You blink and rub your eyes, but the embroidery remains. Lower, a white rectangle shimmers to life above your left pec, the letters resolving one by one in fat, stenciled embroidery: SMITH. It’s as if the name is being branded onto you, final and brutal and unmistakable. You don’t know a Smith, no one in your family, none of your friends, but you can feel it burrowing into your mind, crowding out whatever your name used to be. You try to mouth your real name, but it’s foggy, scrambled, unreachable. All that’s left is the blank, bland confidence of this brand new Mr. Smith, the kind of name that fits in everywhere and never needs to explain itself.

Your pants follow, denim liquefying into something stiffer, darker. A thick black belt winds itself around your waist, notched perfectly to your new size, bristling with pouches and loops that fill themselves: a chunky flashlight, a pair of cuffs, a fat ring of keys, a radio crackling to life at your hip. The weight is oddly comforting, as if it belongs there - as if you’ve carried it for years. You pat each item, stunned by the familiarity of it all, a chill running through your gut as you realize your hands move with mechanical certainty, unbuckling and rebuckling, checking the gear by rote.

Your shoes squeeze, heels rising, soles hardening into the uncompromising grip of police boots. The floor feels different beneath you - slick, institutional linoleum instead of warped old hardwood. For a moment, you think you smell antiseptic and cheap aftershave.

A heavy badge appears above your heart, cold at first, then burning with pride. You stare at it, breath hitching. You can’t help but trace the engraved number with your finger, feeling its reality. Officer, the thought surfaces, unexpected, almost comforting. The word echoes in your skull, bouncing off memories that shouldn’t be there - patrols, roll calls, late-night fast food, hot coffee in a paper cup, the idle banter of men who trust you. You try to shake it off, but every new detail - the badge, the gear, the pressed creases - sends another pulse of confidence up your spine.

But now, the real onslaught begins. Sudden, alien memories erupt in your mind with sickening force: storming into apartments behind a shield, barking orders, the crack of a baton against a car hood, the adrenaline rush of grabbing a squirming kid by the wrist. You hear yourself reciting Miranda rights in a voice so cold and practiced it frightens you. It's muscle memory you shouldn’t have and words you’ve never spoken before. Locker room laughter, rough shoves, cheap jokes at the expense of “perps” and “prissy punks.” A memory flashes - shoving someone smaller against a brick wall, feeling nothing but a blank satisfaction as they cry out. You recoil, but the scene loops, clearer each time.

With every shift, new instincts and impulses slip in. You stand taller, square your shoulders. Your jaw sets with casual authority. Your face in the mirror looks back at you now with an expression you never wore - a cool, appraising smirk, a glimmer of amusement at how small the world looks from this height. The old you - soft, self-conscious, compassionate - scrabbles desperately for purchase. You think of your job, your friends, your beliefs, your self. “No, no, no, this isn’t me,” you mumble, voice trembling and deep. “I don’t want this. I’m not-” But the words don’t fit in your mouth anymore. Even as you say them, they feel childish, weak. A part of you scoffs, hearing the petulance in your protest.

Don’t be pathetic, the new voice snaps. You’re not some limp-wristed charity case. You’re built for command. You’re what this city needs: strong, decisive, respected. No more hiding, no more whining, no more bleeding-heart bullshit. You enforce the rules, you don’t beg for acceptance.

A memory crashes into you - shouting over a police radio, boots pounding on concrete, adrenaline spiking as you chase a perp through a rain-soaked alley. The pride when you catch him, slam him against the hood, cuff him one-handed while your partner laughs, “Damn, you’re an animal, man!” You gasp, staggering back from the mirror. The memory is real. You can feel the rain on your skin, the thrill of control, the exultant rush of being cheered by your own. In a sickening twist, part of you likes it - likes the power, the awe, the certainty.

You clutch at your head, teeth gritted. “I’m not like them. I’m not like you,” you mutter, but the words come out stilted, alien. The new thoughts are relentless, flooding your mind with rules, tactics, locker room banter, crude jokes, a thousand ways to dominate a room or a street. Your old sense of compassion feels pale and far away, like the memory of a dream.

The badge glints, the gear weighs heavy on your hips. Every time you blink, the face in the mirror looks less like you, more like a man you’ve only ever feared or resented. And still, a flicker of pride tugs at the corner of your mouth - a cruel, satisfied little smile that you can’t quite hide.

You brace your fists on the counter, chest heaving. The fracture inside you widens, old self and new locked in a vicious, uneven struggle. You are becoming something else, and you can feel yourself beginning to want it.

You never even see it coming. One moment you’re bracing yourself at the counter, fighting the tide of memories and foreign muscle and the shame of that ugly white bread name. The next, the website erupts to life once more, now depicting flashing women in star-spangled bikinis, sunbaked skin, glistening cleavage, hips twisting, tongues flicking at glossed lips. The slideshow accelerates, every frame designed to trigger hunger. The air is thick with the imagined perfume of cheap body spray, suntan oil, and sweat. Each image lingers, burning into your retinas, until the only thing you can see is soft, jiggling flesh, perfect teeth, asses bouncing, hands running down tanned bellies.

You try to close your eyes but it’s hopeless—the images pulse on the inside of your eyelids, bright as lightning, impossible to banish. Every time you squeeze your lids shut, the parade just gets more intense, like the slideshow is beaming itself right into the animal part of your brain. You gag, desperate for the flood to stop, for your mind to stay yours. “No, no, I don’t want this, I’m not-” The thought is cut off as a molten bolt of arousal sears down your spine, straight to your groin. You feel your cock stiffen, the heat so sudden and intense it steals your breath. You want to cry, to scream, to protest - but your hips twitch forward, your new muscles flex, and your hand finds your crotch on its own.

It’s obscene, how hungry you feel. Every frame is a trigger - cleavage, tanned thighs, lips parted around popsicles, girls grinding against sweaty jocks. You’re drooling, pulse pounding, so hard it hurts. The old voice in your head tries to shriek "You’re gay, you love men, you never wanted any of this" but it comes out a faint, pathetic whimper lost in a tidal wave of brutal, masculine need. The images keep hammering you, and the new stench of your body rises around you - thick, musky, sharp, sweat pouring down your stubble and over your pecs, your whole body reeking of testosterone and animal hunger. You’re leaning forward, lips parted, panting, practically salivating at the sight of a pair of bouncing tits on the screen.

A crude new voice barrels over your resistance, deep and cocky: Yeah fuckin’ right, you’re not gay. Faggots don’t get hard for tits like that. You see those bimbos, Smith? That’s what you were born to fuck. Pussy and power, that’s all a man like you needs. Another frame: girls laughing, pouring beer over their chests, tugging at bikini bottoms, their eyes sparkling with challenge and mockery.

You gasp as your package throbs, impossibly sensitive, and a nasty, amused snort bubbles up inside your skull. Your fingers squeeze your crotch and you realize it’s not just swelling with lust - there’s something wrong, something changing. You watch in horror and awe as your cock gets rock hard, then begins to tingle, the sensation crawling up from the base. It pulses once, twice, then starts to shrink, the shaft drawing back, the head softening and tightening even as the pleasure spikes. It’s humiliating, obscene, degrading, and your body just loves it - every lost inch is like a little electric reward zapping through your spine.

You want to scream "No, this isn’t right, I’m not supposed to feel like this, I love men, I never wanted to be like this," but your hips just roll, your new core flexing, and your hand is working your now pathetic cock with a mind of its own. “Shit, fuck yeah, this has me so fuckin' bricked right now,” you hear yourself mutter in a voice you barely recognize—husky, arrogant, dripping with lechery and pride. The new voice sneers: Who cares how big it is, loser? It ain’t about the size - it’s how you use it. Besides, chicks love a guy with a little dick and a lotta attitude. Give ‘em a quick fuck and send ‘em home, just like a real man. Let ‘em fake it while you get your rocks off. Who gives a shit?

You squeeze again, your now-pathetic cock twitching and shriveling in your grip, until you’re left with a stubby, throbbing three-incher. The sight would have destroyed you before. Now, it’s just another joke - another reminder that you’re not here for connection, for intimacy, for anything but the power trip of getting off. You huff, a nasty little laugh. Let those bimbos fake it. You’re Officer Smith now. You don’t need to please anybody but yourself.

The slideshow pounds you with more women - hot tub scenes, drunken hookups, girls moaning fake, porn-star moans. It's all for you, all for your cock and your hands and your power. Fantasies burst behind your eyes: yanking a girl onto your lap at the bar, pushing her head down, bragging to the boys in the locker room about how fast you scored. You want to own every body, every bedroom, every pair of tits and ass in the city. If they don’t like it, too bad - there’s a hundred more lined up waiting for a taste of a real man.

And beneath it all, the last shreds of your old self try desperately to cling to anything - some memory of love, of wanting to be held, of softness. But every time you try to speak, your mouth spits out filth and bravado: “Yeah, fuck, look at you, Smith. A stud like you could fuck anything you want. These bitches want it so bad, you barely even have to try.” You’re panting, glistening, grinning like a predator.

No, this isn’t me, I’m not like this, please stop— But your body drowns you out, the crude laughter, the dirty jokes, the hunger, the joy in conquest. You imagine ghosting them, shaming them, boasting about it, owning the world with your cock and your sneer. It feels inevitable. It feels like home.

You lean in to the mirror, flexing, admiring the sneer that now comes so easily. “Goddamn, you look good, Smith,” you grunt. “Fuckin’ stud. You could have anyone you want - hell, take two, three at a time. Show ‘em what a real man does.” The last echoes of your old self try to protest—No, I’m not like this, I’m not like you, please— but your body drowns them out in a flood of cruel laughter and heat. You spit on the floor, the gesture so instinctual it shocks you, and then you smile, wide and leering. It feels good. It feels inevitable.

The website flashes one last time: “Welcome to the Brotherhood.”

And you know, with savage certainty, that you belong here now... or at least, the new part of you does. The rest is fading, fast.

You feel the switch flip before you even realize it’s happening. A cold, thrilling surge of power snaps through your body - something so pure and physical it’s almost electrical, a raw wave of pride and hunger that crests and crashes and leaves you gasping. The website’s anthem booms in your ears, the pulse of drums and horns and crowd noise blending into a wall of sound, a victory march. Your reflection in the mirror is nearly unrecognizable now: golden stubble, sculpted jaw, every muscle pumped and veined, eyes sharp and blue with a cruel sort of humor. You flash your teeth - bigger, brighter, made for smirking and grinning and chewing out the weak.

You flex, just to watch your pecs swell and your arms bulge, rolling your shoulders and letting your hands roam across your own torso. Every touch is an affirmation. The fabric of your shirt strains across your chest and back, showing off every ridge, every thick rope of strength. You find yourself posing, admiring the cocky way you fill out the uniform, how the badge gleams against your pec, how the name “SMITH” sits proud and eternal over your heart. The air smells different - spicy, clean, charged with testosterone and aftershave and the kind of sweat that drives women wild.

Your body feels even better than it looks. Your senses are so sharp—every whiff of your own musk, every ripple of muscle beneath your skin, the scratch of your stubble, the way your boots bite into the floor, the weight of your gun and cuffs and keys. You shift your stance, shoulders squared, cock jutting forward, so much larger than life you want to grab yourself and moan with pride. You know anyone would want you: want to fear you, want to fuck you, want to be you.

A new, glorious flood of memories pours in, so intense and bright you almost shiver. You remember locker room laughs, slapping asses, joking with the boys about last night’s conquests. You remember your first arrest: muscles burning, adrenaline surging, the moment you slammed a punk onto the hood and felt the crowd’s eyes on you, all awe and envy. You remember strutting through bars, eyes following you everywhere, girls giggling as you grabbed them and spun them against you. You remember the cheers at the station when you won a bet, the way your partner looked at you with worship, the way your own voice sounded so right calling out orders, threatening, charming, winning.

That’s right, bitch, you think at the last ghost of your old self, who is barely hanging on by a thread. Look at you... Pathetic! You were always meant to disappear, to let a real man take your place. Who’d ever want you now, anyway? The old self tries to whimper, tries to raise an argument about love or gentleness or being seen, but it’s met with a roar of laughter from the new Smith. You are the joke now - just a faded, broken echo, so weak that even remembering your old name feels like a chore. Smith grins at your pain and presses his advantage: Get lost, loser. You had your chance. Now it’s my world.

Every moment is pure, liquid pleasure. You want to show off: to strut, to preen, to let the world see what a real man looks like. You want to break things and claim things and fuck things. Your hand drifts to your crotch, palming the stunted, rock-hard little dick, and you almost laugh. Who cares how small you are? You make them beg anyway. You leave them aching, crying, hungry for another shot at your attention. That’s power. That’s what matters. You stroke yourself with greedy pride, hips rolling, flexing for the mirror, muscles standing out in hard relief. The sight alone nearly makes you cum right there.

The world grows hotter, brighter, richer - colors popping, sounds sharper, your own breath a growl in your ears. Every muscle feels like it could split your skin. The memory of a hundred victories, a thousand fucks, a lifetime of domination lights you up from inside. You squeeze your cock harder, laughing, spitting on the floor, every sense at the redline. Your heart pounds. Your voice, when it comes, is a bark, a boast, a moan of conquest. “Fuck, look at me. I’m fucking perfect.”

That’s when it hits: the final, shuddering wave. Your body tenses, flexes, and you explode, eyes rolling back as a white-hot pleasure tears through you. The world blurs out in a haze of sensation: every sound a roar, every sight a smear of color, every feeling magnified a thousand times. For a heartbeat, you are only pleasure and pride, animal and god.

When your vision clears, you blink, breath still ragged, your muscles singing with afterglow. The mirror is gone. The world is different - harder, realer, yet exactly where you're meant to be...

You’re now sitting in your cop car. Your uniform hugs your new body like a second skin, and every inch of you radiates power, authority, and cocky satisfaction. In the passenger seat, you turn to see your rookie partner - young, clean-shaven, eager - grinning over at you. Clearly, the kid idolized you... which you weren't surprised about in the slightest. After all, you're the best cop in the damn county.

“Nice work on that last collar, Sarge,” he says, handing you a file. “You think the conversion program is really going to fix all of this hostility?”

You grin, rolling your shoulders, letting your arm drape out the window. “Trust me, rookie,” you say, voice deep and sure, “it’s the best thing that ever happened to this country. The world’s gone soft, now we get to toughen it up, one whiny liberal at a time.”

A call crackles in on the radio: “Suspect - blue hair, protest sign - causing a disturbance downtown.” You catch your own reflection in the rearview, eyes flashing with pride and hunger.

You peel out, siren blaring, your rookie laughing in excitement beside you. When you pull up to the curb, the twink barely has time to protest before you’re out of the car, grabbing him, manhandling him into the backseat. “Hey! What are you... Let me go, I didn’t do anything!” he shouts, voice shrill and desperate.

You just smirk, settling behind the wheel, flipping on the in-car TV as your rookie secures the door. “You’re about to get a real education,” you drawl, thumbing the website’s app open. “Don’t worry, you’ll thank us when you’re done.”

As the screen starts to flash, you stretch, cocky and satisfied, already looking forward to seeing another convert step out strong, proud, and right.

While your attention returns to the radio as it spits static and coded chatter, the blue-haired kid continues to struggle in the backseat - attempting to do whatever he can to escape and prevent the fate that's fast approaching. Your rookie is all nerves and excitement, glancing between you and the backseat, where the RedWaveRapture website flickers to life, ready to work its magic once again.

You can feel the afterglow from your earlier transformation still thrumming through your veins, your muscles buzzing with power, your skin sticky with sweat and pride. The world outside is crisp and clear - streets straight, no-nonsense, every building flying a fresh American flag, not a protest sign in sight. It’s like the city itself has sobered up, straightened its back, embraced its new order. You breathe deep, letting the smell of asphalt and summer and your own body fill your lungs. Everything is sharp, clean, right.

Your rookie checks the cuffs on the twink, then slides into the passenger seat, all wide-eyed and eager for approval. “Man, I still can’t believe how easy it is now. They just go in whiny and come out ready to serve. The program’s a game-changer.”

You grin, teeth flashing in the rearview, feeling bigger than ever. “It’s about time the world stopped listening to all that bullshit. Give ‘em a little discipline, a little structure, and they remember how to act. Weakness is a choice. All they needed was a push.”

You crank the volume on the screen as the slideshow begins, the same relentless stream of women and flags and muscle and grinning authority that claimed you. The twink’s protests quickly fade into moans, gasps, then silence - eyes locked, face slack, his features already starting to harden, hair shifting shade by shade toward a respectable brown. You can’t help but laugh. “Look at that, rookie. One less pain in the ass for us to babysit.”

The rookie laughs, emboldened, tossing you a wink. “Bet he’ll thank you before the day’s over. They always do. Last guy brought in coffee for the whole shift and saluted everyone on the way out.”

“Fuck yeah,” you bark, slapping the dash. “We’re making real men again. Making this country proud. No more losers, no more snowflakes. Just the strong, the loyal, the fuckin’ backbone.” You catch a glimpse of yourself in the side mirror - blond, broad, beard stubble sharp, eyes cold and unblinking. You look every inch the part: a leader, a lawman, a conqueror.

The rookie looks at you with naked admiration, eager to match your bravado. “So, what do we do with him when he’s done? Drop him off at the precinct?”

“Nah. Let him see his old friends first. Nothing wakes you up like seeing what you left behind. Gives ‘em a reason to keep the faith.” You stretch, savoring the pop of your new, stronger joints, the way your uniform hugs your biceps and chest. It’s easy, natural even, to talk like this, to dismiss the past and see only strength and victory ahead.

Outside, the city rolls by - orderly, almost eerily serene. A few protest stickers remain, faded and peeling, relics of a softer time. Everywhere else, it’s red, white, and blue, men and women walking straighter, heads high, eyes on the prize. You nod at your reflection, pride swelling until it threatens to burst.

Behind you, the twink starts to grunt, his voice dropping an octave, hands flexing as his wrists thicken. His body’s already bulking, shirt riding up as abs push through. You watch with lazy approval, a thrill running through you as his face sets in a new, rugged cast.

Just then, your phone buzzes - it's a text from the captain, he has a new list of suspects flagged for “adjustment.” You smirk. Plenty more work to do. The world won’t fix itself, but with men like you behind the wheel, there’s hope yet.

As the rookie flips on the lights for your next call, you roll down the window and let the city’s heat and noise pour in. You catch sight of your badge, “SMITH,” gleaming in the afternoon sun. Every inch of you radiates power, pride, certainty. You reach down, give yourself a squeeze, and laugh - a deep, easy sound, free of doubt, full of promise.

This is your city. Your time. The weak are fading, the strong are rising, and you - Officer Smith - are right where you belong.

#lib to con #gay to straight #reality shift #mental changes

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xoxolaw · 3 days ago

Text

+ THE TURNING POINT

this is an interactive story. if this is your first time seeing this, then hop over to introduction - to get the idea behind this story.

+ CONTENTS

+ CH B3

The classroom buzzed with idle chatter, the faint scent of chalk dust and warm sunlight drifting in through open windows. Afternoon rays spilled across desks in golden streaks, casting soft shadows that danced as students shifted in their seats. It was just another day — on the surface.

But for Y/N, the ordinary had never felt so fragile.

It had become a routine. Baku waiting by the school gates each morning, sometimes with a bag of snacks in one hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. He never said anything — never asked if she wanted him there — but he always was. Waiting.

Walking her to class. Walking her to the hospital. Picking up her bag without comment. Blocking out the murmurs with his silent, imposing presence. Making sure there wasn’t a moment where she was left alone with her thoughts.

Always near. Always watching. Standing next to her or in the background.

She never asked for it. But deep down, she was grateful.

Pens scratched across paper. The teacher droned in the distance, their voice muffled by the quiet lull of early afternoon. The hum of a fan in the corner spun endlessly, blending into the white noise of adolescence.

Y/N sat near the window, her pen twirling between her fingers. Her eyes followed the swaying branches outside, but her mind was elsewhere. Worn. Frayed.

Then she heard it.

Low voices from the row behind her. Cutting. Sharp enough to pierce right through her drifting thoughts.

“She’s still coming here? I mean... wouldn’t it be better to just hide if everyone found out she killed someone?”

The laugh that followed wasn’t loud — but it didn’t need to be. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t belong in a classroom. The kind that left bruises.

Y/N’s fingers froze mid-twirl.

Her spine straightened instinctively. Her breath stilled.

She didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to.

“Hey.”

The chair next to her scraped harshly across the floor. The room tilted into silence.

Baku.

He was on his feet, posture tense, eyes locked on the boys behind them like a live wire waiting to snap.

“Say that again,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous — the kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

The taller of the two boys smirked, reclining in his seat. “What? We’re just talking. Didn’t know you were so sensitive, Hu-min.”

Wrong move.

Baku’s fist slammed into the desk. The impact rattled books and pens and a water bottle that toppled to the ground with a thud. His body leaned forward, radiating fury.

“You’ve got something to say?” he snarled. “Say it to her face.”

Y/N stood up, the legs of her chair screeching. Her heart thundered in her chest.

“Baku, don’t,” she said, voice tight with urgency. But he didn’t even glance her way.

The second boy — shorter, meaner — scoffed and stood up too. “Relax, man. She doesn’t even deny it.”

That was it.

Baku’s fist flew.

The punch landed with a dull crack, sending the boy stumbling back, a hand flying to his jaw. Shouts erupted, chairs clattered — but before Y/N could blink, the taller one threw a punch too, hitting Baku in the cheek.

“Stop it!” she cried, shoving herself between them. Her hands pressed against Baku’s chest. “He’s not worth it!”

He didn’t move.

“Baku,” she said again, firmer this time, her eyes locking with his.

His chest rose and fell beneath her palms, fast and shallow. Then — slowly — his hands fell to his sides. His shoulders dropped.

The fight drained out of him like a tide pulling back.

---

They escaped to the rooftop.

It was late afternoon by then. The sky above was painted with long stretches of pale orange and dusky pink. The wind up there was sharper, cooler — biting at their skin with a refreshing sting. The chaos of the school faded into background noise.

Y/N sat him down on the old wooden bench tucked near the edge of the rooftop, the city sprawling beyond the railings.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, kneeling beside him. A cut ran just above his cheekbone, already darkening with the hint of a bruise.

“He deserved it,” Baku muttered, wiping at it with the back of his hand.

She frowned, gently batting his hand away. “You can’t just throw punches every time someone talks crap.”

“Watch me.”

Y/N sighed. “You’re impossible.”

But her voice lacked anger. Instead, it held something softer. Tired. Warm.

She rummaged through her bag and pulled out a tiny pouch.

Baku squinted. “You carry a first-aid kit around?”

“Always prepared,” she muttered, unscrewing a bottle of antiseptic. “Now hold still.”

He watched her — curiously, warily — as she dabbed a cotton pad in the liquid and leaned closer.

The sting made him wince. “Ow.”

“Don’t be a baby,” she said, focused on cleaning the wound. Her fingers were gentle, her brows furrowed in concentration. Strands of her hair fell forward, catching the light.

Baku’s eyes drifted.

Away from the skyline. Away from the clouds. And onto her.

He didn’t look away.

The way she bit her lower lip in focus. The way her fingers moved with surprising care, dabbing away blood like she’d done it a hundred times. The way her eyelashes trembled just slightly in the wind.

He stared.

Y/N looked up halfway through and caught him.

Their eyes locked.

He wasn’t scowling. He wasn’t teasing. Just... looking. Open. Bare.

Like he wanted to memorize her face.

Her breath caught. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Her cheeks heated. Her fingers froze. She suddenly realized how close they were — barely a foot apart.

“I—I should—” she began, standing up too fast.

Her ankle twisted on the uneven tile with a sharp crack, and she gasped as the world tilted—

Strong arms caught her.

Baku’s hands wrapped around her waist instinctively, steadying her as she clutched his jacket. Their faces were inches apart. Her breath hitched. His did too.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, eyes wide.

“Y-Yeah,” she whispered.

She was suddenly very aware of everything — his heartbeat under her palm, his warm fingers on her back, the way his hair curled slightly near his ears.

Baku’s mouth parted. His grip faltered.

And then—

He panicked.

“Shit—!”

He let go.

She fell with a soft thud, landing on her butt with a squeak of disbelief.

“OW! You absolute caveman!”

“I panicked!” he yelped, face turning crimson. “You were falling— I caught you— and then you were close—!”

“So you dropped me?!”

“I wasn’t prepared for this situation!” he protested, flustered beyond belief. “You were looking at me like that! I malfunctioned!”

She grabbed a crumpled tissue from her pouch and chucked it at him. He caught it — barely — and burst out laughing.

It was loud. Unfiltered. His shoulders shook with it.

And she hated how cute he looked when he wasn’t being an idiot.

“You’re unbelievable,” she muttered.

He extended a hand toward her. She stared at it.

Then — slowly — she took it.

His grip was warm. Solid.

As they walked back to the stairwell, silence settled over them. Not awkward — just soft. Unspoken.

At the door, Baku paused.

“Next time someone talks crap about you...” he said, voice quiet, “don’t stop me.”

Y/N turned to look at him, surprised.

His eyes weren’t teasing. They weren’t smirking.

They were serious. Protective.

Fierce.

“Next time,” she whispered, “I won’t.”

Their hands brushed as they turned toward the stairs.

This time, neither of them pulled away.

---

That night, the moon hung low and golden, a quiet companion to the glow of her phone screen. Y/N lay on her side, the blanket tucked under her chin, thumb scrolling idly until her phone buzzed.

---

Baku 🐻

"you up?"

Y/N

"maybe"

"why?"

Baku 🐻

"because i’m bored and you’re fun to talk to"

"don’t let it get to your head though 🙄"

Y/N

"too late"

"i’m already assuming that you are in love with me."

Baku 🐻

"pls don’t"

"i have a rep to maintain"

Y/N

"oh right, the big bad scary baku who punches desks for fun"

Baku 🐻

"it wasn’t for fun"

"😐"

Y/N

"...i know"

"thanks for earlier"

Baku 🐻

"anytime"

"you were trying so hard to ignore it"

"but your fingers stopped moving"

"i notice stuff like that"

"👀"

Y/N

"you’re observant for a caveman"

Baku 🐻

"😒 rude"

"but fine"

"caveman with emotional intelligence"

"a rare species"

Y/N

"very rare"

"probably endangered"

Baku 🐻

"oh i'm definitely one of a kind"

Y/N

"can’t argue with that"

"no one else would drop me on a rooftop after catching me"

Baku 🐻

"i panicked!!!! 😭"

"you were like... all close and looking at me with those eyes"

Y/N

"what eyes?"

Baku 🐻

"you know"

"those eyes"

"the kind that make me forget what to do with my limbs"

Y/N

"you’re so weird 💀"

Baku 🐻

"and yet you’re still texting me"

"who’s the weirder one here?"

Y/N

"touche."

---

They kept texting like that—little jokes, soft teases, casual confessions wrapped in emojis and typos. Her pillow was warm from where her cheek had been pressed to it, and her lips ached from smiling.

Just as she thought the conversation had quieted—thumb hovering over the lock button—her screen lit up again.

---

Baku 🐻

"look outside your window"

---

Her heart skipped.

She tossed the blanket off and tiptoed toward the window, peeking past the curtain.

There he was.

Standing under the flickering streetlight, hoodie over his head, holding a convenience store bag in one hand and waving at her with the other.

He pointed to the street and then mimed sneaking.

She stared.

Then grinned.

continue to CH B4

crafted for you with love by - xoxolaw

#weak hero x reader #weak hero class two #fanfic #Geum Seong Je #geum seong je x reader #geum seongje x reader #yeon sieun #yeon sieun x reader #sieun x reader #baku x reader #park humin #park humin x reader

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