#not my usual sandbox

[kadi219]

“We’re getting closer to that nebula,” he reminded her, “if it is the next stop on the road to earth, it stands to reason, logic aside, that’s why the visions have started again.”

“If that’s true,” she whispered, “if I am the bridge between our people and what they are to become, then this war is destined to come to a catastrophic end.” That was the only interpretation she could derive based on the ruined image of Galactica that was now stuck in her head.

“It’s possible,” he said slowly, choosing his words as carefully as he could, and trying to separate the evidence of what was occurring from his own anti-deistic beliefs, “that if Pythia foretold our own caravan, then her prophecy was a warning. If there were gods living among humans on Kobol, they allowed the first exodus, and remained on Kobol to watch over their human children from afar. We repeated their mistakes, greed and hedonism, and a flight to the stars in search of a new home, with the blaze surging behind us. An anointed dying leader, to draw parallels from their written warnings, but in the original tale, the leader did not enter the promised land. She speaks in past tense, there is no mention of an impossible cure taken from a child that shouldn’t be able to exist. If you think of the parables and metaphors of religion as lessons and warnings, then yes, unheeded, all of this will happen again. If you believe in the gods, then it stands to reason, to see humanity safely delivered, we’d need a guide. Not a priestess or an oracle, someone more real, someone even the nonbelievers could relate to. A teacher, to guide humanity across the stars.”

[waynedunlaptheorgandonor]

also! i know i'm probably like a year and a half late to the scene here, but what the FUCK is that font? it looks like the font you'd use for a children's movie about dragons. and then to pair it with two other non-complementary fonts on top of it? like, shipwar aside, this is what we should be actually upset about. who made that design choice, and who proceeded to then review said design choice, and then allowed it to be seen by the public? bc they should all probably be fired

[jezunya]

Angels can sense love (and other virtues), while demons can sense lust (and other vices).

Early on, Crowley can sense Aziraphale's little spikes of lust towards him, and he maybe thinks a time or two about tempting the angel into a serious sin, maybe even something worth falling over...? But he also genuinely likes Aziraphale, more and more each time they meet, and so he holds back. Gets him to try some human food and think a little independently from Heaven's company line. Calls it a win just to have someone to talk to, to have someone who understands even a little, and even more a win when he gets Aziraphale to relax and enjoy himself once in a while.

And then, of course, that sense of lustful, covetous desire coming from the angel wanes and eventually vanishes altogether. Oh, he still senses it occasionally, especially when it comes to acquiring a particularly rare manuscript. But it's never directed towards Crowley anymore, hasn't been for decades, maybe even centuries if he thinks about it.

It's not disappointing. Not really. He wouldn't want to tempt Aziraphale into anything that could actually be harmful to him, after all. Hasn't wanted to do that since sometime back in the Old Testament times, to be honest. It was just... nice? (Ugh.) To know he was wanted, at least in that way. And now that's gone, apparently, Aziraphale's physical desire for him having cooled as they've become friends over the millennia.

(He's still got it, though, if his success inspiring lust and envy in humans when a job requires it is anything to go by. Just can't inspire it anymore in the one being he'd be particularly interested in exploring it with...)

What a shock it is, then, when Aziraphale asks quite desperately one day, after they're finished with Heaven and Hell and their attempts to wipe the Earth from existence, if he can make love to Crowley -- but then also rushes to assure Crowley that it's alright if the answer is no! That what they have now is absolutely perfect! It's only that Crowley is so beautiful, and Aziraphale feels he's half gone out of his mind at times through the long centuries trying to ignore how distractingly much he simply wants to touch him, hold him, caress him... And now that they're here, together, and trying to be honest with each other, trying for open communication, Aziraphale doesn't want to keep this to himself any longer, wants it all out in the open and to know Crowley's thoughts on the matter so that he shall know how to act going forward. It's an excited, blundering, mess of a confession, ending on a stiff-upper-lip determination that most people think is so very English but don't know that Aziraphale actually invented it and that the Brits have just been following his lead all this time.

And Crowley has no idea how to respond, questions getting caught in his throat, tangled around his forked tongue. Because, what? What?!

He watches his angel's face start to crumble as he struggles, and finally his protests take shape: He could sense when Aziraphale stopped wanting him like that! It's been years and years and years! Without a single whiff of lust coming off Aziraphale when he looks at Crowley!

Which, Aziraphale replies, is simply not possible. Because, honestly, he's only come to desire Crowley more over the years: sensually and sexually, yes, but also as a friend and confidante, also romantically. Tenderly. He quite desires Crowley in every way it is possible to do, he thinks.

And really, Aziraphale goes on, feathers a little ruffled now, Crowley needn't pretend or make excuses -- if he doesn't want to be with Aziraphale in that way, he will absolutely respect that. There's no reason to pretend he can't sense how Aziraphale feels, just as Aziraphale has been able to feel Crowley's love for him growing, starting with those bits of affection and interest all the way back in Eden, through to the very purest, most all-encompassing love he's been able to sense from him these last few years, after everything.

But demons can't sense love, Crowley has to remind him a bit tetchily, only vices! Things that lead to sin and degradation and unhappiness! So it's not actually the same at all!

And then he watches Aziraphale make a pretty perfect Shocked Pikachu Face, not that the angel would understand the reference if he told him.

But Aziraphale starts to smile after a moment, even if his eyes are shining with tears at the same time, and the angel breathes that it's not a vice to wish to be close to someone whom you love, and whom you know loves you in return.

The penny drops.

Aziraphale never stopped wanting him -- he just also started loving Crowley at some point.

[hey-scully-itsme]

dipping my toes into the world of crossover fanfic and telling myself over and over that i do not need to come up with a perfect justification for why something is happening in order to write it bc a) it's fanfiction and b) the source material has done weirder and dumber shit

[cryptiddeer]

I enter the fandom crossover tag. One is a mid-2000s kids cartoon that has slowly been replaced with fanon due to cool ideas but less than great writing, the other is a Comics/Cartoon/TV show/game/movies with over 70 years of history with various writers, and ever-changing canon, making it impossible to know every single little thing.

There is an interesting writing prompt for the crossover with a good amount of notes, indicating that other people liked this prompt and have written for it and/or recommended fics with similar ideas.

I enter the notes.

WHOOPS the first one I see is someone complaining about the prompt because either

1.) they don't like the core idea of the prompt

2.) The core idea for the prompt doesn't exist in canon

3.) One persons addition later in a large reblog chain doesn't align with canon

About half of the notes are some guy on a soapbox yelling about how this prompt is stupid and bad and people replying to tell them off for soapboxing on a writing prompt

Conclusion: I am begging people to learn Tumblr etiquette and scroll pass shit they don't like PLEASE

[antilocaprine]

23, Frenrey?

(Kiss Prompt List)

(I'm stealing the 90's cryptid-hunting AU from @melonsharks for this because I got An Image in my head and had to run with it. There are over 2k words under the cut.)

23: …in relief

“Okay, this looks like the right spot,” Gordon murmurs. The old house is pitch dark even though the power’s still technically connected. Gordon says it’s more authentic to have the lights off when he’s hunting whatever creature of the night he's heard rumors about that week.

“Why’s that?” Benrey’s got his hands in his pockets, because while he doesn’t know whatever Gordon thinks might be in here, Benrey knows it’s a wraith. He can feel its presence tingling on the back of his neck, and his fingers have already curled into claws in reflex. Wraiths are predators, and Benrey’s never been very good at being prey.

“Look at the readings,” Gordon says, tilting the screen of his current handheld machine toward Benrey, who bends his head obligingly to look. Sure enough, the little ticker arm is bouncing between the yellow and red on the right-hand side of the little colored arch behind the window, and it’s emitting a merry series of clicks and chirps.

“That’s…sure is some readings,” Benrey says. Gordon huffs and pulls the machine back.

“Just keep an eye out for anything weird,” he says, and moves carefully away across the creaky floor. Benrey rolls his eyes at him, even as he tightens his claws into fists.

They’re on the third level, because of course this creepy old house has three levels. This used to be the master bedroom, and there’s still an old bedframe in the room, but no mattress. A wooden dresser with two busted drawers is against one wall, and one of those fancy old desks with a rollover top is against another wall. Both sides of the bedframe have little bedside tables, but one of them is tipped over and the other has no drawers, just empty space gaping like a mouth, the shadows looking darker in the glow of Gordon’s flashlight.

Benrey has a flashlight, too, but he doesn’t need it. It’s a good excuse to stick close to Gordon, sharing his warmth and his enthusiasm and maybe, sometimes, spooking him by whispering directly in his ear from behind. He always jumps a foot in the air and swears colorfully, and it’s the most reliable fun Benrey’s had in a century.

He hasn’t told Gordon about the whole…not-human thing. It took him a week to figure out how to get Gordon’s little machines to stop screeching whenever he got within ten feet of them, and now that he has, he’s been enjoying fulfilling the role of the skeptic to Gordon’s believer on his ghost hunts.

It’s not always even ghosts - last month Gordon was chasing something that was reported to be a demon. It turned out to be raccoons fucking in the guy’s attic, so Gordon was disappointed, but Benrey enjoyed tagging along - especially when he got to see the expression on Gordon’s face when he pulled the stained cardboard box off the attic shelf and two angry raccoons tumbled out.

It was worth not getting anything to eat. Usually, Gordon’s hauntings are legit, and Benrey hopes he can keep the guy from finding out for as long as possible. It means a steady supply of both food and companionship, and Benrey hasn’t had that in, again, over a century.

“Shit,” Gordon mutters from the other side of the room. “I think I left my recorder in the arcade.”

“You need another, uh, cassette?” Benrey has a blank one in his fannypack - he’d taken to carrying it after Gordon aborted a hunt because he didn’t have one, which led to Benrey missing out on eating a whole family of poltergeists. With the extra warning time, they were gone by the next night. Benrey doesn’t want that to happen again, so he has a small collection of odds and ends that he brings with him now - extra batteries, another flashlight, some film canisters for the Kodak, granola bars, string, some weird wires that Benrey doesn’t understand but which Gordon always seems to need for one of his weird little machines…the usual. 

“No,” Gordon growls, digging through his backpack, the light of his flashlight strangled to just the inside of the pack. “I have a cassette. I have three cassettes, actually, but I don’t have the fucking tape recorder that can put shit ON those cassettes!”

“Mmm,” Benrey says, which probably isn’t the right response, but he’s a bit preoccupied tracking a patch of shadow that’s creeping its way down the wall behind Gordon. 

“Don’t fucking “hmm” at me,” Gordon snaps, and drops into a crouch to upend the contents of his backpack onto the floor. “Come help me look through this.”

“Should just get, uh, one’a those military packs,” Benrey says, eyes still on the wall as he walks blindly over. “Army surplus. Got lots of pockets for, uh, stuff.”

“I don’t need more fucking pockets, I need to not put shit down in the office and then forget about it!” Gordon runs a hand over his head, smoothing down the frizzy hairs that have come loose from his ponytail. Benrey wants to follow that touch, to run his own hands over Gordon’s hair, thread his fingers through it and pull the hairband loose, tighten his grip and lean forward and -

“Benrey? Are you just gonna stand there or what?”

Benrey blinks at him, then freezes as he realizes that he’s taken his eyes off the shadow on the wall.

Behind Gordon, the wraith rises from the floor, gaunt and wavering, but solid enough for Benrey to touch. He doesn’t waste a moment in doing so - its eyes are fixed on Gordon, and Gordon’s gaze is fixed on Benrey, which leaves Gordon completely unprotected as the wraith rears back and readies one pale, clawed limb to strike.

Benrey’s seen it before, before he cared about humans - before he cared about this human. There’s no way he’s going to sit by and watch it happen this time, not when he remembers the way the striking limb sharpens into a spear, the way it punches through its victim without shedding a drop of their blood, the way it pulses grossly as the wraith drains their vitality like some sort of mutated mosquito. Benrey can’t watch Gordon’s face go pale with shock and blood loss, can’t watch him thrash like a bug on a pin until he stills, limp and unresponsive.

So Benrey lunges, leaping over Gordon and crashing into the wraith, sinking his already-prepared claws into its insubstantial form, his own limbs wavering into the same half-life plane the wraith inhabits. It takes a lot of energy to push through, but a good meal is worth it. For the wraith, that was supposed to be Gordon. For Benrey, it’s the wraith itself.

His momentum slams them both through the empty shutters and out onto the balcony. Gordon is yelling behind them - and Benrey can’t let him see this, he can’t let Gordon set his eyes on Benrey with monstrous limbs sunk halfway into a monster’s chest. So he keeps tumbling, and they crash through the weak wooden railing and fall three stories straight down.

In the air, Benrey has the advantage of surprise and uses that to slice skeletal limbs deeper into the wraith. Panicking, the wraith punches its spear of an arm through Benrey. They crash through the upper branches of a tree and slam into the ground hard enough that Benrey, more present in the physical plane, gets the wind knocked out of him. The wraith takes advantage by punching its other limb into his chest - but it’s only got the two grabbers, and Benrey doesn’t actually need to breathe. 

The wraith shrieks at a frequency too high for humans to hear as Benrey manifests a handful of other half-formed limbs and wraps them around it. His form splits open like a maw and he pulls the wraith inside, folding himself over it like a wave and reforming on the other side - just in time to hear the thunder of Gordon’s footsteps pounding down the front steps on the other side of the house.

Benrey hauls himself up to his knees, but wavers there as the wraith thrashes, struggling to compress it down and consume the last of its energy. Even half-dead things don’t want to die, and it is still fighting him when Gordon comes skidding around the corner, the weak light of his backup flashlight bobbing frantically ahead of him. When he thinks about it, Benrey might remember kicking the good flashlight as he leapt over Gordon. It wasn’t intentional, but it works out well for him - if he hadn’t, Gordon might have been able to see him from the remnants of the balcony, and that would have been…awkward.

“Benrey? Benrey!”

“I’m fine, m’right here,” Benrey says, raising a hand. The other drops to his fannypack, and he feels something crunch. “Aw, fuck…”

“What? What is it? How hurt are you - don’t move -” 

Benrey ignores Gordon’s frantic voice to unzip the fannypack and pull out the blank cassette, reels of tape unspooling from the busted halves. “Must’ve fallen on it…”

“I don’t care about the fucking tape! Benrey!” Benrey looks up to see Gordon bent over him, hands hovering like he’s scared to touch.

“Hmm?”

“What the fuck was that?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t -” Gordon straightens slightly and swings the flashlight across Benrey’s body. (He makes sure to reel in as many tendrils of himself as he can - but judging by the confused look on Gordon’s face, his shadow still probably looks weird.) “How are you okay? You fell, like, thirty feet! Why the fuck did you jump out the window?”

His hands are shaking. All of him is shaking, a little, which Benrey notices with an odd sense of detachment as he frantically tries to come up with an excuse. What makes humans do stupid shit?

“Uh, there was, uhhhh a wasp,” he says, and Gordon stops moving.

“What?”

“Yeah, it was, uh, a super big wasp. And - it was gonna sting you n’so I, uh, I grabbed it, but I…” fuck, he’s dug himself a hole now, he has to recover - “I tripped over the flashlight and uhhh fell.”

“You…” Gordon raises his free hand to run it over his face, knocking his glasses askew. “You saw a wasp. In the middle of the night. And you...caught it? In the middle of the night. And then you - threw yourself off a balcony? With the wasp?”

Benrey thinks for a moment. The story seems airtight to him. “Yup.”

“I’m - I just -” Gordon shines the light on Benrey again where he’s still kneeling in the dirt. He doesn’t seem to know where to go from here, which is bad, because Benrey doesn’t know either. He may have just blown his cover completely. “Do you - still have the wasp?”

“Oh, uh, sure.” Benrey raises his hand and concentrates, and forms a passable insect carapace with the remnants of the wraith, which still really doesn’t want to die even as he’s consuming it. It results in the skin around the extrusion looking nasty, dark and inflamed as Benrey fights with the last of the wraith to crunch it into oblivion.

“Jesus Christ, man, look at this!” Gordon yelps when the flashlight’s beam hits Benrey’s red and swollen palm. “How many times did it sting you? Fuck, are you allergic? We have to go - we gotta find a payphone -”

“What? No,” Benrey protests, and shakes his hand, dropping the “wasp” to the ground. “It’s fine, it’s - don’t worry -”

Then he stops talking, because Gordon tucks the flashlight under his arm and grabs Benrey’s hand, turning it over carefully to examine it. Gordon’s muttering to himself, and Benrey’s brain feels like a TV screen that’s stuck between stations, full of a staticky buzz.

“What, are you gonna kiss it better?” Benrey speaks without thinking, then winces when his brain catches up. He didn’t mean to come off that strong, and he goes to pull his hand out of Gordon’s grip - but then Gordon is raising Benrey’s hand up and dipping his head and -

Gordon kisses the heel of Benrey’s hand, quickly, carefully, the bristly hairs of his goatee tickling the soft skin of Benrey’s palm. Benrey’s pretty sure he’s got a dumbstruck look on his face, his mouth hanging open, because what? Did that just happen? What alternate plane of existence has he fallen into, and how can he stay here forever?

“Okay, um, that looks - I mean, it looks fine, I guess, but we should - we should still go, because you’re probably going to need some ice or something…” Gordon keeps rambling as Benrey pulls himself to his feet, carefully leaving his fingers in Gordon’s grip. He tries not to jostle anything, hoping that Gordon doesn’t notice they’re still basically holding hands.

“I have no idea how you’re okay,” Gordon says, looking back up toward the broken balcony - and in a shaft of moonlight, Benrey can see that his cheeks are flushed as he continues to babble. So that’s. All right. Benrey can work with that.

“I think that uhhhh I got stung more, actually,” Benrey says, and Gordon’s attention snaps back to him. Benrey realizes he’s made himself too tall and shrinks back down a few inches. Gordon doesn’t seem to notice, his gaze fixed on their joined hands like he’s only just noticed where they’re linked.

“You’re - you’ve -” Gordon sighs. “Okay, where?”

“My, uh,” Benrey stalls, drawing a blank. “My wrist. You better - you gotta kiss it better, too.”

Gordon turns his hand over, and fuck, Benrey forgot to make the skin look reddened - but it doesn’t seem to matter. Gordon raises Benrey’s hand up and kisses the back of his wrist like a Victorian gentleman. Benrey has to resist the urge to swoon.

“Anywhere else?” Gordon asks, then clears his throat, his voice a bit rough. Benrey almost loses his grip on the last of the wraith in his distraction, and it tries to make a break for it out his back. He yanks it back in, folding tendrils of himself over it, and curls his shoulders to disguise the movement.

“Uhhh my…my cheek?” Is that too much? Is he moving too fast? If this works, what the fuck is he going to do next?

Then Benrey’s brain turns into static again, because Gordon’s bristly face is pressing against his left cheek and he can’t think - he can’t even breathe. Gordon leans back, but not very far, his bright green eyes turned to mossy shadows in the night.

“Anywhere else?” he rasps, and Benrey realizes he can have this.

“Pretty sure it stung my lip,” he says - and before he even finishes the words, Gordon is leaning forward again, his free hand coming up to cup Benrey’s jaw, leaving the flashlight to thump onto the ground. Gordon makes a thin noise as Benrey returns the kiss, then leans more of his weight on Benrey, both hands moving now to run over Benrey’s shoulders, his chest, down his sides, toward his back -

Benrey breaks the kiss and leans back just before Gordon’s trembling fingers reach a hollow where he’s still pulling himself back together, and Gordon sags, dropping his forehead to Benrey’s shoulder and heaving out a shuddery sigh. 

“You’re really okay?” he mumbles into Benrey’s shirt, shocky tremors still wracking his frame.

“M’fine,” Benrey responds, seizing the chance to run his fingers through Gordon’s hair. It’s actually not as soft as he thought it would be - it’s a bit wild and tangled from being stuffed under a hoodie, then flying around in the wind when Gordon ran down the stairs after him - but that makes it better. Makes it more real.

“Fuck, Benrey, I thought - I could have sworn I saw - something -”

“Doubt it,” Benrey says quickly. “Just us up there. Just me an’...an’ the wasp. Maybe a nest, too, sooo it’s good we, uh, left. Sorry, bro - I think this one was a - a bust.”

Gordon raises his head and looks at Benrey again, the flashlight still lying forgotten at his feet. His gaze flicks back and forth between Benrey’s eyes, and he must see whatever he needs to see in the dim moonlight, because he makes a small sound of relief and leans in to kiss Benrey again.

The euphoria from that allows Benrey to finally subsume the last of the wraith and knit his form up completely around it. He leaves the dirt and stray grasses on his clothes to add credibility to the situation, and also to encourage Gordon to let him use the washer and dryer at his place. And maybe this time, he might get to wake up somewhere nicer than Gordon’s lumpy-ass old couch…

Abruptly, Gordon jerks back, hands on Benrey’s shoulders. “A wasp, though? Really? And you seriously didn’t break any bones?”

Benrey feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Ohh wait, I can think of one bone you might have to -”

Gordon makes an exasperated sound and shoves him away, scooping up the flashlight and gesturing at the spools of tape from the broken cassette on the ground. “Pick up your shit, man. We’re ghost hunters, not litterers. Gotta take care of the earth.” Then he tromps off, muttering something about getting his backpack from the top floor. Benrey figures he needs a minute to process, and bends down to pluck the scattered plastic shards from the soil. He’s used to Gordon’s minor crises. He’s patient. He can wait for him.

Deeper in the woods, something moves, and Benrey wonders if there are any Bigfoot this far south. He’s still feeling a bit peckish.

[jennycalendar]

like hhgjndjghdjghjghj i know there is a special subsection of spike fans who pull shit like this constantly and i've been really live and let live about it because i do enjoy spike as a character but i feel like those spike fans need to hear this specifically: if your read on this character is built upon obfuscating the fact that he murdered multiple women of color in cold blood in scenes that we watched that were HEAVILY sexualized, and you decide to just uncritically consume the show's take that these women of color are only of value as symbols in a story about a white girl coming into her power and falling in love, you are part of the goddamn problem. re-evaluate.

and by the way it is nikki's fucking coat. no he does NOT get to keep it. i don't care if the black woman's coat that he killed is thematically relevant to his journey. he is quite literally a white man who has removed a woman of color's belongings and personhood and turned them into His Own Cool Thing. even if the show doesn't recognize that as something that is genuinely horror movie awful, even if it is rich with themes and symbolism and connects him to buffy, IT IS STILL HORRIFYING. it is a horrifying thing that he did.

[nonuggetshere]

I DO THE CANT GET TO THINGS TOO LMFAO

First time I played Skyrim, I spent a solid 10 mins trying to figure out how to get into Whiterun and the gate was RIGHT THERE

I FEEL THAT, THAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED TO ME ONCE

I GET LOST IM SKYRIM CONSTANTLY

I also play with no fast travel and like 50% of the time my game will have a stroke halfway there and crash on the spot. Because apparently I just love to make things harder on myself LMAO

There was one crossing that I had to avoid like wildfire because my game just shit itself and died anytime I got close to it for whatever reason

I once spent like an in-game week lost on the goddamn mountain. I CONSTANTLY get lost in the skyrim wilderness and absolutely Refuse to fast travel, but I play with a lot of "realistic"/survivalism mods so at least I get to feel like Bear Grylls. I once got caught up in a snow storm in the mountains and struggled to start a fire while I was actively freezing to death and couldn't light it because my fingers were going numb. I love Skyrim

[satancopilotsmytardis]

I hope I’m not too late but 14 with spider!Shiggy? I..I’m very interested in him…you’ve ruined me lol

Unfortunately, I'm not going to be writing any of these short fics to have any relation with other series! I want these to be a stand-alone collection that I can just have as light popcorn writing, but thank you for submitting!

[sometimes-sleeby-octopus]

I’m back in the Stanley Parable fandom aww yeah

So I present:

Sandbox AU ✨

- some details are a work in progress

- either timekeeper or the curator the narrator figured it out (no idea lol literally only used to write about Narry and Stanley)

- Featuring Snake adventure line because I said so.

- Stanley can go ANYWHERE like FOR REAL. He can leave if he wants! He can leave and come back! He could leave forever if he wanted to (he doesn’t really know if he wants to leave forever)

- At first Stanley just stays in the office. He doesn’t really get that he can leave

- When he does figure out he can leave he doesn’t go very far for very long. It’s daunting after being stuck in the office for such a long time

- The narrator can’t really leave

- At least not until he figures out a physical form!

- The overwhelmingness of the outside world is too real for both Stan and Narry

- Resets are still a thing but it’s up to either the Narrator or Stanley (and/or whoever codes sandbox)

- Players are still a thing but they’re more like ghosts who can interact with their surroundings; They’re no longer in control of the fate of Stan, Narry, etc

- Maybe that’s a minor conflict? Just the players being annoying? LOL

- Import/Build features? Art creator of some kind?

- Stannarrator as a treat for me and fellow shippers; Me manifesting the domestic love life through fanfiction be like-

- Probably ooc writing with base character traits because I’m having fun and ooc? Normally how I roll lol

- Based in canon (but only the endings I know because I missed some in the play throughs I watched RIP)

- Narrator’s body is either Creature TM or Android

[dreameasel]

me reworking the entire history of the wednesday show and finding more and more holes and nonsense that forces me to make more and more changes that make things more and more difficult for people to even rp with me:

[mushroom-for-art]

Lmao another one, mysterious white mewtwo belongs to @oogaboogaspookyman he is an evil bastard and he is tormenting my children. Hope you enjoy

Time loop

Lacerations decorated her baby brothers skin, the wounds oozed red black liquid, he'd stopped gurgling and choking around his own blood by now and was quiet, all she could do was hold him holding the back of his head gently and her other arm slowly pulled out of his chest and wrapped around him sobbing.

She was blood stained and covered in bruises and as the illusion faded away her condition worsened, deep aching wounds ran down her back from being cut open with shards of glass, one of her horns had been snapped and dangled painfully, her tail hung limply crushed and bludgeoned along with many other wounds that began to weep and scream. Her brother was worse, half his face had been blasted off in one of the previous runs and his eye had started to rot and leak from the socket, his body was barely held together having been crushed, torn apart, cut open, hacked into, burnt, electrocuted, whatever the twisted mind of the monochrome one could come up with that fate had befell her brother and she couldn't save him.

She felt the cold before she heard the demons laugh, deep and amused, echoed and tormenting, he clapped his hands together in slow praise as he glided easily over as the world around them faded to gray.

"Please, haven't you had your fun?" May looked up at the other two still protectively cradling the cool body of her brother, the other two watched her looking down upon her with his empty black eyes, expression unreadable, "don't make him go through any more, I beg of you." A smile cracked upon his face in amusement watching her growing panic feeling her growing fear.

"You can torture me instead, just me! You must be getting bored with this formula of things, give him his freedom and life back and just make me suffer. I-imagine what you could do, you could have me fight for my life and freedom that you'll never grant, make me fight thinking I'm to reunite with him just to rip me back, break me, tear apart and put my body back together over and over, make me relive my worst memories, just, please. He doesn't deserve this." She begged, to frankly deaf ears, tears streaming down her face as she looked up at the one tormenting them, wishing, praying for him to consider and let him go.

The other brought their hand to their chin in mock thought, though May in her anguish still could not read his body language, they floated to one side then the other as if in consideration. May could only watch trying not to get her hopes up and failing miserably clutching onto her sibling just wanting him safe.

The pale white two stopped in front of her, even in this other space time they continued to distort their form never truly stable. His hand came to hold her face in a way that was almost kind, but she knew better as she felt his grip start to tighten and tighten around her muzzle painfully gripping and drawing lines of blood as he slowly leant in close as he crushed her bones slowly.

"No."

He threw her backwards with a smirk as the world fell around her as she plummeted into the darkness.

———————————————————

Thick leaves blocked out the light and subdued the heat of the sun within the forest, it was quiet save for the breeze. May blinked as she looked around, having the strange feeling she had forgotten something but searching her thoughts provided no answers. She frowned a bit to herself in confusion as she stood from resting under a tree, there was a cool breeze against her as she stood her tail swayed.

She looked around before walking listening out for her brothers psychic energy or just his laughters being that he was a generally a noisy boisterous lad. She smiled hearing his laughter following the sound of it wondering what exactly he was up to.

Deeper she walked and yet never feeling as though she was getting closer, she stopped, listening out furrowing her brows in confusion. The pleasant cool breeze began turning cold and the warmth of the sun began to weaken sending a shiver through her. She turned her head trying to listen.

"Matt? Where are you?" She called out into the darkness of the forest before her as it creeped around her starting to chill her body.

The sound of her brother changed from joyous laughter in play to panicked frantic yelling and screams.

She ran into the darkness ahead of her following the distressed screams going as fast as she could manage before her psychic abilities turned on allowing her to fly forward at speeds desperately chasing the sounds forward as the dark forest ran past her in her peripheral vision.

Everything started to rapidly cool, the sun turning cold on her back, the dark greens turning to icy blues and frosts. Cold icy winds cut through her as she broke from the treeline into a wintery tundra, she fell into the snow from the shock shivering and teeth chattering as she gasped shoving herself up to stand breath clouding in front of her with each frozen gasp.

Her brother screamed and despite the horrific freezing cold she pushed forward towards the sound, body trembling with each step grasping herself and trying to use her tail for insulation. Sharp ice cut her face in each violent gust whipping at her to push her back increasing her struggles. By the time she reached the mouth of a cave she felt half frozen, frost decorating her body as she stumbled inside hearing quiet sobbing and crying.

The ground was still freezing and each step hurt as she pushed on deeper into the cave, finally making out a shape within the darkness huddled away from her and whimpering, "Matt?" She hurried over the best she could despite her cold state moving her hand to gently grab his shoulder.

His skin cracked and splintered cracking away from his body shoulder snapping off and gluing to her palm from heat difference, he was frozen solid. She yelped and whimpered trying to pull her brothers upper arm from her palm as the cold burnt against her. The half limb finally came loose falling from her hand shattering across the cold ground. She stood trembling in both cold and sheer terror, slowly backing away from the splintering corpse of her brother that was still whimpering.

She ran back to leave the cave to find the entrance frozen over trapping her inside, she hit her palms and hands against the ice kicking and cursing until it hurt her hands bleeding from her own skin being ripped off as it stuck against the ice wall. She cursed softly as her hands burnt with cold and pain droplets of blood falling from her trembling fingers as she turned to walk back into the cave desperate to find another exit.

Her brother was looking at her now, his body still expression locked in horror and fear his glassy eyes stared at her frozen open forever huddled forward tail wrapped around himself. Her breathing was rapid and fearful as scratched writing became visible along the icey walls asking where she was why didn't she save him and she could feel the guilt weighing down on her freezing body causing her to slowly slump to her knees where she could feel her flesh freezing to the cold sticking in a way she knew would rip away skin hands on her knees her blood warm against herself as she hung her head as her tears froze against her face painfully.

She looked up again and his corpse was closer mouth open still in his last breath patterns of frost dancing across his face in swirls and shapes, she sobbed softly in horror and fear and deep sadness at his face. She hesitantly brought her hand to his face, but didn't touch, "I'm so sorry, I wasn't fast enough I let you down." His eyes stared forward without seeing. A soft whimper left her throat as she put her forehead to his chest, she couldn't escape, she'd freeze here she knew it and that terrified her but she'd be with her brother at least as she shut her eyes ready to fall asleep and not wake up.

The cold cut into her body freezing her skin and breaking it, she could feel her fresh blood as it fell from her wounds before it froze blistering against her skin. She could feel all of her body screaming in pain burning and freezing each tremble ripping wounds in her fragile frosty form, her lips were bleeding and cracked and it felt like her eyes were frozen shut. But death wasn't coming. Something wasn't allowing her to die yet. Time seemed to drag endlessly and yet pass so rapidly as it cut and froze her. She couldn't feel anything anymore, even thinking was sluggish and yet she felt the pain as it stabbed into her stomach, a twisting hunger a starvation a primal desperate need to eat. She ignored it. Endured it. There was nothing to eat after all, may as well freeze on an empty stomach.

She felt the pain lurching squeezing inside her, everything was hurting and yet everything was numb at the same time. She was afraid that it would never end, that this was it, stuck forever in starvation pain and numbness, was Matt frozen caught in agony and fear forever too? Was he conscious but unable to do anything anymore? Was this death? Or worse? Purgatory? Hell? She wasn't particularly religious but it made her wonder and consider the mistakes and actions of her life. Though her memory was failing her, blurring and chopped, she couldn't recall much of anything really it all blurred as cold crept across her mind.

"Hey, you gonna eat or sit there nodding off huh?" Her brothers' voice, her eyes opened and she was back in the forest, it was warm and he was fine smiling at her waving fruits in the air that he collected with his psychic powers. He grinned at her with teeth saying, "come on, or I won't share with you." A fruit landed into her open palm. It was warm from the sun and her memories melted away.

She bit into the fruit, the moment the texture of the skin and flesh made contact with her teeth she knew something was wrong, it tasted wrong, it was stringy and meaty almost like pork but again too stringy as the taste of copper and meat washed over her tongue making her gag to herself to look at the fruit in horror. Her body went cold, everything turned dark and bleak her hands were bloody again she was back in the cave blood covering her hand holding a hunk of flesh. Blurred behind her hand her brothers' corpse with a hunk of flesh ripped out from his upper stomach tail area. She gagged again ready to throw up, dropping her brothers' flesh in disgust as she retched.

Dark psychic energy clamped her mouth shut to prevent her vomiting up the mouthful she swallowed, the acidicness burned her throat as tears streamed in her eyes as the scene fell away back to the gray void, her monochrome tormentor observing her with his usual twisted smirk.

"Ah ah."

He simply mocked as she choked trying to claw away the psychic energy to no avail, she choked and cried and struggled until she could only swallow. He released his grip on her as she panted in horror trembling before him, her brothers body lay nearby still missing a hunk of flesh.

"My my, getting a taste for it?"

The white mewtwo floated in front of her grinning a sick grin of glee down at her as she sat there trembling. He could feel the horror and fear rolling off of her in waves, the anger the hate the instability of her consciousness as she went through delightful cycle after cycle for him witnessing and committing atrocities for his entertainment.

"You made me do that, you tricked me.." She mumbled bleakly trying to look at him in defiance but her eyes were long since broken and bleak missing the twinkle of life behind them making her defiance fall flat.

He laughed at her dark and ominous in a way that made her terrified all over again. He could only laugh at her pitiful sorry state, really it was all fun for him. Watching the crumbling of her resolve the breaking of her mind as he pulled and ripped away at her very being, puppetting her to do exactly as he wanted simply by knowing how she ticked what actions would make her react, he could make her jump and however high he desired. He had her all figured out like the toy she was, and he still had so many more ways to play with her. He snapped his fingers lazily and watched her tumble down into the bleakness into a new cycle as he created a new world and situation to play with.

[daemonhxckergrrl]

people will spend months in a sandbox game like minecraft/factorio/satisfactory perfecting a base or a build idea. i'll spend months perfecting a diy linux install and wineprefixes to *run* sandbox games. or any game tbh

[dairugger]

within the ace attorney universe i’m pretty sure given all the murder and blackmail scandals behind the scenes there’s probably a decent sized group of people who consider the steel samurai and all associated spinoffs to be irredeemable media

[writingforstraykids]

Okiee,

Hear me out. Need more dad skz series. I loved the Felix one so much 🤗🤗 Maybe Hyun or Minho as single dad series 🥹

🧚‍♀️ Anon

I don't know why but Minho with a toddler sent our thoughts spiraling and @galaxycatdrawz and I came up with enough for a proper series. I hope you enjoy it dear🤭🖤

Always back to you

Pairing: Minho x m!Reader (mention of OT8)

Word Count: 7716

Summary: Balancing his career and personal life as a single dad of a toddler isn't exactly always easy for Min. Luckily he has you, his assistant and the only person his son lets close enough. Minho couldn't be more grateful for your presence in their life.

Warnings/Tags: fluff, single dad!min, angst

PART TWO

do not repost, translate, or plagiarize my works in any way here or on other platforms. ©️writingforstraykids 2024 -

The summer air is heavy with the scent of blooming jasmine as Minho walks hand in hand with his son Minjun through the bustling streets of their quiet neighborhood. The day is fading into a warm, golden evening, casting long shadows on the sidewalk as they make their way to the local park.

Minho, usually surrounded by stage lights and the constant hum of a lively crowd, cherished these moments of normalcy. His career often pulled him into whirlwinds of tours and interviews, making these quiet, uninterrupted days with Minjun so much more important and special.

As they approach the park, Minjun’s grip tightens with excitement, his little legs speeding towards the familiar rusty swings and the slightly chipped slide he claims as his castle. Minho watches, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, as Minjun throws himself into the simple joy of play. His son's laughter rings clear, blending seamlessly with the distant sounds of other children.

“Daddy, come!” Minjun calls out, tugging at Minho’s jeans, pulling him towards the sandbox.

Minho sits down beside Minjun, rolling up his sleeves and helping him dig and mold the damp sand. They work together, Minho guiding Minjun’s small hands to shape the walls and towers. He listens intently as Minjun explains the details of each tower and the imagined dragons that would guard them.

“Daddy, dragons need names!” Minjun declares, his brow furrowed in the serious concentration of a three-year-old.

“How about Flame and Spark?” Minho suggests, watching as Minjun’s face lights up with approval.

“Yes!” Minjun beams, his hands moving with purpose as he places tiny sticks to represent the fearsome dragons.

As they played, Minho felt the weight of his other world—the stage, the lights, the music—melt away. Here, in the sandbox, none of that existed. There were no cameras, no managers, no fans. Just him and Minjun, building a sand fortress strong enough to withstand any siege, imaginary or otherwise.

After their castle was deemed sufficiently dragon-guarded, Minjun tugs at Minho’s hand, leading him to the ice cream stand nestled at the corner of the park. The line is short, and soon Minjun is proudly holding a cone much too big for him, dripping chocolate down his arm.

“Look, Daddy! It’s melting!” Minjun giggles, licking his arm in an attempt to catch the runaway ice cream.

Minho pulls out some napkins, cleaning up the sticky mess with a practiced hand. He watches Minjun attack the cone with a grin, chocolate smearing over his cheeks and nose.

“Is it good?” Minho asks, giggling, his heart swelling at the sight of such simple happiness.

“So good!” Minjun announces, offering Minho a taste. The ice cream is sweet, and the rich chocolate flavor is a perfect end to their day out.

They find a bench nearby. Minho listens as Minjun rambles on about the adventures of Flame and Spark, his imagination running wild. The park begins to empty as families head home for dinner, the sky painted in strokes of orange and pink. “Dumpling?” Minho asks softly, and his son looks up at him with big, brown eyes. “Daddy needs to work tomorrow again.”

“Daddy, why?” Minjun’s question comes softly, almost lost in the breeze.

Minho’s heart clenches. It is a question he dreads, knowing his answers might never fully satisfy the curiosity of a three-year-old. He pulls Minjun closer, holding him in a gentle embrace. “You know how Daddy dances and sings for many people?” Minho starts, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. Minjun nods, his eyes wide. “Well, sometimes Daddy has to go places so all those people can see him perform. But I always come back. Do you know why?” Minjun shakes his head, his eyes searching Minho’s. “Because you are my most important audience. And I promise, no matter where I go, I will always come back to you,” Minho says, his words heavy with the truth of his emotions.

Minjun seems to try and comprehend this for a moment, then smiles, seemingly satisfied with the answer. “Promise?” he holds up his pinky.

“Promise,” Minho links his pinky with Minjun’s, sealing the vow. “Let's go home?”

“Home,” he nods satisfied.

Minho would've never had a child this young in this industry if he would've known what would happen. He and his wife got married rather young as well, soon deciding they'd like to have a kid. Mainly because she didn't want to be alone so much with him gone for work often. Everything seemed fine until it turned out they'd be having a boy and not a girl. His wife had wished for a girl dearly and seemed disappointed. Maybe he ignored how much because once their little wonder was there, his wife soon distanced herself from both of them. They were already in the process of getting a divorce when Minho had accidentally listened in to a phone call from her saying she'd probably give up their son for adoption.

Minho knew he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't risk his sweet baby ending up in a family that maybe wouldn't treat him well, so he had long talks with his friends, who promised to support him. Chan made sure to back him when they talked to their boss, making sure that Minjun could stay at the company or on tour. They all knew Minho would be able to focus on his work more, knowing he was within reach when his little boy needed him. The only issue at hand was how much Minjun dreaded being separated from Minho, barely trusting his friends to take care of him for a while.

That was until you came along. Somehow, you found a way to the little boy's heart that made him trust you. You were the only one besides Minho who could calm him down and keep him occupied. Initially, you've simply been Minho's assistant, helping him keep track of his schedule and everything. But being with Minho meant being with Minjun.

Through this, you grew rather close with all of them, becoming a vital part of their group. Minho was thankful to have you around, and you two worked well together. You love taking care of the little one and you would've never expected to get so close to them, especially Minho, seeing him during his rawest moments.

-

Minho is up early, as usual, feeling the quiet anticipation that always comes with a new day. Today, he'd take Minjun with him to dance practice.

The morning was a rush of activity. Minho prepared a quick breakfast, all the while keeping one eye on Minjun, who seemed happy about accompanying him to work.

"Are you ready, baby?" Minho asked, slipping on Minjun's small backpack filled with snacks, a change of clothes, and, of course, his favorite bunny plushie. Jisung had bought it for Minjun's second birthday and he hasn't left the house without it ever since.

"Yes, Daddy!" Minjun chirps, practically bouncing on his toes. His enthusiasm is infectious, and Minho can't help but laugh as he scoops up his son and heads out the door.

The drive to the studio is filled with Minjun's questions about everything he saw. Each question is punctuated with wide-eyed wonder, making Minho smile. He explains as much as he can, from the tallest buildings brushing the sky to the bustling morning crowds. Upon arriving at the studio, Minho sets Minjun down, taking his hand as they walk inside. The building was already buzzing with activity, music faintly echoing from the practice rooms.

"Guys, look who I brought!" Minho announces as they enter the main dance studio. The music stops abruptly, and the boys turn around, their faces lighting up at the sight of Minjun.

"Minjunnie!" Chan exclaims, his voice full of warmth. He crouches down to Minjun's level, greeting him with a gentle high-five. "Look how much you've grown already again!"

The other members crowd around, each taking turns to say hello. Felix shows Minjun a quick magic trick, pulling a coin from behind his ear, which delighted Minjun to no end. Hyunjin hands him a small package of his favorite gummy bears, and Innie helps open it.

“Y/nnie should be here soon,” Jisung tells them, glancing up from his phone.

Minjun peeks up at the sound of your name, bouncing excitedly. “Y/nnie?” he asks with wide eyes, turning to Minho.

“Yeah, Y/nnie will play with you,” he laughs at his son’s excitement.

“Gosh, he really loves him,” Seungmin laughs.

“As he should, Y/n is taking such good care of him,” Changbin chuckles, and Minho hums agreeingly.

Minho sets up a small, cozy corner for Minjun with some toys and a soft blanket. "You can play here while Daddy practices, okay? I'll check on you all the time."

Minjun nods, already distracted by the toys, but his eyes keep straying to the center of the room where the dance practice will take place.

You join them soon after, greeting them all with a wave. “Hi, buddy,” you greet Minjun cheerfully and sit down on his blanket next to him.

“Hi,” he smiles at you happily, handing you his fire truck. “Play?”

As the practice kicks off, Minho joins the rest of the group in the center. The music pounds through the speakers, a rhythmic base that fills the room with vibrant energy. Minho was in his element, his body moving with precision and grace, a testimony to years of practice and passion.

Minjun watches, wide-eyed, from his corner. The sight of his dad and the others dancing seemed to fascinate him. His little feet tap along to the beat, and it isn't long before he stands up, mimicking the moves in his own adorable way. He stumbles and lands on his butt, giggling at himself as you help him back up again.

“You're okay, dear?” you chuckle, and he nods.

Seeing this from the corner of his eye, Minho felt a surge of pride. During a brief water break, he walks over to you. "Do you want to try dancing with us for a bit?" he asks.

Minjun's enthusiastic "Yes!" was all the answer Minho needed. He leads Minjun to the center of the room, the members clearing some space for them. Minho shows him a simple move, a gentle sway combined with a clap. Minjun follows eagerly, his small body moving in sync with Minho's.

The room is soon filled with cheers and claps from the other members and you, encouraging Minjun, who beams under the attention. Chan turns down the music and suggests, "Let's do a little dance circle. Minjun can start!"

What followed was Minjun at the center, trying his best to keep up, his movements more enthusiastic than rhythmic. Each member joined in, adding their own moves, making it a fun, chaotic dance party that had Minjun laughing uncontrollably. You laugh watching them, seeing how much fun they have with the little boy.

After the dance circle wound down, Minho takes Minjun back to his corner, both panting slightly from the exertion. "You're amazing," Minho praises him softly.

“Takes after his Daddy as it seems,” you chuckle, and Minho smirks.

“My little dancer,” he smiles fondly, poking his son's cheek. Minjun's proud little smile is worth more than any applause Minho had ever received on stage.

You hand him the juice box Minho packed for him and help him with the straw. “Drink something,” you tell him gently, and Minjun does eagerly. You bite back a laugh at him, kicking his feet happily.

As the practice resumes, Minjun's energy eventually fades. He plays with you quietly with his toys, occasionally glancing up to watch his dad. The day passes in a blur of music, laughter, and dance. By the time practice wrapped up, Minjun was dozing off in his little corner, exhausted by the day's adventures. His head resting on your leg, breathing peacefully amidst the chaos. Minho carefully picks him up, his heart full as he feels Minjun's steady breath against his neck. “Thank you,” he smiles at you as you pack up everything for him and hand him the backpack.

“Of course,” you mirror his smile. “Tomorrow, we'll meet at the studio.”

“Yeah,” Minho nods. “When was it again?”

“At ten,” you tell him. “Do you need me to keep an eye on Minjun?”

“That would be great,” he nods gently.

“Okay, I'll be there,” you assure him, grabbing your jacket.

“Thank you,” he nods quickly.

“Mr. Lee - Minho,” you quickly correct yourself, sometimes still falling back into old habits. “You don't have to thank me all the time. It's fine.”

“Still,” Minho shakes his head. “It's a lot easier thanks to you…Do you need a ride home?”

“I'll be fine, thank you,” you assure him kindly. “You should get the little superstar to bed,” you say fondly, making Minho chuckle. You exchange your goodbyes before you both leave.

"Did you have fun today?" Minho whispers as he carries Minjun to the car.

"Mhm... best day," Minjun mumbles sleepily, his words slurring together.

Minho smiles, his eyes soft as he settles Minjun into the car seat. "Me too, buddy. Me too."

-

Minho's day starts early again, but this time there's a tangible buzz of excitement that courses through him. Today isn't just about dance practice; he's scheduled to record a new track with Chan, and he's bringing Minjun along to the studio once more. As they prepare to leave, Minho checks that he has everything Minjun might need—snacks, toys, and a little book of stories, just in case the session stretches longer than expected.

Minjun, now familiar with their routine, waddles around excitedly, chattering about seeing “uncle Channie” and the "music room."

The drive to the studio is filled with Minjun's usual observations, his voice a constant, cheerful hum in the background. Minho answers each question with patience, his mind simultaneously running through the lyrics and melodies he'll soon be recording.

Upon arrival, the studio feels like a second home. The familiar faces of the staff greet them warmly, and the scent of coffee mingles with the underlying electrical buzz of equipment. Chan is already there, headphones on, nodding along to some beat only he can hear. He lifts his head as Minho and Minjun enter, his face breaking into a wide grin.

"Look who's here! Hey, Minjun, high five!" Chan calls out, and Minjun rushes over, slapping his palm against Chan's outstretched hand. “How's my little Jiho?” he asks fondly and Minho smiles at the nickname Hyunjin had come up with, which stuck.

“Good,” the little boy nods happily.

Minho sets up Minjun's little corner, not far from the recording booth, where you're already waiting, having arrived a few minutes earlier. You have brought a new set of coloring pencils for Minjun, and he dives right into them with delight.

"Ready for a big day, Minjun?" you ask, helping him spread out his coloring sheets.

"Yes! Daddy sings, I draw!" Minjun declares, his focus intense as he selects a green pencil and starts scribbling. You chuckle softly, busying yourself as well by planning Minho's upcoming week.

Minho and Chan discuss the session with the producer, going over the song's structure and the tone they aim to capture.

As they start recording, Minho slips into the booth, the microphone in front of him a familiar friend. Outside the booth, you keep Minjun engaged, but his eyes often drift to his father, watching through the glass as Minho sings.

During playback, Minho steps out to listen, standing beside you and Minjun. He watches for Minjun's reaction, hoping to see a sign of approval. Minjun looks up, his eyes wide, and claps his small hands together.

"Daddy's song!" he exclaims, and Minho laughs, bending down to ruffle his hair.

"That's right, dumpling. Did you like it?" Minho asks.

"Love it, Daddy! You and uncle Channie sing nice!" Minjun responds, and Chan, overhearing, chuckles, giving Minho a pat on the back.

"It's a hit then, we have our toughest critic's approval," Chan jokes, making you all giggle.

The session continues, with Minho going back into the booth several times to refine his parts. Between takes, he checks on Minjun, always making sure he's happy and occupied. You seamlessly take care of Minjun, ensuring he's entertained but also quiet whenever the recording light is on.

As the afternoon goes on, the final parts of the track are recorded. With the professional part of his day winding down, Minho's attention fully returns to Minjun, who by now has created an impressive array of colorful drawings. "What do you say we show these to uncle Channie, huh?" Minho suggests, and Minjun nods enthusiastically, gathering his artwork.

Chan admires each drawing, making a big deal out of Minjun's artistic skills, which makes Minjun beam with pride. "We've got a future artist on our hands, Minho," Chan says, ruffling Minjun's hair.

"Maybe, but no matter what, I just want him to be happy," Minho replies, his voice soft, filled with love.

As the day comes to an end, you help pack up Minjun's things while Minho prepares to leave. He thanks you again, gratitude evident in his eyes. "Really, Y/n, I don't know what I'd do without your help," he admits.

"It's always a pleasure, Minho. Plus, I get to spend the day with this little guy," you say, tickling Minjun gently, pulling a giggle from him.

"Did you have fun today, Minjun?" he asks his son fondly.

"Yes, Daddy! Sing with uncle Channie again?" Minjun asks, his voice sleepy but happy.

"Absolutely, buddy. We'll come back soon," Minho promises, a smile crossing his face as he focuses back on the road.

One month later

Minho sits on the edge of the sofa, his tour outfit half-on, the rest laid out meticulously across the sofa. Minjun, sitting cross-legged with his blanket clutched tightly to his chest, watches his father with large, worried eyes. The tension between wanting to be there for his fans and needing to comfort his son gnaws at Minho, creating a knot of anxiety that settles heavily in his stomach.

“Buddy, you know Daddy has to go sing for all the people who came to see us tonight, right?” Minho’s voice is soft but carries an underlying note of apology. The stage was calling him, but his heart was anchored right there.

Minjun’s lips quiver as he shakes his head vehemently. “No, Daddy! Stay, please. Don’t go!” His voice breaks as he begins to sob, tears streaming down his cheeks. The sight tears through Minho’s heart like a dagger.

Kneeling in front of his son, Minho wipes away the tears with a gentle thumb, his own eyes misting over. “Oh, my little boy, I wish I could stay... But remember how we talked about Daddy’s job? How there are so many people waiting to hear our songs?” He tries to infuse some enthusiasm into his voice, hoping to sway his son’s mood.

But Minjun was unyielding. His small body trembles with sobs, each cry slicing through Minho’s resolve. “I want Daddy... no songs... stay... please…” His words are punctuated by hiccupping sobs, each plea making Minho’s heart sink more firmly to the ground.

“Minjun, I need you to be strong for Daddy now, yeah?” he asks, but his son shakes his head with a weak sound. Minho quickly finishes dressing, he could hear the distant echo of the others warming up. The show was imminent, his cue to leave fast approaching. He merely has an hour left.

“You'll join us for a last talk?” Jeongin asks, and Minho nods, scooping Minjun up and following him outside.

Chan talks them through the process once more, glancing at Minho, who's rocking his crying son in his arms. He can tell Minho is starting to get worried and stressed out by his son's discomfort. Which is bad because they need him tonight. It's the final concert of their tour, and this is important.

Minjun wails pathetically in his arms, and Minho closes his eyes in defeat for a moment, shaking his head. “Sorry, you guys keep talking,” he says, quickly leaving the room, not wanting to disturb them any longer.

Jisung watches them worriedly and glances at Chan. “You think Jiho will be okay before we start?” he asks.

“I doubt it. Min said he's having a rough day,” he shakes his head.

“Shit,” Seungmin breathes out. “We need him tonight, Channie hyung.”

“I know,” Chan nods. “We can't help much, we know how needy his baby boy gets sometimes. We can only make sure we're all ready.”

-

Minho paces through the room, gently rocking his little boy in his arms as he talks soothingly to him. His son seemed to have realized he wouldn't see him for the next two hours, which must've caused the sudden mood swings. Minho is starting to feel stressed, glancing at the clock up at the wall and realizing he'd have to be on stage in ten minutes. He should be preparing himself mentally right now, getting a moment of peace before their intense evening. But he isn't relaxed or calm at all. The sound of his son wailing in his arms is cutting through him like knives, knowing he'd have to leave him here in a bit. He knows his friends loved their little boy, but not when he was fussing around before a show, which is why he left their room a while ago. “Shh, dumpling, please,” he tries, soothingly rubbing his back. “It's okay, yeah?”

Minjun responds with another sob, his little hand clinging to his shirt. Minho's sure his stage outfit will be stained with drool and tears later, and he feels his throat tighten as his exhaustion and frustration take over for a moment. His body will be exhausted before performing after pacing for almost an hour, carrying his son, who's only growing heavier. “Please,” he whines, knowing his own distress isn't exactly calming his baby boy.

The door opens, and Changbin shoots him an apologizing look. “Min, we should leave.”

“I know, I'll be right there,” he tells him, flashing him a stressed, weak smile.

“Two minutes,” he reminds him and leaves again.

“Please stop crying, Minjun, please,” he begs, feeling tears burn in his eyes.

The two minutes are over way too soon, and Chan opens the door this time. “Min, I'm sorry. We should go,” he tells him.

“I know, okay?!” he snaps at him, his emotions getting the better of him. “I didn't choose this, Chan, but I can't just leave him here either! I can't leave him at the hotel for that long, he's too young!”

Chan lifts his hands in an attempt to show him he's not here to pick a fight. “Min, I know, I know it's shit,” he tells him soothingly. “We can start five minutes later, but you need to get ready,” he says gently, stepping closer. “Let me take him for a moment, yeah? You should change your shirt and let someone fix your hair real quick. Come here, Jiho, hm?” Minho reluctantly lets go of him and flinches heavily as the cries of his son grow louder. He looks at Chan with tears in his eyes, who gently rocks the little one in his arms. “It's okay, Minnie, go on,” he tells him kindly. “He'll be okay.”

Minho fights with himself for a moment before leaving the room. His friends look at him compassionately as he passes them, and Felix follows him into their dressing room. He takes over for their stylist, helping Minho change his shirt and gently smoothing out his hair. “Take a deep breath, yeah?” he says gently, and Minho nods, doing as he's told. “Y/n will be here in a few minutes.”

Minho frowns at him. “No, Yongbokie, it's his day off,” he shakes his head.

“He's the only one your son accepts besides you. Chan called him a bit ago,” Felix tells him and soothingly rubs his shoulders.

Chan joins them with an apologizing look and a screaming Minjun. “He started kicking,” he tells him, and Minho closes his eyes in defeat, taking him again.

“I'm sorry,” Minho says, voice quivering as it all gets a little too much to handle. “I'm so sorry. I didn't want this, not like that.”

“We know,” Chan assures him kindly. “But we also know why you decided to pull through with this.”

Minho fights back tears, shakily rubbing his temple with one hand. He's starting to get a headache, and honestly, he just wants to go back home. “But-I know it's all getting too much,” he says shakily. “He's so clingy I can't go anywhere, and he's crying as soon as I'm gone. I know how annoying it is for you all, even if you try to hide it,” he says.

“That's your own worries speaking, hyung,” Felix assures him. “We love him, and yes, days like today are rough, but we know why you do it, and we promised to support you with it.”

“It's okay, I promise,” Chan adds gently.

You rip the door open, a little out of breath from rushing up the stairs. “I'm here, sorry, there was so much traffic!” you apologize and quickly make your way over. “You guys should go,” you urge them and gently ease Minjun out of Minho's arms. “Hiii, baby,” you say softly, smiling as the little one tiredly buries his face in your neck, hiccuping your name between broken little cries. You soothingly sway from side to side, rubbing his back and talking to him calmly. Your own calm demeanor does wonders for the little boy who grows still in your arms, little hand gripping your sweater as his body's shaking. You look up and notice Chan and Felix have left, but Minho's still here, staring at the two of you in wonder. You can spot the tears in his eyes and flash him an encouraging smile. “Go on, I got him.”

“Are you sure?” he asks nervously. “I know it's your day off.”

“I like taking care of him, it doesn't feel like work,” you assure him before glancing down at the sniffling boy in your arms. “We'll have so much fun, yeah? Your daddy has to work now, but I'm here,” you tell him and gently pat his back. “You want your plushie?” you ask and earn a weak little nod. “Go,” you whisper toward Minho, who gives himself a push. “Oh, look, here it is,” you say, handing Minjun his favorite plushie.

The boy pulls the fluffy bunny to his chest and cuddles into you. As the stage door clicks shut behind Minho, leaving the bustling sounds of the backstage crew prepping for the night's performance, the room he exits from fades to a quieter atmosphere.

The walk to the stage is the longest walk of his life. Each step echoes with Minjun’s sobs, and each beat of his heart synchronizes with the distant thumps of the bass drum from the stage. Behind the curtains, the crowd's roar is deafening, a stark contrast to the quiet, tearful goodbye he had just endured. Minho takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and trying to gather his thoughts. Jisung gently takes his hand, Chan squeezes his shoulder, and Felix straightens his jacket. Minho's eyes flutter back open as the music starts, and he tries to push everything else away. He needs to focus.

You hold Minjun closer, feeling his little heart beating against your own. His sobs begin to subside, his breath evening out as he clutches his bunny tightly. The stuffed toy seems to offer him the comfort he seeks, his tiny fingers threading through its soft fur.

You rock gently, humming a tune that you've noticed often calms him down. The melody is simple yet soothing, and as you continue, Minjun's grip relaxes. His eyes, puffy and red from crying, start to close. It’s moments like these, where the world slows down, that remind you why you cherish your role so much—not just as a caregiver but as a steady presence in this little one's life. You would've never thought you'd enjoy looking after a kid this much.

Around you, the room is scattered with signs of Minho and his friends' hurried exit. Costumes hang on racks, makeup kits are left open, and a few sheets of music flutter slightly from a nearby air vent. It's a world of glamour and chaos mixed with those quiet moments you share with Minjun.

Minho’s life, a blend of public performances and private moments like these, paints a vivid picture of the sacrifices and joys of his career. As you adjust Minjun in your arms, preparing to sit down with him until he falls asleep, you think about the pressure Minho faces. It's not just about being a performer but also being a father and a friend—balancing each role under the watchful eyes of the public and his friends.

Outside, you hear the faint sound of the crowd, a rumbling wave of excitement for the show about to start. It's a sound you've grown accustomed to, down to the lights, music, and energy that Minho will soon be enveloped in. Yet here, in the quiet room with Minjun finally drifting to sleep, the noise seems worlds away.

Your thoughts drift to Minho and the stress practically dripping off his body. You understand his dilemma. Being a parent is challenging enough without the added pressures of a demanding career. Minho's struggle to maintain a semblance of normalcy for Minjun while meeting the expectations of his career is a tightrope walk that few can comprehend fully.

As Minjun's breaths deepen, indicating he's fallen asleep, you carefully adjust him on your chest. You ensure his favorite bunny is tucked beside him and gently pull a small blanket over his little body to keep him warm.

This tranquility is what you hope to provide for Minho as well—a sense of peace amidst the storm of his responsibilities. As the caregiver, your role extends beyond just watching over Minjun. It's about offering both father and son the assurance that they are not alone in this journey, and you can tell Minho needs it more with every passing day.

With Minjun settled, you step out of the room to catch a glimpse of the show on a monitor in the hallway. Minho is on stage now, his presence magnetic, pulling the audience into his performance. The contrast between the father you saw earlier and the performer now captivating the crowd is stark. Yet, it's this duality that defines him.

As you watch, you feel a sense of pride in Minho’s resilience and determination. It reinforces your commitment to support him in any way you can. When the show ends, you know he'll return, exhausted but fulfilled, eager to hear that Minjun was fine, that in his absence, everything was okay.

This is your world as much as it is theirs—a world of late nights and lullabies, of cheers and tears. It's a delicate balance. As the crowd’s applause echoes down the hallway, blending with the soft sounds of Minjun's peaceful sleep, you smile to yourself, ready for when Minho returns, ready to reassure him that everything is indeed fine.

Minho is the first one to return, a relieved smile covering his lips as he sees his son peacefully asleep on your chest. “You're an angel,” he breathes out, collapsing on the sofa next to you and gently fondling his son’s hair. “He didn't stop crying for an hour, I was about not to perform tonight.”

“All he needed was some peace and his favorite plushie,” you chuckle softly. “Also, he was very tired from all the crying, so that probably did the trick.”

Minho laughs weakly and shakes his head. “You handle him so much better than I do.”

“It's basically my job now,” you tell him. “Also, you were stressed and freaking out. He can sense that and it probably didn't help him calm down,” you say softly. “Not that it's your fault, everyone would have been.”

Minho hums gently and studies your face for a moment. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to express how much it means to him to be able to trust someone with his little boy. “You know what he calls his favorite plushie?”

“He didn't tell me yet,” you shake your head, frowning at him curiously.

“He calls him Y/nnie,” he says with a tired smile, watching your expression change to one of surprise and joy. “You mean a lot to him, so I'm glad you don't mind taking care of him.”

“Oh,” you nod in surprise. “That's sweet.”

“I thought you'd like to know that,” Minho hums before pushing himself up. “I should go and take a shower. I'll come get him after.”

“No rush,” you assure him kindly.

The others are quiet whenever they have to get something in the room and leave quickly. Chan quietly thanks you for getting here on such short notice and saving the day, which you wave off with a gentle smile.

Minho shuffles back inside a little later, wearing a comfy sweater and matching sweatpants. His fluffy hair falls freely around his face. He grabs his bag from a chair and fumbles for his phone to call one of their drivers.

“I can take you back, I'm driving there anyway,” you tell him, and he drops his phone back into the bag with a thankful smile. “You got everything?” you ask, and Minho nods, grabbing his glasses from the table. He puts them on, running his hand through his hair tiredly, and makes his way back over to you.

Minho reaches for Minjun, craving to hold his little boy again, and gently lifts him up. Minjun stirs in his sleep, and Minho quickly nestles him against his chest, soothingly fondling his hair.

“Daddy,” he mumbles drowsily, little hand curling up against his neck.

“I'm here, baby,” he says softly and kisses his head. “Go back to sleep.”

The sight of Minho like this, looking so soft and vulnerable with his sweet boy resting against his chest stirs something in you you can't really explain. A sudden urge to take care of both of them overwhelms you, and your eyes trace Minho's features. You know he's pretty, he's a visual for a reason and still, you're stunned by how beautiful he gets in moments like these.

The door opens, and Minho turns a little, meeting Chan's caring expression with a tired smile. “Everything alright?” he checks in, making sure Minho is okay after this rough night.

“Yeah,” Minho assures him gently. “We're okay.”

“You did well today, Min,” Chan tells him warmly and gently squeezes his shoulder.

“Thanks, hyung,” he says genuinely.

“Thank you again, Y/n, I wouldn't have called if there had been another way,” Chan apologizes again.

“I know,” you assure him. “I didn't mind, if you need me, I'm here,” you tell them and get up.

“You should get some rest. Do you need a driver?” Chan asks, and Minho gently shakes his head.

“Y/nnie said he'd take us,” he tells him, and Chan hums agreeingly.

“Alright then,” Chan nods before grabbing his own things and waving goodbye.

Minho exhales softly and shifts on his feet, feeling the intensity of the concert creeping up on him. His legs hurt, and his arms are tired, but he doesn't want to let go of him yet. If someone asked him to go to sleep right here he could without a second thought. He carefully tilts his head and his neck cracks at the movement. For a second, pain tints his features, and you frown at him.

“You're okay?” you ask gently, already grabbing your stuff and his bag.

“Mhm,” he hums, gently swaying from side to side to keep Minjun asleep. “Just exhausted…and everything hurts.”

“You definitely need some rest,” you respond gently, adjusting his bag on your shoulder. “Let’s get you both home.”

Minho nods gratefully, his gaze lingering on Minjun’s peaceful face as they follow you out of the room. The walk to the car is quiet, with only the occasional whisper of wind and the distant sound of the city at night. Once Minho settles Minjun into the car seat, he collapses into the passenger seat with a sigh of relief.

The drive is smooth and uneventful. You keep the radio off, allowing the silence to settle comfortably around you, broken only by Minjun's gentle breathing in the backseat. Minho’s head leans against the window, eyes closed, but you can tell he isn’t really asleep; he is just resting, processing the day.

“Y/nnie,” Minho finally speaks, his voice quiet in the dark car. “I really can’t thank you enough. Not just for tonight, but for everything. You’ve become… a lot more than just an assistant to us.”

Your heart warms at his words, and you glance at him briefly before focusing back on the road. “I’m glad to be here, Minho. You and Minjun mean a lot to me, too.”

A small smile tugs at Minho’s lips. “I'm lucky to have you,” he murmurs, his voice laced with fatigue. You can't help the warmth spreading through you at his words. If there's one thing you've learned in the years of working for him, then it's that he’s completely honest when he's tired.

As you reach the hotel, you help him gather everything and support him as he carefully lifts Minjun, who mumbles sleepily but doesn’t wake. Minho leans against the wall of the elevator, eyes closed as he fights falling asleep on the spot. He readjusts his grip around Minjun, burying his nose in his hair, and breathes calmly.

You search for Minho's keycard for the room and gently guide him down the hallway, opening the door for him. You stop there, and Minho turns around inside, flashing you a tired smile. “Come in for a moment?” he asks gently.

“It's fine, really,” you assure him.

“Let me at least make you some tea, please?” he asks, and you can tell he's trying to give you something back for today. You can't deny him that.

“Okay,” you nod and step inside, pulling the door closed. You follow Minho inside, and he tells you to drop his bag somewhere next to the bed.

Minho carefully puts Minjun down, tucking him in. He smooths his hair back and plants a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Goodnight, baby,” he whispers.

Minho quickly makes you both some tea and hands you a cup. “You should get some sleep too,” you suggest as you walk towards the small living room area, where Minho has slumped onto the couch.

“Just a few minutes,” Minho says, his eyes already closing. “I’m too tired to move.”

You sit down next to him and gently ease the cup from his hands, not wanting him to burn himself by accident. “Min,” you say gently as he tilts to the side, body growing heavy against you. “You should really get some sleep.”

“Thanks for tonight, Y/nnie,” Minho whispers as you give up the fight and let him rest his head on your shoulder.

“It’s no problem, really,” you reassure him. You pause, considering your next words. “Minho, you’re doing an amazing job with him. I hope you know that.”

Minho smiles weakly. “I’m trying. It’s hard to know if I’m doing enough, you know?”

“You are. More than enough,” you tell him kindly.

“I feel like I owe you an explanation... or maybe it’s more of an apology for tonight,” Minho mumbles sleepily.

“There's no need, I promise,” you tell him, but Minho shakes his head.

“I hate that my work pulls me away from Minjun,” he starts, his voice tinged with frustration. “And nights like tonight make it all feel ten times heavier. I worry about the effect it’s having on him.”

“You’re doing the best you can,” you reassure him. “And it’s clear to everyone, especially Minjun, how much you love him. He knows, Minho, how much you care.”

Minho nods, taking a deep breath. “Thanks, Y/nnie. I... sometimes I just need to hear that. It gets a bit overwhelming trying to balance everything. And tonight, seeing him so upset, I felt like I was failing him.”

“You’re not failing him,” you say firmly. “Every single time he looks at you, he does so with so much love. That’s not failure.”

Minho pulls back his head and looks at you drowsily, a sincere smile breaking through his exhaustion. “I’m really glad you’re here. Not just for Minjun, but for me too.”

“I told you the first day we met I'm here to make your life easier,” you tell him gently. “It doesn't matter if that's by planning your week or taking care of the little one.”

“He really loves you, I hope you know that,” he tells you and swallows at the joy in your eyes. “I… never mind,” he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, taking off his glasses. “I should get some sleep before I keep on rambling and keep you up.”

“You should,” you giggle. “I'll let myself out.”

“Goodnight, Y/nnie,” he says softly.

“Goodnight, Minho,” you say and decide it's your time to leave.

Minho drags himself to bed, crawling under the covers and joining his baby. He smiles as Minjun wakes up and crawls on his chest, getting comfortable there.

“Missed you, daddy,” he says softly.

“Missed you too, dumpling,” he says fondly and kisses his head. “Let's sleep now, yeah?” he asks, already drifting off to sleep.

“Y/nnie?” he asks.

“Y/nnie's in his room,” Minho answers and squints at him as his son shuffles off him and searches the bed. “Minjunnie,” he groans softly and turns onto his side.

His son makes a succeeding noise and shoves his little bunny into Minho's face. “Y/nnie!”

“Oh, I should've known that,” he laughs at himself before pulling him into a hug. “Come here now, yeah? Daddy's tired, baby.”

“Story?” he asks and Minho closes his eyes in defeat at the soft, tiny voice of his son.

“There once was a little boy. He was really tired, and his daddy was also very tired. They went to bed. The little boy fell asleep. The end,” he says and Minjun makes a protesting little noise.

“Stupid, daddy,” he laughs.

“Yeah, stupid,” he giggles and plants a few kisses all over his son's adorable little face.

“Story, please?” he giggles, scrunching his little nose at his father's sudden love attack.

Minho smiles, his exhaustion seeping away slightly in the joy of the moment. "Alright, my love, one story, but then it's really time to sleep," he says, adjusting himself so Minjun is comfortably nestled against his side, their heads sharing a pillow.

"Okay, daddy," Minjun agrees eagerly, his eyes wide with the anticipation of a bedtime story.

"Once upon a time," Minho begins, his voice soft and melodious, perfect for a bedtime tale, "in a faraway land, there was a brave little knight named Minjun."

"Like me!" Minjun interrupts with a giggle, his small fingers playing with Minho's hand.

"Yes, just like you," Minho confirms with a grin. "Minjun was the bravest knight in all the lands, and he had a magical friend, a dragon named Sparky."

"Dragon!" Minjun exclaims, delighted. "Does he breathe fire?"

"He does," Minho nods, "but Sparky only breathes fire when he needs to protect the kingdom. Most of the time, he's very gentle and loves to play."

Minjun listens intently, his imagination painting the scenes as his father describes them. "One day," Minho continues, "the kingdom faced great danger. A mysterious fog covered the land, making everyone feel very sleepy and lazy."

“What's fog, daddy?” he asks, his voice sounding a little sleepy by now.

“You know when it's cold, or it rains, and the air is all gray and heavy?” he asks, and Minjun nods.

“Fog is stupid,” he declares, making Minho bite back a laugh.

"So no one wanted to play or work," Minho adds, noticing Minjun's concerned frown. "Minjun and Sparky had to find the cause of the fog and save the kingdom."

"How did they do it?" Minjun asks, his voice filled with worry for the characters.

"Well," Minho says, drawing out the suspense, "they went on a grand adventure. They traveled through the Enchanted Forest, across the Silver Mountains, and finally to Crystal Lake, where the fog was thickest. They found out that the fog came from a sleeping spell by a lonely wizard who just wanted some friends," Minho explains. "Minjun offered to be the wizard's friend if he would lift the spell."

"Did he do it?" Minjun's eyes are hopeful, his small body tense with excitement.

"Yes, he did," Minho smiles. "The wizard was so happy to have a friend that he not only lifted the spell but also promised to use his magic for good. Together, they returned to the kingdom, heroes who had saved the day."

Minjun yawns, snuggling closer to his father, his eyelids heavy. "I like Minjun. He's nice," he mumbles sleepily.

"He is," Minho agrees, his voice a whisper now. "Just like you, my brave little boy."

As Minjun's breaths even out into the steady rhythm of sleep, Minho continues to hold him close. The story's end morphs into a quiet night. He lies there in the darkness, feeling the weight of his son's trust and love, anchoring him more firmly than anything else could.

In the silence of the room, with Minjun's soft snores as the only sound, Minho reflects on the day. The responsibilities of his career, the bright lights of the stage, and the cheers of the crowd—all of it fades into the background when contrasted with the peaceful, sleeping form of his son. Here, in the dim glow of the nightlight, Minho finds his truest joy.

He whispers a promise into the darkness, a vow to always return to this, to Minjun, no matter where his life takes him. "Always back to you," he murmurs, gently kissing Minjun's forehead. With that promise cradling his heart, Minho allows himself to drift off to sleep.

PART TWO

MASTERLISTS | PROMPT LIST | GUIDELINES

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