#He is my defense and my refuge

[aureentuluva70]

A beautiful retelling of the Birth of Christ that I really liked.

[mars-ipan]

Mars i fear i may be dying of the plague. I have coughed blood into my sink twice now and my throat feels like I gave really aggressive oral to a scrubdaddy spongue.

Do you have any priest au thoughts/scenarios/rambles to sooth a troublde lad such as mysrlf🙏🙏

hemo. as a guy who has also coughed up blood somewhat recently. it may be time to go to an urgent care and make sure it’s nothing serious. there’s a pretty nasty pneumonia going around rn and if that IS what it is the sooner you get those antibiotics the faster you’ll recover.

as for priest au stuffs: the election kinda killed my creative flow (we’re ballin but we’re stressed) BUT i’ve been trying to flesh out hajime’s backstory a bit for the the past few days so here’s some bullet point brainstorming on that :D

check under the cut for the goods, as per usual ^_^ tw for mentions of child abuse, and also a general warning for priest au-typical horny talk and homophobia

i’ve been thinking abt hajime’s childhood/past a lot, partially bc i don’t feel fully confident writing him until i have the details of his backstory fleshed out. i think his dad was more of the aggressive “no son of mine” type of homophobic, where his mom was more of the “hate the sin love the sinner” type of homophobic. it’s cliché maybe but like. traditional catholic family values yanno. his family does differ from traditional catholicism in one way though: hajime is an only child.

i don’t think hajime was ever The Manliest Man growing up. yeah he was strong from helping on the farm, but he never felt the need to flaunt his masculine attributes. he never wanted to impress girls, he never initiated an arm-wrestling contest, and once he hit teenagerhood he quit wrestling with his friends altogether. when his friends asked him why he never roughhouses with them anymore, he tensed up and mumbled something about it being “weird” and “immature.”

he showed a lot of delicacy towards nature as well, a trait he carries into adulthood! rescuing turtles from roads, gently rehoming bugs, taking care not to step on wildflowers, that sort of thing. he was teased for this growing up :( he’d be compared to a disney princess and the like or just be called a pussy for Caring About The World Around Him. while he still loves nature and knows there’s nothing wrong with that, he does get embarrassed if his gentleness is pointed out— he’s anticipating some sort of reprimand.

been trying to think about hajime’s gay awakening. i imagine once he hit puberty he started having vague… thoughts. they weren’t attached to anyone but he kept it secret anyways since Lust Is A Sin and Masturbation Is A Sin Too and he’s not interested in growing hair on his palms or going blind (he later finds out that those are myths, but for now he heeds the tales), nor is he interested in the scolding he would get from his parents if they found out. from there we have two main options as i see it.

option A: in a parallel of the magazine he finds in Jabberwock, teen!hajime comes across some sort of gay porn. it’s completely accidental— he finds a mag or some other paraphernalia in a log or something, opens it, Realizes what is is, looks around for witnesses, and quickly stuffs it into his jacket. he’s not even sure why, but he knows he’s curious. as soon as he gets home he hides it between his mattress and his bedframe, and that night, when he’s sure his parents are asleep, he grabs a flashlight and starts to look through it. he doesn’t understand why he’s so fascinated until he realizes: he’s breathing heavily, hot in the face, absentmindedly rubbing his thighs together, and, most incriminatingly of all, he’s the hardest he’s ever been in his life. mortified, he shoves the magazine back under his mattress and tries his best to forget about what he saw, tossing and turning as he tries to calm down and go to sleep.

option B: hajime is really close with one of his peers. they’re childhood friends, and they’ve gotten along great forever. at some point, though, hajime starts feeling weird around him. not BAD weird, but… he’s nervous, and his skin seems to buzz whenever they touch, and his heart flutters when he makes his friend laugh, and… he can’t make sense of it all. not until he wakes up one night from a particularly vivid dream, chest heaving, skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his sheets soiled with the evidence of his subconscious sin. he realizes what’s going on, and his heart sinks into his stomach. he does his best to ignore it, but it haunts him.

we could also combine these options and say both of these things happen, but idk yet. i like the loneliness of the porn but i also like the guilt of having to talk to your close friend and pretend you aren’t feeling confusing and frightening things for them.

hajime lives at home until his early adulthood, when he is Caught. if we went with option A for his awakening, then he comes home one day to find The Porn sitting on the kitchen table, its pages now crinkled from years of viewing, and his heart sinks into his stomach. he’s not sure how they found it— maybe his mom was cleaning his room and lifted his mattress? but it doesn’t matter— they Know now, and he has no way to explain himself.

if we go with option B, hajime is caught with that “good friend” of his. he had snuck in via hajime’s bedroom window, at a time they both were sure hajime’s parents would be asleep. unfortunately, hajime’s dad comes up to his room (hajime never learns the original intent of this visit) and opens the door to find his son, hair and clothes a mess, with the neighbor boy straddling his thighs, hands clearly paused in the middle of lifting up his son’s shirt. it’s silent for a bit, and the tension in the air is so heavy hajime feels like he can barely breathe. still, he breaks out of the stupor first, muttering a quiet “you need to go” to his friend without breaking eye contact with his father. the friend gets the message and bolts, leaving via the same window he came from. hajime is now alone with his father, so guilty and scared that he feels nauseous.

regardless of which of these events occurs, the outcome is the same. hajime’s father responds first, yelling and berating. hajime is terrified— he’s seen his dad mad, but never like this. never shouting obscenities and vile words at him. when told to explain himself hajime stumbles over his words, eventually landing on some variant of “i don’t know.” eventually, his father decides words aren’t punishment enough, and hajime gets the shit beat out of him for the first time in his life. he tries to defend himself, but he’s never been much of a fighter, and he doesn’t want to hit his dad, self defense or not. when his father finally storms off, his mother comes near, her eyes brimming with tears. she holds her arms out to hajime, tells her baby to come here. hajime, aching and bruised and perhaps with a freshly broken nose, collapses into his mother’s arms, silently crying into her shoulder as she pets his hair. she holds him close, rocking them from side to side, before she speaks. “oh, hajime, darling,” she starts, voice thick with tears and love, “i’m sorry. we’ve failed you, haven’t we? that’s why you’re doing this to us.” hajime’s stomach curdles at those words, and he quickly excuses himself, washing the blood off his face in the bathroom sink before he locks himself in his room.

regardless of the guilt he carries— he knew he was sinning, after all— hajime knows he is no longer safe at home. his father had never beat him like that before, and he doesn’t know that he would be able to walk away if it happened again. he doesn’t want to leave his mother, but he could tell that she was disgusted by him, too, her words still echoing in his mind. so, hajime packs as many of his things as he can fit into his suitcase, and the next day he leaves town, never letting himself look back. he job hops for a bit before he manages to get his house in Jabberwock— he got really, really lucky with the price of the property.

hajime hasn’t talked to anyone from his hometown since he left, and while he still has his parents’ landline number memorized, he doesn’t dare call. his dad’s probably disowned him, anyhow. sometimes he wonders how the people he grew up with are doing, but he can’t bring himself to go back. it’s not home anymore.

[dollfacefantasy]

NOT A TOY! ♡

pairing: rick grimes x fem!reader

summary: you and rick play around with the piece holstered to his belt

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, gun play (humping it), praise/degradation

wc: 1.4k

a/n: um sorry gang i wanted this to be longer but my brain wasn't working when i wrote it and it lowkey still is not 😔 based on this ask tho which i loved. i hope you guys like it. reblogs, comments, and asks are appreciated.

kinktober slot: day 22 - gun play

"You like this?" he asks, feigned disgust dripping from each syllable, "Dirty fuckin' girl."

"It feels good," you whimper in defense of yourself.

He chuckles at that, the sound coming out raspy and low. It's accompanied by the smirk on his face. The nearby light of the lantern makes his eyes look as though they're flickering with amusement at the position you're in.

The two of you were on watch for the night shift. While the sun set behind the tree line, you each climbed up into the tower that sat along the wall. Both of you started off focused on the task at hand. You kept your eyes forward, scanning the horizon for any signs of trouble, walker or human.

But as had been the norm for your time in Alexandria so far, nothing happened. No staggering figures emerged from the woods, nor did any cars creep down the road. You sat in the two chairs perched up there and talked back and forth about different things. You vented about different people in the group, shared stories about your lives in the old world, just normal stuff.

As the hours stretched on, you grew tired and migrated into Rick's lap. He let you settle in against his chest, expecting you to rest there for the remaining time. But like it normally went for the two of you, being so close meant you couldn't keep your hands off each other.

It started with simple making out. Your lips moved with one anothers in slow, open-mouthed kisses. His hands swept over your figure, stopping every so often to grope at your thighs or hips. He spun you around on his lap after a while to get you situated in a position to ride him.

In doing so, he went to move his gun out of its holster. The cool wooden finish of the grip brushed over your thigh, and the sensation sent a visible shudder through your body. 

His brows had raised with curiosity. Testing the idea, he dragged the weapon up your leg, and you shivered again.

"Feel somethin' good, sweetheart?" he asked.

Your eyes darted up to meet his, timidity gleaming over the small spheres. You responded with a little nod, and that was how you ended up here. The gun lodged between your thighs, the smooth grip pressed right up against your damp panties. 

You rut on the weapon like a puppy in heat - back and forth, back and forth. You're not sure if it's the thrill of using something so inherently dangerous as an object of pleasure or just something about the even curve of it that has you even more whiny than usual.

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, dragging the fabric of his shirt up between them. His free hand not keeping the gun secure holds your chin. You want to drop your head back so bad. Your eyes are already so droopy with lust. You want to just melt and let loose, but he keeps you locked in this moment with him.

"Look at you. So desperate. You'll rub up on anything if it gets you off, huh?" he whispers.

Your head bobbles in his grasp, nodding yes.

"Mhm. As long as it feels good you don't care," he tuts. He boosts one of his legs to knock you closer. You topple forward further into his chest and stay there, accepting the warm expanse as refuge from the stimulation down below.

"Not my fault," you whimper, "Just feels so good."

"I bet it does," he chuckles.

Carefully, he angles the firearm upwards a bit more, letting your clit bump on the end of the grip. A sharp whine shoots from your lips, so he knows it was the right move.

You don't worry about anything right now. In this moment, it's just you and him. There's nothing to think about but humping the object below you like your life depends on it. You don't even worry about your own speed or force or anything. If there's anyone in this world you'd trust to do this with, it's Rick.

Rick who's intensely familiar with guns from his years on the force before this. Rick who's piece stays attached to his hip at all times. Rick who looks at you like you're the most precious being on earth, but who also can't get enough of reminding you what a little slut you can be. He's the only one who gets you to this level of depravity.

"Harder, baby. I know you can do better than this," he teases near your ear. You feel his breath tickle your skin, the sensation sending chills all across your heated flesh.

You try to follow what he says and press yourself down with more force. The smooth handle slots between your folds. You whine as you feel the increase in pressure, so close against you the contact almost feels direct.

His hands around back knead your ass. He gives it a small smack, beckoning you to keep up the pace.

"Want you to make yourself cum all over it. Get it all messy for me," he breathes, "I know those cute little panties are already soaked."

Your eyes flit down as if you didn't know that. His gaze follows in suit, a small laugh coming out of him. The more you rut on top of him, the darker the wet patch on the front of the delicate garment becomes. The sticky fabric adds to the friction though, making your release approach faster.

"F-fuck," you whimper. Your body tightens up at the impending sensation. The edge is right there. You don't think you could stop now if you wanted to.

"That's right, sweetheart. Making me proud. You're actin' like the perfect whore for me. Keep it up," he mumbles, each word only spurring you on.

You keep bucking your hips. Your grasp on him tightens. Your chest puffs in smaller intervals as you feel yourself racing towards the finish line. When you finally crest the peak, your back arches. You let out a strangled cry. Your body continues to rock brokenly on top of the object.

He grabs your chin again and pulls your face from where it'd been smooshed against his chest. His fingers direct you upward, forcing you to look at him.

"Look in my eyes while you cum, darlin'. Look at who's making you feel this good," he says.

Your cheeks fill with heat at the intensity of his gaze. Despite your instinct to look away, you keep your pupils locked on his blue irises, taking in all of the desire swirling there. Everything hits you harder. You tremble even more as the thing between your legs continues bringing you pleasure.

He chuckles and  drops his hand from your face. Once you're beginning the downward slope, he rubs your back, soothing you through it.

"Good girl. Let it all out. I've got you," he murmurs.

He keeps a firm hold on you, ensuring you don't fall off his lap. You continue on shuddering and riding out the rest of the high, but soon enough your body begins to settle. It feels like you're melting down into his chest. Every part of you loosens. You let out a deep sigh. And your eyes flutter.

His hand slithers down between the two of you to carefully extract his gun from the junction of your legs. He slides it out, briefly admiring the small sheen coating it. You scoot closer to be further in his arms as you hear him set the weapon on the table beside you.

He holds you there for a moment, letting you calm down. It's dark out now. Everything's quiet except for the sound of your breathing. His fingers massage the nape of your neck while he looks out at the pitch black expanse outside the walls.

Even though his attention resides elsewhere for the moment, when you shift around, you feel his bulge nudging the plush underside of your thighs. Reaching down, your fingers toy with the button on his jeans.

That same smug expression from earlier returns to his face as his eyes find yours again.

"You want more already?" he teases.

"That was just the warm up. I want the real thing," you say with a tiny smile.

"The real thing, huh? Greedy girl," he tuts playfully. But he adjusts his position a little in a way that you know you're gonna get what you want. "Let's see if you can handle the real thing without waking everybody up."

[kaiwewi]

Their First Villain

Secret Santa gift for @the-modern-typewriter Prompt: "Scary villain x hero in a Christmas setting of your [the writer's] choice. Could go spicy, could go whumpy, could go unexpectedly sweet!" Hope you like this! Merry Christmas!! 🎅🎁

“You recognised me,” the villain observes, his tone unnaturally flat. His face betrays no emotion.

“Kinda hard not to, with your…” – the hero tilts their head at where the villain’s magic continues to spread, coiling around their limbs and securely fixing them in place – “…snake thingies?”

The individual tendrils really do vaguely resemble snakes, although the magic in its entirety reminds them more of some writhing alien monster plant from an old Sci-fi B-movie whose title they cannot remember. It’s not a good comparison anyway. The movie hadn’t been scary at all.

They experimentally try to wrestle one of their arms free, but despite the magic’s apparent fluidity, the moment they push or pull in any direction, whatever give appeared to be there all but disappears and they can’t move a millimetre.

“Oh.” The villain’s eyes widen. “You can see it.”

“See it. Feel it. Didn’t expect it to be this hot.”

An awkward pause follows.

They are decidedly not blushing. It’s just warm. All of them is so warm now that the villain’s powers have moulded themselves around the hero like something liquid but alive. Wherever the tendrils touch bare skin – their ungloved hands and that area just above their ankles where their pants don’t quite meet the rims of their boots – the raw energy buzzes, prickles just short of stinging.

They’d been shivering just minutes ago in their much too thin poncho and the not seasonally appropriate Agency office uniform. Well, they still are shivering, just no longer from the cold.

Where the villain’s magic is fever-hot, his scrutiny runs icy.

“You can see it, but not fight it,” he muses. “How curious. The Agency must be understaffed to send their defenceless little office drones out into the field.”

The hero would be glaring if the villain weren’t underscoring the point by pulling his magic tighter with the mere flick of a finger. That small, anxious sound that escapes them in response brings a self-satisfied grin to the villain’s lips.

“It’s Christmas,” the hero says, once the magic has settled again.

The villain raises a brow.

“Most of the regulars are on holiday, Christmas being a time best spent with family … or so I’m told.”

“Yet you are working.”

“Don’t have anyone.” They aren’t technically without family just … Sometimes, family isn’t a place of refuge and welcome. Not a home to turn to for holiday celebrations or company. Some families fashion themselves exclusive clubs with strict rules that refuse or revoke memberships as they please. The hero forces some levity into their tone. “I have nowhere else to be today, so, I’m helping out here.”

The villain chuckles. “Helping is perhaps not what I would call that.”

“Hey, I did recognise you,” they say, defensively.

“And look where that got you.” His smile is sharper than before, meaner. “Am I your first villain? My heartfelt condolences.”

They don’t dignify that with an answer. But the answer is yes. The villains they watched being interrogated through one-way mirrors at HQ don't count.

“Pity,” the villain says with zero warmth, “that you couldn’t just look the other way. What is it with you people that you're always so eager to cause unnecessary conflict.”

“Reporting suspicious behaviour is kind of my job.” It comes out barely above a whisper and carries the distinct cadence of an apology.

“Ah yes, and my mere existence struck you as suspicious behaviour because …”

Admittedly, once they’d recognised the villain, they hadn’t taken the time to consider his appearance beyond the magic he’d been wearing around his shoulders like a particularly weaponizable scarf. The lack of a combat suit in favour of a sleek, dark coat over a woollen jumper and cargo joggers – either an outfit designed to blend in or just what the villain happens to like to wear when he isn’t working – hadn’t registered any more than the total absence of weaponry other than his powers. And while he could have hidden those better, it’s not like he could have simply left them at home.

There hadn’t been time to ponder. It had all happened so fast. Their eyes had met, and a moment later the hero had already been scrambling away from the crowd, past a stall selling mulled wine and into the nearest alley, where they’d scrolled through their contacts with stiff, unfeeling fingers. The villain had caught up with them before they’d managed to call for backup.

Their gaze darts to the remnants of their smashed phone, sprinkled across the muddy snow, mere metres away but entirely useless even if they could reach it.

What if the villain hadn’t had anything nefarious planned? What if the hero’s brain had naturally jumped to the most prejudiced conclusion all on its own?

Of course, it is unfair to treat his mere presence as if it is a crime. But the things he could do ...

They think about the parents with their cameras, filming their ice-skating children, the squealing toddlers on the merry-go-round, the nice old ladies selling tea out of the back of a car.

“You could be a danger to all those innocent people,” they defend their judgement.

“And you could be a danger to me,” the villain replies coolly. “Would be unwise, letting someone roam free who can pick me out of a crowd with a glance. Perhaps I should thank you for revealing yourself. Very ill-advised. But quite convenient. You were so obvious about it, too.”

He has crossed the distance between them while speaking. Close enough now to reach out and tuck an unruly strand of hair behind their ear with his cold, slender fingers. His other hand settles almost gently on their throat, atop the magic that has slivered around their neck at some point during the conversation.

The tip of a new tendril is in the process of worming its way lower, nestling into the collar of their shirt. It laps against the crook of their neck and they cringe away from the touch as much as the magic allows. It doesn’t hurt. It would be so much easier if it did. The touch is light; it kind of tickles and, given the overall direness of the situation, the hero really isn’t in the mood for that. Or, they shouldn’t be.

Unhelpfully, their traitorous mind supplies them with a thoroughly inappropriate image of what else someone who isn’t the enemy could be doing to them with magic such as this.

“Tell me,” the villain says as the power shifts upwards, tilting their chin back with the movement, so his nails can bite into the newly exposed skin below their jaw, “is there anything else troublesome about you, or is it just the eyes?”

He looks most pleased when their breath hitches despite their best efforts to remain stoic. His grip tightens. He’s studying them intently, staring at their eyes like those are priced gems he considers adding to his collection.

Maybe, underneath the mockery, he actually does consider them somewhat of a threat. If he didn’t, why would he be looking at them like that.

It’s stupid, truly and utterly stupid, to feel flattered. This is not respect, they know, just sharp, calculating consideration. His attention promises imminent danger, might turn lethal at any second. It’s not something they should revel in. Still, it feels good, too – being seen.

Has anyone ever really seen them before?

Or perhaps that is the lack of oxygen speaking.

They struggle to focus their vision but all the twinkling Christmas lights in the trees are starting to smudge into dull, red and golden blurs. Vertigo is clawing at them.

There is absolutely nothing they can do against the villain's grip. They're so pitifully out of their depth.

They think about their bland, only half-furnished two-room apartment; their first day at the Agency HQ; their nth day – no more eventful than the first – sitting at the exact same desk in the exact same office and working on the exact same old computer; their colleagues’ looks of pity when their 14th application for a transfer to field work is being denied and their boss tells them, in stern admonishment, that their skill sets just aren’t suited to solo missions. They think about her condescending smile when she finally does assign them the Christmas market job, clearly convinced the worst thing that could possibly happen here is people getting drunk enough on punch to start throwing punches.

They think of their first split-second impression of the villain as just another guy standing by the ice rink with a cup of something steaming in his hands and a mellow, unguarded smile curving his lips.

They hope this montage doesn’t count as their life flashing before their eyes. It’s way too sad a summary of their depressing lack of accomplishments.

They think, with equal parts age-old bitterness and new-found sarcastic vindication, about their colleagues’ infantile, unofficial, end-of-the-year office rankings where flashier heroes with more impressive abilities always receive titles such as most likely to hook up with a hot reporter or most epic battle or best one-liners.

Meanwhile, all the hero has to show for are three consecutive wins of least likely to die on the job.

Which might have been a reassuring sentiment if it weren’t so clearly code for “you’ll never be a real hero”. Real heroes risk their lives on the job all the time.

Well, look at them now!

Will their colleagues manage to come up with a new title for them in time, they wonder, if the villain kills them now, just a week before this year’s poll results will be released?

Most unexpected death has a nice ring to it.

They should be trembling in terror. Might have, if the villain’s magic weren’t encasing them so – tight but soft and deceptively warm, lulling them in. The sticky heat of it leaves them squirming, stuck in a confusing limbo between gooey not-quite-discomfort and hot-bath sluggishness.

They’re drifting. Until they’re not.

It’s impossible to discern how much time has passed or when exactly the villain has released them; but their thoughts are beginning to clear and their brain catches up to the fact that there is air in their lungs again, and that the breathless, hiccuping gasps uncontrollably tumbling out of their mouth aren’t sobs. It’s laughter.

“Are you enjoying this?” The villain sounds incredulous.

They shake their head. “I don’t know,” they manage, between hysterical giggles. “Maybe. Yes?”

“How did you know I wouldn’t kill you?”

“I didn’t.”

That startles a short laugh out of him.

“I’ve never” – they pant, still struggling for air – “felt this alive before.”

“That sounds ... unhealthy.”

There is a long pause in which the villain silently stares at them while they are more or less regaining control over their breathing.

“You wouldn’t get it,” they say then, perfectly aware they must seem most unhinged. “Bet you don't even know what boredom is. Because your life is fun. Mine is not. I practically live at my stupid job, and my stupid job doesn't even pay well. No one there gives a fuck about me. And nothing exciting ever happens. So can I please just have this one damn moment without being judged?”

The villain hums, low. “And here I thought we were ruining each other’s days.” He presses a hand to their forehead. “Did the heat fry your synapses?” he asks, sounding more amused than concerned. His other hand comes up to cup the nape of their neck, as if he can’t help but reach out. Just as they can’t help but lean into the cooling touch. His gaze drops, as if drawn, to their lips. “Or, are you just naturally this unusual?”

They can smell gingerbread and mulled wine on his breath.

“Are you going to kiss me?” they ask, because yes their synapses are definitely fried and they do not care about consequences, awkwardness, or sanity anymore.

“Would you like me to kiss you?”

“I’d certainly much rather be kissed than killed. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” he repeats, smirking. “But we've established I’m not about to kill you. And that wasn’t a yes.”

“It’s not a no either.”

“Not how consent works, darling.”

They scoff. “You didn’t ask for consent first when you strangled me five minutes ago.”

The villain laughs again, in genuine delight judging by how his magic ripples and purrs.

“Okay, fair enough,” he whispers, shifting so his lips almost brush theirs.

The kiss that follows is sweet, surprisingly chaste, and initiated by the hero.

“So, since you mentioned earlier you have nowhere else to be today,” the villain says, afterwards, mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Have you ever had the pleasure of being kidnapped?”

Pleasure, as it turns out over the course of the next few hours, is an understatement.

If anyone at the office were to find out what the hero has been up to during their first (and best) and possibly only solo field mission, not only are they guaranteed to get fired, their colleagues will also surely create an entirely new office ranking category in their honour:

First to be seduced by a supervillain.

[hedwig221b]

Do you by chance have BAMF Stiles recs? I'm reading your stories and all you rec so thank you for being awesome!!

Thank you so much! One wouldn't know by looking at my fics, but I absolutely adore BAMF!Stiles lol. He's a delight!

Daybreak by TheObsidianQuill

"There . . ." Stiles swallowed and looked down at the bottle in his grasp as he slowly swirled the amber liquid inside. "There's really nothing left. For me. Everyone is . . . gone, and it feels like I haven't thought of tomorrow in years." His words rang in the air like a gunshot, he took another heavy drink. "I would trade every last breath I take to just have another shot—not even a guarantee, just a chance to make things right and bring back even one of them."

The pack was gone. He had nothing left. He had no one. With nothing to lose, Stiles puts everything on the line to go back in time to try to prevent the future from becoming his past. Broken, guarded, and haunted by his past, only one overgrown-pup of a wolf seems able to get past his defenses. Changing the future? Easy. Finding a place for himself in the Hale Pack? Impossible.

The Roads Not Followed by SylvieW

Scott decides to leave Beacon HIlls with Allison and her father. Stiles is left alone to deal with the supernatural troubles of his home town, so he turns to Derek.

Years later, Scott’s new pack is threatened, and the only ones who can help them are the Hale pack and Derek’s powerful mate.

Not Your Disney Romance by Wrennefer

After a long-forgotten agreement of an arranged marriage between Derek and the daughter of another pack's alpha resurfaces, Stiles takes it upon himself to become the most amazing fake fiancé that a clueless, desperate alpha werewolf could wish for.

This is Ridiculous by zosofi

There's a unicorn in Beacon Hills. A fricken' unicorn. In fricken' Beacon Hills, California. And it turns out that unicorns aren't drawn towards virgins in a happy-go-lucky let-me-lay-my-not-at-all-metaphorical-horn-in-your-lap way. No. They kill them. And guess who's the only virgin idiotic enough to get sucked into the Beacon Hills supernatural scene? Stiles, that's who.

A Tangled Refuge by wanderingeyre

The Hale House has been rebuilt for the past five years and for all five of those years, it’s been a sanctuary for supernaturals that needed a place to stay, a halfway point, a place to recuperate, or a place to be safe from whatever was on their tail. Word traveled quickly in the small world of the supernatural and now they rarely had to seek out people who needed help. Most came to them.

What Fresh Twilight Bullshit Is This? by isthatbloodonhisshirt

“I am not Bella!” he insisted, shaking his fist angrily at Jackson, as if he’d been the one to suggest he was. “I am not Bella! I am, like, a Jacob, at least!”

Lydia made a noise of debate from his right and he whipped around to look at her.

“What?! What was that sound?!”

“You’re more of a Mike,” she insisted, shrugging neatly and flipping some curls over her shoulder.

“Wha—” Stiles had never been so offended in his life! “I am not! No way! I am a solid Jacob!”

“Mike,” she argued.

“Who’s Mike?” Scott asked.

“Shut up, Scott!” Stiles insisted, pointing a finger at him but still glaring at Lydia.

Came For The Spark, Stayed For The Flame

Derek felt the panic build up in his chest as Jezebel held out a hand. He smelled it before he saw it, because who could forget the scent of what destroyed your life? Fire and spark and smoke curled from Jezebel's hands, and the wood stacked at Stiles' feet flared up.

When Stiles and Derek get bonded as Emissary-and-Alpha, hidden attractions become a lot harder to hide, secrets are kept and secrets are surfaced, and an evil teenage girl is planning even more ritualistic sacrifice. Canon divergence from the end of 3a.

Dangerous by jjmash

There are a lot of things that the pack doesn’t know about Stiles.

Some of it is little things he simply has no reason to mention, like how he almost failed organic chemistry his first semester at Stanford. Some of it is bigger stuff that he just can’t bring himself to think about, like the nightmares that still plague most of his nights and trap him inside his own mind in increasingly horrific ways.

But most importantly, the pack doesn’t know all the ways in which Stiles has transformed during his time away from them. He doesn’t need fangs and claws to be dangerous.

The Person You'd Take a Bullet For (is Behind The Trigger) by SadieHerondale

The road to hell is paved with good intentions, but until he gets Derek back, Stiles' actions are going to be worse than bad. And he will get Derek back, come hell or high water.

Something More Than Human by gatergirl79

Stiles Stilinski has a secret, a huge secret. A secret that will change the way everyone sees him. No, he hasn't been bitten by a werewolf. Stiles Stilinski is the product of a government experiment to create the perfect soldier, a human weapon. As a second generation transgenic, Stiles has been living a normal life with his dad in Beacon Hills, playing the role of klutzy sidekick to his werewolf best friend. All that changes however when Derek saves his life, Stiles finds himself slowly embracing who he really is. - But at what cost?

Red Witch by rootbeer

The red hair of a banshee. The red eyes of an alpha. The red hoodie of a mage. The red of fire burning.

Derek Hale has been a prisoner to the hunters since they burned his family alive. But now someone has come to save him: skinny, defenseless Stiles--147 lbs of skin and fragile bones. Turns out, sarcasm isn't his only weapon.

Oh my (let me look at those eyes) by Gorgeousgreymatter

A few months ago, he might’ve been able to solve this with some force—a little man-handling, a snarl, a glimpse of teeth. But he looks at Stiles’s broken face, knows he’s seen too much horror and blood and evil, the whole Big Bad Wolf routine is just going to fall flat. Because Derek looks at Stiles and he doesn’t carry himself like a teenager anymore. He carries himself like a soldier.

Other fic recs: pack mom!Stiles | angsty fics | historical AU | baby/mpreg | outsider POV | possessive Derek | smut | hurt/comfort | magical Stiles | mafia | Stiles gets kicked out of the pack | omegaverse | witch!Stiles | creature!Stiles | bad friend Scott | unrequited love

[quiet-onset]

seeking refuge

pairing: carmen berzatto x reader

wc: 1.5k

summary: carmy is having a day, and you want him to get lost in you.

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact!!!, unprotected sex, overstimulation (character and reader)

a/n: is this realistic? probably not. but that's why it's fanfiction! i truly do not remember writing most of this, but i was looking through my wips to find something work on and came across this already finished fic from last year lol. enjoy!

He had the look in his eye. That look had him curling in on himself, shoulders slumped as his mind ran wild. Every once in a while, he’d get lost in his own thoughts, a complete mashup of all the anxiety-inducing shit he’d ever encountered. Money, renovations, Michael, don’t miss NA meeting, walk-in door handle, Ma, menu, run menu ideas by Sydney, Sugar, and oh shit, Sugar’s baby, right, I’m an uncle—

“Carm?”

Like some sort of psuedo-siren, your voice called him back to stable ground, away from troubled waters. Still, he was merely wading when his eyes focused on you. His lips pulled up in an anxious smile, the best he could give you at the moment. “Hey, sorry, hey. I’m here.” He said, nodding his head. Then, his brow furrowed, and he shook away the confusion. “Wait, what are you doin’ here?”

“Richie called, said you might need the rest of the day off.”

Carm rolled his eyes and stood from the office chair, stepping past you to yell at Richie from the doorway. “Cousin!”

“Uh-uh, you are not fuckin’ up my flow today, cousin. I’m in the zone. Take that anxiety bullshit elsewhere, heard?” Richie dismissed him before he could make his defense.

“Hey, fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too. See ya tomorrow.” Richie replied. “I need hands, chefs!”

You chuckled behind Carm, wrapping your arms around his waist. You pressed your cheek against his back and immediately felt some of the tension there roll away. “That training did a number on him.” You commented.

“Too smart for his own good now.” Carmen added.

You leaned up to press a soft kiss against his ear. “Come home, bear.”

It was only a matter of time after that. He’d explained the issue on the way home, or at least tried to. “I dunno, there’s just too many thoughts and not enough time or space. Feel like my brain’s gonna fuckin’ explode, just get lost in my goddamn mind.”

He almost pulled over and dragged you into the backseat at your reply. “Get lost in me instead.”

And he did. He managed to keep himself contained long enough to get home, but once there, he wasted no time. A mere fifteen minutes later, and he had you on your back, legs spread about his waist as his thick, hard cock stretched you open. You held on for dear life as your pussy clenched around him, wet and sticky with your arousal.

“Fuck, you feel good, baby. ‘S exactly what I needed.” He panted. “So fuckin’ wet.”

You could barely form the words to respond, hips canting up with each thrust, chasing the pleasure. Not that it mattered to Carmen, he was content with the sweet moans and whimpers that fell without pause from your lips. He adored the sounds you made and strove to pull them out of you as he pounded you into the mattress. He stopped for a brief moment when he felt your walls tighten, groaning deep in his chest. One hand gripped at the back of your thigh and pushed, spreading you wider. The other slid forward until his elbow was pressed against the mattress next to your head, and he buried his face in your neck.

“Gonna make me come ‘f you keep squeezin’ like that, baby.” His lips brushed against your ear as he spoke, his breath hot and wet against your skin.

“Can’t he-help it.” You whined prettily. “Feels good. Please don’t stop, gonna come.”

“Yeah? Gonna come on this dick?” His hand reached down to toy with your clit, eyes rolling to the back of his head when you cried out his name.

All you could do is nod, your moans getting louder as your orgasm approached. And then, pleasure so good, tears pricked at your eyes. Your back arched, your breasts pressed into his chest, you moaned his name. That white-hot bliss pulsed in every part of you, almost like it was being torn from you. Your cunt clamped around him, and you’re sure if you looked down, a ring of your arousal would coat the base of his cock.

Like all he needed was your pleasure, his finish hit him like a truck seconds later. An unending string of fuck, fuck, fuck as he pumped his come into you, the white, warm streams of him coating your walls. His balls pulsed hard as he gave you long, slow strokes, the head of his cock nearly kissing your cervix with one particularly deep thrust.

And even though his pace had slowed, his hips didn’t stop. The overstimulation was starting to set in, your stomach flipping deliciously at the continuous pleasure. Still, he was strangely quiet, so you wanted to make sure he was okay.

“C-Carmy,” You whimpered out. “You still with me, bear?”

You expected a pause, a wait, but the answer was immediate. “‘F course I am. Nowhere else I’d rather be. Goddamnit.”

“Carmen?”

“Gotta have you again.”

You didn’t have time to process his words before he was pulling out of you and flipping you over. He hastily grabbed a pillow and lifted your hips to slide it under. Even in the orgasmic-haze that fogged his brain, he wanted to make sure you were comfortable. Still-hard cock in hand, he stroked himself firmly as he kneeled behind you. His free hand gripped at the fullness of your ass, pulling lightly until he could see the mess he’d made of your pussy, a mixture of yours and his come dripping out of you. It might've drenched the pillowcase, but the thought hadn’t even passed Carmen’s mind. He just leaned over you until his nose was buried in your hair, pressing himself into your sweet cunt once more. You let out a loud moan of his name, your tight walls still fluttering post-orgasm.

“Didn’t want your legs to get sore.” He mumbled as he started fucking you again, slow and deep. “Shit, I need to keep goin'. Need to fill you up again.”

“‘S too good, oh my god.” You cried out. At this angle, the tip of his cock brushed against your g-spot with every thrust.

“Gonna let me keep goin’, right? Let me keep fuckin’ my cock into you, fillin’ your sweet little cunt with my come? Gonna let me get lost in you, pretty girl?”

On one hand, you weren’t sure where this Carmen came from. It wasn’t like he was silent during sex, but he never talked this much. Never this filthy. It was like his pleasure controlled him, the overstimulation working double-time to control his body and mind at once. With every word, his pace got faster, his thrusts deeper, inhibiting your ability to speak. 

It wasn’t made better when Carmen wrapped his arm around your neck, his bicep pressing lightly against your throat. A ragged gasp passed through your lips as he gave an experimental squeeze, timed perfectly with a deep thrust of his cock. He pressed his cheek against yours as you nodded eagerly, hoping the response would suffice.

“That’s it, baby, that’s fuckin’ it. So good to me all the goddamn time.” He groaned, hips bouncing off your ass with every thrust. “Pullin’ me out my head, makin’ me feel good. Perfect girl for me. Perfect girl with a perfect fuckin’ cunt, shit.”

He kept going and going and going, only relishing in a short rest each time. A setting sun and four orgasms later — five, for him — he was still burying his overstimulated cock in your overstimulated pussy. You were on your side now, facing him with your leg thrown over his hip. Each slow thrust of his dick and every pulse of your puffy cunt was laced with pain, but the pleasure was still there, too, making it hard to think. But for Carm, his mind was clear, the only thing left a vision of your sweaty face contorted with mind-numbing pleasure-pain.

One hand pulled you closer by your ass, the other brushing your hair off your sweaty forehead. “So pretty like this, baby. Could do this all fuckin’ day.”

“Carm, ‘s too much.” You gasped, eyes wide as you looked up at him. “Feels too good.”

He wiped a tear from your cheek, feeling his balls throb hard, almost painfully, as he plunged his cock deeper into you. “I know, I know. Just need another one, need to keep going till I’m fuckin’ empty. You can do that, right? You can take it.”

And sure, the overstimulation may have been clouding your judgment. But one look at his blue eyes, glazed over and needy, and you wanted to keep going. You wanted to lay there and let him take what he needed until he was spent, till all the anxious thoughts he ever had faded from memory. Your pussy tightened at the thought as you wondered how long it would take before he fucked his mind completely empty.

And just like that, he was coming again. Your sticky walls coaxed it out of him, pulsing around him until his hips stuttered. With the number of loads he’d already pumped into you, you couldn’t even feel the new warmth of his come. You only knew it was there when his cock pushed back inside, and come dribbled out of you and down your thigh.

And not a moment later, you were on your back again, and he was fucking you headfirst into your sixth orgasm. You and Carmen had a long night ahead of you. 

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Erin Reed at Erin In The Morning:

On Tuesday, Democratic presidential nominee Kamala Harris announced that her pick for Vice President is Tim Walz, the governor of Minnesota. In recent years, as trans and queer people have come under attack from over a thousand proposed bills, Walz is expected to serve as a source of optimism for LGBTQ+ people. The governor’s long track record on LGBTQ+ rights positions him as a strong oppositional force against what has become a national attack on LGBTQ+ people, particularly transgender individuals.

“I am proud to announce that I've asked Tim Walz to be my running mate. As a governor, a coach, a teacher, and a veteran, he's delivered for working families like his. It's great to have him on the team. Now let’s get to work. Join us,” read Harris’ statement on Twitter. Walz has taken decisive action against attacks on transgender people in surrounding states, making Minnesota a refuge for those seeking care. In 2023, he signed an executive order protecting transgender people from out-of-state prosecution if they seek care within Minnesota’s borders. The executive order also issued a bulletin to health insurance companies, mandating coverage and initiating investigations into health insurance denials in the state.

In 2024, Walz signed a bill banning the gay and transgender panic defense. This defense is often used to help individuals avoid murder charges or receive lighter sentences by asserting that they were "deceived" by a romantic partner who was gay or transgender. According to one study, the transgender panic defense has been used at least 351 times. Walz's pro-LGBTQ+ record goes back much further than his time as governor. In 1999, he sponsored the first gay-straight alliance at his high school while working as a teacher. In Congress, he co-sponsored the repeal of the Defense of Marriage Act and voted to repeal Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Minnesota Gov. Tim Walz (D)’s track record on LGBTQ+ issues has been stellar, dating back to his pre-Congress days.

This makes me glad that he is the nominee.

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - January 1-7

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles!

1. Homes built with clay, grass, plastic and glass: How a Caribbean island is shying away from concrete

“[… Clay] traps moisture which then evaporates and pulls heat from the surface as it goes. […] The roof is covered in old recycled advertising banners and piece of a water tank, the other half of which is used to house some of Rahaman-Noronha's fish [… and] multi-coloured glass bottles inset into walls provide an avenue for streams of light and colour.”

2. To Combat Phoenix’s Extreme Heat, a New Program Provides Sustainable Shade

“The neighborhood workshops allow residents to get a shade plan tailored to their community’s needs and identify the locations where officials can plant trees. Meanwhile, the workforce-development side of the program creates the jobs needed to keep the trees alive for generations[….]”

3. Conservation corridors provide hope for Latin America’s felines

“[… S]cience has shown that to maintain healthy populations there needs to be connection between individuals. [… A] protected area that is close to another has more species and more potential for their survival.”

4. Social program cuts tuberculosis cases among Brazil's poorest by more than half

“The decrease [“in TB cases and deaths”] was over 50% in extremely poor people and more than 60% among the Indigenous populations. […] "We know that the program improves access to food [… and healthcare…] and strengthens people's immune defenses as a result.””

5. Geothermal has vast potential to meet the world’s power needs

“New geothermal systems could technically provide as much as 600 terawatts of carbon-free power capacity by 2050[…. C]ountries could cost-effectively deploy over 800 GW of geothermal power capacity using technology that’s in development today[….]”

6. New D.C. Catholic archbishop is pro-LGBTQ+ and anti-Trump

“In 2018, he objected to the blaming of gay priests for the clergy sexual abuse crisis, “saying that such abuse was a matter of power, not sexual orientation[….]” “We must disrupt those who portray refugees as enemies [… and] seek to rob our medical care, especially from the poor.””

7. Chesapeake Bay Will Gain New Wildlife Refuge

“The Chesapeake Bay area will have a new wildlife refuge for the first time in a quarter century. […] “This new refuge offers an opportunity to halt and even reverse biodiversity loss in this important place, and in a way that fully integrates and respects the leadership and rights of Indigenous peoples and local communities.””

8. Inside Svalbard seed vault’s critical mission to stop our favourite fruit and veg from going extinct

“[… T]he world’s largest secure seed storage […] sits proudly in a massive former coal mine[….] Right now, there are over 1,331,458 samples of 6,297 crop species. […] “During 2024, 61 seed genebanks deposited 64,331 seed samples, including 21 from institutes that deposited seeds for the first time this year[….]””

9. Medical debt will be erased from credit reports for all Americans under new federal rule

“The rule will affect more than 15 million Americans, raising their credit scores by an estimated average of 20 points. [… S]tates and localities have already utilized American Rescue Plan (ARP) funds to support the elimination of over $1 billion in medical debt for more than 700,000 Americans[….]”

10. 'Forgotten' water harvesting system transforms 'barren wasteland' into thriving farmland

“"The process started with the community-based participatory planning[….]” 10% to 15% of the water will actually soak into the ground to replenish the water table, creating a more sustainable agricultural process.”

December 22-28 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[ldysmfrst]

American Mate - (3)

Following Instincts

Paring: Hybrid!BTS Ot7 x Plus-sized Human FemReader

Status: Ongoing series

Chapter number: 3 of unknown

Word count for Chapter: 4,279

Work count for Story: 12,632

Genre: Hybrid Playmate Au inspired by works created by @yoongiofmine

Warnings: (I am not good at this, but I will try. Let me know if I missed anything!!) NOT BETA READ!! This story will have a bit of angst, fluff, smut, f/m, m/m, and m/f/m. This chapter does have Injury, Anxiety, Panic attacks, comfort, and Cultural differences.

BTS HYBRID ANIMAL TYPES: Seokjin - Roan Ferret, Yoongi - Black Jaguar, Hoseok - Marten, Namjoon - Alaskan Timber Wolf, Jimin - Red Panda, Taehyung - White Southwest African Tiger, Jungkook - Flemish Giant Rabbit

AMERICAN MATE MASTER LIST / LDYSMFRST MASTER LIST

Outside the break room, Yoongi is in Alpha space, catching your scent of sweet peas as it changes into a moldy pea soup smell after the comment from the redheaded playmate. Turning with a low and threatening growl, Yoongi’s eyes have gone to his hybrid's bright golden-yellow cat eyes as he blocks you from their sight. Zeroing in on the playmates, tail raised and puffed out, tip twitching back and forth with a snap of irritation, making them all step back and quiet down.

Hearing you murmur something in his native tongue and then the frantic footsteps, Yoongi snaps his head to watch your fleeing form disappear into a room down the hall. Taking a quick look back at the playmates, office staff, and then his pack, Yoongi huffs and quickly follows you, unable to fight his Alpha instincts.

The rest of the BTS packmates follow their bonded one closely behind as they feel his need to protect you from the others in the office. Namjoon catches Yoongi by the shoulder, stopping him from attempting to enter the room where you sought refuge. The rest of the pack forms a barricade around their Prime Alpha and packmate, who has entered Alpha space. They all are standing on guard, facing the rest of the people in the office, watching closely for any danger, and keeping the rude humans away. 

“Yoongi-hyung, you need to give her space. Remember, she is human and might get scared of Alpha Yoon. What is happening? I need you to get enough control to explain what is happening?” Namjoon calmly speaks to his older packmate. Pushing out calming scents, trying to bring him out of his Alpha space with soothing strokes along his shoulder and back. “Can you come back and explain why you are protecting Miss Y/n?”

Barreling into the front of the group of observers with his tail bushed out and scent smelling slightly panicked and concerned, Derek comes up to the defensive line of BTS, “You have to let me get to her. You have to let me help calm down Y/n. Can’t you scent her distress? She is not doing okay by herself. You can even smell her over the scent-blockers!  I am the closest thing she has to a family. Please let me in to make sure she is okay. Please.”

One of Yoongi’s black jaguar ears twitch back, hearing the urgency in Derek’s voice. He looks at Namjoon, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes. After a few seconds, he turns to Derek with normal dark eyes, taking in his shifty behaviors and now partly distressed scent. 

Shaking his head slowly to Namjoon, Yoongi steps between his packmates and face-to-face Derek. “You are the closest thing to her family?”

“Yes, she and I were hired together when they decided to start this branch. We work together and spend time together at my den or her apartment. I do my best to protect her from situations like this because of her past,” Derek shares with a furrowed brow. Then he glares at the snobby-faced Playmates and says, “I normally try to keep her away from the Playmates in general so things like this do not happen.” 

“She is only here today because there was no convincing her otherwise. Since in the meeting yesterday with your manager and what was said on the phone, she thought it would be disrespectful if she were not in attendance,” explains the fidgety hybrid.

Looking Yoongi in the eye, he continues, “She was bullied a lot before, and while it is not something that is okay, unfortunately, it still happens to this day. I really tried but I couldn’t do anything to keep her away. She had to be here even with little to no sleep because of her nightmares.”

Bowing slightly but keeping an eye on the pack, Derek demandingly pleads, “Now, please, Mr. Min, please let me pass. Everyone can smell that something has happened. I think she is hurt in more ways than one.”  

The last comment got the attention of the whole pack on him, and everyone looked concerned. Several eyes flashed as their hybrid halves showed their displeasure with the news. Yoongi continued to fight his Alpha instincts with a deep growl and even breaths.

“How can you tell?” Namjoon asks from next to the door. He can smell the scent left in as you ran through the hall, but it tells him nothing for a few reasons: 1. He has never smelt Y/n and 2. Not all scents are pleasant to start with.

“That moldy smell, like veggies gone bad?” inquired Derek, watching the pack of hybrids start sniffing, searching for the smell, and scrunching their noses once it hits. “That is why I know something is not right. Y/n, her scent turns like that when she is hurt. I am not sure if it is just emotional. It could be physical, too. I can’t tell how bad it is because the scent-blocking measures she took for your arrival are still dulling it down.  Now again. Let me in to help my friend. I may be a Beta but she is a pack member and I will protect her.”

“Fine, but I am going in with you. I was the one who knocked into her and failed to keep her from falling. My Alpha instincts have gone haywire, and I need to protect her,” his eyes glaring back at the playmates, “from certain people here. Most of all, ensuring she is okay and make amends for my mistake,” Yoongi states without room for argument, moving to the side, nodding to his packmates to make room for them.

Once the two are through, the pack retakes their defensive stance, keeping everyone else out. They understand where their mate is coming from as they also want to keep the group of Playmates away from you, their disgusting words looping through their heads.

Namjoon shuts the door for privacy and protection while he stands guard just outside, with one ear listening to what is happening inside the room and one ear on the rest of the office. His mind racing from the powerful wave of rotten scent that has built up in the room.

The scent-blocking measures no longer mask your distress and pain causing your scent is much more robust in this room. This makes Derek and Yoongi to whine at the smell and quickly move to your side.

Derek pulled you into a tight embrace, pushing his scent out and over you and scenting the top of your head while murmuring soft, reassuring words. Yoongi comforts you with his own calming scents, pushing down the desire to pry you out of Derek’s hold to take you into his own. Much to their relief, your tears slow, and your breathing calms after what feels like hours.

“Derek, my nightmares, they came true. I ruined everything. I should have stayed away like you and Evie said. I should have been looking where I was going. Reina was right. The one with the black tail, did I hurt him? He... He tried catching me. Me! I weigh a ton,” you ramble as your panic is still racing in your mind.

At that last comment, a deep growl resounds throughout the room. It takes half a second to realize it is not from the hybrid holding you. Catching your breath and snapping your mouth shut, you cautiously peek through your hair to look behind you to see none other than Mr. Min Yoongi, who turns out to be the owner of said black tail, now snapping to and fro with irritation. 

“Shit,” you mumble under your breath, your mind racing to figure out a way to get out of this situation without causing any further damage and how best to word your resignation letter.

“Miss Y/n, let us address a few things. Firstly, you do NOT weigh a ton, nor will you ever refer to yourself in that manner again. Secondly, I am not injured, nor could you injure me, as I AM an Alpha in my own right and am stronger than I look, even if I am not the Prime Alpha of the Bangtan Pack,” declares the hybrid, his eyes flashing a different color.

You shrink down to try to make yourself smaller. Seeing your reaction and realizing that his Alpha is trying to be in control again, he takes another deep breath to calm himself, looking between you and Derek. He can almost hear his Alpha stomp around his head, demanding to get you out of the other hybrid’s arms and keep you as his.

After a few controlled breaths, Yoongi says, “Lastly, would you be so kind as to allow my Alpha to inspect you for injuries? I came out of the observation room door unannounced and ran into you. I tried to prevent you from falling, but we are close in height, and I could not do much other than take what I hoped was the brunt of the fall.”

Turning more towards him but still staying in the safety of Derek’s hold, you look at him with confusion. “Your Alpha? Like your hybrid-side is not yourself?” Looking over your shoulder at Derek, you see him with a smirk and a chuckle on his lips.

“Missy here,” Derek looks at Yoongi, “has never met an Alpha male before. I am a beta, and her best friend is an omega.” Turning his attention back to you, “Unlike Evie and I, an Alpha has an inner animal that they can change into fully at will and it allows them to go into Alpha space to assist in protecting, hunting, and mating.”

You look at Yoongi with wide eyes, “You turn into a black cat?” 

“I am not a black cat,” he huffs in annoyance, eyes flashing a different color briefly. “I am a Black Jaguar hybrid, and I am trying my best to keep him at bay because he can sense that your emotions have calmed down, but you are still in pain.” 

His eyes roam over your figure, stopping when he notices you are cradling your right wrist. Standing up and motioning to a nearby chair, he asks, “Please, can I inspect you for injuries? I can see you are being careful with your right hand.”

With a gentle push from behind you, you move to the chair Yoongi gestured to. Derek also stands up but keeps his distance, watching how the two of you interact.

Yoongi kneels before you, “I have to let my Alpha see for himself. I promise he will not harm you. Mr. Gulley can attest to that at this point, my Alpha would have much rather hurt himself than you.” 

Glancing at Derek, he nods with a knowing smile while taking a seat a few tables over, so as not to interfere. Taking a moment to collect yourself, running your good hand through your hair and fixing your shirt, you look down at the hybrid.

With a slight smirk, he looks at you with kind eyes, “Miss Y/n, please allow me to check for injuries. You have no reason to be nervous. You look perfect as you are.” 

Blushing slightly at his words, you nod and tuck your hair behind your ear again. You watch him closely as his dark brown eyes slowly change into a stunning golden-yellow color, with the pupil elongating into a pointed oval. His ears and tail moved this way and that, never quite settling in one position for very long. Your scent turns slightly back to sweet peas as the sight makes you smile softly. 

Cautiously, Yoongi kneels closer to you to become within reaching distance. Taking your left ankle gently in his hand, he rotates it, bends your leg at the knee, and sniffs at each joint. He repeats the process with the other side as well. Finding that nothing in your legs seems to be hurting, he looks at your face again with a short, pleased chirping sound. 

Scooting a little closer, he reaches out to your left hand, bends your elbow, feels along your fingers one by one, then rotates your wrist and again seems to sniff along the joints. 

You fidget in your seat, knowing what comes next will hurt, but you don't know how the hybrid in front of you will react. Noticing your movements and the slight change in your scent, Yoongi wraps his tail around your ankle to offer support. A slight sense of pride fills him when your scent calms down at his gesture of comfort, even if you do not realize it. 

Taking your right hand, he follows the same steps, pausing slightly before he rotates your wrist. You let out a yelp of pain and bite your bottom lip as you try to pull your hand out of his grip, which only causes him to hold it just a little bit tighter with one hand while the other quickly reaches to the nape of your neck to bring you into an awkward hug. Your head is now resting on his shoulder with your nose breathing against his neck, your good hand going to his side and gripping his shirt. 

Once the pain has dulled, you realize you smell the rain, not like fresh rain but like petrichor or the earth after a good downpour. It is comforting and relaxes you even more until you hear a soft chuffing noise and remember who you are smelling. 

Pulling away, you shyly look back at Yoongi, still observing you with golden-yellow eyes and holding your wrist firm but gently. “Umm... I think I just landed on it wrong. Just some ice and pain meds should be okay. I will be good as new tomorrow,” you say with a false smile, trying to play it off as no big deal.

However, Yoongi’s ears flatten, and his feline eyes narrow at you while nodding down to your wrist. Following his line of sight, you now see that your wrist is slightly swollen and is covered with a lovely purple color. “Okay, maybe I won’t be as good as new tomorrow.”

Derek stands up and approaches the two of you to see the damage done. Taking a sharp breath, he looked at Yoongi and froze, noting that the Alpha was sternly watching his every move. 

Outside the breakroom, Mr. Johnson, the director of PMS USA, was informed there was an incident and is now standing with Manager Sejin outside the BTS barrier. He had ordered Reina and the other playmates to be escorted back into the conference room by some other staff. 

To say the Playmates didn’t attempt to excuse away their behaviors or tell a specialized version of the story would be lying, and BTS’s reaction quickly caused them to shut up and hide in the room like they were told to in the beginning.

Mr. Johnson had hand-picked you to be the friendly first face of PMS because you light up any room you walk into and are always willing to put in the extra time to help make things perfect on or off the clock. 

“Hello, I am the director, I really should go in there and make sure my employee is okay, Manager Sejin,” Mr. Johnson states, glancing at the members of BTS as they continue to block the door and growl at anyone who walks near them. 

“Why are they not letting anyone near the door? I am sorry. I know about hybrids from the symposiums and conferences but rarely interact with many. I typically leave that up to my staff,” says the director, glancing over at the hamster hybrid.

“Namjoon-ssi, do you want me to answer that, or would you like to?” Manager Sejin asks while watching Mr. Johnson. Namjoon redirects his attention from the breakroom door to the seemingly incompetent human before him. 

Taking a few slow steps forward, Hoseok takes over guarding the entrance. Namjoon comes to stand with his pack, but nearer to Mr. Johnson and Manager Sejin, he says, “Mr. Johnson, we are a pack. More so, we are a pack of Alpha hybrids. Ranging from prey to predator types. We are a bonded pack on top of that, which means it’s all or none. We all are protective of something or someone if one of us feels the need. When one of us is hurt, we are all hurting with them.”

Looking at each of his packmates, Namjoon is filled with a sense of pride. Though they don’t know the extent of what has happened, they still support their mate to the best of their ability in a foreign country without question.

“Yoongi-hyung is feeling protective of Miss Y/n because of a few things. Miss Y/n is injured because of an accident caused by hyung. She is not in a good emotional state because of your Playmates’ behavior due to the same accident,” the Prime Alpha says as he looks back at the Director, trying to maintain a more neutral expression to hide his disdain for the women now in some office somewhere.

“As an Alpha, our animals require us to hold ourselves to a higher standard than other hybrids or humans. We like to try and ensure those around us are happy. With a very select few, we want to make sure they are also healthy and protected, among other things. In Yoongi’s Alpha space, he has failed to meet these standards when it comes to Miss Y/n. It is now beyond his control, so to speak, to do anything other than fix his mistakes and ensure Miss Y/n’s safety, recovery, and happiness. This means the Bangtan Pack is now responsible for the same.”

“Oh well. Um. I see. I can reassure you that Playmate Services has a good doctor who can tend to her if she needs one, and of course, she can have the rest of today and even tomorrow off. No need to make a fuss,” says the director, trying to dispel the sense of doom he is feeling due to the power emanating from the six remaining Alphas.

A deep growl rips from behind Namjoon, causing everyone to look and see that Taehyung's eyes are flickering crystal blue. His scent of burning ebony wood crashed over the pack.

Speaking through gritted teeth, he glares at the director, saying, “You seem to be in over your head, Mr. Johnson. Your company is built for hybrids, and you have hybrids working for you, yet you know nothing. Your incompetence is allowing bullying. From what one of your staff says, it has been happening for quite some time and yet you do nothing about it. Did you not hear our Prime Alpha tell you that she is ours now. We will take her to get treated by our medical professionals. We will take care of her to ensure she heals properly and regains a better state of mind. Not. You.”

“Hyung, it’s okay. Calm down, please. We don’t need two of you in Alpha space right now. It will not help Miss Y/n or Yoongi-hyung,” Jungkook says as he steps up next to Taehyung, scenting his neck gently as his snickerdoodle scent pushes out, causing the blue to flicker to stop and remain his natural dark brown. 

With a last glare and a mumbled, “Pathetic, oblivious, 리더십이 부족한 사람, human.” He moves closer to Hoseok and, in turn, you. Jungkook quickly follows in an attempt to keep the high-tempered White Southwest African Tiger calm and get closer to you as well. 

“You may have misunderstood me, gentlemen. I have tried to deal with the playmates and their disrespectful actions towards Y/n and some of the other staff. Sadly, Reina is the top female pick and brings in a lot of money. Since we are the newest and smallest branch, the corporate office wants to refrain from taking any disciplinary actions for fear that she will quit. They think that any of the office staff are replaceable, whereas reliable Playmates are harder to find,” Mr. Johnson explains.

“Mr. Johnson, while that may be the case prior to today, their bullying has gone too far. Manager Sejin,” Namjoon says, “I believe it would be wise if the director took care of the bullying by the playmates and joined them for the time being. We need a few moments without interruptions to assess what is happening and how the Pack will move forward with this office, if at all.” 

Dismissing the director to be dealt with by Manager Sejin, Namjoon walks back to the door, which is now being guarded by Hoseok, Taehyung, and Jungkook. The scent of snickerdoodle, ebony wood, and lilac mix together with the pack scent of vanilla underneath.

“... can’t tell?”

“Can’t tell what?” Namjoon asks the small group.

“Hobi-hyung can’t tell,” replies Jungkook while Taehyung nods in agreement. 

“The boys say that their Alphas are reacting to Miss Y/n but I can’t tell if mine does or not. You spoke to her, stood right in front of her. Namjoon, can you tell?” questions Hoseok with his arms crossed and hip cocked to the side.

“Oh? Hmm, I guess I haven’t really paid attention. After what happened with… you know who… I guess I have been pushing my Alpha to the back as much as I could. I have been focusing on taking care of you guys, my mates, first and I couldn’t do that with him pacing in my head so much. She really tore Yoongi-hyung, Jimin-ah, and well you, Hobi, apart inside with what she said,” reflects the Prime Alpha.

Namjoon started thinking back to hearing your voice, full of determination and strength, over the phone yesterday. Your care, intention, and respect for the pack that you have shown today. It would be simple to say that his Alpha was at least comfortable around you, and from how the pack’s scents have been, he wasn’t the only one who was.

“My Alpha is comfortable with Miss y/n, but I wouldn’t say that he is reacting in any particular way.”

A soft whine leaves Jungkook before he says, “Why do the older mates always walk with blinders on? Huh! You need to really let your Alpha look at her. My Alpha hasn’t wanted to look away from her since we walked into the office.”

“Joon-hyung, I am with Kookie on this one,” Taehyung nods, still in the bunny hybrid's hold. “While I wasn’t drawn in right away, I trust Yoongi's Alpha not to react this way with just anyone. So, when he ran after her, I was the closest one to the door, and before the pack’s scent took over, I could smell vanilla with something rotten. At first, I thought it was a candle or something, but I looked around. There are no candles.”

Taehyung’s comment on smelling vanilla caught Jimin and Seokjin's attention. Turning to join the conversation while trying to maintain the barrier, Jimin speaks up, “So it wasn’t just me. When Yoongi-hyung and that man went in, I smelled vanilla with almost a compost-like smell. After that, my Alpha wanted nothing but to keep everyone, human or hybrid, away from this door. He is really fighting to be at the front.”

“I figured that our muscle bunny was just leaning into his instincts of being a bunny when he was speaking about Miss Y/n in the conference room. Yet it didn’t explain to me why my Alpha felt awkward at her bowing to me when I spoke to her before going into the room,” adds Seokjin with a stern but thoughtful look. 

“Wait, wait, wait!” Hoseok moves away from the door slightly, his expression confused and frustrated. “Are you telling me that you have all had some kind of reaction from your Alphas for the human lady behind the door? Some of you smelled vanilla, too?”

Nodding, they all look at Hoseok and then at Namjoon, waiting for them to come to the same conclusion. After a few tense moments passed, it was like a lightbulb went off over Hoseok’s head as his lilac scent burst with more hints of rose and vanilla.

Everyone now focuses on Namjoon.

Namjoon’s head is racing over every moment that has happened since walking in the door. As Prime Alpha, his responsibilities for the pack are more significant than others, and with what the boys are hinting at, the next few moments will change so much. 

“Her reactions were top-notch with our pack, and her showing an exceeding amount of respect to the packmates could be just her professionalism,” he thinks aloud, trying to find a non-life-changing reason for the situation only to be met with more whines and a few soft growls.

Looking up, Namjoon makes eye contact with each of his mates before continuing, “However, only the vanilla scent can mean one thing which won’t be easy for the human woman.”

Taking a deep breath, the pack turned their attention to the door.

“We have an American Mate.”

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@braveangel777 @bethanysnow @smileykiddie08 @kayways @danielle143 @nenefix-on @im-gemmy @fluffy-canada-pancakes @juju-227592 @levislifeline @carolinexkpop

[kingofbodyrolls]

Coming Home to You (m) | pjm

It’s been five years since Hyun was arrested, and you’ve done a lot of healing to get where you are in life; married, finally opening your very own yoga studio. But when the shadows come crawling back, and old memories resurface, will Christmas be ruined?

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: detective!au, christmas!au, holiday!au, married!au, → Trope: best friends to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / angst / thriller / comfort / action → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 11.7k → Warnings + triggers: stalking (original character that stalks MC), action/fighting, weapons (guns and knifes), mention of abuse, mention of past s*xual assault, tiny description of assault (but not in too much detail), justice, healing after trauma, fluffy love and comfort, hugs and kisses, unprotected sex that is very quick and vanilla-ish.  → Author’s note: wow. It’s been over a year since I wrote and published this series. I was never quite happy with its ending, so while I was making my different Christmas stories, these characters just begged to get a second chance, so here we are! Please proceed with caution; this story is dark, but also very very fluffy and sweet. I’ve tried to balance the two. Enjoy 🙂 → Read the spoiler? [their text message]   → Read on AO3? [link] 

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It’s been five years since Jimin knelt before you under the soft lantern glow of the couple’s retreat, a promise in his eyes as steady as the stars. Since that night, you’ve woven your lives together, married and rooted in the warmth of his childhood home—a place brimming with memories, both tender and raw. Every room here holds pieces of your past, as if the walls have absorbed every laugh, every whispered secret, every tremor of pain. The familiar comforts you, yet it’s tinged with shadows. Some memories cling like stubborn echoes, ones you’d sooner silence forever—like that night, here, when Hyun’s violence shattered your trust in safety. Even now, an unexpected draft can send an icy shiver down your spine, and you're transported back, heart racing, wishing that day could be unwound and rewritten. You wish you’d taken a different path, not walked home alone, not been stalked and broken by him. But the past is fixed, carved into your story, unyielding as stone. All you can do is move forward—and you have, step by step.

Jimin, ever your protector, signed you up for self-defense the moment Hyun was locked away, knowing that peace of mind is something you now earn, not inherit. “It’s good to know you can defend yourself,” he’d said, his voice a blend of reassurance and determination. And he was right. Now, you walk with a quiet strength, knowing you’ve wrestled with darkness and won, a warrior forged from fear into power. 

Meanwhile, Jimin fights his own battles, tireless in his role as a detective, tracing the city’s shadows to keep others safe. You admire him deeply—how he gives himself so fully, despite the long hours, the late nights, the gravity of December’s cold cases. This month, where joy is promised but rarely found, wears heavy on him, and on so many. December holds a peculiar ache, doesn’t it? Beneath the glitter and false cheer lies an undercurrent of despair, a fragile season where people often find themselves adrift, succumbing to loneliness, sorrow, even violence. 

And yet, in this same season, you’ve created a sanctuary. Your yoga studio, born from the healing you found in stillness and breath, is your refuge, and you offer it now to others—to ground them, to lift the weight of silent burdens, to let them escape, if only for an hour, from the hollow echoes of December’s cheer. Here, people can shed the pressure of forced smiles and indulge in quiet solitude. You understand, perhaps better than most, the importance of spaces where vulnerability can breathe freely. After all, you’ve been there. You’ve survived the darkness and emerged stronger, and now, you offer the gift of peace to those still searching for it.

“How are you doing, babe?” Jimin’s voice crackles through the phone, warm and familiar, softened by the gentle rustle of papers in the background.

“I’m good,” you reply, a soft smile touching your lips as you glance at Hoseok, your friend who lights up any room, carefully arranging plants in sunlit patches to bring life into the studio. “Hobi’s here, helping me make this place perfect.”

“That’s great! Tell him I said hi,” Jimin sings out, his voice laced with love, a warmth that fills even the empty spaces. “I’ll be home around eight, so go ahead and make dinner, okay?”

“Of course, Minie,” you reply, the nickname rolling off your tongue like a familiar song. “Keep fighting the good fight, detective.” You chuckle, blowing him a kiss that floats down the line before you hang up.

Hoseok spins around, catching your playful mood, and clutches his chest as if the sweetness is too much to bear. “Blowing kisses over the phone? You two are too much,” he teases, his eyes alight, his grin brighter than the winter sun. Goofy as always, Hoseok has been your constant—a bright anchor in dark waters, the first person you confided in after you escaped the darkness. He had listened, his presence steady, his paramedic instincts kicking in to heal your wounds, visible and invisible.

“You’ll find your own moon, Hobi,” you reassure him with a smile, your voice soft with hope. “Someone who’ll love you just as much as you love everyone around you.”

He sighs, his shoulders dipping in a rare moment of vulnerability. “I know. It’s just, sometimes I can’t help but be a little jealous, you know?” His words trail off, filling the room with a quiet ache.

You stand and fold him into a hug, looking directly into his eyes. “Everything has its time and place,” you whisper, offering him the kind of solace he’s given you time and time again.

The two of you spend the rest of the day crafting the studio into something magical, every corner an invitation for peace. Tomorrow marks the grand opening, and you’ve chosen to offer free classes to anyone willing to step into this sanctuary of calm, hoping to bring yoga’s quiet power into their lives. Hoseok agreed to change shifts and lend a hand; his kindness surrounds you, a bright echo in a world that often feels hollow. As the evening draws to a close, you embrace him once more, feeling his warmth and the comfort he brings.

“Thank you, Hobi. I couldn’t have done this without you,” you say, voice heavy with gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs, his smile soft as he waves you off, “and you deserve every bit of it.”

Locking the door behind you, you head toward your car in the near-empty lot. Shadows stretch long under the dull streetlights, their yellow glow casting ghostly halos in the foggy December night. As you fumble with your keys, an uneasy feeling prickles at the edge of your senses. The chill digs deep, sharp as a needle, and your heart quickens. It’s been years since you’ve felt that lingering, ghostly presence—the kind that turns your breath shallow and your steps quiet. You glance over your shoulder, searching the dimness, but there’s nothing there… only the hollow emptiness that seems to breathe with you. You shrug it off, telling yourself it’s the cold, the dark, the way memory sometimes pulls you back against your will.

Sliding into the car, you grip the steering wheel a little tighter than usual, feeling relief only as the streetlights blur by in the rearview mirror. When you pull up to the house, you spot Jimin’s car, parked and waiting like a beacon in the night, and your heart lifts. Home at last.

As you open the door, the air blooms with the rich aroma of spices and warmth, curling around you like a long-awaited embrace—Jimin’s cooking, you realize. Smiling, you slip off your shoes, the soft hum of a quiet evening unfolding as you make your way into the kitchen. There he is, framed by the golden glow of the stove, stirring a pan with practiced ease. You step behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“It smells heavenly,” you murmur, feeling his chuckle reverberate beneath your hands.

“You think so?” He turns just enough to meet your eyes, a flicker of concern softening his expression. “And you’re not feeling queasy today?”

“No, not today.” You lean up and kiss him, tasting the hint of laughter on his lips.

“That’s good,” he hums, turning his attention back to the pan, its contents simmering and bubbling in the low light. He stirs with gentle, rhythmic motions, as though coaxing comfort from each ingredient.

Yet that shadow from earlier lingers, stirring something unsettling deep within you. Without thinking, you ask, “Jimin, do you know if Hyun got released?” The words feel strange in the warmth of the kitchen, unwelcome as winter air creeping through a cracked window. That strange chill you felt in the parking lot refuses to let go—an echo of a memory, a feeling you wish you could brush off. By all accounts, Hyun should still be locked away, yet something in the back of your mind feels suddenly exposed, vulnerable.

Jimin pauses, turning to face you fully. “No, I haven’t heard anything,” he says, brows knitting together. “Didn’t he get a long sentence?”

“Eight years isn’t long, Minie.” You cross your arms, frustration flaring. “The law’s too forgiving, too willing to grant second chances.” Your voice trembles slightly, carrying the weight of those years—the years that man stole from you, the scars he left. How could the scales of justice tip so unevenly, leaving you with a lifetime of healing, and him with a mere eight years? Sometimes you wish you’d had the strength to end it that night, to ensure he’d never breathe free air again. But you’re not a murderer, not someone willing to stain their soul—even for justice. You took the honorable path, trusting the law, though part of you wonders if that was enough.

Jimin reaches out, resting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re completely right,” he says, his voice soft yet laced with a sorrow he rarely lets show. For a brief moment, his hand clenches into a fist, a glint of steel in his eyes. “I should have ended it myself—to make sure you’d never have to worry, not even for a moment.” His words surprise you, not in their meaning, but in the honesty of his anger. Jimin’s a man who believes in the law, in justice served through rightful means. To act outside of that would shatter something essential in him, an integrity you know he holds dear. And yet, his love for you runs deeper than those lines, testing the boundaries he’d never thought he’d consider crossing.

With a breath, he steadies himself, the warmth returning to his gaze. “I’ll look into it tomorrow at work, just to make sure,” he offers, his voice calming, his hand soft against your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you sigh, exhaling the last of that tension, allowing it to blend with the warmth of the kitchen, the comfort of Jimin’s presence. “It doesn’t hurt to check.” Leaning in, you brush a kiss to his cheek, feeling his silent promise lingering between you, unspoken but clear. Then, moving with quiet purpose, you begin setting the table, the simple act grounding you as Jimin finishes preparing dinner.

Tonight, the weight of the past lingers, yet in this big, familiar kitchen, you find a peace that holds you, a love that softens the edges of memory. Here, beneath the golden light and the scent of spices, you feel safe. And tonight, that’s enough.

It’s Friday morning, and the air in your yoga studio hums with the quiet promise of new beginnings. You and Hoseok move together in the spacious room, arranging mats on the polished wooden floor, each movement precise and grounding, as if setting intentions for the day. Only thirty minutes remain until opening, and excitement tingles under your skin, mixed with the flutter of nerves. Will they come? Will this space—your sanctuary—become theirs too?

“You’re fidgeting!” Hoseok grins, catching your restless hands as he lays mats in neat rows. “Everything’s going to be fine. Trust me.”

You draw a deep breath, letting the calm settle within you like dust in sunlight. Yes. Everything is going to be okay. 

Time slips past in a blur, and when you glance up, your heart skips. There, just beyond the glass doors, is a line—a line of people waiting to enter. A thrill runs through you, and Hoseok’s laughter bubbles up beside you as he grabs your arm, both of you practically floating to the door to welcome them.

“I told you it would be popular!” he chuckles, and together you swing open the doors to greet the eager faces. You offer warm smiles and greetings as people file in, and by the time they’ve settled, thirty mats are filled. Thirty. The sight sends a rush of gratitude through you, filling every corner of your heart.

“We’re going to need more mats,” you whisper, half in awe, and Hoseok is quick to gather extras, laying them out with practiced ease. The low hum of conversation fills the studio, blending with the gentle notes of mindfulness music, creating a cocoon of peace within the room. You take your place at the front, grounding yourself in the present, wearing your favorite flowy top and comfy tights—ready to share the gift of calm with those who’ve gathered.

A smile spreads across your face as you welcome them. “Hello, everyone. Thank you so much for coming to the grand opening of Journey of the Mind Yoga Studio.” Your voice is soft yet steady, carrying over the room as you scan the faces, each person a new journey unfolding. “Today’s class is free, a taste of what we offer here. I hope that after an hour of mindful stretching and release, you’ll feel inspired to join us again next week, just in time to find a bit of peace before the holiday rush.”

Appreciative nods and murmurs ripple through the crowd, and you feel the energy shift—a sense of community already settling over the room. You introduce Hoseok, your steady companion, who will offer modified versions of each pose, and together you begin. Your body flows naturally, guiding them through stretches that release tension, each pose a door opening to calm and clarity. The music sways through the room, a gentle river of sound, and as you lose yourself in the movements, your mind drifts, reaching that faraway place of tranquility that yoga always brings. For a moment, everything melts away—there is only breath, flow, presence.

An hour slips by as if in a single breath, and when you rise to close the session, you see faces glowing with newfound peace. Gratitude fills the room as they linger, a few stepping forward to sign up for paid classes. You watch them with pride and joy, knowing this day is just the beginning.

A thirty-minute break passes, and then another class begins, and another, each session flowing effortlessly into the next. By the end of the day, it feels like a dream—one filled with kind faces, gentle energy, and a hundred tiny transformations.

Before the last class, you find Hoseok at the front desk, flipping through a stack of sign-up sheets. His eyes widen, and he looks up at you, grinning. “Have you seen this? A hundred people signed up for classes today!”

You step closer, scanning the forms, disbelief melting into pure, unbridled happiness. “A hundred?” The number echoes through you, and you feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. You blink them back, laughing, unable to contain the joy swelling in your chest.

You can’t wait to tell Jimin—about the line that stretched outside, the calm that settled over your studio, and how, at the end of this first day, a hundred souls have chosen to join you on this journey.

It’s the last class of the night, the deep blue twilight casting shadows over the studio floor, and only one more hour separates you from home, from Jimin’s safe embrace. The soothing notes of the background music play on, grounding you as new faces trickle through the door. You greet each arrival with a wave, directing them to mats. Then, suddenly, the sight of a man draped in black—a hood pulled low over his eyes, dark sweats swallowing his form—stops you in your tracks. A chill sinks through you, and you feel your heart lurch.

Those eyes. 

Dark, unrelenting, too familiar—ones you’d memorized against your will, forced to hold their gaze when all you wanted was to look away. Your stomach knots, twisting tight. Hoseok, ever attuned, glances over and catches the change in your expression, worry shadowing his own face as the man settles on a mat in the back row, lingering like a storm cloud.

“What’s wrong?” he whispers, eyes flitting between you and the figure in black, his own posture tensing.

Your voice is a murmur, low enough that only he can hear. “It’s Hyun,” you manage, feeling your pulse thunder in your throat.

Hoseok’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of recognition. “Hyun? The one who…?” His words trail off, but his face says it all. He shifts, dropping down beside you and pulling you into a quick, fierce hug. “I forgot his name. Do you want me to throw him out?”

You take a breath, trying to still the quake inside you, and shake your head. “No. This class is open to anyone, and I don’t want a scene.” But even as you speak, you feel the storm of tension in your limbs, the instinct to flee. Hoseok holds your gaze, and in that moment, you draw strength from his steady presence.

Jimin hadn’t confirmed Hyun’s release, but you have your answer now—he’s here. You remind yourself of the years spent rebuilding, of every inch of progress carved out of moments like this. Even with every fiber of your being itching to run, you anchor yourself to the space you created. It’s yours, and he cannot take that from you.

With a final inhale, you center yourself, allowing the soft music to pull you inward, body flowing into each pose like water, each stretch drawing you into peace. Gradually, you lose yourself in the rhythm, the silent connection with your students and the gentle pulse of your breathing. And, for a while, Hyun fades away, a mere shadow swallowed by the calm you find within.

The hour evaporates, and as the last pose ends, your students begin to gather at the front to inquire about signing up for future classes. When you look up, he’s there, standing apart from the others, a sinister calm in his gaze as he steps forward. Hoseok intercepts him, a wall of silent strength, hand raised as Hyun tries to add his name to the sign-up sheet.

“Hold it right there,” Hoseok says, voice low but firm, a quiet line drawn in the sand.

Hyun cocks his head, feigning innocence. “What? I’m allowed to sign up, aren’t I?” His eyes find yours, and a sickeningly familiar smirk pulls at his lips.

The air feels thick, each breath heavy, but you step forward, not retreating. “I don’t want you in my class,” you say, voice clear, each word a stone dropped into silence.

He doesn’t flinch, though his smile twists into something mocking, his voice dripping with that old, poisonous charm. “Oh, hi, Y/N. Long time no see. Miss me?”

Your stomach churns, but your voice is calm, steady. “No.” With a resolve you’ve fought for, you reach forward, collecting the sign-up sheets before he can so much as touch a pen. He holds your gaze for a moment longer, but you don’t look away.

He may have stepped into your studio, but the power is yours now. He has no place here.

“How’s that detective boyfriend of yours?” His words slither out, and you flinch as if struck. How dare he even speak Jimin’s name? Rage blazes up inside you, hot and sudden. You’re no damsel anymore, no victim to be cornered and toyed with. Hoseok catches the fire in your eyes, and you see his gaze sharpen with quiet caution.

You clench your fists, jaw set like iron. “Detective husband,” you correct, voice edged in steel, as you gather mats with controlled fury, each motion meant to keep you from shattering the silence with something far less civil.

Hyun’s smirk deepens. “Oh? Well, congratulations, then. A shame I couldn’t attend the wedding.” His voice dips, sickly sweet, heavy with implication. “Maybe I’ll swing by with a gift.” His presence feels like a noose tightening around you, air thickening as if his mere proximity could smother you. Your pulse hammers as the realization creeps in—he’s marked you. A warning, thinly veiled, wrapped in poison.

You glare at him, the question cutting through your clenched teeth. “Is that a threat?”

His brows lift in mock surprise. “What? No, of course not.” But his smirk widens, his words a sham, oozing with menace beneath the feigned innocence.

“Don’t you dare come to my place!” you snap, and the challenge fires through your voice, every bit of strength you’ve built since his prison sentence fortifying you. Your finger lifts, pointing sharply at him, defying every shadow he’s tried to cast over you. Hoseok’s hand on your arm is gentle but grounding, a reminder to hold back, to stay in control.

“We’re closed. Leave,” you say, already moving to the door, holding it open like a shield. “And don’t come back here again,” you add, voice steady but laced with finality as you close and lock the door behind him.

Hyun offers nothing but a wave, his smile sick and twisted, the kind of look that stains your thoughts long after it’s gone. Your stomach knots, and before you can stop it, bile rises, and you double over in the parking lot, dry-heaving, sickness flooding your body with the aftershock of his presence.

Hoseok is by your side instantly, his hand a firm, steadying weight on your shoulder. “Y/N, are you okay?”

You straighten, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to steady your breath. “I’m fine, just… a little sick.”

“Let me drive you home,” he says, voice filled with quiet concern. You nod, passing him your keys as the fatigue of it all begins to settle deep in your bones.

The car ride is silent, words seeming too heavy to pull into the space between you. The tension clings, raw and open, until you finally reach your driveway, the warm glow of Jimin’s car waiting like a beacon. Hoseok walks you up to the door, the both of you stepping into the soft, familiar warmth of home, leaving the shadows outside where they belong.

Jimin’s gaze snaps up from the television as he catches the sound of more than one pair of footsteps entering. He rises quickly, worry flickering over his face as he takes in the strained silence between you and Hoseok, the exhaustion etched deep in both your expressions.

“Hoseok, what happened?” His voice is tense, yet gentle, sensing more than just the weariness in your eyes.

Hoseok shifts uncomfortably, glancing at you, hesitant to steal your voice from what needs to be said. “Y/N… she threw up,” he murmurs, trailing off as the words catch in his throat.

You swallow hard, your voice raw as you push the words out, barely a whisper. “Hyun was there.” Tears prick your eyes, and despite all the strength you’ve gathered, you feel it unraveling now. The weight of the encounter, of old fears returning, pressing down like a weight you thought you’d left behind.

A flash of steel darkens Jimin’s expression. “Hyun…?” His voice falters, regret layering his tone. “I’m so sorry. I meant to tell you. He was released recently. ‘Good behavior,’” he adds, voice bitter with an edge of apology.

“Good behavior?” Hoseok spits out, disbelief lacing his words. “How’s that even possible?”

You feel your composure slip as nausea stirs again, dragging you toward the bathroom, leaving their voices distant and blurred behind you.

Hoseok watches you retreat, worry stark in his eyes as he turns to Jimin. “Will she be okay? He was taunting her. It was… ugly.”

Jimin sighs deeply, clenching his fists before releasing them with a slow exhale. “She’ll be okay. She’s just worn down. Probably a bug, and—thank you, Hyung. For everything.” He pulls Hoseok into a brief hug, a silent exchange of gratitude.

After Hoseok leaves, Jimin locks the door, the click echoing in the quiet house. He moves down the hall, following the quiet sounds of tears and finds you on the bathroom floor, knees drawn up, head resting against the cool tile as your breathing comes in shaky waves.

He crouches down beside you, gathering you into his arms, his warmth an anchor against the chill of the evening’s shadows. “It’s going to be okay, love,” he whispers, his voice a steadying calm. “He won’t come near you again.”

You let out a shuddering breath, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “He said he’d come by the house,” you murmur, the words tasting of dread, each one a reminder of the past you’ve been fighting to escape.

Jimin’s hand rests firmly on your back, grounding you. “We’ll get a restraining order,” he says, his voice quiet but determined, his hand rubbing gentle circles on your back, trying to slow the erratic beat of your heart.

You shake your head faintly, skepticism clouding your gaze. “A piece of paper won’t stop him, but… yes, let’s get one,” you say, your voice breaking as another wave of nausea churns in your stomach. Jimin stays by your side, his hand never leaving yours, his presence a reminder that you are not alone in this—never again.

You spend the weekend with nerves stretched thin, every sound outside tightening your pulse like a taut wire. A single creak, a rustle in the yard, and you freeze, bracing against the shadows in your own mind. No matter how much healing you’ve embraced, the sight of Hyun pulled you straight back into those dark beginnings, and the steps forward now feel fragile underfoot. You hate the way your mind oscillates, flitting between fear and sharp, practiced vigilance, ready for him if he dares to cross that line.

But the days pass without a sign of him. By the next week, your hours are full, carried along by the rhythm of classes at your yoga studio, a flurry of smiling students, and Jimin’s comforting presence. He’s taken to working from home more often now, lingering in the warmth of your shared space. You’ve told him he doesn’t have to—reminded him you’re okay, that you’re safe, and that the gun is exactly where it needs to be. Still, he stays as much as his job allows, though the detective in him calls him to the streets more often than either of you would like.

Another Friday comes, winter resting like a hush over the town, and this evening you’re hosting your parents and Jimin’s mother for an early holiday dinner. You feel that strange flicker of a shadow behind you as you lock up the studio, but when you turn, there’s only emptiness. You brush off the feeling, slipping into your car and driving home, where warmth and the comfort of Jimin’s cooking greet you at the door.

The scent of rosemary and roasted vegetables fills the air as you step into the kitchen and wrap your arms around him from behind. “I think that restraining order might be working,” you murmur against his shoulder. “I haven’t seen Hyun all week.” You tell him about that lingering shadow, though, the chill it brings, because nothing is hidden between you anymore.

Jimin sighs, his voice firm. “Good. I hope he stays the hell away.”

The doorbell rings, and for once, it doesn’t spike your anxiety—your parents’ familiar voices float in as you welcome them with warm hugs. Moments later, Jimin’s mother arrives, her eyes lingering with approval on the home she once knew, touched by the renovations Jimin’s loving hands have made over the years.

While he puts the finishing touches on the meal, you and his mother set the table, her gentle warmth as comforting as it was on your wedding day, radiating that kindness she passed down to her son. At last, Jimin brings out the food, setting down a beautiful feast. He pours a rich red wine, and the conversation flows as easily as laughter, the air alive with the simplicity of joy and the sheltering presence of those you love most.

A gentle quiet has settled over the table, filled only by the warmth of shared glances and the comfort of a good meal, when your mother’s voice breaks the silence. “So, Jimin, Y/N… when can we expect grandchildren?” Her words hang playfully in the air, and you nearly choke on your water. Jimin chuckles, his hand soothingly rubbing your back as his eyes find yours, twinkling with that familiar, soft affection.

Jimin’s mother joins in, her laugh carrying a hint of nostalgia. “Yes! You’re both getting older, you know. People these days wait so long… not like us, having kids in our early twenties!” She beams at you both, her gaze filled with warmth.

You feel a surge of emotion and rest your hand over your stomach, a tender touch that doesn’t go unnoticed. You glance at Jimin, sharing a look that’s brimming with unspoken love. Your father, keen-eyed and quiet as always, spots the gesture first. His face lights up with a dawning realization. “Wait—don’t tell me… you’re pregnant?”

All eyes are on you, hopeful and bright, and you can only nod with a smile that grows as the news settles around the table like a warm blanket. “Yes,” you whisper, happiness spilling from your voice as Jimin’s hand finds yours beneath the table. His fingers interlace with yours, and he presses a tender kiss to your cheek, his gaze brimming with pride and love.

“Congratulations!” Your mothers erupt with joy, voices a mix of laughter and tears. They dive into discussions of baby names, nursery colors, and whose eyes the baby might inherit, their delight a bright flame you’re content to bask in. Across the table, your father sits quietly, his expression full of a soft pride that words wouldn’t quite capture. He’s always been a man of few words, but in his gaze, you feel the depth of his happiness for you.

You savor the moment, spoonfuls of Jimin’s lovingly prepared meal mingling with the joy of your family’s celebration. Hours slip by, the conversation growing more animated, laughter blending with gentle memories and future dreams, until the night draws to a close. Your parents and Jimin’s mother, reluctantly but joyfully, gather their things to head home, lingering in the doorway for one last hug and a few parting words. They fuss over tidying up, but you and Jimin wave off their offers, sending them off with smiles and waves as they disappear into the night.

When the door closes, the world shrinks down to just the two of you. The kitchen is dimly lit, the last traces of laughter lingering in the air as you work together to clear the table, each movement wrapped in unspoken affection. Jimin carefully rinses dishes and stacks them in the dishwasher, his gaze soft when it drifts to you sitting on the countertop, your legs dangling as you watch him, feeling the quiet joy of simply being here.

“Tonight was wonderful,” you say softly, a gentle smile curving your lips.

Jimin glances over, the warmth of his smile a reflection of your own. “Yeah… a perfect start to the holiday,” he agrees, placing the last dish in the washer and wiping his hands. He steps close, his hands finding yours once more, as if grounding both of you in this quiet, beautiful moment.

You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the peace and warmth of the evening settle over you like a blanket. It’s in these little moments that everything feels right, the future unfolding in each shared glance and gentle touch, and in this quiet stillness, you can feel it—life, love, and everything beautiful, blossoming right where you are.

He shifts his full attention to you, gently parting your legs to make space as he moves closer, bringing you face-to-face, your gazes locked at the same height. Your smile mirrors his, a gentle curve of affection that makes his eyes deepen with warmth. Leaning in, he brushes his lips against yours, a tender kiss that soon grows hungry and consuming. His hand slides to cradle your face, fingers tracing softly as though memorizing the moment, while the other finds its way over your heart, savoring the feel of you, pulling you closer as you wrap your legs around his waist.

Your breath mingles as you whisper his name against his ear, each word trembling between desire and intimacy. The way he looks at you, dark eyes glistening with both love and want, sends a rush through you. “You’re beautiful, love,” he murmurs, his voice weighted with meaning, and despite all the time you’ve been together, you feel a familiar warmth bloom in your cheeks. His words have always had this effect, ever since the two of you were children, growing up side by side. The love that sprouted so simply back then has blossomed into a romance that still fills you with wonder.

He lets his hands explore your body, caressing gently yet firmly, and you’re lost in the soft rhythm of his lips against yours, feeling every kiss ignite something deep and primal within you. Your fingers find their way into his soft, blonde hair, tugging slightly, which earns you a low, muffled groan from him. The world fades, leaving only the intensity of the connection between you.

“I’m so wet for you, Minie,” you murmur, feeling him pressed against you, the heat building as his mouth finds your cheek, his hands anchoring around your waist.

“And I’m already lost in your ocean, beautiful,” he replies, breath catching as his lips graze your skin. Every touch, every kiss sends waves of warmth through you, until the longing turns into an urgent need. You’re both enraptured, no barriers, just pure feeling.

The rest of the world falls away as he slides his hands down to remove the last of the barriers between you, his movements tender yet filled with intent, every gesture echoing the love that began all those years ago. And here you are, together, woven tightly in each other’s arms, the love between you more radiant, more alive, and infinitely more powerful.

He pulls you closer, his arms wrapping around you, and instinctively, you wind your legs around his waist, feeling the warmth of him pressed against you. With steady strength, he lifts you, likely intending to carry you to the bedroom, but you stop him, breathless. “Take me here against the wall,” you whisper, voice edged with urgency as you tug him toward you, feeling the hard press of his cock.

He pauses, his gaze meeting yours with a question, “Are you sure?” His voice is soft, considerate—he’s always careful with you, gentle by nature, respectful of the parts of you that have been hurt before. That care has only made you fall for him more, and while you love his tenderness, tonight you need his fire. You nod, eyes shining, and he’s helpless to resist.

In one fluid movement, he presses you against the wall, his hands anchoring you there, firm yet tender. You can feel your heart racing, every nerve alive under his touch. He shifts, aligning with your entrance, and with a slow, steady push, he fills you, sparking a surge of pleasure. A moan escapes your lips as you grip his shoulders, nails pressing into his skin, grounding you both in the intensity of the moment.

“Don’t hold back,” you murmur, breath hitching as he moves, and he responds with a deep, steady rhythm, each thrust bringing a fresh wave of heat. He breathes in your scent, voice rough with longing. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his pace quickening as he finds his rhythm. You cling to him, each movement taking you higher, your breath mingling with his.

“Yes, just like that,” you gasp, urging him on as he moves faster, the intensity building. He kisses you deeply, his mouth tracing along your jaw, finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. The touch sends shivers through you, making you tighten around him, drawing a low groan from his throat.

Every movement, every kiss, feels like poetry written just for you, a melody of intimacy and trust that’s as powerful as it is passionate. You lose yourself in him, the world outside disappearing, leaving only the two of you, intertwined and complete in each other’s embrace.

“God, I love you,” you whisper, voice thick with passion as each thrust sends shivers up your spine, grounding you in the heat of his touch and the rhythm of his heartbeat. You’re swept up, utterly consumed, and he meets your moan with a deep, urgent growl, holding you even closer, moving as though nothing else exists but this moment with you. He doesn’t need to say it back right now, because you know he feels the same.

“Are you close?” he breathes into your ear, his voice dark and velvet-soft, a question that’s half promise, half plea. Every inch of you is alive under him, and all you can manage is a fervent nod, your body arched into his, lips parted in breathless surrender.

His mouth trails down to your earlobe, nibbling, his breath warm as he kisses there, pulling you to the edge with one gentle bite. That tender touch is your undoing, and as you reach your release, a tremor of his name escapes your lips—a sound filled with love, with surrender, with the rawness of being completely his. Your body clenches around him, every nerve singing, and he murmurs a groan into your neck, his words barely audible, “God, you’re perfect.”

“Just a little more,” he grits out, voice rough and heady, feeling your muscles gradually relax in the aftermath. But still, he holds on, his hips relentless, moving faster as his own climax builds.

“Please, Jimin—fill me up,” you breathe, brushing your lips against his neck, leaving the lightest bite just where you know he loves it. He shudders at your words, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you against him. And then, with a breathless gasp, he reaches his peak, holding you in place as he comes, his body quivering with the intensity. As his breathing steadies, he kisses you softly, reverently, before gently setting you down. The warm evidence of your shared release traces down your skin, and you can’t help but smile at the beautiful mess you’ve made together. 

“Let me clean you up with a shower, love,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your temple. And with that, he scoops you into his arms, carrying you to the shower like a precious secret, his love wrapped around you as perfectly as his embrace.

The holiday season has always been your favorite, but this year feels even more special with Jimin home, his presence like a cozy fire warming you from within. Today, you’re headed to the town’s annual Christmas fair, your excitement bubbling up like a child’s as you watch the fresh snow blanket the world in shimmering white. The air is crisp and cold, frosting your breath in soft clouds, and as you step into your thick parka and tug on your wool hat and gloves, a familiar thrill sparks in your chest.

When Jimin pulls the car into the bustling fairground, the festive scene unfolds around you like a magical wonderland—ferris wheels lit up in every color, carousels spinning with children’s laughter, the sweet aroma of cinnamon and cocoa wafting from food stands. You take Jimin’s hand, his warmth grounding you, sending tiny shivers up your spine that make you feel safe, cherished.

“What should we do first?” he asks, his voice full of warmth and mischief. He leans in for a quick kiss, and you can’t help but laugh, feeling the giddiness of the season wrapped around you both. “Maybe a snack before we dive in?” you suggest, knowing your holiday joy can’t hold out too long against the allure of fair food.

Hand in hand, you make your way to a nearby stand for corn dogs, laughing as you watch Jimin take an exaggerated first bite, just to get you laughing too. As you wander through the fair, you try the carousels, giggling at being the only adults who dare to let loose on the spinning, painted horses. Jimin pulls funny faces just to make you laugh, and you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, unable to remember the last time you felt this carefree.

Then, when the two of you board the ferris wheel, you press yourself close to Jimin as the car rises, high above the lights and noise. The view stretches out over your small hometown, blanketed in snow, the twinkling lights below like stars that have settled on earth. You lean against his warmth as he wraps an arm around you, pulling you even closer, his gaze soft and full as he cups your chin, drawing you into a kiss that’s slow, lingering, a promise of forever in the way he holds you. For a moment, the world below disappears, leaving only the quiet and the blue sky, and the warmth of Jimin’s hazel eyes gazing into yours. 

As the wheel lowers, you link your fingers through his, laughing softly, already craving another snack and wondering what else this cozy winter day will bring. The sky dims, the fairground lights beginning to glow more brightly against the deepening twilight, and time feels like a gentle whisper, moving too quickly yet perfectly slow.

But then, a shadow passes through your heart, and a prickle of cold worry begins to creep along your skin, a reminder of something you can’t quite shake. You glance over your shoulder, and nothing’s there. Still, the thought of Hyun stirs in the back of your mind, his ominous words echoing faintly as your heart begins to race. You tighten your grip on Jimin’s hand, and he senses the shift immediately, glancing down with concern before pulling you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“Hey, don’t worry too much,” he murmurs, his voice a soothing balm. But you can’t help it—the fears that live in the corners of your mind sometimes refuse to fade, conjuring memories of times you’ve worked so hard to put behind you. Tonight, it’s as though they’re breathing down your neck.

Jimin holds you a little tighter, and for now, with his steady heartbeat against yours, you close your eyes and try to believe that this night will stay as warm and beautiful as it began.

“It’s okay, babe,” Jimin whispers, his voice a warm anchor in the chilly evening air, his gaze sweeping the crowd as if to shield you from every shadow. “Want to try one of the mini-games? Might be fun, right?” He nudges you gently, his hand wrapped around yours like a lifeline, and you nod, letting him lead you toward a brightly lit shooting game with yellow plastic ducks bobbing across the water. A neon sign above promises a plush prize to anyone who hits seven in a row, no misses allowed.

“Want to take a shot?” Jimin asks, his eyes sparkling with playful encouragement. You hesitate, glancing between the toy rifle and the ducks. You’ve never been much of a sharpshooter, and he is, after all, a cop. But something inside you wants to take the challenge, just to feel a little braver.

“Yeah, why not,” you say, smiling up at him as the game attendant hands you the toy rifle. With a deep breath, you take aim and fire, hearing a satisfying ping as the first duck falls. Jimin lets out a low whistle. “There’s my sharpshooter,” he murmurs. You grin, managing to hit the second, then the third. Your confidence grows with each shot, until only the seventh duck remains. With Jimin’s hand resting on your lower back, grounding you, you hold your breath, aim, and pull the trigger. The final duck topples.

“Yes!” Jimin’s cheers fill your ears as he pulls you in for a quick kiss, his lips brushing against your cheek, making you blush. “That’s my princess,” he beams, pride gleaming in his eyes. “Guess you learned from the best, huh?”

You laugh, “I had a pretty great teacher,” you tease, hugging him tight, though you know his lessons were few and far between—guns aren’t exactly your thing.

The man at the booth sighs, clearly reluctant to part with one of his prizes, but rules are rules. “Which one do you want?” he grumbles, gesturing toward the row of plush toys. You scan the lineup of bears, unicorns, ducks, dogs, and cats until a small, soft chicken catches your eye. Round and silly-looking with a chibi expression, it’s too cute to resist.

“I’ll take the chicken,” you say, and the attendant hands it to you with a reluctant sigh. Hugging the plushie, you feel an odd sense of victory. 

Jimin wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you close. You lean back against him, feeling his warmth spread through you as you nuzzle the plush chicken. “So,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear, “what’s next? Ready to call it a night, or is there something else my champion wants to try?”

Your stomach growls in reply, making you both burst into laughter. “Food?” you giggle, rubbing your belly. “This little one has no mercy on my appetite.” He grins and takes your hand again, leading you to a cinnamon roll stand where the air is thick with the smell of sugar and spice. You savor the warm, sticky sweetness as you wander, munching on rolls as the world around you seems to fade to just the two of you in the glow of the fairground lights.

The sky darkens, and the colorful lights of the ferris wheel cast a dreamy glow over the fairground, painting the snow in soft hues of pink, blue, and gold. You can’t help but feel that shadow again, that prickling awareness, as though someone’s eyes are on you from just beyond the lights. You glance over your shoulder, and Jimin notices, squeezing your hand. “I swear… I feel like we’re being followed,” you murmur, trying to brush off the chill that’s settled into your bones.

Jimin’s arm tightens around you, his voice gentle. “I’ve got you. I promise. Let’s enjoy our night.” He scans the area one last time, reassuring you with a nod, and though you try to shake off the unease, your mind keeps circling back to shadows of memories and unwelcome fears.

As the evening winds down, you stroll hand in hand through the fair, taking in the final sights and sounds as the ferris wheel spins in the distance, a vibrant crown against the night sky. You head back toward the car, Jimin’s hand steady in yours, his presence like a shield against the cold and the shadows that linger in the corners of your mind.

It’s Christmas Eve morning, and waking beside Jimin feels like unwrapping a gift, precious and comforting. His warmth is the first thing you reach for, stirring your tired limbs awake as you press against him. He stirs, stretching languidly, then leans over to brush his lips against yours, a soft good morning murmured into the quiet. He reaches for his phone, eyes still soft with sleep—until something there pulls him fully awake. A line forms between his brows as he scans the screen, and then, a single word, “Shit.” The morning shatters. Jimin is up, rummaging hurriedly for his work clothes, pulling on formal slacks, a crisp white shirt, his hands deft as he straps his holster and gun into place.

“An emergency,” he explains, voice hushed but apologetic. “I’ll be back as fast as I can, okay?” His eyes linger on you, warm but tense, his lips brushing your forehead before he rushes out of the room.

You listen to his footsteps fade, the silence swallowing them like a gust in the snow. A strange feeling, subtle as a shadow, lingers in his absence. You try to brush it off, making your way to the bathroom, relishing the warmth of the heated floor beneath your feet. Under the hot spray of the shower, you ease yourself into the day, trying to shake the unsettled feeling, the vague sense of something amiss. In the kitchen, you make a cup of hot cocoa, cradling it in your hands as you settle onto the couch, fingers resting on the gentle swell of your belly. You find yourself drifting, dreaming of a future where you hold a small hand in yours, and Jimin beside you, as steady as the earth beneath your feet.

The hours slip by with quiet ease, the TV playing soft holiday movies in the background. But as afternoon settles into evening, a heavy quietness falls over the house. You haven’t heard from Jimin since he left, and though emergencies often keep him busy, a sense of something unresolved stirs within you, growing heavier with each passing hour.

A faint rumble from the bedroom breaks the silence, freezing you in place. The unease you’d tried to ignore rushes back, prickling the hairs at the nape of your neck. It’s nothing, you tell yourself, forcing a deep breath, though your fingers tighten around your phone. But your body is already in motion, carrying you down the hall, each step slower than the last, toward the darkened bedroom.

When you push open the door, all seems still—nothing out of place. But as your gaze drifts to the window, you notice the curtain shifting, disturbed by a breeze that shouldn’t be there. Heart pounding, you step forward to shut it, and in that instant, you feel a presence behind you. You turn, but it’s too late. A hooded figure looms before you, shadowed and terrifying. Your phone slips from your hand, a dull thud against the floor.

Before you can scream, a rough hand clamps over your mouth. The scent is all too familiar, acrid and sickening. You know who it is before you see him—Hyun. His voice rasps in your ear, dripping malice, “Didn’t I promise you a wedding gift?”

The room seems to spin. His grip presses harder, his body trapping you in place. Terror courses through your veins, and your mind flashes to Jimin, to the phone lying just out of reach. Adrenaline surges as you focus on your escape. You mumble something, forcing a desperate, repulsive trick as you lick his palm and bite down hard, tasting blood as he yanks his hand back, cursing. 

You wrench free from his hold while he cradles his bleeding hand, wincing. Without a second to waste, you grab your phone off the floor, heart pounding, and sprint down the hall, locking yourself inside the bathroom. You sink to the floor, body trembling as you fight to steady your breaths, your fingers fumbling to open your messages. Somehow, you manage to type, sending two simple, desperate texts to Jimin.

You [19:24]: 9-1-1   You [19:24]: He’s here.

There’s nothing more to say, only the hope that he’ll see the messages in time. The moment hangs in silence—a fragile beat of hope—before you hear heavy, menacing footsteps in the hall. Then, a pounding at the door. “Y/N!” Hyun’s voice cuts through the wood, thick with malice. “Don’t play hide and seek with me. You know I’m gonna get you, my sweet thing, in the end."

Revulsion twists in your stomach, bile rising as tears prick your eyes. Trembling, you dial the emergency line, and as it rings, you realize there’s no refuge here—he won’t stop, won’t disappear no matter how hard you wish him gone. Your thoughts race as you pocket the phone, steeling yourself. But he doesn’t give you time to think—suddenly, the door crashes open, hinges splintering like brittle bone.

You scream, crawling back as fast as you can, but he’s on you, fingers wrapping around your ankles. Your hands claw the now cold tile as he drags you from the bathroom into the living room, your voice tearing from you in desperation, “Let go of me!”

He pins you down, his frame towering, shadowing you in an oppressive, hateful presence. “I’m never letting you go,” he whispers, his words thick with a sick promise. You feel his twisted obsession, the monstrous need that drove him here. You thrash, trying to throw him off, but he leans in, pressing his face too close, forcing his mouth onto yours. The taste is wrong, bitter, and you recoil, every part of you recoiling.

“Get off me!” Your words are a choked plea as you twist beneath him, managing to free your arms enough to claw at his face, leaving red, angry lines that well with blood. But he only smirks, taunting, “Cute. You think that’ll hurt me?”

He’s unfazed, mocking as he grasps your throat with both hands, squeezing, pressing until your vision blurs, and the room begins to darken at the edges. You gasp, a strangled sound, as the pain becomes a crushing, unbearable force. Memories flash unbidden—the last time he did this, the way his hands felt cold and final around your neck. But this time, it’s worse, the stakes higher, a life growing inside you that you’re desperate to protect. You have to live. You have to fight.

Your nails rake his skin, drawing blood that drips down his neck as you struggle, grunting against his grip. His hands press tighter, cutting off the last shreds of air, and your hands fall limp to your sides, your strength draining as your vision fades further, a comforting darkness luring you under. No—you can’t give in. Not now. Not ever.

Just as you begin to slip away, his hands release, and you collapse back, choking as air rushes in, searing your throat. You sputter, gasping for each ragged breath, your chest heaving. 

He laughs—a hollow, twisted sound that scrapes against your raw nerves. Your hands fly instinctively to your bruised throat, fingers trembling over the tender skin where his hands left their cruel mark. Swallowing sends a lance of pain through you, but you grit your teeth and do it anyway, fury simmering beneath the ache. His laughter thickens, and you know, without a doubt, that he’s savoring your suffering, feeding on it. The thought turns your anger molten.

Without warning, you bring your knee up hard, aiming for his groin. His laughter cuts short as he doubles over, collapsing onto his back with a low, strangled sound. You don’t hesitate—climbing on top of him, your fingers find his throat, tightening with all the strength you have left. You press down, leaning your weight against him, mirroring his cruelty. But instead of fear, his mouth twists into a mocking smile, a dark glint in his eyes as he taunts, “Do you really think you can strangle me?”

No. You don’t. But that isn’t what you want—not his life, only your freedom. Only for him to be gone, to take his darkness and leave your life untouched. You press down harder, desperate, as if force alone could drive him out of your world, out of your head. But his lips curl into a smirk. “You know…” he sneers, his voice a poison, “I’ll keep coming back for you.”

A cold shiver snakes down your spine. His words claw at something raw inside you, turning your stomach. His eyes drift lower, his sneer deepening. “And I heard you’re carrying his child—that should be mine, not his.”

The air thickens with the weight of your anger, a red haze filling your vision. How dare he speak of you this way, as though you were something he could possess, as though you ever belonged to him. “I am not yours,” you snarl, voice thick with hate. “I never was, and I never will be. I just want you to leave me alone.” Your fists beat against his chest, fists shaking, as tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision. “I hate you—I hate everything you did to me, how you ruined me,” you cry, panting through clenched teeth. “And I said no. I kept saying no.”

Your voice breaks, and for a moment, you see a glint of something like triumph flicker across his face. He grips your arms, hard, and rolls you to the floor, pinning you beneath him, a sickly satisfaction in his eyes as he leans in close, close enough that you can taste his twisted need.

“Every time you said no, you wanted it more,” he whispers, voice dripping with malice. His hands slither over you, invading spaces that are yours alone, your body recoiling even as his grip tightens, forcing you still. “No!” you scream, thrashing against him, but his strength bears down like a stone weight, ignoring your protests. Slowly, the world fades around you, and you feel yourself withdrawing, spiraling inward to somewhere far from here, a place where his words and hands cannot reach.

But a spark within you flares, burning through the haze, and with a rush of fury, you bite down hard on his arm, tasting blood as he yelps in pain, finally loosening his hold. With every ounce of strength, you scramble away from him, crawling back to the nearest wall, your breaths ragged and desperate.

Across the room, he sits clutching his bleeding arm, his grin now faded, eyes narrowed in contempt. You lean against the wall, heart pounding, body shaking, but you’re grounded in your own fierce defiance. You will not give him the power he craves—you are done being his prey.

He staggers to his feet, a twisted smile curling as he steps closer. “I’m going to take my time with you,” he sneers, his voice a slow, venomous drawl. “Then I’m going to show your husband just how you submit to me… and then I’ll kill him.”

Rage flares, sharp and hot, flooding your veins with an almost blinding heat. It’s not just his threats against you that ignite this fury; it’s his words dripping poison over Jimin, over the fragile life blooming inside you. A primal protectiveness surges within, and without thinking, you hurl yourself at him, slamming into him with enough force to send both of you sprawling to the floor. He crashes down, the impact reverberating through the room with a sickening thud.

“Do you think you’re going to touch me? Or my husband? Ever again?!” Your voice, jagged and fierce, fills the space as your hands close around his throat again, pressing down with every ounce of strength. Rage surges, raw and instinctive, clouding your mind with only one thought: end this. End him. Your fingers dig deeper, feeling his pulse thrumming beneath your hands as his face begins to contort.

The front door bursts open, splintering the tense air. You flinch, loosening your grip just as Jimin and Yoongi storm in, guns drawn, with Seokjin and Hoseok rushing in behind them, wide-eyed and bracing. Jimin’s gaze finds you immediately, the calm surface barely veiling the torrent of worry and rage roiling beneath. You tremble, relief flooding through your exhausted body, but as you’re getting up, Hyun strikes—swinging his injured arm in a brutal arc, smashing his fist against your face. Pain explodes in bright, sharp pulses as you fall back, clutching your throbbing cheek, the metallic taste of blood filling your mouth.

“Why can’t you just let me touch you?” he spits, voice laced with fury and twisted desire.

Jimin’s composure cracks, a murderous glint darkening his eyes. He moves forward, tension coiling through his every muscle, his voice low and lethal. “Take your hands off my wife, you sick bastard.” He grabs Hyun by the collar, wrenching him off you, his grip hard as iron.

Hyun thrashes, laughing with a manic gleam, his voice ringing with a sinister satisfaction. “This is exactly what I wanted, Officer Park. And guess what? She’s just as responsive as I remember, all soft and sweet…”

A flash of unhinged rage sweeps over Jimin’s face, his jaw tightening as his hands shake, clenching tighter on Hyun’s collar. For a moment, his fingers inch toward his holster, Yoongi’s voice cutting in sharp and steady. “Park, don’t do it. Stay in control.” Jimin forces himself to release a breath, loosening his grip. He can’t, won’t, give in to the darkness Hyun is trying to pull him into. But his voice is thick with barely restrained fury as he hauls Hyun away from you.

Hoseok moves to your side, his face stricken as he watches you cradle your bruised cheek. His hand hovers just over your shoulder, cautious yet protective, as though he’s afraid you might break under his touch. You manage a shaky breath, giving him a nod of reassurance, though you can tell by the raw look in his eyes that you must look far worse than you feel.

And still, Hyun laughs, his eyes gleaming as they flick between you and Jimin, his voice dripping with contempt. “Oh, she’s going to remember me, Park. Forever. Just like she did five years ago. You remember, don’t you, sweetheart?” His words, cruel and deliberate, slice through the room like barbed wire, ripping open old wounds, dragging you back to that nightmare.

In a flash, Jimin draws his gun, pointing it squarely at Hyun’s chest, his finger hovering on the trigger. His body shakes with barely contained fury, the air tense, thick, every second stretching out like eternity. The memory of five years ago floods your mind—the fear, the helplessness, the feeling of being trapped in a nightmare that wouldn't end. 

Your voice, raw and trembling, breaks the silence. “Jimin, please… don’t let him win.”

Hyun grins, even now, even in the face of the loaded weapon, as though he’s reveling in every ounce of pain he’s inflicted, every scar he’s carved into your life. His laugh is a twisted mockery of joy, a chilling echo that fills the room.

You know Jimin would never risk you, never gamble his career or his life with reckless abandon. But in his eyes, you see a glimmer of something dark and wild, something that whispers of casting it all aside, of ending Hyun’s life here and now. For a heartbeat, it seems Jimin might surrender to the rage, might be ready to take Hyun’s last breath in his hands.

But he doesn’t. He holds steady. Jimin’s hands shake, his gaze locked onto Hyun’s smug face. Slowly, he draws in a breath, the gun lowering by inches as he chooses, once again, not to let the darkness claim him. And then—Hyun draws a knife from his pocket, the steel flashing in the dim light, and the room holds its breath.

“She doesn’t belong to you. She never did. She’s mine,” Hyun hisses, leveling the knife at Jimin’s throat. You scream, voice raw, tears spilling down your cheeks as panic tightens around you like chains. All you can think is, not him. Not my husband.

Jimin moves to block the blade as Hyun lunges, deflecting the strike, but not without a cost. His forearm slices open, and he falls to the ground with a muffled groan. But even as Hyun’s relentless fury bears down on him, Jimin’s gaze shifts—just enough to spot you crawling closer, determination sparking in your eyes.

Desperation drives you as you surge forward, grabbing Hyun’s hair and yanking him back with a fierce strength you didn’t know you had. “Don’t you dare touch my husband!” Your voice echoes, fierce and unbreaking. 

Hyun stumbles and crashes to the floor, the knife sliding out of his reach. You think it’s over, for a moment, but he strikes back, shoving you to the ground. The world blurs as he moves, clambering over Jimin, both of them grappling for the gun. And then—Hyun pries it from Jimin’s grip, pressing the barrel to Jimin’s chest. Time seems to stop, your own heartbeat falling out of rhythm as you watch in horror.

“Put the gun down,” Yoongi’s voice, hard as iron, cuts through the chaos. He stands steady, unshaken, his own weapon drawn, his gaze burning with lethal intent. But Hyun only laughs, the sound dark and manic, pressing the gun tighter against Jimin’s heart.

“This is your last warning,” Yoongi growls, words like an unbreakable vow. “You’re threatening a police officer.”

Jimin lies still beneath Hyun, his chest heaving, his eyes distant. You don’t understand—why isn’t he fighting? Has he given up? You search frantically for the knife, fingers shaking, your vision blurring with helpless tears as you feel the weight of your worst fears bearing down.

Then, with a sickening click, Hyun releases the safety. The gun hovers closer to Jimin’s heart, and a scream rips from you, piercing the air just as a gunshot rings out. A heavy thud follows, reverberating through your bones.

The noise fades, yet you’re still trembling, crawling to Jimin, your hands reaching instinctively to cradle his face. “Please don’t be dead. Please, Jimin…” The words tumble from you, desperate and broken.

He blinks, his hand rising slowly, tracing your cheek, his voice barely a whisper. “I’m okay. You’re okay.” Relief, dizzying and sweet, floods you as you crumble against him, tears dripping down onto his face as you press your forehead to his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and warm beneath you. He’s alive. You’re alive.

With a trembling breath, you glance back—just long enough to see Hyun lying on the floor, his body still and lifeless, blood pooling in dark rivulets beneath him. For a fleeting moment, you feel a strange satisfaction in seeing him silenced, the violence of his presence extinguished. But you look away, unable to bear it any longer.

Hoseok is beside you again in an instant, his hand gentle on your shoulder, murmuring reassurances as he checks for injuries, while Seokjin tends to the gash on Jimin’s arm, his expression pinched with worry. Yoongi approaches the fallen body, nudging the gun from Hyun’s grasp with cold detachment before leaning down to confirm what everyone already knows. His voice, quiet but resolute, carries a finality that cuts through the air.

“He’s dead.”

You finally breathe, feeling the weight of it all leave your chest as Seokjin and Hoseok finish tending to you both. The bruises will fade, and the cuts will heal, but now, only Jimin’s embrace matters. You step toward him, wrapping yourself around him as if to fuse your souls together, and murmur, “I’m so sorry,” the words barely slipping out.

“Why are you sorry, princess?” he asks gently, holding you as though you were made of glass. “You did everything you could.” He kisses your hand, his lips warm against the chill of your skin. “If anyone should apologize, it’s me—for getting here so late.” His words sink deep, yet the ache in your heart remains, a guilt that’s hard to explain. It was your fault that Hyun came back after all, right? That question gnaws at you, but Jimin seems to read your thoughts.

“You have nothing to be sorry for. All that matters is that you’re here, that we’re safe.” His hand falls softly to your belly. “Did he…did he hurt you?”

You nod, voice catching. “He did. He forced himself on me, tried to—” Your words fall short, choked with the memories, and he sees it all in your eyes. His face darkens, his heart sinking as he notices the bruises around your neck, stark and cruel reminders of what he wasn’t there to stop.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, pulling you closer, anger mingling with the helplessness he feels. He would have torn through any distance to protect you. But though he rushed the moment he saw your message, he still hadn’t made it in time.

Suddenly, you remember the phone call, the open line. Trembling, you pull out your phone and bring it to your ear, asking the emergency line if everything was recorded. The answer is a quiet “yes,” confirming you’re heard, that justice has begun. You let out a long breath and place your hand over his, a sense of finality washing over you.

“I’m sorry…for ruining Christmas.” You offer a wry, exhausted smile through the tears that finally still.

Jimin shakes his head, his fingers brushing away what’s left of your tears. “Please stop saying you’re sorry, love. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

With gentle concern, he glances toward Hoseok. “Can you get Y/N an ultrasound? Please—just to be sure that everything is fine with the baby.”

Hoseok nods, eyes warm with silent understanding. He hadn’t known of your pregnancy, but now that he does, his hands are even gentler as he helps you onto the stretcher. Inside the ambulance, Jimin sits beside you, his fingers never leaving yours. Outside, Yoongi is coordinating, ensuring the coroner and cleaners will take care of every trace left behind.

At the hospital, you and the baby are checked with steady hands and comforting reassurances. Taehyung confirms that everything’s fine, that the baby’s heartbeat is strong and steady. With every check, every calming word, a weight lifts. By the time Seokjin’s done stitching Jimin’s cut, it’s late into the night, and Yoongi arrives in his police car to drive you home. 

Silence settles in the car, deep and quiet, until Yoongi breaks it with a solemn murmur, “I’m glad you didn’t do anything rash, Jimin. And Y/N…I’m glad you’re safe. That bastard can never hurt you again.” You nod, gratitude filling the spaces between your breaths, and reach for Jimin’s hand. All you want now is to feel his warmth beside you, to finally rest.

When you step through the front door, Jimin wraps his arms around you, and the world outside feels a little further away. The faint smell of cleaning agents lingers, but the Christmas tree still stands, softly lit, in the corner of the room. You find yourself drawn to the couch and sink into it, letting out a heavy sigh, Jimin settling in beside you.

“You fought well, my princess,” he says softly, his hand gently patting your hair. “You can finally rest.”

A small, tired laugh escapes as you close your eyes. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Jimin smiles, warm and real. “Merry Christmas, love,” he whispers, settling you against him as you drift, exhaustion filling every inch of you. He strokes your hair with one hand, the other resting gently over the life growing within you. And in that embrace, all the pain and fear fade into something softer, warmer. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re safe, nestled into the arms of the man who’d go to the ends of the earth to protect you. 

→ Requested taglist: @13-manggaetteok @thelilbutifulthings @nora12379 @joonsmagicshop @pjmxxjm

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Author’s endnote: okay… wow. So what do you think? It’s kinda similar to the events that went down in the original story, but I never really liked the ending. I really wanted Hyun to die lol. But when I wrote the original story I was very much afraid of what people would think of that, so I didn’t go down that route. So this Christmas story gives me the ending that I truly want—but with a twist. Because I again debated who should kill Hyun, and original it was going to be the reader (with consequences), but I decided to change that and not give her even more trauma to process, lol. Well, I hoped you like it, even though it was rather dark (not what I usually write 🤭). Thank you for reading! 🌟

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[ravensliterature]

Sentinels' Siege

A/N: Yeah, it has definitely been a minute. Saw the new X-Men 97 show and got inspired. Please enjoy this!

pairing: Magneto (Erik) x GN!Reader

warnings: Character death

w/c: 784

Prompt: The reader here has forcefield powers. The sentinel is attaching Genosha and the reader saves Erik at the expense of their own life.

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

In the heart of Genosha, amidst the ruins of a once-thriving nation, the sentinel's ominous presence cast a shadow over the land. Its metallic form, a symbol of oppression and fear, loomed tall against the crimson sky, its mechanical eyes scanning the desolate landscape with ruthless efficiency. But amidst the chaos and fear, you stood as a beacon of hope, your powers of forcefield manipulation shielding not only Magneto but also civilians of Genosha from the sentinel's relentless assault.

Two spheres of energy shimmered in the air, each pulsating with the strength of your will. One enveloped Magneto, the other surrounded you and the civilians seeking refuge within your protective embrace. It was a delicate balance, maintaining both shields amidst the onslaught of the sentinel's attacks, but you refused to falter, driven by the unwavering resolve to protect those you loved at any cost.

As the sentinel unleashed its barrage of energy blasts, your forcefields flickered and crackled with energy, absorbing the brunt of the attacks. Beside you, Magneto watched in awe and gratitude, his heart swelling with pride at the sight of your unwavering determination. But beneath the surface, there was a surge of panic within him as he witnessed your struggle to maintain both shields.

He reached out to you, his voice a plea amidst the chaos. "Y/N, my love, you mustn't—"

But his words were lost in the cacophony of battle as your forcefields strained to their limits. With each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to break through your defenses and claim you all.

Flashbacks of your time together flooded your mind, each memory a bittersweet reminder of the bond you shared. You remembered the first time he had entrusted you with his secrets, the way his eyes softened as he spoke of a future where mutants could live without fear. You remembered the stolen moments of tenderness, the quiet nights spent gazing at the stars, finding solace in each other's company amidst the turmoil of their world.

But amidst the memories, there was the harsh reality of the present—the sentinel's relentless assault threatening to overwhelm your defenses. Your forcefields flickered and waned under the strain, cracks forming along their surfaces as they struggled to hold back the tide of destruction. Yet still, you refused to yield, your determination unyielding even in the face of insurmountable odds.

Magneto watched in silent anguish as you stood as the bulwark against the storm, his heart heavy with the weight of your sacrifice. He reached out, his hands grasping at empty air as you fell, the light fading from your eyes even as his world plunged into darkness.

In that final moment, as the sentinel loomed over Genosha victorious, Magneto could only cling to the memories of the love you shared—a love that had been both his greatest strength and his deepest sorrow. But though you were gone, your spirit would forever be etched in his heart, a guiding light in the darkness that now enveloped him.

And as he gazed upon the devastated landscape of Genosha, a vow ignited within him—a vow to carry on the fight in your honor, to ensure that your sacrifice would not be in vain. For in giving your life to protect others, you had shown him the true meaning of heroism—a selflessness that transcended even death itself.

But amidst the chaos and despair, there was one final moment of connection—a silent exchange of love that echoed across the battlefield. As the sentinel's onslaught reached its crescendo, engulfing you in a blinding blaze of light, you locked eyes with Magneto one last time.

In that fleeting moment, time seemed to stand still, the world around them fading into insignificance as you mouthed the words that echoed the depths of your soul, "I love you."

Though no sound escaped your lips, the sentiment rang loud and clear in the silence of the battlefield. It was a declaration of devotion, a testament to the bond that had transcended the trials and tribulations they had faced together.

Magneto's heart clenched with a mixture of grief and gratitude as he returned your gaze, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears. And as the light consumed you, engulfing you in its brilliant embrace, he could only watch in silent agony as your form disappeared amidst the chaos.

But though your physical presence had been extinguished, your love would forever burn bright within his heart, a beacon of hope in the darkness that now enveloped him. And as he stood amidst the ruins of Genosha, a solitary figure against the backdrop of devastation, he vowed to carry on your legacy—a legacy of love, sacrifice, and unwavering strength in the face of adversity.

[rayroseu]

Wait this is actually interesting, so from what the story implies, Wild Rose Castle is weaker than Black Scale Castle because it probably has no magical atmosphere that serves as its defense, there's probably fewer troops here, and the fact that its just on a clear meadow makes the terrain not suitable for defenses unlike Black Scale who is atop a mountain and covered in a Valley.

So I kinda think that Wild Rose Castle is a newly built castle in Briarland. After all, Meleanor was a kid only 200 years ago so Wild Briar is probably that age as well (or more), i think that age is young (compared to Black Scale which probably several centuries old?) thats why it has weaker defense facilities.

Maybe Wild Briar is older as Black Scale, but this game says this is Meleanor's castle so I assume she's the one who had built this.

But I have this HC that this castle is actually built because of Levan. For his diplomatic mission between humans. Building a castle in an easy terrain would make sense to make it easier for magicless humans to transport in. Because I don't really expect(?) Maleanor who is a military commander, which she probably has knowledge of strategies, to not see how disadvantegous this location is considering its close to humans

But I also think Wild Briar was built as like a refuge for the faes that live far away outside Dragon City(I wont call it dragonopolis lol)

Wild Rose being a few centuries old also kinda makes sense since the Silver Owls only recognize Meleanor as the only ruler in Briarland, they probably arent aware theres a queen named Maleficia because she's ancient(?) atleast I didnt caught any silver owls mentioning her iirc(?) They went to the mountains near Dragon city yes-- but like it was to pursue General Lilia and not to besiege Black Scale as well even they kinda had the potential to do so since they took down Maleanor and Silver Owls' is implied to be very greedy--

I actually think its more interesting to not summarize Maleanor's cause of death as just her overestimating her win against Knight of Dawn-- I actually think its because of several reasons such as:

"Wrong time" in working out the diplomatic relations between the conflict between humans and faes, Levan's plan to educate wasn't pointless effort, but I wish the story states as well what he did to counter the fact that the faes hates humans not because of a misunderstanding, but because of their mistreatment towards faes(the story literally implies rhe humans kills faes meanwhile we have yet to see a royal guard fae that killed humans the story only tells us they chased them away), Levan does this when its clear that the Silver Owls was getting hostile, like objectively speaking, this was kinda not the right time to communicate and Meleanor was the receiving end of the build up hostility of the Silver Owls

This is kinda countering my first point, but Meleanor's decisions was kinda weird too in the story lol, why send your best Generals to the enemy fortress.... 😭💥 But I actually think this is interesting as well, because its likely a reference to the wars in LiveAction Maleficent... I remember watching that movie especially Maleficent 2: Mistress of Evil and just wondering why the Moors never plans (and even if they do its very simple, just charge in and overpower the enemy with strength), they just charge in instead of treating it "like a chess" where you save your best pieces in dangerous situations and everyone has a role in dispelling the enemy. They also hold this belief that only the strong ones would guarantee their success and heavily relies on them. Meanwhile, Queen Ingrid used deception and control to subdue all the faeries. Like Meleanor/Faes vs Humans, the faes never thinks about what the human enemy plans, they rely on raw dodging it lol probably alluding to the fact that the faes have trouble thinking like a human.

And lastly this point lol, poor choice of headquarters, the terrain is easy for humans to invade in, and the castle is still weak, also the fact that Wild Briar was alone in fighting several human nations was a factor as well because it couldnt get back up in time because it was too far away from Black Scale Castle, kinda adding Wild Briar was outnumbered too atp

[crystaleclipse10]

A look into the Ninja's powers

Welcome to my analysis of the powers of each of the 6 main Ninja. How each power feels and its source for each Elemental Master, and how it reflects in their personalities. This has headcanons and canon explanation. Hopefully it all makes sense

Cole: Cole’s power comes from deep within the ground. He can feel the power of the earth in his guts, strong and steady. It’s grounding. It’s constant. The earth is always somewhere below him. No matter where he is, somewhere there’s earth—whether it’s deep within a mountain, everywhere; or leagues under the sea; or so far beneath the sky it is practically invisible—it will never not be there. It’s reliable. Yet it takes different forms: dirt, rocks, magma, sand; it’s all part of the ground, versatile. It’s protective; it encases and preserves ancient ruins and fossils, it gives shelter to those seeking refuge. It connects all living things—it reaches every part of the world. It cannot be forced to move, but it can be guided. It is the foundation of everything.

“You've never been farther underground. Never been more surrounded by the very thing that powers you. The Skull Sorcerer thought he was burying you, but what if he was actually bringing you closer to the earth? To the source of your elemental power?” “So what do I do? Try to connect with the earth?” “Perhaps. Or perhaps you just have to stop worrying so much and let the earth connect with you.”

Zane: Zane can sense his ice powers in his mind. It can exist in the coldest of climates, and when it melts, turns into something just as powerful; it is not wasted. It carves its way through anything—glaciers. The rivers of ice creep forward slowly but surely, taking everything in its path. It’s steady and cold, but its bite can be unrelenting. Frostbite, hypothermia—just as cold as ice is. And icicles, especially when shot as a projectile, are like daggers; sharp and dangerous. But it can numb pain. It tames something burning hot into something pleasantly warm. It is hard and strong, but it can crack—and if that happens, it can be made whole again with a little time. It is reliable and quiet. It can create a protective barrier. It’s there when it needs to be.

“This isn’t about numbers…it’s about family.” “He’s protecting us.” “I am a Nindroid, and Ninja never quit. Go Ninja, go!”

Jay: Lightning. He can feel it buzzing on his skin and nerves, able to be condensed and controlled. Pure energy, electricity. It’s volatile and dangerous. But it can be essential to life. It’s everywhere—thunderstorms, static, neurons firing in the brain. If it wasn’t for electricity, the brain would cease to function and life couldn’t exist. It’s quick—blink and it’s gone, just a thread of light that comes and goes. But its impact is remembered. A thunderous boom, a scar of soot, sometimes even a blaze set in its wake. Its glow is practically too bright to look at; a source of light for even the darkest of caves. Just one spark can start a fire or illuminate a building. It’s a source of power—for vehicles, technology, buildings. Even though it is not always visible, lightning and electricity are all around, ready to be called upon.

“Control the power inside you. When you feel a surge welling up, harness it.”

Kai: Kai’s power over fire comes from the breath—air is fuel for fire, and controlled breathing can control the blaze. It is not a matter of force—though hot anger can stoke fire—but harnessing the buzzing potential in the air. Fire can be destructive; a wildfire is chaotic, unyielding, and intense, burning everything in its path. But it can be life-giving, too. It’s cozy. It provides warmth on the coldest of nights. It can cook food, boil water, ward off frost. It is the essence of the sun—the largest blaze that allows life to exist. It burns with passion and ferocity, but if it loses strength, there will always be an ember remaining. Almost nothing can beat back a big, hot fire. It can be a weapon or a defense; it hurts to touch, and no one without immunity would dare go near. Without fire, life could not be sustained.

“I just wish I still had my powers. I was Master of Fire. I could've made a new fire like—like...like this.” “Oh, do not worry, Kai. Elemental Power comes from within, like courage. Sometimes it wanes, sometimes it waxes, but it cannot be stolen.”

Nya: The power of water flows through her veins. Water is ever-changing and powerful. Even the strongest rocks erode under the power of water. It’s relentless. It can defeat ghosts because it is always changing and shifting, while ghosts are stuck trying to be one thing and refuse to change. It cleanses and heals. The first thing to do for something dirty is to wash it with water. And it’s part of blood, something vital for people to live. It’s restless. The ocean never stays still; it does not like to be contained. The tides are as constant as they are powerful. The entire ocean moves with the tides; the constant in and out of so much water shapes the coasts. Rivers bend and flow around obstacles; no matter what is in the way, it will eventually reach the ocean—the largest body of water filled with plants and animals. Water supports life and creates ecosystems. It’s the heart of the wild.

“Jay, the ocean's good for much more than food. As we go deeper, I can feel its elemental power growing. It's almost overwhelming.”

Lloyd: Perhaps the most vague but also the most powerful element is Lloyd’s. Is it Power? Creation? Energy? Life? Lloyd is connected to the Source Dragon of Life, not Energy. Whatever the case, it comes from his heart. If it is Life, that is where it is strongest—the beating of a heart shows life in a living being; it is impossible to live without a heart. It’s everywhere—inside Lloyd, in his comrades, his students, his masters, nature around him. His love for the world is his true self and makes his heart powerful. His goodness gives him strength. His drive to save the world fuels his passion. Life is inside of him, but it can also be taken away. It can heal, but also hurt. When it is taken away, overused, or corrupted, it leaves him weakened and sick. But it can save his life in a fight—and it has. It is a combination of the core elements of Creation: Lightning, Ice, Fire, and Earth—LIFE (thank you @secretlyharumi for helping me realize this!). They can be utilized individually, but also combined into something potent and beautiful. Without life, nothing would exist. It is the thread of the universe, stitching together things similar and different; big and small.

“I’m already the Golden Ninja. How much more power do I need?” “You’ve only scratched the surface! You have the potential to move mountains. Power of the First Spinjitzu Master!”

I like the idea the Ninja's personalities and powers are mixed

Thank you for coming to my TedTalk

[ebongawk]

gimme kiss #41 😎

41. A kiss out of spite

"Chrissy will you–– Hey, man move it–– Will you please just talk to me? Chrissy! Babe, wait up!"

Chrissy was resolute in her marching through the party, red solo cup held above her head to avoid knocking into the swaying bodies. Avoiding the possibility of covering either herself or someone else in wet.

Though she'd swapped her vodka soda out for a water as soon as she saw Jason walk through the doors of the house party they were apparently both attending. She'd have to be sober if she wanted to remain resolute in this breakup.

Her defenses never failed to fall when she got tipsy, and she absolutely refused to take Jason back again. No way, no how, no sir. He was an asshole, and yeah, it had unfortunately taken her most of high school and half of college to realize it, but she couldn't exactly un-realize it now.

Of course, he would just happen to be at the one party she decided to attend this semester since the breakup. After vetting his calls for the past three months and being conveniently out of her apartment whenever he came around (she sent a silent thank you to Heather and Robin for playing up how busy she was as she hid in her bedroom while he was at the door), of course he was doing his absolute best to grab her attention here, of all places.

In public.

It would be mortifying if it wasn't so sad.

Dipping into the basement, Chrissy made her way through yet another throng of bodies before shoving herself into a small clearing. A deep inhale and an exasperated exhale ignited a chuckle from across the way, and Chrissy glanced up.

Oh.

What a pretty boy.

Blinking some of the haze out of her eyes, Chrissy watched the way he tilted his head to one side in curiosity as his eyes darted from her feet to her face. Then, making the trek again but far, far more slowly, Chrissy felt something heated curling dangerously in her stomach.

"All good, toots?" he asked, his voice just loud enough to carry over the din of noise. "Seems like you just ran a marathon. Not all that to find little ol' me, I assume?"

Those dark eyes were alight with some unnamed mischief Chrissy suddenly found herself desperate to identify. He was alone, sitting in the corner of the basement with a cigarette between his lips and a half-beaten lunchbox at his feet. Like some nefarious prince on a deserted island, there was a strange berth of space around him. People milling about but never daring to get too close.

But his question was like a welcoming hand stretching the distance. He'd lowered a moat over crocodile-infested waters and was waiting for her to cross.

She didn't hesitate his extension of refuge.

Plopping wearily down on the small stool he had cleared for her next to his armchair, Chrissy groaned as she rubbed her temples. Setting the red cup at her feet and taking yet another deep, slow breath.

"So, uh," the guy began, sitting forward until he could catch her eye before she let her head droop between her knees. "You come here often?"

Snorting, Chrissy rolled her eyes.

"What, dingy basements at parties?"

"Dingy basements in general." He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and drawing Chrissy's attention to the stretch of his t-shirt beneath the leather jacket he wore. "Not to, y'know, toot my own horn, but they're kinda my domain, and I've never seen you around."

Once more looking her up and down and igniting that same detrimental heat in her gut, he winked at her. Chrissy almost swooned, cheeks growing warm under his obvious appreciation.

"I'd remember," he finished.

Clearing her throat, Chrissy crossed her legs and smoothed her skirt down.

"I'm not a frequent flyer, no," she admitted. "I don't often even come to these parties, to be honest, but––"

"Ah," the boy said, grinning. "Knew it. You looked like more of an upstairs gal. Never deigned these poor basement dwellers worthy of your presence."

That wasn't necessarily a lie, and Chrissy pursed her lips to quell her indignation. Basements had reputations at parties like this. It was where dark corners lit up with the haze of marijuana and various other substances.

"I don't hold myself to that high of a standard," she muttered instead, making the boy laugh.

"Well, color me lucky, I guess," he chuckled. "That your first foray into the dark might've put you in my path, I mean." Waggling his eyebrows, he let his gaze dip down, then back up. "Maybe having a pretty thing like you on my arm will drum up some business."

"Business?" Chrissy questioned just as her eyes, for the first time, glanced away from the boy and toward the stairs. Pulled by peripheral motion, Chrissy watched from her perch as a familiar head of blond hair came flouncing down each step. Half-hidden by the crowd, he hadn't yet seen her, but she had the vantage point to see him searching for her.

"Oh, nuggets," Chrissy whispered, glancing frantically around for a better hiding spot before Jason found her. The boy at her side seemed to clock her sudden spike of anxiety, his eyes following hers to the new arrival and narrowing.

"Hey, princess, you alright?" he asked, leaning toward her. "You, uh, need me to, y'know, take care of anything?"

His insinuation went entirely over her head as the panic set in, but a different idea somehow managed to infiltrate the static mess of her thoughts.

"Would you kiss me?" she asked, her voice pitched with desperation. The guy's eyes widened impossibly, drawing attention to the thick, unfair ring of eyelashes that framed them. Eyes darting toward Jason, who was facing the other direction, then back again, Chrissy punctuated her question with a little, "Please?"

"Fuck," the boy muttered, ashing his mostly-ignored cigarette in a nearby tray and tangling his fingers in her hair. "Yeah, uh, yeah, sure, whatever the lady doth request."

He tried to pull her in, but the distance between his chair and her stool was too great. Chrissy scrabbled to her knees, hitching a leg over the arm of the chair and half-landing on his lap. The boy chuckled, the sound mingling with Chrissy's giggle as he rested his free hand on her waist and drew her in properly.

"This alright?" he asked, his lips centimeters from hers. Making her heart drum violently in her chest. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the exact moment Jason noticed her, picking his way through the room with demands that people move out of his way.

"This is perfect," she responded, letting her eyes linger just long enough to grab Jason's attention before she was turning back and closing the gap between her lips and the boy's.

And she forgot, all at once, that she was trying to get back at her ex-boyfriend.

He was a flavor she was unaccustomed to, but suddenly craved. Cigarette, yeah, but it was more than that. It was a deep earthiness melded with something minty, like he'd been chewing gum, maybe. Chrissy moaned, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and pulling herself closer. Sliding from her awkward perch on the arm of the chair and completely into his lap, Chrissy lost herself entirely in his kiss.

He felt so incredibly solid. The hand in her hair pulsed slightly, fingertips gently scrubbing against her scalp with every breathy sound she made. His other hand on her waist squeezed slightly, his palm warm and pleasant on the slight amount of skin she had showing between her top and her skirt. His thighs were sturdy beneath hers, muscle hidden beneath all that black denim.

Someone said her name, she was pretty sure. Yelled it, actually, making the boy growl as he pulled away from her dazed, bee-stung lips.

"Hey, man, fuck off," the boy demanded. "I'm trying to have some quality time with my girl."

Without the hush of the boy's kiss calming her mind, she could hear Jason behind her positively seething.

"Your girl?" he asked, his voice pitched with anger. "She's my girl, dick!"

Still, he dared not intervene. The guilt of his own actions outweighing his apparent claim over their dead relationship. Trying to resuscitate one half of a heart that had happily flatlined months ago.

Looking at her, then over her shoulder with a little smirk, the boy shrugged. Every gesture he made was so incredibly close, and Chrissy cataloged them all in her mind. Filing them away for later dissection.

"Really doesn't seem to be the case, my guy. Why don't you run along home to your little jock itch teammates and try to circle jerk the infection away, huh?"

Jason said something else, but Chrissy didn't hear it. Because the boy was pulling her back in, the heavy rings on his fingers tangling in her hair as he angled her head in just the right way to slip his tongue past her teeth. Chrissy moaned, her body going fully molten in his hands as he drew her in and drank her down, sip by sip by sip.

Far, far too soon, he was gently easing himself from her embrace again. Eyes on her for a long moment before darting away ever so briefly to scan the room.

"Pretty sure he's gone," the boy murmured, his lips nearly close enough that she could feel every syllable. Or maybe it was just the vibration of him, the way he'd somehow, miraculously, already tuned her boy to feel it. "Christ, toots. That fucker an ex of yours, I'm assuming?"

"Unfortunately," she sighed, forcing her fingers to untangle where they'd come to rest on the nape of his neck and slide down his chest. She gently smoothed out the lapels of his jacket. "For, like, months now, but he doesn't seem to take the hint."

"Oh, I think the hint was definitely taken this time, sweetness," the boy smiled, his thumb tucking beneath her chin for a brief moment. "And if not, I mean. I'm always open for a round two, y'know?"

"Yeah?" she asked. "You gonna be in every dingy basement of the party I happen to attend every four-to-six months?"

"Maybe," he shrugged, his eyes glinting with that same unnamed mischief. "Wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. These assholes are paying for my college education, after all."

"And if, um," she began, her hands curling around his shoulders. "If I said I wanted round two... despite an audience." Dropping her head, Chrissy looked at him from under her lashes. Attempting to appear as coquettish as possible. "Or, maybe, regardless of an audience?"

The curl of his grin was echoed in her stomach, her insides twisting and morphing until they were the exact same shape as his teeth.

He was going to eat her alive, and the only thing she'd be able to say at the end was thank you.

"Yeah?" he asked. "You, uh, thinking now, or you thinking four-to-six months from now?"

"We can start with now," she shrugged, "and see where we're at in four-to-six months."

The boy threw his head back, letting out a long, loud cackle that had Chrissy clinging to him through her own laughter.

"Eddie, by the way," he said, sticking his hand in the scant space between their torsos. Sporting a wide, feral grin that made Chrissy forget all about her discomfort of the night.

Curling her fingers around his, Chrissy shook his hand.

"Chrissy," she introduced herself.

"Chrissy," he repeated, and she was fascinated by the way his tongue curled around her name. The way his lips parted on the second syllable, accentuating the second 's' in a way no one ever had. "Gorgeous."

"I bet you say that to all the girls that fall into your lap and beg you to kiss them to chase away their exes."

"Only the especially gorgeous ones," he shot back easily. "Hey, uh, not to be, like, too forward, but can I kiss you again?"

Her smile tasted sweet on her own lips. She wondered if Eddie would say it tasted the same.

"Not too forward," she soothed. "You can, um. You can kiss me anytime you want, Eddie."

"Shit, baby, don't threaten me with a good time."

kiss roulette!

[vyoongi]

"Dondus, Caesar's Companion"

In Caracalla's fifteenth summer, when the sun was setting like liquid gold on the streets of Rome, the young Caesar, still without a crown or lead in his soul, found something that would forever change the course of his life. The fair of exoticisms brimming with exotic treasures from distant lands beyond the Mare Nostrum, was alive with the sounds of joyous shouts, the thrum of drums, and the roars of caged beasts. Majestic elephants, brilliantly colored peacocks, and serpents coiled like living jewels entertained the crowd. Yet, amid this symphony of wonders, Caracalla's keen, steely blue eyes were drawn to a small creature with dark fur and a spirited glint in its gaze.

"What is this creature? " Caracalla inquired, his voice resonating with authority and a hint of burgeoning command.

"A capuchin monkey, my lord" the merchant replied, bowing deeply, his tone laced with the nervousness of one addressing the future emperor. "A female monkey that hails from the jungles of the Africa Province. "

"Did you ride with the elephants, little creature? " he whispered, his Latin awkward yet soft.

The diminutive monkey, small enough to nestle in the palm of Caracalla's hand, met his gaze with an intensity that dismantled his defenses. In that moment, the young Caesar sensed an uncommon connection, as if the creature had seen through the barriers he meticulously erected in the presence of his twin brother, Geta, who was his constant shadow.

"Look at how she observes me, Geta!" Caracalla exclaimed, turning to his brother. "It’s as though she possesses more wisdom about this world than the two of us combined. "

Pragmatic as ever, Geta crossed his arms and countered, "What purpose does she serve, brother? If she cannot fight or obey, she is merely a distraction. "Yet Caracalla was undeterred. His heart, more guided by impulse than reason, had made its choice.

He named her 'Dondus', deriving the name from a term he had overheard from a numidian slave.

From that day forward, Dondus became his steadfast companion. They crafted tailored tunics for her, tiny garments adorned with intricate golden embroidery, and adorned her with a necklace of gems that rivaled the treasures of Jupiter's temple. But Dondus wasn't destined for a cage or for performances meant to amuse the Senate. Instead, she resided in Caracalla's chambers, sleeping on his marble bed and sharing meals from the same plates as the young Caesar.

To Caracalla, Dondus was more than a pet. She was a refuge,a sanctuary. On nights when the weight of his lineage crushed him, when he remembered his father's cold stares and the unjust punishments he received for his disobedience, he found comfort in the soft purr of her little companion. Sometimes, in the quiet hours when Rome lay in slumber, he would confide in her softly, as if she were his most trusted confidant.

"Dondus, do you not see it? At times, I am as the gladiator, ensnared within an amphitheater without exits, the eyes of all upon me, yet none perceiving the weight I bear. Geta, in his way, strives to grasp it, but even he falters, as all men do. Yet you, in your silence, gaze upon me without reproach. Is it that you cannot fathom war or dominion? Or is it, in your smallness, you have already gleaned the truth—that such things are but shadows, fleeting and without substance?"

Over time, the bond between them grew stronger. During lavish banquets, while senators adebated about territories and conquests, Dondus would sit on Caracalla's shoulder, drawing nervous laughter from those present. "A monkey dressed better than a proconsul'' they would whisper under their breath. Yet Caracalla remained unfazed by their remarks.

At the amphitheater, when blood stained the arena and the people roared for more, Dondus stood by his side, still, as if she understood that her master found a strange pleasure in chaos. Yet even in those moments, Caracalla was more docile to her than to any other human being.

"It amuses me'' Geta once said, his voice edged with irony. ''You would command the deaths of a thousand souls without so much as a blink, yet when Dondus casts a cluster of grapes to the ground, you hasten after her like a slave chasing his dominus.'' Caracalla inclined his head, a wry smile upon his lips. ''Perhaps'' he replied, ''it is because she asks nothing of me—save that I remain as I am."

As Caracalla grew into his imperial duties, Dondus remained by his side. She was dressed in miniature tunics crafted by the palace seamstresses, a spectacle that delighted the court but sometimes enraged Geta.

“You make a mockery of the empire” Geta spat one evening, finding Caracalla feeding Dondus at the dinner table.

“And you make a mockery of life, brother, with all your brooding” Caracalla retorted, his smile sharp. “She loves me as no one else does.”

In truth, there was a part of Caracalla that knew he was difficult to love. His temper, his hedonism, his love of blood and spectacle—it set him apart from Geta, who charmed the Senate and the plebeians alike. Yet Dondus never turned from him, even in his darkest moods.

Maybe it was because she, too, was a creature out of place. Just as Caracalla felt alienated in a world that demanded his perfection, Dondus had been torn from her jungle home, a shadow lost in the brilliance of Rome’s marble halls.

Years later, when the throne of Rome became a pool of blood, when Caracalla's hands were stained with the red of his own family, Dondus was still there. During his ascension as sole emperor, the little capuchin was named his first consul, a mockery of both the Senate and the gods.

In those darkest hours, when Rome burned from within and conspiracies were the order of the day, Caracalla took refuge in the company of Dondus, seeing in her black gaze the echo of the days when everything was simpler. He didn't remember, or didn't want to remember, that his own hands had brought about his brother's end. In his broken mind, Geta continued to care for him, as he always had.

As the empire faltered, Caracalla stroked Dondus's soft fur and murmured, ''You and I, Dondus, are all that remains of Rome. Let Jupiter cast his judgment, if he wills it. I have all I need."

And in the little capuchin, with her bright eyes and silent loyalty, he found the only fragment of peace his lost soul could hold. She didn't understand his words but she stayed.

Always, she stayed.

[burnednotburied]

You're My People

AO3 Link

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You and Abby take refuge in an abandoned house to catch your breath and attempt to recover after the encounter with Ellie in the theater.

Tags: slight angst; hurt/comfort; mentions of death and blood; tending to injuries; (mostly) unspoken romantic feelings; reader is a young woman (same age as Abby)

Note: To be absolutely 100% clear, the reader is NOT meant to be Lev or Yara. Reader is a woman (about the same age as Abby) who met Abby on Seattle Day 1 when she was also meeting Lev and Yara. The four of them stuck together. None of this is super relevant for this story. (Just know that Yara was with them, but she was killed just as she was in the game, and Lev is around here somewhere.)

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“Don’t ever let me see you again.”

That’s what Abby had said to that girl – Ellie – before walking away without so much as a backwards glance.

You had quietly followed Abby out of the theater, because what else could you do, but you didn’t know how you were supposed to feel about what you just saw.

Watching Abby incapacitate one man and shoot another in the face without hesitating. Seeing her beat Ellie into the floor while she lay there motionless.

And the other woman. The one who was pregnant…

“Good,” Abby had seethed when Ellie told her. She almost seemed happy about it. Happy to repay the wrong that was done to Mel. An eye for an eye. A life for a life.

If you hadn’t called out Abby’s name when you did, dragging her from the haze that was her desire for retribution…

Well, you could guess what would’ve happened.

You were just glad the two of you had decided not to bring Lev with you. That he was somewhere safe.

Neither of you spoke a word as you navigated through the dark streets of Seattle, her leading the way with you following quietly behind, just as you had been doing since you met. Although now you may have allowed for a bit more space between the two of you than you did before, trailing further behind. Lost in thought.

It had been three days since you met, but it felt like so much longer. A nagging voice in your head insisted that you really didn’t know Abby very well, despite how it felt.

She hadn’t given you any reason not to trust her. She had never hurt you. In fact, she had fought so hard to keep you and (more importantly) Lev and Yara safe. She had even turned against her own people, killed her own people, for the sake of protecting you.

No, that wasn’t right.

Those weren’t Abby’s people anymore.

“You’re my people.”

Abby had looked so earnest when she said it back on the Seraphite island just hours before. And you had believed her.

The words left you with a feeling deep in your chest that was hard to describe. You thought it might’ve been… belonging. Something you’d been hoping for but never found. You’d always wanted to truly belong to something.

Or someone.

There hadn’t been any time to dwell on the feelings or what they meant.

And now all you feel is a pit in your stomach.

Why were you so shaken up? This is stupid. You’ve killed before, and you’ve watched Abby kill.

But this felt different. It wasn’t self-defense. It wasn’t necessary. It was dark and angry and honestly terrifying. She was honestly terrifying.

But it was justified, wasn’t it? You could argue that maybe it was necessary.

Ellie had been hunting Abby for days, killing her friends and seemingly anything else in her path.

Ellie killed Owen.

You weren’t sure of the exact history between him and Abby, but you did know how important he was to her. And you had seen the look on her face when she found him dead.

Who’s to say Ellie would’ve ever stopped coming after Abby and the people close to her? Who’s to say she’ll even stop now?

You’re just beginning to arrange your fractured, contradicting thoughts in a way that makes sense when Abby comes to a sudden stop in front of you. You would’ve run into her if she hadn’t stretched her hand out behind her in warning.

“We need to stop. Get out of the rain. Regroup.” Her voice is strained.

You hadn’t really even noticed that it started raining again, harder this time, but you can walk in the rain. Lev is alone, waiting for the two of you to return.

You open your mouth to protest, only to shut it again when Abby turns to face you fully. She’s balancing her weight unevenly, heavily favoring her right leg. A significant bloodstain runs all the way down to her left ankle. And her face…  

The pregnant girl had come from nowhere, attacking Abby from behind. She managed to slash across Abby’s cheek with a knife before you took her down with an arrow through the shoulder. It had been your only real contribution to the fighting in the theater, but it had been unavoidable. Abby had been in danger.

Now she’s standing in front of you, soaked from head to toe, from the rain and with blood, and you have no idea how much of that blood is hers, but there are definitely some significant injuries that need to be tended to.

Abby takes in your silence and your wide-eyed stare for a moment before shifting a little in place and clearing her throat. “Um… we can try in there. Yeah? The houses here should all be deserted.” She gestures weakly to the building closest to you.

You finally find your voice. “Yes, yeah. Let’s—let’s go in there.”

You pull your gaze away from Abby’s and walk past her, toward the small house, pulling your bow from where it rests over your shoulder and notching an arrow in the string. It suddenly occurs to you that you’ve walked all this way without your weapon drawn while Abby was injured and unarmed. For a moment, you’re glad that the Wolves and the Seraphites are too distracted fighting each other elsewhere to be roaming around in this area. Or else you and Abby would probably have been killed by now, both of you practically stumbling through the streets like a couple of vulnerable, mindless children.

You shake your head, silently scolding yourself and promising to be more alert, starting right now with sweeping the house.

The front door is mostly intact and slightly ajar. You approach carefully, painstakingly forcing it further open with your shoulder, fighting against rusted hinges and warped wood. The floorboards creak beneath your boots as you step inside, quickly scanning the entryway for anything or anyone that poses a threat. Abby follows behind you, trying not to visibly limp on her injured leg and holding up a small flashlight taken from the aquarium.

“Come on. You need to sit down,” you say over your shoulder, just loud enough to be heard over the pouring rain outside. For a moment, it looks like she might argue with you, maybe insist that she make sure the building’s clear first, but she seems to decide against it, giving you a quick nod of her head in response.

With your bow still drawn, you lead the way through the first floor of the building, passing a bathroom and a kitchen before arriving in what was once the living room. The room is filled with furniture in various levels of destruction and decay, somehow the most well-preserved among them being an old couch pressed against the back wall.

You point to it. “Sit,” you tell Abby. The fact that she listens and moves toward the couch without protest, albeit very slowly, is further proof of the extent of her injuries and her level of exhaustion. “I’m going to check the rest of the house, okay? I’ll be back. Don’t move.”

Abby lets out a scoff, immediately followed by a second, more pained noise. “I couldn’t go anywhere if I wanted to.” An attempt at a joke, made through gritted teeth. You give her a hesitant, worried look, long enough that she forces a small smile and attempts to reassure you with, “I’m fine. Go.”

She’s lying and you know that, but you don’t have much of a choice. You turn to go quickly search the house.

The second floor is clear of any discernible threats but also of anything that would be useful in helping Abby. On your way back to the living room, you rummage through the downstairs bathroom and a couple of mostly empty coat closets in hopes of finding something. Medical supplies. Even clean cloths.

You find nothing there and move on to your last hope, the kitchen. This room is even more ransacked than the rest of the house, and still, you don’t find what you’re looking for.

“Ugh,” you loudly groan, clasping your hands together on the back of your neck and casting your gaze upward in frustration.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Abby quickly asks from the other room, sounding ready to jump up off the couch and rush to your rescue even in her current condition. It makes you smile until you remember that this is no time to be smiling.

“It’s nothing. The house is clear. I was just looking for some medical supplies.”

“Who needs medical supplies?” she asks, trying her hand at a second joke. This time you let yourself smile for just a second.

“You do, Abby,” you say, “You need medical supplies. Urgently.” You’re still staring up like the answer will be written up there if you just look hard enough, when something in the space between the one of the top cabinets and the ceiling catches your eye. If you’re not mistaken, it looks like the corner of a first aid kit.

It’s too high for you to reach standing, and there’s nothing for you to stand on top of. The countertops are broken, the pieces scattered across the room, and the wood of the lower cabinets is rickety and unstable at best.

You’re grumbling under your breath about damn high ceilings and unnaturally tall cabinets as you reenter the living room to find Abby almost exactly where you left her, left leg now up on the couch and elevated, right foot still on the floor. Both of her hands are hovering over the gash in her thigh, like she’s not sure if she should touch it or not, her face tense and focused. She’s in pain.

You pull your eyes away and look for something sturdy enough for you to stand on, eventually deciding on a mostly intact, only slight wobbly small metal table.

“Do you really think now is the best time to rearrange the furniture, honey?” Abby asks, glancing at you in her periphery. She’s joking again, and you know that, but you can’t help the warmth that pools in your cheeks at her use of the affectionate pet-name.

“I--“ You clear your throat, “I need something to stand on. I think I found something in the kitchen.”

“Aww, you can’t reach the top shelf by yourself?” Abby asks, amused. She turns her attention from her leg to watch as you drag the table out of the room. It squeaks along the floor the entire way, making her laugh softly.

 The fact that she’s being playful with you starts to ease your lingering panic about her many ailments. If she’s cracking jokes, she can’t be that close to dying, right?

“Crazy how you’ve lost like half your blood supply, and yet you still have enough energy to tease me,” you say, your own teeth gritted now. The table is much heavier than you anticipated. “And, for your information, the thing that I’m trying to get is not on the top shelf. It is above the top shelf. On top of the cabinet.”

“Uh huh. Sure… Take your time. I’m just over here, casually bleeding out.”

“Well, I’m no doctor. But I’m pretty sure that if the knife had hit any major arteries, you would’ve bled out a long time ago. So you’ll be fine for another minute. Probably.” With one final shove, you manage to get the table where you want it.

You carefully step up on the table, hoping that some sadistic asshole didn’t throw an empty first aid kit all the way up there just to waste the time and energy of some poor, desperate fool in need of medical supplies. (You, of course, being that poor desperate fool.)

After brushing off a thick layer of dust, you grab the handle. The kit is full.

“Yes!” you shout, nearly stumbling off the table in your excitement.

Abby can tease you all she wants and try to make light of the situation, but she can’t hide the look of relief that washes over her features when she sees what you’re carrying.

And, if you were paying closer attention to her face, she also wouldn’t have been able to mask the way her eyes go wide and her cheek – the one that’s not covered in blood – gets visibly pink when you get on your knees in front of her. “Uhhh hey, you can—you can sit on the couch.”

You raise your eyebrows, confused by her sudden nervousness. “No, the angle will be better this way,” you insist. “Just bring your leg over here.” She concedes, avoiding eye contact as you help her maneuver her injured leg so that her foot is back on the floor, practically between your knees.

There’s already a tear in her pant leg where the gash is. So to avoid having Abby stand up and take her pants off or cutting all the way around at mid-thigh, leaving her with half a pair of pants for the foreseeable future, you opt to just rip the fabric a little more on either side of the tear.

But you have a bad habit of occasionally thinking about something and then doing it, forgetting the often necessary in-between step of alerting the people around you to what you’re going to do first. You take the already-ripped fabric of her pants in your hands and tear, successfully making a hole large enough for you to properly clean and dress the wound.

The sound Abby makes when you do this surprises you. It’s almost sounds like a whimper—a noise that you don’t think you’ve ever heard her make before. There’s a twisting heat in your gut that seems to be a recurring side effect of being close to Abby, which you choose to ignore in favor of focusing on the more urgent (and honestly less daunting and less complicated) task at hand.

She’s quiet as you get to work cleaning the gash. Wincing slightly but remaining still.

The cut is deep, but as you expected it missed the femoral artery. You would have to stitch it up, though, and you told Abby as such. She nodded and watched you carefully as you quickly prepared, hoping to get this part over with as quickly as possible.

You moved even closer to her. Abby’s shin gently pressed against your front as you leaned over her knee, bringing your face closer, your movements precise and intentional.

Abby brings her hands down on either side of her legs, bracing herself. Her shoulders tense, muscles engaged. You have to tear your eyes away. Focus. You look back down at her thigh.

As you work, a strand of your hair falls from where you had tucked it behind your ear and into your face. You let out a light, annoyed huff. Before you attempt to blow the strand out of your eyeline, Abby’s fingers gently brush it back behind your ear. You feel yourself blush deeply, saying a quiet thank you before going back to sewing her up.

When the last stitch is done and you’ve carefully wrapped the wound, you feel Abby’s fingers run through your hair again, this time for no other reason but to draw your eyes up to meet hers.

“Come up here,” she says, her voice low. You stand, bringing the first aid kit with you, and feel the springs in the cushions creak beneath you as you sit on the couch, facing her, closer than is probably necessary. Before either one of you says anything else, you begin gently wiping away the blood surrounding the cut on her cheek, cleaning around the wound.

It's clear to you now that her wounds weren’t quite as detrimental as you had feared. With her leg sown up, her face was the only other thing that required your attention. Most everything else was superficial and would heal on its own. The rain had done a poor job of washing away all the blood, but it seems that much less of that blood had come from her than you had anticipated anyway.

“I can do that,” Abby says in a whisper, watching your face as you carefully and meticulously clean hers.

“I know,” you reply, just as quiet. “I want to.”

A few moments go by in silence until Abby once again breaks it.

“I’m sorry about tonight,” she begins, quickly adding, “Not sorry that I did it, but sorry that you had to… see me that way.” Her eyes are downcast. You know it’s weighing on her. Not just everything that happened today, but the fear that what happened could have a lasting effect on this thing you two have only just started to build. Call it trust or friendship or maybe something else entirely.

You shake your head. “Don’t apologize. I’m glad I was there. You shouldn’t have had to do that alone.” Abby nods, but you know it doesn’t do much to assuage her worries.

You still don’t understand what happened back in the theater. Or why it happened. Part of you wants to ask for the history now. How she knows Ellie. Why she wants Abby dead.

Maybe in time she will tell you, but you’ve already decided to trust her. To lean into whatever this thing between you is, and whatever it might become.

So instead, you ask another question that’s been in the back of your mind.

“Did you mean what you said earlier?” You pull your hand away from her face, finished cleaning the cut there. It may form a scar, but it doesn’t seem deep enough to warrant stitches. (And you’re not brave enough to try, on her lovely face so close to her eye.)

Abby smiles softly, leaning forward just a bit to bring your faces closer together. “You’re going to have to be more specific, honey.”

That pet-name again. It makes your head spin. Makes you want to close the already shrinking distance between you and press your lips to hers. But you don’t do that. Instead, you explain, “On the island. When you said that… I’m your people.” You pause, hesitating over the last few words.

Abby stops for a moment, almost looking confused, and you start to spiral internally. You realize that it was probably just something she said in the heat of the moment. To calm you down and get you to keep moving, towards safety. You wish you could take your question back, retract your stupid words. Swallow them up and hide them inside you, along with your ever-growing feelings.

Abby finally answers. “Yeah. Of course I meant it. You’re my people.”

“Yeah?” You break out into a grin.

She nods, smiling and sincere. “Yeah.”

It’s that one, small word that makes you close the distance between you. Not to kiss her, but to gently rest your forehead against hers. Abby seems stunned, like maybe she was expecting the other thing, or hoping for it, but she recovers quickly, closing her eyes and maintaining the physical contact. You close your eyes too.

“You’re my people too, Abigail Anderson.” You can feel her laugh quietly and open your eyes, pulling away just enough to see her face again. “So… where do we go from here?”

“Santa Barbara, California,” she says. You remember overhearing part of a conversation about that between Abby and Owen yesterday. You figured that’s where she would be heading; you had just hoped to be given the chance to tag along. But you guess you didn’t have to worry about that anymore.

So you nod your head thoughtfully. “Sounds good… Sunny.”

“Hmm, yeah. That’s what I hear.” You’re both smiling. Happy, strangely enough, given the circumstances.

“Abby…”

“Hmmm?”

“We are going back to get Lev before we leave though, right?”

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Note: If you read all of that, THANK YOU! This is the first fanfic I’ve written—and the first time I’ve written at all in a long time—so this is me dipping my toes in the water.