#I love saying I love you I love meaning it I love people and humans and being kind and oh boy I should sleep I have a lot of work to do

[transmascchloeprice]

Other people's reaction to me being autistic radicalized me tbh.

There's also a subset that damaged me: looking for love in all the wrong places because I just wanted one fucking person to love me because I felt like everyone else fucking hated me. And I was troubled, and I mouthed off and acted out, so I know I made my family hate me too. I needed love, and no one gave a fuck about me enough to show up.

And the worst is being treated like a fucking spectacle to everyone and realizing later that people never loved you but mocked you behind your back. I have trouble trusting people who say anything positive to me because I was used to people just doing nice things to further their own ego, make themselves look good, or to put me in a spotlight I never asked for.

I'll never be able to love or trust again. People lied to me my whole life, and it unraveled when I left my first douchebag ex. How many people tried to keep me from escaping the bucket because they don't think I should be in control of my life.

Even my father threatened to take legal independence from me after I came out as trans. He's only tried to apologize via text message. He's been one of the biggest bullies of all, and then I find out at thirty that he didn't even fucking want me. That mom had to pull his fucking teeth to get him to visit me.

While mom was one of the few people who tried to understand me before she died and left me for fucking dead too, even she didn't believe me about this mean girl who bullied me from middle school to high school graduation. She was going out of her way to target me on stuff she never targeted anyone else for, yet the adults all gaslit me and insisted that she was trying to give me "constructive criticism."

No one wanted to be around me, I was weird, I was angry, I was developmentally behind my peers, and I was so desperate for someone to give a fuck about me that I ran them all away.

Even people who were supposed to love and protect me failed me. Miserably. And love? Hah. You would be better off trying to escort a snowball through the deepest parts of hell before you'd ever find my soul mate. He's dead. Just like any and all respect I had for people.

If only I was dead, too. I've been left for dead in a deeply depressing world full of people who hate me for several fucking things I have no control over. People are cowards. No one will do even the smallest fucking right thing for anyone else anymore as Trump and Covid proved.

Humans are fucking monsters. Full stop.

every piece of ""autistic representation"" in hollywood sucks not just because of the infantalization and inspiration porn but because movie executives always fail to realize the real universal autistic experience: spending your childhood slowly and unfalteringly realizing all of your friends not so secretly hated and/or merely tolerated you at best and you've missed every social signal about it ever

[bumblingbabooshka]

I love Vulcans we need to get more into the emotional lives of Vulcans without imposing Human standards onto them. "The way you feel is wrong/repressive because it's not the way it's "supposed" to be from my perspective as an alien called Human" is boring to me especially when it's treated as correct. I wanna know how the aliens feel about their alien way of life. Vulcans are so interesting to me when written AS aliens and not as analogous to repressed Humans. I think about Tuvok's description of attachment to his family and how that isn't the emotion 'love' but something else, something that he feels no shame about having and sees as normal, as naturally Vulcan and I love it and I love it because there aren't any Humans there to go "Um actually checkmate you Vulcan s.o.b - that's emotion!" and he isn't being influenced by anything. These are his authentic thoughts. He sees his children, his family, as part of him. They were at times illogical, incomprehensible, and it was extremely rewarding to be in their lives. He thinks about them every day. They were well behaved. As teens they were contemptuous of authority and convinced of their own superiority. His youngest son loved one 200 verse story so he sang it to him. He'd rather die than betray his wife even in spirit. He's incomplete without them. It's obvious through Tuvok that Vulcan life is not inherently devoid of pleasure, comfort, or love and thus Human life (I think) should not be portrayed as inherently having something greater, deeper, more meaningful. I'm not talking here of society but of...emotional life. Interiority. There's this sense that all Vulcans are the same and miserable for it. That they hold themselves back and are indistinguishable and antagonistic to the self, repressed and wrong. That to be Vulcan is to suffer endlessly and Humans are all about Freedom Man and I don't know, I like that Tuvok's existence sort of challenges this as much as I acknowledge that Vulcan society is in fact repressive and unwelcoming to those who don't fit neatly into it. I'm not saying Vulcan society is a utopia, I'm questioning the perception of Vulcan emotional control - that way of life - as being inherently bad, devoid, or lacking. That Vulcans walk around with 'empty cups' and are only deluding themselves that to be that way is good. If only, Humanity moans, they could taste how delicious life could be! Tuvok is an average Vulcan. He does not struggle with emotion, he is not mixed species, he was not raised atypically, and yet he has a family he cares about and a wife he's loyal to and friends he values and none of these things seem to be Un-Vulcan to him. If Vulcan life was truly devoid of love and care, Tuvok wouldn't think of his family. They're not here, so why bother? When his pon farr came, he'd be trying to find the most compatible mate rather than risking his life by trying to meditate through it out of loyalty to T'Pel. T'Pel would also have just given Tuvok up for dead instead of waiting and his children wouldn't have traveled all the way to the most holy temple on the planet to say prayers for his safe return. I think these things are interesting and I wish they'd been explored more. The fact that caring about your family, caring about your friends, is not Un-Vulcan. The fact that Tuvok at no point longs for Humanity, sees nothing better or of interest to him in it. (Even in his teenage rebellion he only says he's sorry he was born Vulcan which reads less as Vulcan v Human and more like 'I hate this goddamn family' ykwim?). I want to know more about how Vulcans interact with each other, how they care for one another, what it means and what it's like to be Vulcan in more of an everyday way rather than what it means to be Vulcan vs Human.

[electraslight]

Adding on to my recent posting, I want to say this: If you do not accept moments in which belos is genuine, you fundamentally miss what makes him terrifying.

Belos loved his brother very dearly. The only times we have ever seen him genuinely happy were when caleb was still in his life, he keeps his old coat in pristine condition, uses his art to decorate and symbolize his glorious empire, some could say he idolizes the human realm so much because that's when caleb was still around, still loving him. Belos's love for Caleb is in everything he does.

Which is terrifying when you think about Belos's crimes, and one by one, they all lead back to love. Trying to kill everyone on the boiling Isles-it's all because Caleb married a wild witch and left Belos all alone. Hunter's existence and the genuine love he has towards him? It's love more like a worshiper at an idol's feet- belos worships hunter more than hunter does him, tries to lock him in his mind forever so he never leaves him after Hunter finds out the truth, refuses to kill hunter only because he needs Caleb to come home with him no matter what. He recreates his brother over and over and it hurts him every time but he kills him because they need to love him the most.

In kings tide, he offers Luz mercy. Belos empathizes with her, away from home, a symbol of who he still thinks he is, painfully nostalgic for the past. But why does he love the human realm so much? Why does he miss the past?

Because that's when Caleb was his.

The idea that Belos is a "narcissist who can't love anyone" is, first of all, kind of abelist to real people with NPD, secondly, patently untrue, everything he does is because of love, and thirdly, missing the point of why Belos is disturbing. Because he thinks doing these things in the name of love is just. It exhonerates him in his mind, that him loving his brother to death means all of this means something, when really Belos is at a point where his love for Caleb is more of a religion than the one he's performing.

Belos is supposed to be loving and warm. That's how he lures in his prey, convinces Hunter to devote his life to him, how he wins over an island of people he wants to kill. He loves, and it's real as rain, but his love is like cancer. It kills everything in you but itself.

[hcneymooners]

౨ৎ kiss me, and you will see how important i am.

ex-wives!pazzi au. men and minors dni.

synopsis: nothing brings together two people like their child's birthday party and the subsequent emotional breakdown.

cw: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, happy ending though open, mentions of infidelity (assumed, but nothing occurred), i would say p is slightly toxic but i really think it's just two adults being complex human beings and making mistakes.

notes: you all were so lovely and kind to me following my pazzi debut. i wanted to post this because i've been sitting on it for a while. i love people who still love each other despite the distance. i hope you enjoy. as always feel free to come into my inbox. i love speaking to you. love you.

“have you not told your mother that we’re separated?”

paige looks up to find her ex-wife standing above her, staring her down in all of her quiet, effortless radiance. azzi looks like the american dream: sun-bronzed and golden, long-legged, with perfect, plump, dark pink lips. she’s wrapped in a mid-thigh dress the color of a late spring bloom—pale lilac, delicate but striking. the fabric spirals down the curves of her waist and hips, cinched in places by thin rings of fringe that sway as she shifts her weight. her curls are slicked back into a bun that blooms at the crown of her head, petals of hair shaped to align with the spring showers theme of the party.

paige hums low in her throat, fingers brushing the hem of azzi’s dress. “you look good, ma.”

azzi swats her hand away without hesitation, leveling her with a look—sharp, unimpressed. paige bites back a grin.

“thought of me when you got dressed?”

azzi’s brow furrows until realization flickers across her face. the purple. paige’s color. her lips part on a scoff, irritation slipping through in a low noise before she schools her features into a tight smile.

“no, i was not. i wasn’t thinking of you at all, actually," she says, her voice light, deceptively sweet. "not until your charming mother came up to me and said she was so glad to see me. oh, but that’s not all.”

paige arches a brow, intrigued, and reaches out to pull azzi closer by the waist, nudging her forward. “no?”

“no.” azzi lets out a breath, clutching the large present perched along her hip. the wrapping paper is a particular shade of green, the birthday girl’s favorite. “then she tells me she understands my brand partnerships have been monopolizing my time, which is why she hasn’t seen me with you in quite some time.”

paige leans back against her seat, stretching her legs out lazily. “i’m not seeing the problem, az.”

azzi stiffens. “you’re not—!” she cuts herself off, inhaling sharply through her nose, shoulders rising and falling as she tries to steady herself. “do you not understand how that makes me look?”

“like a busy wife?” paige quips, knowing full well she’s fanning the flames.

azzi’s eyes flash, but her voice is measured when she speaks again. “like a neglectful mother.”

that sobers paige instantly. she sits up, studying azzi’s face, the tension lining her features. “did she say that?”

“it’s implied, paige.” azzi shifts the present under her arm, pressing her fingers into the wrapped edges. “you’re always bringing our daughter around, always having fun with her. and then i take her for holidays, and it’s like—wow, azzi makes no effort to be there in any other way.” her throat tightens, and she shakes her head. “i mean, come on. i know you’re punishing me for leaving you, but can you at least give me this?”

paige’s tongue flicks out, pale pink swiping over her lower lip, brow knitting together. punishing azzi was never something she wanted to do. but before she can find the right words, a small blur of brown crashes into azzi’s legs, nearly sending her toppling over.

“mommy!”

azzi folds like a house of cards, collapsing to her knees in the grass without a care for her dress. she gathers their daughter into her arms, pulling her in so tightly it’s as if she’s afraid to let go.

“my mia,” azzi murmurs, voice low and thick with emotion. “happy birthday, baby.”

mia beams, the gap in her teeth dark and small, laughter bubbling up as she buries her face in her mother’s neck. it’s almost uncanny how much she looks like azzi. the same wide, joyful smile. the same burst of blush that rises along their cheeks when they’re excited. even the same curls, though looser—tumbling around the glittering spires of her birthday tiara.

azzi cradles mia’s face, thumbs stroking the plush of her cheeks. she fusses over her, straightening the sequined sage-green tutu and retying the laces of her chunky mini sneakers, her fingers gentle and practiced. paige knows it's a chance for her to collect herself. azzi hates crying in front of other people.

“mommy, i’ve been waiting for you! you weren't at home!”

“i’m sorry, baby. there was traffic,” azzi croaks, her voice betraying her. her hand flies to her throat—her tell, the reflex she always has when she’s trying not to cry. “but mommy sped a little bit. she just couldn’t wait to see her favorite girl.”

mia frowns. “you should be careful. mama says we shouldn’t go too fast, or we can get hurt.”

azzi exhales a quiet laugh, smoothing a hand down mia’s back. “yeah,” she whispers. “mama’s right.

paige clenches her jaw, something bitter and painful lodging itself deep in her ribs. she feels so sick at the idea that anyone could believe azzi doesn’t love their girl, this spitting image of her—maybe the only thing of azzi that she has left. she watches them—azzi, kneeling in the grass—and stands, her drink dangling dangerously from her hand, going to join the two. but then azzi stands and is gone—dragged away by mia’s small hand and even smaller strength.

she watches as azzi jogs along behind her, her heels puncturing the earth like glass through a lung. her hair bounces, streaked from the sun, and her body looks as though it’s trying to vibrate out of itself, her love so evident that it struggles to leave her and get to the child in front of her.

the light catches on the strands of her hair, identical to mia's who is bouncing with each hurried step.

and it’s so obvious—the way she moves, the way her whole body seems to vibrate with affection, her love so intense it barely fits inside her. it pours out of her like light, desperate to reach the child in front of her.

paige swallows hard.

𓃹

paige finds azzi in the kitchen, her hands braced on the countertop before they come up to wipe her face.

“why are you crying, mama? c’mere.”

azzi exhales sharply, shaking her head. “please don’t.”

paige doesn’t listen. she steps forward, hands curling around azzi’s waist, gentle but firm. azzi lets herself be held for a second. just a second. then she presses her hands against paige’s chest and cuts her off. she wraps her arms around herself as if she’s attempting to recreate the warmth.

paige sighs. “you mad at me?”

azzi laughs, quiet and humorless. “yeah, p, a little. there’s a point at which i can no longer take being ignored by my wife.”

the nickname just slips out. it’s muscle memory.

paige stills. “azzi.”

azzi tilts her head, searching her face. “i feel like—it’s just. you’ve only ever wanted me when you didn’t have me,” she murmurs. “and my whole life, i’ve been right there.”

paige opens her mouth, then closes it. she looks away, rubbing a hand over her jaw. “you know that ain’t true.”

“and then we got married, and i thought this would be it. we’d be happy and okay. but then—i don’t know. you were less my wife and more the most famous woman i knew saying hello from my ipad.”

paige’s eyes lower, growing dead and dark. azzi watches her for a long moment, recognizes the signs of her checking out, then sighs. “paige. why haven’t you told anyone we’re separated?”

paige blinks at her, called back into the present, and then lets out a short, incredulous breath. “azzi, you can’t be serious. i don’t want this.”

azzi’s jaw clenches. her hands shake as she turns away, pressing her palms to the counter again. the position emphasizes the toned silhouette of her arms.

paige steps closer, voice softer now. “i don’t want this.”

azzi swallows hard, staring at the marble beneath her hands. “i’m tired, p,” she says quietly. “i just want to wake up and love you and know you love me back. i just want to go on my walk and come back to find you there. i want to be with mia all the time. i want you to start talking to me.” her throat tightens. “but i’m never going to get that, am i? maybe it’s just too much to ask.”

paige exhales sharply, jaw tightening. “azzi—baby, you have to know that i didn’t step out on you. i wasn’t with anyone else. i wasn't. i just got caught up in the pressure and—”

“i know,” azzi says, finally looking at her. “i know, p, everything i do, i always understand. i always understood. but honestly, infidelity would have been better than the things i was feeling.

paige runs a hand over her face, lets out a rough laugh. “like what?”

“endless loneliness that was never going to stop.” paige remains quiet, her teeth digging into her bottom lip until it splits. “then we did ivf and had mia, and for a moment i was okay. i was better. i was good.”

“i couldn’t complain,” azzi says. “i didn’t.”

paige shakes her head, muttering something under her breath. “man, you act like i’m tryna hurt you.”

azzi closes her eyes. “it’s not like that.”

paige doesn’t know what to do with her hands. she shifts her weight like she wants to argue, but azzi doesn’t give her the chance.

“the fact that it’s not intentional is what makes it hurt so much,” azzi says after a moment. “that’s why i kept letting it go. it’s so easy to forgive you.” her mouth twists into a pained smile. “despite your mistakes, you’re not a malicious person.”

paige presses her lips together, her fingers twitching at her sides. “azzi, please—”

azzi shakes her head again, this time slower, more deliberate. “you don’t mean to hurt me, and so i’m still here. it’s my fault, really. no one is asking me to stand in the wreckage of the life i can’t seem to walk away from. that i still want.”

paige swallows hard, her throat bobbing. she wants to reach out, to pull azzi close, but she doesn’t. for the first time in her life, she doesn’t know how to reach her. azzi breaks the silence, wiping underneath her eyes with a bit of paper towel.

“come one. it’ll be time for presents soon.”

paige watches her walk away for the millionth time, watches how her back ripples with the flex of her muscles. in the following silence, she only thinks of azzi’s eyes and how dark they are. just like mia’s.

𓃹

the night is a welcome change. the house is quieter, the soft hum of the city bleeding in through the balcony doors. the partygoers have gone, goody bags in hand and heads lolling sleepily along their parents’s shoulders. mia herself had been babbling nonsensically, her hand tight around her brand-new barbie doll. paige had it specifically made to look like her mommy.

it was mia’s favorite present of the day. it made azzi cry for the second time that afternoon.

inside, the house is still cluttered with evidence of a child’s birthday well celebrated, a day well lived. paper plates are stacked on the counter, ribbons forgotten on the floor, the faint scent of frosting lingering in the air. paige tosses a few cups into the trash and wipes down the counter before realizing azzi isn’t beside her anymore.

she roams the halls, peeking into rooms until she finds her on the balcony just outside of paige’s childhood bedroom, leaning against the railing, a thin, silver vape pinched between her fingers. the glow of it flares as she takes a slow inhale, her body unmoving except for the way her shoulders rise and fall.

paige frowns. “since when do you smoke?”

azzi exhales, a thin stream of vapor curling into the night. it smells a bit too sweet, a few inches too far from the cherry it aims to evoke. it’s clearly not hers.

“since i shattered my knee and my dreams and became my top athlete wife’s accessory?” her voice is light, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it. “i’m kidding. only recently. i don’t do it all the time, though, and never around mia.”

she shifts and paige steps closer, leaning against the railing beside her and sliding her hands into the pockets of her black sweatpants.

“truth be told, i hate how it makes me feel.”

“so why are you doing it?”

azzi huffs out a laugh, breathless, humorless. she tilts her head back and blinks up at the sky like she’s searching for something. “feels better than this.”

that’s when paige sees it. the sheen in azzi’s eyes, the way her lashes are clumped together, the tiny tremor in her fingers. she’s been crying again.

paige exhales, something tight wrapping around her ribs. without thinking, she reaches out and takes the vape from azzi’s hand, flicking it off and setting it on the balcony ledge. azzi doesn’t stop her.

“you’re such a crybaby,” paige mutters, but it comes out soft, almost affectionate. she turns, crowding azzi’s space just enough. “i don’t know why you don’t talk to me—”

“i don’t want to bother you,” azzi says, and her voice is incredibly small.

azzi looks at her then, really looks at her. for a second, it feels like the air between them shifts, something raw and fragile opening up. paige can feel her pulse in her throat, a nervous tremor she isn’t used to.

azzi reaches up, slow and deliberate, and cradles paige’s face in her hands. her thumbs skim the sharp edges of her jaw, her touch featherlight but grounding. paige exhales, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. when she opens them again, azzi is watching her with something so deep it makes her ache.

“you know i’m so proud of you, right?” azzi whispers. “regardless.”

paige lets out a breath, something falling away miles down inside of her. she nods, just barely, and then—because she can’t help herself—she presses their foreheads together.

“you know that i love you, right?” paige says, voice rough. “for fucking real, az. you’re it for me.”

azzi closes her eyes, and when she breathes in, paige breathes with her. she doesn’t say anything, but her hands stay where they are, holding paige steady like she’s afraid to let go. her grip tightens, and then she goes to pull away but paige stills her with a hand around her wrist. azzi is cooperative with her touch this time, allowing paige to guide her back into the bedroom.

she doesn’t ask any questions when paige pulls her to the bed, pushing her down until she’s on her side. her head is heavy, afflicted with the buzz of nicotine, and she stays silent as her wife climbs in beside her. the two of them are two crescent moons made of flesh, mirroring one another in their grief and desires. paige presses their foreheads together once again and azzi focuses on the feeling of her warm skin, the hard bone.

she breathes out and paige breathes in as if to inhale her. azzi’s breath smells like cherry—real cherry.

“i hate it when things change,” azzi says, and her voice is strained with emotion.

“you could never make a decision,” paige teases, and azzi laughs wetly.

silence, then,

“p?”

“hmm?”

“i don’t want this either.”

paige pulls her closer, lifts one of her legs so that her dress slides up, and reveals the soft meat of her thigh. she settles azzi’s legs on top of hers, ensuring that they’re closer together.

“i know, ma. that’s what i’ve been trying to tell you.”

azzi’s buzz continues, drifting gently over her limbs until they’re heavy; her thoughts hazy around the edges. the world feels softer somehow; the pain is less jagged. she can feel every point where her body meets paige's—hip to hip, chest to chest, the tangle of their legs a familiar comfort she's been starving for.

the familiar scent of azzi’s perfume—something floral, threaded with dry vanilla, and subtle—fills paige's lungs. it's the same perfume paige had bought her for their fifth anniversary, the one azzi had worn every day since, even after she'd left.

"where you staying at?" paige asks, her voice low and rough against azzi's ear.

"the marriott downtown," azzi murmurs, her fingertips tracing idle patterns on the cotton of paige's shirt. "just until i figure things out."

paige makes a noise in the back of her throat, disapproving. "nah, i don’t like that. don't want you living out of suitcases in some hotel. and marriotts are very unsafe, you know. read an article that said they have the highest break-in rates of any hotel franchise.”

“and where was this article from?” azzi asked, her voice thick with amusement.

“girl, don’t even worry about it.” her hand travels up azzi's spine, warm and steady. azzi presses back into them, her body contorting in its search for comfort. "just come back home to me, mama. i'll sleep on the couch if you want, but at least i'll know you're safe."

"safe," azzi repeats, a small, broken laugh escaping her. "as if that's ever been the issue with us."

"it's always been the issue," paige counters, her fingers now threading through the loose curls at the nape of azzi's neck, careful not to disturb her bun. "you not feeling safe enough to tell me when i'm fucking up."

the honesty surprises them both. azzi shifts, propping herself up on an elbow to look at paige's face. in the dim light filtering in from the balcony, her features are soft, open in a way azzi hasn't seen in months.

"maybe we could try therapy," paige suggests, the words so deeply obvious of their difficulty.

azzi's eyes widen slightly. "you'd do that?"

"for you? for us?" paige's throat works as she swallows. "yeah. i would."

azzi leans in, drawn by something familiar and inevitable between them. their lips meet, soft and hesitant at first, then with growing urgency. it's not frantic, not desperate, but deep and prying. when they touch like this—in any capacity really—their lives feel as though they are their most sustainable.

paige's hands drift to azzi's waist, holding her close as if afraid she might evaporate. they're trying to get closer, always closer, as if the mere millimeters of space between them are too much to bear. azzi shifts until she's practically melted into paige, their bodies remembering each other in the dark.

they are teenagers again, rediscovering that the other feels the same, trying to live inside of each other.

when they break apart, azzi's lips are kiss-swollen and so dark, all the blood sucked to the surface. her eyes are heavy-lidded from more than just her high.

"i never signed the papers," she confesses, voice barely above a whisper.

paige stares at her for a moment before a genuine laugh bubbles up from her chest. "you really can't make a decision to save your life, can you?"

"shut up," azzi mumbles, burying her face in paige's neck, but there's no heat behind it. she loops a hand through paige’s hair, taking in the spill of gold across her palm. "i kept finding reasons to put it off."

"what kinda reasons?" paige asks, her hand sliding beneath the hem of azzi's dress to rest on the warm skin of her thigh, the touch reverent and possessive all at once.

"i don’t know. um, mia's birthday was coming up. then it was our anniversary. then it was…" she trails off, her voice dropping even lower. "then it was because every time i went to sign, i couldn't—i couldn’t remember why i was leaving in the first place."

the admission hangs in the air between them, heavy with implication. paige's hand stills on azzi's skin.

"you still love me," paige says, not a question but a revelation.

"that was never the problem," azzi replies, the words muffled against paige's collarbone. "loving you is like breathing. i don't know how to stop, and i’d die if i did."

paige's arms tighten around her. they still aren’t looking at each other. "then don't. come home, az. we'll figure the rest out."

"it's not that simple—"

"it is. it could be," paige insists, but her voice is gentler now. "i know i fucked up. i know i let my career become everything. but i swear to god, az, i'm done with that shit. nothing's worth losing you. nothing."

azzi lifts her head, her gaze meeting paige's in the semi-darkness. the proximity has left her thoughts fluid, boundaries blurred, making it easier to say what she's been holding back. "hope is a dangerous thing, p, and you’re giving it to me.”

“i know," paige agrees, her thumb brushing over azzi's bottom lip. "but what's the alternative? living half a life? watching mia grow up in two different homes when we both know that ain't what we want?"

azzi closes her eyes, letting the weight of paige's words wash over her. when she opens them again, there's a quiet determination there, fragile but present.

"i'll consider coming home," she says finally, her practicality still firm despite her emotional exhaustion. "but we have to go to therapy, and you have to try. no excuses."

relief floods paige's face, so naked and earnest that it makes azzi's heart clench. "yes, yes, okay," she whispers, pressing her forehead to azzi's. "thank you, baby.”

"you don’t have to thank me," azzi replies, playing nonchalantly but there's a softness to her words that takes away the sting. her hand comes up to rest against paige's jaw, her thumb brushing over the bone. “i want—i miss you so much. it hurts sometimes, aches right inside of my ribs. i haven't been able to sleep without you.”

"i'm right here," paige murmurs against her temple. "i'm always gonna be right here, waiting for you."

they lie there in the quiet, bodies intertwined, the world spinning just beyond the balcony doors. neither speaks for a long time, content to exist in this fragile moment. azzi closes her eyes, her head heavy on paige's chest, rising and falling with each breath. the buzz is fading, reality seeping back in, but she holds onto this feeling—hopes that she will get to feel it again.

she thinks of mia, pictures their baby girl sleeping with her mouth slack and none the wiser to the complexities of loving someone else. she hopes she never finds out.

"you're it for me, az," paige murmurs into her hair, the words a quiet repetition from earlier. "always have been."

azzi doesn't respond for a moment, but her fingers tighten in paige's shirt, holding on as if to say: i know. me too.

"i know," azzi says, out loud this time. "you’re it for me too. i mean, you're paige. we go together. you're everything. i don’t think there was ever anyone else for me."

paige's heart clenches, a painful pulse in her chest. she smooths a hand down azzi’s side.

her heart pumps, thumps out a message.

azzi’s heart thumps back.

© hcneymooners.

[slutoru1207]

Stranger in a Strange Land

Viltrimite!Mark x Reader

When Mark first arrived on Earth, he saw it as nothing more than a mission. A planet to study, integrate into, and eventually conquer.

Then, he met you.

It wasn’t anything dramatic. No explosions, no fights, no cosmic events shifting fate itself. You just… bumped into him.

Literally.

You were in a rush, balancing coffee, your bag, and about ten different things when you crashed right into him—and bounced off like you hit a brick wall.

Your coffee spilled. Your things scattered. And you ended up on the pavement, blinking up at the tall, broad strangerwho didn’t even budge.

He looked down at you, eyebrows furrowed, golden eyes studying you with sharp curiosity.

“…You’re fragile.”

That was the first thing he said to you.

And instead of being terrified—you got annoyed.

"Gee, thanks, man," you muttered, gathering your things. "Glad to know I’m not made of steel."

His head tilted, clearly confused. You sighed. Another clueless dude with zero social skills.

Still, he crouched, far too close, picking up your bag like it weighed nothing before offering you a hand.

That’s when you got a good look at him.

He was gorgeous.

Tall, stupidly muscular, sharp jawline, tousled black hair—but his eyes. They were different. Golden, intense, watching you like you were some strange new species.

You hesitated before taking his hand.

It was warm. Solid. And when he pulled you up—he lifted you effortlessly, like you weighed nothing.

That was the beginning.

-

You quickly learned that Mark wasn’t just weird.

He was entirely clueless.

He didn’t understand social norms, personal space, or why humans didn’t casually lift cars to move them out of parking spots.

"What do you mean I can’t?" he frowned, watching as you dragged him away from a busy intersection. "It’s inefficient."

"It’s illegal," you corrected. "And it freaks people out!"

"But I’m helping."

"You're scaring people, Mark!"

He looked at the pedestrians, who were staring in horror after watching him lift a sedan with one hand.

"…They should be grateful."

You groaned. "Okay, we need to talk."

Mark didn’t understand human food, either.

"You’re telling me," he said, staring at the plate of pancakes in front of him, "that this is considered 'breakfast'?"

"Yeah?" you said, confused. "Why? What do you eat?"

His eyes darkened just slightly.

You decided not to ask.

Instead, you shoved a fork into his hand. "Just try it."

He sighed, looking skeptical—but took a bite.

And then… he froze.

You watched as his expression slowly shifted—surprise, wonder, then… something almost like awe.

"…This is good," he muttered.

You grinned. "See? Welcome to the magic of pancakes."

For the first time, he smiled.

A real, genuine, boyish grin. And it made your stomach flip.

-

Mark was blunt, honest, and terrifyingly intense.

But as time passed, he softened—at least around you.

You caught him watching you sometimes. Not in a creepy way—but in pure fascination.

"You’re so small," he’d say out of nowhere.

You raised an eyebrow. "Gee, thanks."

His lips twitched. "I like it."

…Oh.

Then there were the moments he got protective.

Like the time a guy got too close, too pushy.

Mark didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

He just stepped forward, standing at his full overpowering height, eyes glowing, and… yeah. The guy practically ran.

You had to drag Mark away before he could actually kill someone.

"You can’t just threaten people, Mark!"

"Why not?"

"Because that’s not how humans work!"

"Then how do I make sure no one touches you?"

You paused.

Your heart pounded.

"...You just ask me if I want them to."

His gaze flickered. He was silent for a long time before muttering, "I don’t want anyone else to touch you."

Oh.

-

Mark didn’t know what love was.

Not in the way humans did.

But he knew that whenever he was near you, his chest felt lighter. That when you laughed, something warm spread through him. That when you weren’t around, he felt restless.

And when someone even looked at you the wrong way, he had to physically restrain himself from acting on pure, primal instinct.

So, one night—he just asked.

"What does it mean when you want to keep someone?"

You blinked. "What?"

"When you don’t want anyone else near them. When you think about them constantly. When their happiness makes your chest feel—" he paused, searching for the word, "—lighter."

Your heart stopped.

Slowly, you set your drink down. "Mark…"

He stared at you, waiting. Expectant. Hopeful.

"You’re describing love," you whispered.

Something in his expression shifted.

For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Then, finally—he reached for your hand.

His grip was gentle. Careful.

Like he had already decided.

"Then, I love you."

And just like that—you were ruined.

[ladyycherryy]

Hi just first wanted to say I love ur writing, it's so nice to read as if am really seeing it physically. Anyways I wanted to ask if you could write a starfire type reader where she first meets mark and how their relationship grows . Exploring his friends and parents reaction to her power , tamaranean background and personality. I know damn well cecil will be exhausted finding out there's another alien race with so much power . thank you again for ur work in the invincible fandom cause there's so few amazing writers. 😘😘

Ahhh thank you so much!! 🥹💖 That means the world to me!! I LOVE the idea of a Starfire-type reader I don’t know much of her but I tried my best (♡ˊ͈ ꒳ ˋ͈) hope you enjoy!!

Mark first meets you under a.. Chaotic circumstance. An alien attack and he is already in mid-fight when you swoop in. Blasting through enemies, striking, and flipping with this effortless grace. Mark is immediately like Σ(°□°˶) !! So powerful, he can't take his eyes off of you. He's already impressed but also slightly intimidated. “Uh… who are you?” But you can't understand him yet, titling your head blinking in confusion. “You don't understand me, do you?”

Without hesitation you float towards him, placing your hands gently on his cheek and kissing him. Mark freezes. His eyes widened. You pull back, lips turning into a bright smile. “Ah! Now i understand”

“What just happened?”

“In my homeworld, Tamaran, lip contact is a simple custom to learn any language”

“simple..??” Mark is completely flustered while you're acting like kissing him was the most normal thing in the world.

He starts seeing you around more often, you being curious about Earth. Everything from human customs to food. Mark ends up becoming your unofficial guide. You’re fascinated by Earth’s food, the first time Mark takes you out for burgers, you literally hover out of your seat from excitement. “This is delicious! May I try yours?” and before he could answer you, steal a fry from his tray. Acting like fries are the greatest discovery of your life. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ Mark becomes curious about Tamaranean culture and one day you got him to try something from your home plant – Zorkaberries. Presenting them to him proudly, a small bowl of deep purple berries in your hand, Mark would eye them suspiciously. He hesitated for a moment before picking one, and popping it in his mouth. The flavor being bittersweet “Whoa, this is really good?”

“Of course! They are Zorkaberries!!” giggling, floating closer and patting his back “do you wish for more?”

Tamaraneans are naturally affectionate so you're constantly touching mark. Holding his hand, brushing your fingers through his hair, and hugging him from behind. It's second nature to you. The more you two hang out and go on dates the more you start falling in love, he loves how blunt you are and have no problem telling Mark exactly how you feel — even if it flusters him.

When you first met his parents, Debbie and Nolan. You were extremely polite, immediately hugging her and complimenting her home. Offering to help with dinner which she is surprised but pleased by. During dinner time you speak of tales of your planet, your people, how you come from a warrior race and noble family. Nolan, on the other hand, is suspicious of you. He recognizes how powerful you are and the fact that you come from an alien race puts him on edge. His Viltrumite instincts are definitely twitching, wary of you but you remain cheerful and unbothered.

Cecil is immediately rubbing his temples because 2 Viltrumites is already bad enough – now there's Tamaranean on earth? Just what he needed, but deep down he knows you could be an invaluable ally , keeping a close eye on you to ensure you're not up to something.

As for mark friends ? William thinks you're super cool, saved him from a villain once and he won't stop yapping about how you carried him bridal style. Amber loves how sweet and down to earth you are, obsessed with helping you pick out earth clothes and doing ‘girl stuff’ together. Eve is immediately fascinated by you, she recognizes your power level and asks you about your planet and your culture. “So you guys can fly and absorb sunlight? That's insane”

“It is quite convenient!”

Bonus:

Afterward, Mark’s brain is still trying to catch up. Mark (to himself): “She’s a literal princess. And she kissed me. To learn my language. Okay.” (꜆꜄ᴗ͈﹏ᴗ͈)꜆꜄꜆

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

Hi! Do you have any advice on how to stop caring about likes and kudos? Even though I primarily write out of love and I've been writing for just myself long before I'd posted anything publicly, now that I have I find it really difficult not to let likes and kudos influence me, whether it's feeling discouraged from writing when fics don't do well or finding myself focusing more on what people want to read than what I want to write

some tricks I personally use. I can't guarantee that it will work for everybody, but I hope at least some of them helps.

try posting before you go to bed at night. this way, you don't constantly check for kudos or comments throughout the day, until the next morning. and if you find it hard to sleep because your mind keeps thinking about whether or not people have been giving kudos to your works, try and trick your mind into thinking that "it's done. I posted it. it's out of my hands now, now it's time for me to get some rest".

this can also apply to when you're not trying to sleep. personally, I find it helping when I tell myself "I did it. it's out of my hands. it's not my responsibility anymore. if people love it, that's great. but if they don't, well, I did it for me anyway."

try looking at the numbers of hits, kudos and comments as actual people and not just "digital numbers" — five kudos may not be a lot to some people if you're looking at those kudos as "just a number", but the truth is that those five kudos are actually five human beings.

personally, I would feel pretty proud of myself if my work had five different people walking up to me in real life and saying to my face that "I did well" and that they "enjoyed my work".

because that's actually the case for your fic. it may look like "just a number" when you're looking at your screen, but the truth is that that's actually human beings who read and appreciate your work.

30 hits may not be a lot to some writers when they're only seeing "digital number" on their screen. but it's actually quite impressive when you imagine a room with 30 people in there, and all of them are reading your work.

or if your work doesn't get hits / kudos or likes, that still doesn't mean "it's bad" either. maybe the right people who will love it just haven't had the chance to find it yet, and that's okay, that's fine.

think of your work as a treasure, a hidden gem. just because only few people find it doesn't mean it's not valuable.

[celestetumbledryer]

i think batgirl would be somewhat of a mediator in this..

obviously, she believes killing is the worst thing you can do to someone. i don't oppose this idea, i think it's just a significant part of her character, like batman, not to directly kill people. characters such as barbara and kara do not believe killing is always the right path to go, but don't have a strict rule against it (see your reference and tom king's[yes, i know, terrible source.] "woman of tomorrow") despite her morals, cassandra understands why people believe that some people must face death, she doesn't kill people herself, however, she does not stop people from dying in a way. in a storyline of batgirl(2000)[i love batgirl2000......], she attempts to stop the sentence of a murderer on death row, she faces to victim of the felon's crimes. cassandra argues that "maybe he will change". as she herself had killed someone and changed her views. my memory is like a stereotypical goldfish so i don't know if this was before or after she died and came back,, but i think she knows what she is saying. in the end, she considers the other party's perspective and lets the sentence go on. however, in the same comic run, cassandra isn't in a great headspace you know, lady shiva and perfect for a year and all that. she reads a man's body language and tells him that "it's not worth it" for his suicide, thus leaving a man shocked how this random 17 year old girl knew of his intentions. in a way, she saved a life. batgirl is her own character with her own unique ethics. she has great belief in the bat symbol and what it represents ("don't kill") and refers to it often. however, she was closer to barbara before she even knew batman as a person. oracle "was like a mother" to cass. she was the first person to be addressed while cassandra was recording her goodbyes regarding the first major fight with lady shiva. so there is some bias there and also a possible ethical dilemma? cassandra loves her found family very much, but like everyone, they do not share some thoughts, but can entertain them. disliking killing doesn't mean she does not engage in battle however. batgirl will go out of her way to fight someone. she is also one of the most skilled human combat fighters in dc, able to read body language to perfectionism while being raised as a weapon. so i guess she'd support beating up joker lol/hj usually i would add scenes for proof to a post like this but my inifinite subscription ran out and a certain panel finding website is down, so i encourage you all the read actual comics!!!!!! Batgirl (2000) by Kelley Puckett and Scott Peterson!!!! uh,, and maybe something by tom king.... Woman of Tomorrow(2022)!!!! if i got anything wrong please tell me i need to catch up on comics lore and my sleep hours. thanks ! ٩(രᴗര)ᵇʸᵉ

There are so many Dick, Bruce, or Tim kills the Joker fics on AO3, meanwhile Barbara was the one talking about how The Joker should be the exception to the No Kill Rule years before Red Hood Jason even existed.

[rassicas]

Something always bugged me about the fruits and vegetables in Alterna compared to the ones in the Greater Inkadian/Splatlandian region.

According to a page in the Splatoon artbook, fruits and veggies evolved/genetically mutated to resemble squids, (eg. Squid Fin Lemons, "Squiddage" (cabbage), Squid Leg Grapes, squidkin (pumpkin), Squiddymelon?) But then Tomatoes are JUST Tomatoes. No change in either appearance or name. And its known to the NSS that tomatoes were grown in human times accoring to one of Marie's lines reading "...they should've let tomatoes go extinct..." ("they" being the human occupants of Alterna ofc.)

Meaning 1: the Tomato plant and its fruit had been known to Inkfish before ROTM

And 2: Marie had to have tried them at some point and found out her distaste for them

So if that were the case.. why dont the Tomatoes have squid pun names/appearances if they were known to Inklings WAY before the discovery of Alterna? If they were always there, then wouldnt they be named with the same format as the rest? And have some unique feature that links it to Inkling appearance?

ah yes the fruits and vegetables page from the s1 artbook that everyone loves. this is the kind of shit that got me invested in splatoon's worldbuilding babyyyyyy

ok lemme pick apart your ask >According to a page in the Splatoon artbook, fruits and veggies evolved/genetically mutated to resemble squids The other very plausible option other than a natural evolution/mutation is that these plants were selectively bred to look squid shaped or to react with ink. This would make a lot of sense with the amount of plants that are unchanged. (like a lot of decorative/inedible plants look normal, and it seems like just some fruits and veggies are squid-shaped) This would fit with how humans selectively bred these very fruits and vegetables to be easier/better to eat in the first place.

to address the main question. if you have nothing but this crop of this page it looks like there's just. regular tomatoes. it might just be older concept art though, or rather the shape of the structure the tomatoes are in was more important than the fruit's design in those drawings. but right above this section, there is art for a squid-shaped tomato

and in the art of splatoon 2 it appears again, being called an ink tomato. (...next to a squiddymelon erroneously just called a watermelon)

the fun thing about these tomatoes is not only are they squid shaped, but they also react to ink color! they can be seen growing in kelp dome, the fruits change depending on team color.

(shout out to @splatreference for always having the extremely specific ungoogleable screenshots i need) beyond that though it seems like non-ink tomatoes exist. represented as sculptures in salmonid territory+check the salad. these look like cherry tomatoes though

the species list has a section for plants too!

ok one last thing I didnt realize marie mentioned she wishes they let tomatoes go extinct in alterna. LOL. i think this is in reference to her news dialogue for kelp dome in s1:

Callie: 「そう言えば、じーちゃんが子供の時　トマトとか　無かったらしいよ！」 (Say, Gramps said that when he was little, tomatoes and such didn't even exist!) Marie: 「その時代に　生まれたかった��」 (I wish I was born back then...)

oh yeah wait this dialogue. what do you mean tomatoes didnt even exist. options: -cuttlefish is just lying to his grandkids (possible. old people will do that.) -food culture changed dramatically for the naturally carnivorous inkfish, and became more varied and veggie heavy in the past 100 or so years (also possible. and interesting)

this line of dialogue has crossed my mind before and now i subject you all to it too<3

[aidensolas]

STORED DATABASE - A Forsaken fic

Silly ver. (A bit different from what I'd write but I had this idea since before and it seems like a fun one.)

How did this happen again?

Elliot baking a pizza pie with Noob helping him - How cute.

Guest and Chance playing Video games on your console - Chance won.

007n7 and c00lkidd making paper airplanes from your money - You don't mind but what a waste.

1x1x1x1 and Two Time watching a movie beside you - How Homey.

Dussekar decorating his own room with magic - Hey a room doesn't decorate itself... Does it?

Shedletsky and Builderman talking to each other - Borinnnngggg.

Mafioso? You forget how he's even here in the first place is probably thinking of taking your money through a elaborately planned debt making machine - Scary...

Jason? Cutting up meat for our dinner later - How nice of him <3

Lastly, John Doe wait where is he? Oh, right he's taking a nap after running for a while. - What or where was he running from again?

You shake your head repeatedly which makes Two Time look at you he tilted his head a bit and asked "You okay? You've been out of it since yesterday." 1x1x1x1 then held your face between their hands and made you face the channel which you were watching the movie off of "Focus on the movie. It's getting to the good part where his guts are spilled all over the floor." The zipper on their mouth making a little 'jingle' as they chuckle seemingly more interested in the movie than what you're thinking about. You forgot you were watching a scary movie about cultists no wonder why the elusive awkward Two Time asked to join you in your activities due to the fact he wanted to see how humans make offerings to their creators so to say the least he is not impressed a bit uncomfortable to say the least but since you're there he stays. "Interesting way of offering a person..." 1x1x1x1 looked at Two Time who seemed completely uncomfortable with the movie and whispered into your ear "He's a bit of a freak isn't he? If he doesn't like it, why is he staying?" A bit put off by his behavior 1x1x1x1 decided to switch his focus back on the movie. You slump on your sit and sigh. How did things come to this? You let your mind wonder to when this all started. It all started when.....

Flashback

"BRO THROW THE PIZZA YOU LITTLE S#!5" you screamed at your computer as you watch another Elliot who clearly has their ability ready not use it when you're literally on the verge of entering the pearly red gates of hell after thinking on what you're gonna do with this Elliot post-game. "OH MY GOD YOU ################" You somehow got tagged in real life for saying the most obscene and horrible curse known to mankind which was honestly a feat in of its own.

You sighed as you watch your character die to the killer The Elliot somehow facing a LMS with 1% of his hp, you chuckled and thought 'Hope he doesn't even last a second.' You were a normal person except for the fact you were extremely rich... Too rich infact you could basically give 50 people enough money to be rich for 10 generations back-to-back how you might ask? Well, it's because of your truly goated mindset of 'Money first, Games second, Love third.' hence you winning the lottery 9 times in a row which is insane if you think about it and another reason why you're utterly single and alone in your giant when I mean giant, I mean GIANT mansion. 'Oh well other people drag me down anyway.' focusing back onto the game you could see Elliot being murdered by John Doe which made you chuckle as a random pop-up randomly appears on your screen which seems to be a server wide announcement of forsaken shutting down temporarily due to data issues which made you gasp in horror 'Not your favourite game!' you panicked as you thought about what to do in the next 5 minutes without your favourite game plaguing your mind just like how food runs your thoughts.

The game seemingly frozen now at the spectator screen of you watching John Doe raise Elliot up from the ground as he's about to stab his spiky spike into his abdomen you sigh as you try to quit but no avail... Okay? Anyways as you were about to leave your laptop and go get some food another pop up arrives

Would you like to save the database into your home? Don't worry you'll be completely safe.

Yes / No

Huh? What a weird pop-up doesn't this just mean we're saving our data incase we lose it and how agreeing to this will keep my data safe? What weird wording from the Devs(Okay grammar police). You didn't pay much attention to it as you just pressed Yes and then a blinding light enters your room you close your eyes in reflex and open them again to see a humanized version of John doe and Elliot (still same skin color ofc) Infront of you still in the pose of absolute being murdered Elliot was squirming as John Doe was about to stab him with the spike, John Doe realizing they're not in the same place anymore looked around the surroundings until he set his eyes onto you. You being flabbergasted could only say one word to express your ever yapping self.

"Whaaaaaaaaaaaat."

Notes:

Something different from what I'd usually write but here it is! Something silly and fun to balance from the major angst I plan to do in my other fic. This will be more lighthearted and a tad bit ooc depends if I see fit.

TAGLIST (DO I EVEN TAGLIST SINCE THIS IS A NEW FIC?)

SO so so sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged in another story pls tell me and I'll remove if you want :pray:

@brain4stew @yukinaabutlazy @ilikedrinkingsoda @oniadopts @no-hearts-included

Edit: As I keep looking more onto it, I don't really like two time liking human rituals it doesn't feel right so It'll be edited! I'm a sucker for my ideals and even if I did think it's silly at the time, my brain and heart nags me to change it </3

[ooc-miqojak]

Everyone deserves respect - the Bible says so. So if Christians want to be better people and be less offensive? Listen to the people around you and have compassion. I haven't been to church in... 15ish years or more (I don't trust most modern preachers - look at what they're teaching people!), but you don't need to know anything save for the commandments and a few parables, to know how to be a good person and a good Christian - be kind, be compassionate, and do no harm. That's it. The bottom line is to be kind and compassionate to every human being. And any Christian who's worth their salt knows that the Bible encourages you to be even MORE helpful and kind and compassionate to those you're different than/at odds with. I mean, that's the whole point of the Good Samaritan - people who should hate each other are aiding one another. The Bible specifically says to be *that* kind and humble! To even help one you should hate.

I hope OP's message reaches the right people... and that those people have open ears and minds - and I'm sorry that those masquerading as Christians have caused this person so... so very much pain in their life - that's the very opposite of the core of the faith, and it pisses me off to no end that something so good is used for so much harm. It's not right, and it shouldn't have happened - and I'm grateful for their open mind in accepting Christians into their practice, and trying to work with them! They're showing a 'Christ-like' acceptance of others that many of the modern day pseudo-Christians don't, ironically enough! But then, I've known more atheists who live up to Christian ideals, than fake Christians who do. (They can preach until they're blue in the face, but actions speak louder than words.)

Modern Christians need to actually walk the walk, and maybe actually embrace the old 'WWJD?' (What Would Jesus Do?) movement again. They need eyes to see, and ears to hear.

Be willing to listen, and learn. Be humble. Be kind. Be patient. Be understanding. Be compassionate. That's what it's all about - and those things can be understood by any practice, or faith. If you're a Christian, now would be the time to live up to the simplest commandment: Love thy neighbor. No clauses. Unconditional acceptance, respect, and compassion.

An Open Letter to Christian Witches

On this blog, I often champion the idea that witchcraft is a practice, not a religion, and that a witch can practice any religion, provided that religion does not explicitly forbid witchcraft. I still very much believe this, and the point of this post is not to tell Christians that they can’t be witches. However, as a non-Christian witch who has been deeply traumatized by Christianity, I do wish Christian witches would be a bit more mindful of how they show up in witchy spaces.

Recently, I’ve noticed a pattern of self-identifying Christian witches dominating the conversation and centering their own beliefs in spaces dedicated to witchcraft. Now, I wholeheartedly believe that this is unintentional, and most of these Christian witches seem like lovely people. But it’s still deeply frustrating and upsetting to be promised a safe space and support from other witches, only to be preached at.

Or be told that I’m doing witchcraft wrong because my ethics are not the same as someone else’s.

Or be told that I don’t understand Christianity, despite having spent the first two decades of my life fully immersed in it.

Or have my trauma invalidated because, “Not all Christians are like that!”

Or spend the majority of our time together reassuring and comforting a Christian witch who is uncomfortable with the inclusion of pagan and/or occult elements in a ritual.

These are all genuine experiences I have had with Christian witches in 2021. And in every single one of these situations, the Christian witch had a very negative reaction to any kind of constructive criticism or request that they be more mindful of the diverse beliefs and experiences in the space. Any suggestion that their actions may be causing discomfort for others was met with defensiveness, if not straight-up denial. The result is a situation where Christian witches are at the center of every discussion and demand (knowingly or not) coddling or hand-holding from teachers and facilitators, while those of us who are not Christian are left deeply uncomfortable but unable to express that discomfort without upsetting someone or being accused of creating conflict.

And I get it. I really do. Because for most of the people in the above scenarios, this was the first time they encountered a situation where their religion wasn’t the norm. But what I need Christian witches to recognize and be mindful of is that this discomfort of being surrounded by people who do not share your beliefs is something those of us who are not Christian experience every day.

In the Western world, and particularly in the United States, Christianity is a religious hegemony. (A hegemony is a group with total political, social, economic, and/or military dominance in a given area.) Everything in Western society was designed for Christians, to serve a Christian worldview, and to reinforce Christian hegemony. Everything from our government to our business practices to our media reinforces Christian values. For Christians, this creates the sense of comfort and security that comes from being part of the in-group. For non-Christians, it meas being constantly bombarded with someone else’s religion. For former Christians with church-related trauma, it means reliving that trauma constantly.

Here’s a look at an average day in my life as a formerly-Christian pagan with religious trauma. Please note that this is not an exaggeration — this is a description of what I experienced on the day I wrote this post.

I get up and, because I live with Christian family members, I walk past exactly five images of Jesus and/or the Virgin Mary on my way from my bedroom to the front door. On my commute to work, I drive past at least a dozen churches, including the one I used to attend, where my religious trauma occurred. I stop at a red light, and the car in front of me has a bumper sticker with an image of a cross and the message, “If this offends you now, just wait until you see it on judgement day!” I happen to know that these bumper stickers are for sale not at a local church, but at a privately owned, nominally secular business. When I get to work, the woman who greets me at the front gate is wearing a crucifix necklace.

I work in diversity education. When I get to the office, my boss asks me to join the local Interfaith council because I am the only person in our department who isn’t Christian. My current big project at work is trying to get a transgender speaker to visit our organization and help us lead a workshop to work towards amending a history of transphobia in our organization. My boss tells me today the she isn’t sure the speaker I arranged will be approved, because our administration might not think it is in line with our organization’s values. When she says this, I know she means evangelical Christian values. She doesn’t have to spell it out — there’s a chaplain down the hall from our office.

After my lunch break, my coworkers are talking about a church event one of them attended over the weekend. I do not contribute to this conversation. It has been several months since I attended an in-person religious event with people who shared my faith. As I’m leaving the office at the end of the day, I pass a Bible study group that has set up in our recreation area. On my drive home, I pass the funeral home where my grandfather’s memorial service was held earlier this year. The programs for that service had the Lord’s Prayer printed on them. My grandfather was an atheist.

This is my level of exposure to a religion I not only don’t believe in, but have been actively hurt by, on a daily basis. This is my normal. I’ve learned to live with it, tune it out, and self-soothe, because there is no other option.

When I’m finally able to be around other witches, many of them are coming from similar experiences. I am finally in a space where I can be vulnerable, where I can talk about what I really believe, and where I can receive support from like-minded people. But if there is even one Christian witch in the group, it’s highly likely that this space too will be dominated by Christian hegemony.

It’s a noted fact that a person exists within a hegemony, they have very little ability to tolerate challenges to this hegemony due to a lack of exposure. This is the origin of the term white fragility, which sociologist Robin DiAngelo uses to describe the discomfort and defensiveness white people feel when confronted with “racial discomfort” such as being asked to consider racism as a system they are complicit in and benefit from rather than as the actions of lone extremists. White fragility is something I have personally experienced as a white woman involved in antiracist work, and it’s something I have taken years to work through and am still actively working on. Since DiAngelo popularized this term, similar terms have been used to point to similar phenomena in other hegemonic groups, as in the cases of male fragility/fragile masculinity, cishet fragility, and yes, Christian fragility.

I’m not trying to argue that all hegemony is the same, and I am definitely not trying to say that my personal religious trauma is anywhere near the level of pain caused by the mistreatment of Black and brown people by white supremacist society. My point here is simply that being part of the dominant group breeds a very low tolerance for exposure to other groups.

Christian witches are members of a hegemonic group entering a space historically occupied by marginalized people, which creates an imbalance of power. (And yes, you can benefit from hegemony even if you are marginalized in other areas. Identity is multi-faceted. Queer Christians, disabled Christians, Christians of color, and yes, Christian witches still benefit from Christian hegemony.) The only way things are going to get better is if Christians are willing to do the work themselves of building tolerance for religious discomfort. The rest of us can host as many interfaith and secular events as we want, but if Christians aren’t able to tolerate the inclusion of other belief systems, we’ll never truly be on equal footing. Until Christians stop centering the Christian experience, it will continue to dominate interfaith spaces, including witchy spaces.

TLDR: I’m asking Christian witches to be mindful of the privilege they bring into interfaith spaces. I’m asking you to be willing to feel uncomfortable, and to recognize that your discomfort does not invalidate the work your facilitators have put into creating the space and/or program. If you truly can’t stand the discomfort, I’m asking you to politely excuse yourself instead of demanding emotional labor from other witches.

[cosmerelists]

Stormlight Characters vs. the Ship of Theseus Paradox

[This post contains jokes that are WAT Spoilers!!]

The "Ship of Theseus paradox" poses the following conundrum: If there's this ship, and gradually over time every single part of it is replaced, is the resulting vehicle still the Ship of Theseus, or is it something totally new? If Cosmere characters were posed this question, here is how they might reply!

1. Kaladin: Fighting for his life to relate it to Therapy somehow

Kaladin: W-Well, I would say that it's a good thing to gradually replace parts of you that are damaged with new parts that are not damaged. Kaladin: It's a way to get stronger, or else you won't be able to weather future storms. Kaladin: You're still you, though. The broken parts don't define you! Kaladin: [Looks hopefully at Szeth] Szeth: [With infinite weariness] Let me guess. I am the ship. Kaladin: Another win for Therapy!

2. Nale: Just kinda likes to argue

Nale: It is a different ship. None of the original material remains. Kaladin: But- Nale: If every time a board was replaced, it was used to construct another ship, and the two ships were placed side by side, would you say that they were BOTH the Ship of Theseus? Kaladin: Well- Nale: No. Because two ships cannot be one ship. That is not how counting works. Kaladin: ... Nale: I am so good at arguing. 

3. Nohadon: Oh, you know he's gonna relate it to a man's "journey"

Nohadon: Every experience we have changes us. Nohadon: Old beliefs are challenged, lost, and changed. Nohadon: In the end, if we've been deconstructed and rebuilt, are we still the same person? Nohadon: It is not for me to answer. Dalinar: ...You can answer it. We are literally posing the question to you in the hopes of receiving an answer. Nohadon: Ha ha! Nohadon: That's not how I roll. 

4. Dalinar: Takes the question personally 

Dalinar: No, it is not the same ship. And that is okay. Dalinar: It is okay if, at the end of your journey, you are a different man--I mean ship. Navani: Smooth.

5. Rlain: Takes the question personality

Rlain: We Listeners go out into the storm to change forms all the time. Rlain: We're still us.  Rlain: I don't see why it would be any different for a ship.

6. Shallan: Takes the question personally

Shallan: I think it's the same ship. Shallan: Even if you change everything about yourself to the extent that you are a different person, you are, simultaneously, still yourself. Shallan: Every new board is incorporated into the ship and becomes a part of it, even if they were once their own separate item. Veil: ...We love you too, Shallan. 

7. Renarin: Gives a conditional answer

Renarin: I mean...I think it depends on the timing? Renarin: If your ship goes down in a storm and you just build a whole new ship and give it the same name, I don't think anybody would say that's the same ship. Renarin: But if you replace a board every year or something, then I think it would be perceived as the same ship the whole time. Taravangian [suspiciously]: So you're saying that your answer depends on a future that cannot be predicted in advance? Renarin: I...guess? Taravangian: Hate that.

8. Honor: Gives the "practical" answer

Honor: At the beginning and at the end, it's still the ship of Theseus, right? Honor: Same ship. Possession is 9/10 of the law, after all. Odium: ...Sweet. Gonna hold you to that. Honor: FUCK

9. Rysn: Actually has a ship

Rysn: Of course it's the same ship?? Rysn: I get my boat repaired all the time--it's not like it ever ceases to be my ship. 

10. Jasnah: Knows where to look for the truth of things

Jasnah: There is a simple way to answer that question. Jasnah: Peer into Shadesmar at the soul of the ship. Jasnah: If it continues to think of itself as the same entity, then it is the same entity. Renarin: ...Simple? You are virtually the only human on the planet with this ability. Jasnah: I'll share my findings.

11. Wit: Takes a storyteller's view

Wit: If people call  it the Ship of Theseus & perceive it as the Ship of Theseus, that's what it is! Wit: Is it the original ship? Who cares! Wit: For once, originality is not the point.

12. Design: Takes a...mathematical (?) view

Design: The second that 50.000000001 percent of the ship has been replaced, it's different. Design: Math!

13. Moash: Is not a nice person

Moash: Don't care. Moash: Gonna take all of the old, broken parts that got thrown away and build a whole new ship out of those cast-off parts. Moash: Now *I* have the ship of Theseus. Kaladin: Just to be kind of a bastard? Moash: Just to be kind of a bastard, yeah. 

14. Navani: Takes a scientific view 

Navani: There is a theory that the matter that makes up our bodies is itself replaced constantly. Navani: Wounds close over--skin can grow. It must get replaced as it wears out.  Navani: The ship is the macro version of this. Even if bits of it get replaced, it's still the same ship. 

15. Adolin: Relates it to...recent experiences

Adolin: Here's what I think. Adolin: Let's say that you're in the army and you're trying to, I don't know, protect a dome for many days without reinforcements. Adolin: And everybody keeps dying and getting replaced by new soldiers, until you're having to bring in the elderly, the disabled, literally anybody still alive in the city just to maintain the pike wall. Adolin: It's! Still! The! Same! Army! Adolin: Same ship. Yanagawn: Are you...okay? Adolin: I might have trauma. 

[arylleth]

The worst distance between two people is not miles, nor oceans, nor the mute orbit of stars beyond reach. The worst distance — the most merciless chasm — is misunderstanding. It is a silence that speaks in tongues unknown; a distance that measures not in steps, but in faltering glances, unfinished sentences, and words that collapse beneath the weight of their own frailty. Ah, misunderstanding: that most delicate assassin of intimacy. It tiptoes in where love once whispered. It drapes between souls like a diaphanous veil, distorting, disfiguring, turning gestures into offenses and tenderness into wounds. I think of Kafka’s letter to Milena: “We are as forlorn as children lost in the woods. When you stand in front of me and look at me, what do you know of the griefs that are in me, and I of yours?” — and I tremble. How often do we stand face to face with another heart, and yet remain continents apart, like stranded ships blinking lanterns into void? Misunderstanding… it is the tragedy the Greeks never named but wove into all their myths. Helen’s smile misunderstood; Iphigenia’s sacrifice misunderstood; Phaedra’s confession misunderstood until it destroyed. Oedipus himself, lost in riddles, blind long before he tore out his eyes. Sociology would tell us this chasm is structural — the impossibility of truly inhabiting another’s frame of reference. Symbolic interactionism calls it "the problem of shared meaning", and what a fragile construct it is: meaning. We wield words like ropes, but sometimes they hang us instead of pulling us closer. And yet, misunderstanding is not simply absence — it is distortion. It is the bitter twist of what was meant into what is feared. The psychoanalyst Lacan warned us: “The unconscious is structured like a language.” But if the unconscious is a language, how often are we merely foreigners in each other’s minds, fumbling with broken dialects? “Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind,” Kipling said — but every drug is also a poison. We dose one another with syllables, never knowing who will heal and who will ache. I wonder if misunderstanding is, in the end, the purest loneliness. Not to be alone, but to be beside someone, and yet beyond reach — a presence felt like an echo, never quite arriving. And so, we drift. The gap between you and me: not physical, but semantic. I say "I am tired," and you hear "I am disappointed." I say "leave me alone," and you hear "I don’t need you." I say "I love you," and perhaps, God help me, you hear "I fear losing you." I think of Rilke: “For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks... the work for which all other work is but preparation.” How can it not be, when even the simplest murmur can misfire into exile? Perhaps, in some gentler world, words would not fracture. But here, we are Babel undone — each of us building towers that never meet in the sky. I ache for a language beyond language: a glance that cannot be misunderstood, a touch that needs no translation. But until then, we live with this cruel paradox: two souls inches apart, separated by the fathomless ocean of what was never meant, and yet somehow said.

“The worst distance between two people is misunderstanding.”

— Law of Attraction

[xichilie]

More!!!! More Brant x Siren!reader please please please please please please please please please please please please please please

Do one where siren brings Brant gifts from the ocean (like pearls, which they finds out aren't gross clam gall bladder stones to humans) and Brant has a mental breakdown thinking of what to give them cuz........what is he supposed to give a non-human being as a gift?

Honestly, that's a good question. What would you gift a siren, jewelry, or gold? Useless to her, they're probably shipwrecks of it down there. Food? Does she even eat human food?. Clothes? She can't really wear them. Flowers? What's she supposed to do with them?

So I was thinking, something personal that suits brant, and gives him the excuse to continue to see her..

Brant x (fem)siren reader

The Siren’s Offering

Brant had learned to expect the unexpected when it came to Y/N.

She wasn’t predictable—not in the way most people were. Humans followed patterns, even when they thought they didn’t. But Y/N? She moved like the tide. Unrushed, unknowable, drawn to him for reasons neither of them fully understood.

And yet, she always returned. That was enough.

Tonight, when she surfaced, there was something different about her. A quiet certainty in her expression. He noticed it right away, even before she spoke.

Then, without preamble, she lifted something from the water and held it out to him.

"For you."

Brant blinked. His first instinct was to smile—he always smiled when he saw her—but his expression faltered when he caught sight of what she was offering.

Nestled in her palm was a pearl. Large, round, flawless. The kind of thing that would make the greediest noble drool.

Brant had seen treasures before, stolen and displayed in velvet-lined boxes, but this? This was rare. This was a fortune.

And she was holding it like it was nothing.

"Where did you find this?" he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

Y/N tilted her head, puzzled by the question. "I picked it up from a clam."

Brant inhaled, slow and measured. "You… picked it up."

She nodded. "It’s just a clam’s gallbladder stone."

Brant closed his eyes for a second, pressing his lips together like he was physically holding back a reaction.

Then, carefully, he reopened them. "A clam’s—" He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Love, that’s not—" He stopped himself, shaking his head before trying again. "That’s not what humans call them."

Y/N frowned slightly. "Then what do you call them?"

"Pearls. And they’re—" He gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "They’re valuable."

"Why?"

Brant stared at her.

For a moment, he truly had no idea what to say.

He looked down at the pearl in her hand, then back at her face, utterly uncomprehending. Finally, he let out a quiet, breathy laugh—one of disbelief, not mockery. "You really don’t know, do you?"

Y/N blinked at him, confused. "Why would I?"

Brant shook his head, a small, fond smile pulling at his lips. Of course. Of course she wouldn’t. To her, this wasn’t treasure. It was just something the ocean made—something commonplace, unremarkable.

And yet, she had brought it to him.

"Well," he murmured, taking the pearl from her palm with careful fingers, "I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?"

Y/N watched him, curious. "So, do you like it?"

Brant turned the pearl over in his fingers, letting it catch the moonlight. He had spent years learning the ways of performance, the art of words, but for a moment, none of that mattered.

He looked back at her, his smile softer now. "I do."

She gave a small nod, seemingly satisfied. "Good."

Brant chuckled under his breath, tucking the pearl safely into his coat. "But you do realize what this means, don’t you?"

Y/N arched a brow. "What?"

"It means I owe you a gift in return."

She frowned slightly. "That’s not necessary."

"Oh, but it is," he countered, grinning now. "A gift freely given is a gift freely returned. It’s only fair."

Y/N hummed, unconvinced, but didn’t argue further.

Brant, on the other hand, was already thinking. Because really—what did one give to a siren?

Jewels meant nothing to her. Gold was useless beneath the waves. She had no need for food or shelter, no interest in human possessions.

For the first time in a long time, Brant found himself at a loss.

But as he glanced at her again, watching the way she studied him with quiet curiosity, an idea started to take shape.

He didn’t need to give her something valuable. He needed to give her something meaningful.

Something only he could give.

Brant had faced many challenges in his life—escaping from Ragunna, surviving the Pilgrimage, faking his own death more times than he could count—but this?

This was impossible.

He lay flat on his back atop a stack of worn crates, staring at the sky as if the answer might drop from the heavens. The Fool’s Troupe was busy setting up for their next performance, voices and laughter filling the air, but Brant heard none of it. His mind was occupied with one singular, infuriating thought:

What in the name of all things dramatic do you gift a siren?

Gold? Useless. She lived in the sea—she had shipwrecks full of it at her disposal.

Food? Even more useless. She didn’t eat human food, and he wasn’t about to bring her a raw fish like some kind of well-dressed seagull.

Music? No, she had an entire ocean to sing with.

Brant groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "This is ridiculous."

"You’re ridiculous," one of the Troupe members called out, balancing on a nearby barrel. "Why are you sighing like a lovesick noble in a tragic romance?"

Brant peeked through his fingers, expression flat. "Because I am one, obviously."

The Troupe member snorted. "Who’s the unfortunate soul?"

Brant waved a dismissive hand. "No one you’d know. Or understand. Or—" He sat up abruptly, running both hands through his hair. "You know what? Forget it. This is impossible."

"What is?"

Brant turned to see one of the older Fools, a woman named Selka, watching him with an amused expression. She had seen Brant through all his wild schemes, all his ridiculous plans, and yet this—this seemed to be the thing that truly entertained her.

Brant huffed, dramatic as ever. "Finding a gift."

Selka raised a brow. "For who?"

Brant opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. The Troupe knew of his mysterious "songbird," but he wasn’t about to explain the specifics. Not when he was already spiraling into full theatrical despair.

Instead, he waved vaguely. "Someone. Hypothetically."

Selka smirked. "And what’s wrong with flowers?"

Brant scoffed. "Too simple."

"A trinket?"

"Too meaningless."

"A song?"

Brant paused.

Selka’s smirk widened. "Ah. There it is."

Brant frowned. "No, no, no—that’s not—it’s too obvious."

"Is it?"

Brant groaned again, flopping back onto the crates. "It has to be perfect. Something meaningful, something she’ll actually want, something—"

"Something only you can give?"

Brant stilled.

Selka chuckled, shaking her head. "You’re overthinking it, boy. Gifts aren’t about value. They’re about sentiment." She nudged his boot with her own. "You of all people should know that."

Brant sat up slowly, fingers drumming against his knee.

Something only he could give.

His own words from the night before echoed in his head, and suddenly, everything clicked.

Brant’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "I have an idea."

Selka snorted. "Of course you do."

Brant leapt to his feet, his usual dramatic energy returning full force. "I need ink. And paper. And maybe a bit of magic."

Selka sighed, already regretting her involvement. "I’m not helping you if this ends with another arrest."

Brant grinned, already halfway out of sight. "No promises!"

This? This would be perfect.

The waves lapped gently against the rocks as Brant approached the familiar shoreline. The Fool’s Troupe had set up camp just beyond the cliffs, but Brant had slipped away unnoticed, heart drumming with something between excitement and nerves.

Tonight, he would not leave empty-handed.

“Little songbird,” he called, voice light, teasing. “I do hope you haven’t grown tired of me.”

Silence.

Brant smirked. “No dramatic entrance today? No waves parting for my arrival? Truly, I’m hurt.”

Then, the water rippled.

Brant stilled as she appeared—just enough for the moonlight to catch the gleam of her skin, the slight tilt of her head. Her gaze, curious as ever, met his.

“You always come back,” she murmured.

Brant’s smirk softened. “And yet, you’re still surprised.”

She didn’t answer, just studied him, her eyes flickering toward the small bundle in his hands.

Brant grinned. “Curious, are we?” He crouched at the water’s edge, unwrapping the cloth with an exaggerated flourish. “I brought you something.”

Y/N blinked, tilting her head. “A gift?”

“A thank-you, actually,” Brant corrected. “For the lovely—” he held up the rare, valuable, eye-wateringly expensive pearl she had gifted him last time, “—clam gall bladder stone.”

Y/N made a face. “I still don’t understand why humans want those.”

Brant chuckled. “That makes two of us.”

He carefully unfolded the cloth, revealing a book. Handmade, bound in rich blue fabric with silver-threaded details. It wasn’t large—just enough to fit in his palm—but it was clear it had been made with care.

Y/N stared at it. “What is that?”

Brant’s smile turned just a little nervous, but he hid it well. “A story.”

She blinked.

Brant cleared his throat, shifting slightly. “I wasn’t sure what to give you—turns out, sirens are rather difficult to shop for.” He gave a mock sigh, placing a hand over his heart. “Tragic, really.”

Y/N huffed, amused despite herself.

Brant continued, flipping open the first page. His own handwriting filled the parchment, neat but expressive. “So I thought… why not give you something only I can? A story—your story.” He tilted his head, smirking. “Or at least, the start of it.”

Y/N hesitated, then swam just a little closer, peering at the book as if it might vanish. “You wrote this?”

Brant nodded. “Well, you inspire quite the tale, love.”

She reached out, trailing a careful finger along the edge of the pages. The sea had never given her anything she could keep. Songs disappeared into the waves. Voices faded. Even the stars above seemed to shift, never the same from one night to the next.

But this?

This was hers.

Brant watched her closely, noting the way she lingered on the pages. “You don’t have to like it,” he added, voice softer. “I just… wanted you to have something. Something real.”

Y/N looked up at him then, expression unreadable.

Brant, for once, waited in silence.

Then—

“I like it,” she murmured.

Brant let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Good.”

Y/N’s fingers curled gently around the book, holding it close. “You always come back,” she whispered again, though this time…

This time, there was something different in her voice.

Brant’s smile softened. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand.

“Of course I do,” he said. “I have a story to finish, don’t I?”

[soluversworld]

You, Serial Killer - Ren/Redacted x G.N Reader part 1~

14 days with you! is a 18+ visual novel Minors don’t interact!

Genre: G.N Reader (Angst!)

Summary: You're the Corland Bay Butcher, The Serial Killer, you heard in the news, Bodies, dead, gone, You're nuts! What if, someone was helping ya back to keep you safe, Will you see through his act after all, You met him first. NOT HIM

Trigger Warnings (TWs):

Violence & Gore – Mentions of knives, blood, and killing.

Mental Instability – Implied unhinged thoughts, intrusive urges.

Obsession & Fixation – Thoughts circling around a past encounter.

Content Warnings (CWs):

Dark Poetic Themes – Romanticization of violence and chaos.

Self-Awareness of Morality – Internal conflict about killing/mercy.

Shakespearean-style Poetic Bullying – Intense self-deprecation with a dramatic, lyrical flair.

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer.

Why? Could be justice. Could be fun. Could be nothing at all, just a way to kill time. Could be money—blood-soaked bills stacking up in your pocket like trophies. It’s on you. But no matter the reason—you’re a fucking serial killer.

A name whispered in alleys. A face nobody remembers. A shadow in the wrong places at the

You're a killer.

Not just any killer—a serial killer. The kind that gets headlines, Netflix docuseries, and edgy teenage fans who call you “misunderstood” while painting their nails black. Maybe you do it for justice (sure). Maybe for fun (closer). Maybe for nothing at all, because boredom is a worse death than whatever you dish out. Or maybe—just maybe—for money, ‘cause even murderers gotta eat.

You, though? You’re a special breed of fucked. You don’t just kill; you curate. A gallery of ruined bodies, each arranged with a shit bow and a shit-eating grin. You're the scum of the earth, and you know it. Flaunt it, really.

They’ll try to psychoanalyze you. Daddy issues, mommy issues, the whole trauma-riddled spiel. They’ll say you’re broken. That you snap at the world because the world snapped at you first. They’ll search for meaning where there is none. You don’t care to distinguish truth from the real—two entirely different beasts.

You probably fake-hate black holes because they’re cliché but would style yourself after one with a smile. Suck the light out of the room, leave nothing but a cold abyss.

And yet.

You are a fucking liar.

A cute little library assistant by morning, shelving books with a saccharine smile, whispering “shhh” to old ladies and college students. By night? You’re a fucking scary-ass serial killer in a raincoat, dripping something that ain’t just rain.

Crowbar, knives—hell, anything sharp enough to carve flesh from bone. Baby, it’s your choice of weapon. You love blood. Live it, breathe it, bathe in it like it’s a second skin. Your love language? JK, no. You don’t need love when you’ve got arteries splitting open like pages in a well-loved book.

Turn the page. Who’s next?

Also—sadly—an anime fan. A shit living show called Attack on Giant owns a piece of your rotten little heart. You know it’s bad. You don’t care.

And worse? You have a fictional husband. Haruki Haruko. The timid, sympathetic, air-headed (but in a good way), people-pleaser type. Cotton candy in human form. The kind of guy who’d apologize for bleeding on your knife.

How the fuck does a blood-soaked abomination like you love a walking pink marshmallow like him?

It’s fictional. STOP.

And it gets worse.

You and your online friend MOTH? Howling for Haruko like a couple of rabid fangirls. CAPS LOCK ON. ESSAYS IN THE GROUP CHAT. “HE DESERVES THE WORLD” “HIS LITTLE SMILE” “I WANNA PROTECT HIM” — all while your hands are still sticky with blood.

MOTH doesn’t know you’re a killer. Shut up. They think you’re normal. That you just have “dark humor” and a really convincing way of describing knife wounds.

“omg if haruko was real i’d die for him <3”

You? Staring at your body count. Thinking, buddy, I don’t even die for me.

Life was fine. Whatever fine means for someone like you.

Then two idiots fucked up. Bad dudes. Real pieces of shit. The kind that makes even God wanna look away. They got your eyes—metaphorically or literally, who cares—and suddenly, you had a reason. An excuse.

You were already a killer. Now you’re a haunting.

They go first. Before the others. Before the side quests and the casual bloodshed. You want them to know. To feel it. The way your presence clings, the way their shadows stretch too long at night.

They look over their shoulders. They see nothing. For now.

You don’t just kill them. You ruin them.

The first one goes slow. Too slow. You take your time, peeling back skin like wrapping paper, watching them twitch, eyes rolling like marbles in their sockets. You laugh. You LAUGH. It bubbles out of you, high and breathless, like this is the funniest shit you’ve ever seen. Because it is. Because they thought they were untouchable, and now they’re meat.

The second one? Screaming. Begging. Doesn’t matter. You’re an artist, and their body is just another canvas. You make something beautiful—ugly—perfect. A mess of red and twitching limbs. Your hands are soaked, your raincoat is dripping, and you feel fucking alive.

And then.

Someone’s watching you.

The air shifts. The hairs on your neck rise.

What the fuck.

You pause. The feeling lingers—someone watching, something just out of sight. But you? You just shrug.

Eh.

Not your problem. If they saw, they saw. If they didn’t, they’ll wish they had. You wipe your crowbar off on what’s left of them, let the sticky warmth seep into your gloves, and turn on your heel like this was just another Tuesday.

Footsteps. Yours. Handprints. Also yours.

If the police are slick enough to find you? Good for them. You’ll make it fun.

You’re gone. Vanished into the night like the walking crime scene you are.

And then—he arrives.

A man, moving like he’s got all the time in the world. A black hoodie, mask pulled up just enough to hide what matters. Black hair, messy but intentional, like he ran his hands through it one too many times. And his eyes—blue. Too blue. Like the kind you’d see in angel paintings before they ruined you. Too bright. Too sweet.

If you were still there, you’d think, No fucking way.

But you’re not. And he? He’s got cleaning supplies.

Because it seems like you left.

He starts to clean. Like it’s routine. Like he’s done this before.

But you didn’t leave.

You grab him from behind—hard. Slam him down, pinning him with your weight, breath hot against his ear. He barely fights back.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” you snarl, pressing down harder. “What are you, some undercover cop? Finally found the killer? Corland Bay’s sweet psycho serial killer?”

His eyes—too fucking blue—widen. Stunned. Mouth slightly open, like he’s trying to form words but forgot how. And something about the way his face flushes—**soft pink, creeping up his neck—**is wrong.

You don’t notice. You press the knife against his throat. Harder.

“Talk.** Now.**”

You keep him pinned.

Knee digging into his ribs, knife pressed against his throat, eyes narrowed. "What kind of detective—police—whatever the fuck are you?" You hiss, pressing just a little harder, feeling the faint hitch in his breath beneath the blade.

But then—his breathing.

It changes. Too heavy. Too shaky.

Like... ahhhh???!?!!?

AH—????

Your grip tightens. "The fuck is wrong with you?" You growl.

And him? His pupils are blown, his cheeks are flushed, and his breath is ragged in a way that’s not fear.

Oh.

Oh, what the fuck.

You press the knife a little deeper. Not enough to kill, just enough to scare. Or maybe to feel the pulse beneath the blade—fast, uneven, a little too eager.

"You’re gonna die here, you know that?" you murmur. Cute. Like this is just conversation. Like you’re talking about the weather. Another collection. Another body. You grin, sharp and mean.

But he’s still fucking flustered.

Still breathing all wrong. Eyes shining. Like he wants to say something. You peel his mask up, slow, deliberate. His fingers twitch, reaching like he’s gonna stop you—no. You shove his head back down, hard.

Almost makes him faint. Almost does.

You glance around. The mess. The streaks of red. The bleach.

Oh.

What the hell was he trying to clean up?

You look back down, and his eyes—too blue, too bright—are glassy, struggling to focus. He tries again to speak. You don’t care. You push his head down again—too hard.

He goes limp.

You sigh, irritated. Tear the mask away.

And pause.

Tall. 6’5”, easy. Sleeper build—lean but solid. Hands covered in marks. Scratches, burns—old, deep, childhood scars. Piercings that gleam under the shitty streetlights.

And his face?

...Pretty.

Too pretty.

And somewhat familiar.

What the fuck.

He was trying to clean up the mess. Your mess. The blood, the gore, the little bits of art you left behind like a signature.

A serial killer fan? A wannabe? Some poor, mentally ill fuck who thought you were some kind of idol?

Hah.

Darlin’, he was being nice.

Nice enough to clean up after you, to make sure your ass stayed off the radar. And you knocked him out.

Killing him now? Sad. Kind of a waste. But it’s tempting. The way his throat is right there, the way his too-pretty face would look even prettier painted red.

Nah.

Life’s shit. He’ll grow out of it. Probably. Or he won’t.

And wouldn’t that be interesting?

Too hot to kill.

That’s the excuse you land on. Not the stupidest one you’ve made, not the worst, but damn if it isn’t pathetic. You. Showing mercy. Saint Y/N, patron of dumbasses who clean crime scenes.

You almost carry him—almost. He’s fucking heavy. Dead weight in every sense of the word, and your arms are not built for this. You drag him instead, yanking him into another alleyway, gritting your teeth at every awkward shuffle of his too-tall, too-pretty, too-stupid body.

He could wake up. Could see the sun. Could get scared, maybe. Maybe he’ll take the hint. Maybe he’ll run. Maybe he’ll get the fuck out of Corland Bay and out of your life.

Oh, Y/N.

You showed sympathy.

You’re a saint, aren’t you?

Why the fuck was he trying to clean the mess?

Weird-ass serial killer fan? Some freak with a savior complex? Someone worse?

You don’t care. You won’t care.

Your work here is done. Corland Bay sleeps. So should you.

You yawn, stretch, crack your neck. Good night, dumbass.

You need to sleep. For your work.

You had… a dream.

A little child. Small hands, soft voice. He tries to give you a ring.

Innocent. Loved you.

And you—you looked. You can’t remember your own expression, but your face felt warm, felt happy. Like he was everything. Like he was your darling. A sweet boy.

You can’t see his face.

"Do you wanna marry me…? Angel! I'll take good care of you…"

His voice—soft, bright, hopeful.

You don’t get to answer.

Because Leon, your ass of a friend, grabs your hand, pushes the boy’s away. The ring falls. The boy stumbles.

He’s crying.

"He's a freak! I told ya! Why did you hang out with him? Look!"

You couldn’t say anything.

You didn’t.

Leon—nah. He took your hand. You let him.

And you watched.

Watched the boy cry. Watched him pick up the ring.

Your older self watched.

Watched your kid self. Watched the way your little hands twitched, how your feet stayed planted, how your mouth—silent.

You felt something. Like you wanted to remember. Like if you just reached a little further—

Then—

A sound.

Loud. Jarring. A kick to the ribs of your dream.

Yeah. You woke up.

Congrats.

You’re the beauty of gore.

Coffee. Black, like your soul or whatever. Bitter, like your mornings.

You flip on the news. Same shit, different day.

"Yet another body was pulled from Bluemoss this morning. Authorities believe it was the work of the infamous Corland Bay Butcher—"

What a fucking name.

Hideous.

You hate it. If you were gonna be branded a legend, you’d at least give yourself a name with some style. But no. The public loves their sensationalist, overcooked horror movie bullshit.

And this case? This crime?

It’s years old.

What the fuck.

Maybe people are just dumb.

It’s like that one show, Dexter. The whole Bay Harbor Butcher thing. Lame. At least Dexter got a name with a little bite—this? This sounds like something a washed-up true crime podcaster would spit out between sips of pumpkin spice.

People should’ve named you something cool. Something with presence. Something that rolls off the tongue like a whispered threat.

You sip your coffee, scalding hot, burning the tip of your tongue. Whatever. You like the pain.

The news anchor drones on, their voice that usual mix of forced solemnity and thinly veiled excitement. Because that’s what this is, right? The public eats this shit up. Blood and bodies and mystery.

And the dumbest part? This case is years old.

They’re still talking about it, still digging up corpses like long-forgotten relics, still pretending they care.

But you know the truth.

People don’t care about the dead. They care about the thrill. The spectacle. The fear.

You roll your eyes and take another sip. Yeah, whatever.

You do like Dexter, though. Good show. But come on, at least his name had branding.

Moth texts. Buzz, buzz. Your phone screen lights up.

You flick open the keyboard, thumbs hovering. Moth is sweet. Thoughtful, even. Different time zones and all, but they still check in. You shoot back a quick "Thank you!" because you’re a saint.

Grey bubble. They’re typing.

Moth

"btwww! did u see the latest AoG ep?? i heard Haruko got an outfit change!!!!"

Moth

"spoil it for me. did he really change his hairstyle as well?"

You scoff. Baby stays the same.

You type back so fast your screen almost cracks.

"HHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE"

He didn’t. Still the same. Still cute. Still sweet. Still the most lovable little cutie to ever exist.

You hammer it into the keyboard like it’s gospel.

Moth

"LMAOOO bless. also. shouldn’t u be at work rn."

…Oh. Oh, shit.

FUCK.

You throw the phone. You bolt. Clothes? Shitty. Aesthetic? Somewhere between 2018 emo-core and 'I let a Tumblr gremlin dress me in the dark.'

WHY?

Fuck it. You’re emo.

You catch yourself in the mirror. Oh. Oh damn.

You look hot. Like feral raccoon meets 2018 Hot Topic cashier meets 'I definitely bite.'

Self-confidence? SKYROCKETED. You are an icon. A menace. A walking, talking Tumblr sexyperson if Tumblr had any taste.

Oh shit.

Work.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

You can’t be feeling yourself this much and then drop a fucking uwu. That’s a war crime. That’s illegal. That’s—

…You wink at yourself in the mirror anyway.

"Time to cause problems."

Door swings open. The world outside assaults you with daylight. Gross.

"Oh! Hey there, Angel! Looking good!"

Violet’s standing there, all sunshine and soil-stained fingers, practically glowing in the morning light. Sickening. If it were anyone else, you’d gag. But it’s Violet. So you deal with it.

You flick your eyes to her hip, where yet another potted plant balances like a permanent attachment. Her whole apartment? Basically a jungle. If you didn’t know better, you’d swear she was growing a sentient vine army in there, plotting to take over the world with nothing but greenery and kindness.

You? Not complaining. The air always smells fresh, floral, and earthy as hell whenever she’s around—a perfect mask for the lingering traces of smoke and death clinging to you.

"New plant?" you ask, because duh.

Violet grins, fishing for her keys. "Mm-hmm! This one’s a rosemary bush! Thought it’d be nice to have something useful."

Useful? You know fifty different ways to kill someone with rosemary. You smile.

"Nice."

Violet eyes you up and down, her expression turning downright delighted.

"Loving the look today, Angel! Very... 2018 Tumblr emo."

You snort. "You wound me."

"No, seriously! I kinda wanna raid your closet one day." She nudges you playfully, still grinning like she’s just discovered a hidden treasure trove of goth fashion secrets. If only she knew.

You laugh, all teeth and mischief. "Sure, sure. One day."

One day. Which means never. Because the only thing your closet is full of? Knives. Knives, crowbars, and the occasional bloodstained hoodie. Hardly the wardrobe of an alt-fashion influencer.

Then she dropped a bomb.

You blink. "Nope. Nada. Never heard of him."

Violet narrows her eyes, lips pursing. "You sure? "'Cause he seemed real familiar with you.""

Your stomach does this weird little flip, like your instincts are tapping at your ribs, whispering, Hey, maybe pay attention to this one. But you shut that feeling down real fast.

"Violet, babe, I think you dreamed this one up." You flash a grin, all casual confidence, even as your mind works overtime, flipping through the mental Rolodex of potential problems.

Tall guy? Dark hoodie? Alternative fashion? Too many belts? Jesus, what is he, a Final Fantasy character?

"No clue who that is," you repeat, a little slower this time, letting the lie settle.

Violet hums, unconvinced. "Weird. "

You shrug, pretending your skin isn't crawling just a little. "Sounds like a him problem."

But in the back of your mind, you know damn well this is gonna be a you problem real soon.

"No worries, Vi. I got work now, I'll check later." You wave a dismissive hand, already stepping away.

Check later? Lmao, no. You didn’t give a shit. Who the hell would stalk you?

…Unless—

Oh.

If it was a stalker, then they were bold. And if they were bold, that meant either two things:

They were stupid. In which case, easy kill.

They were a detective.

And ohhhh, baby, wouldn’t that be fun?

You bite your lip, suppressing the grin creeping up. A detective? Hunting you? Now that was hot.

Hell, maybe you'd let them catch up just for the thrill. Let them get close, real close—close enough to think they had you—before you turned the tables.

Oooooh. Fuck.

Yeah. That’d be fun.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself. Maybe it’s better to leave it at that. Maybe it’s better to pretend you don’t care. Maybe, maybe, maybe. You can stack those maybes like a house of cards, but it won’t stop the wind from blowing.

You’ve got bigger things to deal with. A shitty apartment. A shittier job. The nagging feeling that something off is creeping up behind you, but you? You walk faster.

You breathe deep, step through the library doors, and let the scent of old paper settle the static under your skin. It’s grounding. Familiar. The only thing that stays still in a world that never does.

And then—

“Oh!”

Elanor.

Sweet, doting Elanor, with her scatterbrained ways and her insufferable meddling. She’s already smiling, head tilting, eyes flicking you over like she’s about to say something that’ll make you regret showing up today.

“Sooooo?” She hums, teasing. “How does it feel to no longer be the one in charge of stacking books all day long?”

Before you can answer, she keeps going, because of course she does.

“Although… you’ll still have to work the front desk from time to time, unfortunately.”

You shrug. Offer a smile—if it even counts. Make your way past her before she can wring you into another conversation that leaves you tired before noon.

The familiar chime of the library door rings. Someone’s entered. Not your problem. You duck down, slide your bag under the desk, start pulling out your things. You focus.

The hum of the library settles you, slow and steady, like an IV drip to an addict. Bookshelves, faint ink-and-paper perfume, the distant murmur of people who still think this place is a sanctuary.

And then—again.

Elanor.

Her voice drops into something light, airy, knowing. Fuck.

“Looks like he’s back again.”

Your fingers freeze on the paper in front of you.

“You know, that new guy? The one who always checks out the books you put on display?”

She’s got a grin in her voice. It makes your eye twitch.

“And if I didn’t know any better—” (you don’t, Elanor, you never do,) “I’d say he has a little crush on you.”

Pause.

“Because he was staring. A lot.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

You shove her chair so it spins away from you, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck.

The universe, it seems, has chosen today to test your patience.

And now—because fate is cruel and Elanor is worse—

Aisle 8.

The red light above the shelves blinks. Someone needs help. Him.

Of course.

You sigh. Drag yourself up. Refuse to look at her. You don’t need to—her glee is practically a tangible thing, radiating off her in smug waves. You weave through the shelves, every step an exercise in reluctant inevitability.

And then—there he is.

A broad figure. Back turned. Wearing the comfiest cardigan you’ve ever seen. He hasn’t noticed you yet.

You clear your throat. “Ahem.”

Flinch.

He turns.

Stops.

And for the first time all day, so do you.

Pink.

Pink hair. Soft eyes. Tall—too tall. Looking at you like he’s just walked into a dream he wasn’t ready for.

You stare.

He stares.

Somewhere, distantly, reality stirs.

His jaw moves, something almost forming before it stumbles out clumsy and quiet:

“Woah… You look…”

A beat.

His eyes flick over you, unreadable, thoughtful, confused.

“But I thought you preferred softer clothing…? That’s why I…”

Why he what?

His voice dies. He clears his throat, face burning cherry-pink, matching his hair.

“Ahem! Um… S-Sorry, I hope I’m not bothering you.”

And you—oh, you—

You don’t know what the fuck is going on.

How’s that?

Not about this. Not about him.

But his voice drags you back, an anchor to the present, and you scramble to piece together whatever sentence just left his cherry-stained lips. There’s a kind of innocence in the way he struggles for the right words, tripping over them like a nervous actor missing his cue. It’s almost endearing. Almost.

You give him a slow nod, a silent cue to keep going.

He takes a breath.

“…I need some help. I—I’m looking for a specific book, you see, but…”

And there it is. The sleeve-tugging hesitation. That stammer, that nervous shift, like a protagonist straight out of one of Moth’s favorite anime. They’re going to absolutely lose it when you tell them about this later.

The stranger tries again, steadier this time, his gaze catching yours with something just a little too sharp.

“…Do you have any books on native flora? The best I’ve found are on generic wildlife, but nothing on Corland Bay’s plants.”

Plants? Your first thought is to direct him to Violet—this is her territory—but instead, you let out a quiet chuckle and step a little closer, scanning the shelf beside him.

He twitches. Not away—closer. Just slightly. A shift so subtle it’s almost imperceptible, except for the way his breath hitches when your scent brushes past him.

“No, you’re in the right section,” you murmur. “They’re just… buried.”

Your fingers ghost along the book spines, slow, deliberate, until you find the one. You tug it free, turning it in your hands before offering it to him.

“This the one?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not with words, at least. His gaze lingers—too long, too intense—before he finally reaches for it. His fingers brush yours, barely, but there’s a slight tremor in them.

Then he flips through the pages, scanning, searching—

And stops.

“Yes,” he breathes, triumphant. “This is perfect. Thank you…”

You barely have time to nod before he adds, almost too softly:

“Haha, you’re like an angel, you know that? So kind.”

Your heart stumbles. Your lips part—

“…What?”

His expression shatters into pure, unfiltered horror.

“Oh my God—” His face flushes, hands flying up as if he could physically shove the words back into his mouth. “I didn’t—Did I actually say that out loud? Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. That was—That must’ve been so weird—”

It’s adorable, in a train-wreck kind of way.

You bite back a grin, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Relax. Just caught me off guard, is all.”

His eyes flicker with something—relief? Embarrassment? It’s hard to tell beneath the flush crawling up his neck.

“R-Really?” His voice is softer now, hopeful. “Well, I meant it.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “Sure.”

And that should be the end of it. You should step away. Let him bask in his mortification. But he doesn’t move. Just watches. A silent, expectant sort of tension stretching between you.

You clear your throat. “Uh. You shouldn’t stare like that.”

His head tilts, almost curious. “Why not?”

Your stomach twists.

“Because I don’t know you,” you reply, words lighter than the weight pressing against your ribs.

His lips twitch, like he’s suppressing a smile. “Ah. A technicality.”

You exhale sharply, already regretting this entire conversation. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“Haven’t I?”

A pause.

Then, smoothly: “Red- Ren.”

Ren. The name tastes unfamiliar, but something about it scratches at the back of your mind. The way he says it—like it’s borrowed. Like it’s just another book on a shelf, waiting to be picked up and put back down under a different title.

Still, you nod, forcing an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Ren.”

His gaze flickers down—to your name tag. A quiet hum leaves him.

“Y/n,” he muses. “Or… Angel, maybe.” His grin sharpens. “Both suit you.”

Until he tilts his head, expression sobering.

“…You said you needed a new lock for your apartment.”

You blink, thrown off by the sudden shift. “Yeah?”

“Why?”

You hesitate. There’s no real harm in telling him, right? It’s not like he’s the one who broke in.

“Someone snuck in last night,” you admit, shrugging. “Didn’t steal anything. But still. Creepy.”

Ren hums again, thoughtful. Then, without missing a beat:

“I could watch your place.”

Your breath catches.

You blink at him. “What.”

He shrugs, casual. “Stay up. Keep an eye out. Handle it if anything happens.” His voice is smooth, steady, like he’s offering to water your plants while you’re away. “Wouldn’t be a problem.”

You stare.

He meets your gaze, unwavering.

It’s insane. It’s suspicious. It’s absolutely something you should say no to.

Instead, you hear yourself say:

“…You offering to be my personal bodyguard now?”

Ren smiles. “Only if you say yes.”

"You really want to protect a stranger like me, Who knows, You-" You went closer to his ear whispered "can't trust anyone...What if, I'm luring you for my own fun..?"

He flustered, almost fell down...You giggle and left.

You smile. Evilly.

Heheheheh.

He looks cute, won’t lie. Almost too cute. You’ve always wanted to commit a Haruko crime—sink your knife into something pretty, watch something lovely turn ruinous in your hands. Killing him would be fun.

Wouldn't lie… those blue eyes—

They’re similar.

That man.

The one from the alley. The first one you didn’t kill. The one you let walk free.

Your mind wrenches back to him, unbidden. That look in his eyes, the way he stood—different. He wasn’t like the others. He was… something else.

And maybe—just maybe—your poor, gutted heart…

Ugh.

Stop.

Ugh.

You smile a little.

Shitty. Yes. You’re fucked in the head.

And oh, how you love it.

A wretched thing, a beautiful disaster, a creature born to revel in ruin—you, a lover in the way fire loves to lick at the edges of a home, the way a knife loves the tender give of flesh.

What is it, then? This itch in your skull? This whisper in your bones? Some ghost of mercy rattling in your ribcage? How disgusting. How divine.

You let one go. One. And yet his ghost lingers like the taste of copper on your tongue. A memory dressed in blue-eyed regret.

You should carve it out. Bleed it dry. But oh, don’t you adore the ache?

[jungkoode]

死 KKANGPAE | #10 死

† wound tight †

"You’re in the Seduction Division, you’re supposed to be the seductress here, not the other way around. But then he falls asleep on your bed, and he suddenly looks so human… The morning brings him back to normal though, as you remain unaware of how thoroughly he has to wash your scent off his skin. And if that wasn’t enough… AD’s cryptic warning seems more acidic than the lemon breeze that wafts off him.

next | index

⚔ chapter details ⚔

word count: 7k

rating: mature

content: secret rdvz, jeon popping a boner in the most awkward moments, thrill of being discovered, stirring arousal, battling self-control, almost masturbation (m), cryptic warnings, scents that linger too long for their own good

☠ author's note ☠

As promised, chapter 10 delivered the SECOND we hit that goal! Took y'all less than 24 hours on Wattpad which is both flattering and deeply concerning. You're all menaces and I love you, but the bar is officially being raised. I refuse to be bullied by my own readers (ノಠ益ಠ)ノ彡┻━┻

MY SLEEPY BOYYYYY (;'༎ຶٹ༎ຶ')

He's so traumatized and I am so mean SORRY *dodges all your punches with the grace of someone who absolutely deserves to be punched*

—Don't worry Y/N, we all feel that way towards Jeon, it's totally normal. The "I want to simultaneously slap him and kiss him" experience is universal. Don't beat yourself up over it (〜￣▽￣)〜

This chapter was a whole cocktail of POVs, I know! But there were so many things happening simultaneously that it just came out like this. Think of it as one of those split-screen moments in action movies except instead of car chases it's just traumatized gang members making questionable life choices.

I must say I'm actually happy with how this chapter turned out because we're finally diving deeper into the spicier themes! The thrill of forbidden attraction! The danger lurking around every corner! The "I shouldn't want this but I REALLY want this" internal struggle! And the sexual tension thick enough to cut with one of V's knives! PEAK FICTION!

Anyway, thanks for reading as always! Your comments sustain me through the dark nights of writer's block and existential dread. Love you all, you magnificent enablers!

⚔ socials ⚔

read on ao3

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tumblr/twitter: @jungkoode

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☁︎

You're about to crawl into bed when someone knocks on your door. At 3 AM. Because of course. 

Opening it reveals Jeon standing there like this is totally normal, holding a plastic bag with your hoodie peeking out.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" You whisper-yell, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

"Just want my jacket ba—" You slap your hand over his mouth before he can finish. 

His lips are warm against your palm and you try very hard not to think about that.

"Are you actually insane?" Your voice drops even lower. "You can't be here!"

"I know." He scowls when you remove your hand. "That's why I want to make this quick."

"Ever heard of morning? You know, when people normally wake up?"

"Not like I'm sleeping anywa—"

A cough echoes from one of the other rooms and your body moves on pure instinct. You grab his wrist and yank him inside before anyone can catch Kkangpae's deadliest assassin lurking outside your door at ass o'clock.

He stumbles, definitely more from surprise than your strength, and his mouth opens—maybe to curse you out—but you slap your hand over it again, gesturing frantically at Yunjin's sleeping form with your free hand.

"Don't," you mouth, somewhere between begging and threatening.

His dark eyes lock with yours, and something electric crackles between you. Your hand is still pressed against his mouth, his skin burning against your palm, and suddenly you're very aware that you just dragged Jeon into your bedroom in the middle of the night.

Shit.

You drop your hand from his mouth, careful and slow. The jacket's on your bed, and you edge toward it like you're approaching a wild animal. Jeon follows, surprisingly quiet for someone who radiates danger like a space heater. Sets the plastic bag with your hoodie by the bed.

Just as you reach for his jacket—because of course this whole mess started with that stupid piece of leather—it slips through your fingers. The thud it makes hitting the floor might as well be a bomb going off in the silent room.

Your heart stops.

"Y/N?" Yunjin's sleepy voice makes your blood run cold.

Pure panic takes over. 

Before you can think it through, you're shoving Jeon onto your bed and climbing on top of him. His hands grab your hips automatically, and you press yourself against him, trying to make his tall frame disappear under yours.

You yank the blankets over both of you, praying they hide his shape. Your heart's beating so hard you're sure Jeon can feel it where your chest meets his. The whole situation would be m̶o̶r̶t̶i̶f̶y̶i̶n̶g̶ dangerous if you weren't so terrified of getting caught.

"Everything's fine," you whisper-call back. "Just dropped the jacket."

Jeon's frozen underneath you, every muscle locked tight. You can feel his chest rising and falling, his breath hitting your neck in controlled bursts. He's warm—too warm—and solid in all the places you're trying very hard not to think about.

"'Kay..." Yunjin mumbles. "Sleep soon..."

You nod uselessly in the dark, too aware of Jeon's hands still gripping your hips. Moonlight catches his eyes, and even in the shadows, his gaze burns into yours with an intensity that makes your stomach flutter.

This is fine. Everything's fine.

But it's like time itself freezes. 

You hold your breath as Yunjin shifts in her bed, the sheets rustling before she settles back into sleep with a soft sigh. You stay perfectly still, counting heartbeats, waiting to make sure she's really out.

When her breathing evens out again, you let yourself relax—as much as anyone can relax while straddling Jeon in the middle of the night. The room goes quiet except for your matched breathing, and suddenly the blanket cocoon feels very small, very intimate.

You lift your head slowly, trying to minimize movement, and fuck—his face is right there, barely inches from yours. His dark eyes catch what little moonlight filters through the blanket, and there's something in them beyond the usual annoyance. 

Something that makes you almost sigh.

"Don't move," you breathe, barely a whisper. "Just... wait till she's deeper asleep."

The silence feels thick enough to choke on. Because everything seems to shrink to this moment: the warmth of his hands on your hips, how solid his chest feels against yours, the way his breath mingles with yours in the tiny space between you.

His eyes dance upwards, gaze locking with yours momentarily. 

Then it drops to your mouth—for a split second—before snapping back up, and your whole body tingles like you've been shocked.

This is insane. This is really fucking insane. 

How his fingers press into your hips, how your thighs are bracketing his sides, how close your faces are.

You can see little details you've never noticed before, like the faint freckles across his nose you've somehow ignored all this time. 

You don't know why you seem to catalog that information.

But you do know why your heart pounds so hard you're sure he can feel it where your chests meet. 

Because you can say whatever, but he's definitely hot. And this is dangerous. 

So, so dangerous.

Jeon shifts under you—just barely, but enough to make you notice how tense he is. His whole body feels impressively stiff, and you ponder if he's really as unbothered by this position as he's trying to act.

You need to focus. Need to ignore how his eyes look softer in the dim lighting, or how his hands seem the perfect fucking size on your hips. There must still be some remnants of vodka on your body that making it hard to think about anything except how close he is.

"Jeon," you breathe against his cheek. "You need to—"

He moves again, more obviously this time. 

You lose your balance for a split second, shifting to catch yourself, and—oh.

Oh fuck.

"Shit—" The word hisses out between his teeth like he's been burned.

You want to die. 

You want to drown.

Because that's definitely his cock pressing against your ass through the thin cotton of your pajamas. 

A tiny gasp escapes before you can stop it as everything clicks into place—why he's so tense, why his breathing sounds so controlled.

He's hard. 

You freeze, heart thundering in your chest. This was already dangerous, but now it's dangerous dangerous. You try to tell yourself it's just biology, just a normal reaction to having someone straddling him. Nothing personal.

He's just a guy, after all. These things happen.

That's what you tell yourself, but it's getting real hard to think straight when you can feel exactly how hard Jeon is underneath you.

And why does that knowledge give you chills? 

This is Jeon—the guy who's been nothing but cold and distant since day one. Mr. Perfect Sniper with his perfect control, dick hard just because you're straddling him.

It shouldn't be hot.

You shouldn't find it hot.

But then again... you're already thinking about how easy would be to shift your hips, to feel more of that thick line pressing against you. 

You could play it off as getting comfortable, just an innocent adjustment. 

Your body practically vibrates with the urge to move.

But no. No. You're not that desperate. This is just adrenaline and proximity making you stupid.

Except... you can't make yourself pull away. His warmth seeps through your thin pajamas, and when did his eyes get so gentle? You've never seen him look like this—all that ice melted into something darker, hungrier.

That goddamn silver chain around his neck catches some light, drawing your eyes to where his black turtleneck hugs every muscle. You wonder if his tattoos extend past what you can see, if his skin is as hot everywhere else as it is under your palms.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out how right he feels under you. But the question burns in your mind anyway, dangerous and tempting:

What if?

You jerk away from him like you've been burned, the what if still echoing in your head. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you're surprised Yunjin can't hear it from her bed.

Now you're lying next to him, shoulders touching, and his body heat feels like it's trying to brand you. 

Embarrassment hits you in waves, hot and suffocating. 

What the actual fuck just happened?

You're supposed to be better than this. You're in the fucking Seduction Division—you're trained to be the hunter, not the prey. You're the one who's supposed to make people fall apart with a look, not the one getting flustered over an accidental boner pressed against your ass.

But here you are anyway, frozen like a rookie, your body still tingling everywhere he touched you. The ghost of his hardness against you refuses to fade, and you hate how your stomach flips at the memory.

"Get it together," you whisper to yourself, trying to sound more confident than you feel.

You close your eyes, take a big breath, willing your heart to slow the fuck down.

The minutes crawl by as you listen to Yunjin's breathing, waiting for it to even out into sleep. And when her breaths finally turn deep and rhythmic, you allow yourself to relax slightly.

Time to end this disaster.

"Jeon." You elbow him gently. "Coast is clear."

Nothing.

You frown, poking him harder. "Jeon, get up."

Still nothing. 

Annoyance bubbles up in your chest, mixing with something that feels dangerously close to concern. You turn carefully, trying not to make noise, and—

This motherfucker fell asleep.

The notorious Chief of Tactical Assassinations, Kkangpae's deadliest sniper, passed out in your bed like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Perfect. Just perfect.

You almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Here you are, having a whole crisis, and this asshole just... falls asleep. The audacity.

You let out a long breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. You should be planning how to get him out without anyone noticing, or worrying about what happens if someone catches you. Instead, your traitorous brain keeps replaying how his hands felt on your hips, how his breath hitched when you—nope. Not going there.

You turn around slightly, noticing the little details of his face. You've never seen him like this before. All those sharp edges are soft in sleep, his usual scowl smoothed away. His stupidly long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm that's weirdly hypnotic.

Something twists in your chest. It's strange seeing him so... vulnerable. 

No ice-prince mask, no walls—just...

Jeon.

You can't help but stare a little. It's not every day you get to see him with his guard down. Not that you want to see him like this. He's still an ass. A very attractive ass who's currently making little sighing noises in his sleep, but still an ass.

The anger from earlier starts to fade, replaced by something d̶a̶n̶g̶e̶r̶o̶u̶s̶ inconvenient. You blame it on the late hour and leftover adrenaline from earlier. Because you definitely don't care about how peaceful he looks right now, or how his hair falls across his forehead in a way that makes your fingers itch to brush it back.

You sigh in defeat. No way to wake him without risking Yunjin catching you, which means you're stuck with your division chief in your bed until morning. 

Ideal, really.

You pull the blanket up over him carefully, definitely not caring about waking him up. It's just common courtesy. You'd do it for anyone.

Right.

Sleep tugs at your eyes as the adrenaline crash hits. Your last thought before drifting off is that Jeon better not snore, or you're smothering him with a pillow, Council member or not.

What a fucking mess. 

Jungkook drifts into consciousness slowly, which is... strange. Usually his body snaps awake like a rubber band, heart racing from whatever nightmare decided to visit. 

But this morning feels different. Peaceful. His mind is oddly quiet.

Then the cold hits him—an empty space beside him where warmth should be. His eyes flutter open, adjusting to unfamiliar shadows. 

This isn't his room. 

The realization shoots through him like ice water.

He bolts upright, heart finally doing that familiar panicked dance against his ribs. Everything's wrong—the walls are too close, the air too soft. Even the smell is different. No pine or wood here, just something milky and spiced that makes his insides whirl.

His eyes scan the room frantically, survival instincts kicking in as he—

Oh. 

Oh right.

Last night. 

The jacket exchange. The whispered arguments. You shoving him onto your bed when Yunjin almost caught you two. The weight of you on top of him, how his body betrayed him, the way you felt pressed against—

Jungkook cuts that thought off sharply. More important is the fact that he slept. Actually slept, without a single nightmare tearing him awake. No blood-soaked memories, no echoes of gunshots, no accusing eyes. 

Just... peace.

He sits there, trying to process this impossibility. His fingers find his lip ring automatically, playing with it as his mind races. 

When was the last time he slept through the night? 

Months? 

Years?

But you're gone now, the room empty except for lingering traces of chai tea in the air. Something uncomfortable twists in his chest. 

Where are you?

The thought comes unbidden, unwanted. He pushes it away, along with the memory of how perfectly you fit against him in the dark.

The door opens and you walk in, wearing fresh clothes like this is any normal morning. Jungkook's jaw clenches automatically. Your casual confidence grates against his nerves, reminding him that he's somehow let himself get tangled in something he can't control.

This isn't how things are supposed to work. His world operates on precision, on distance. On rifles and gunshots and detachment. 

But here in your room, surrounded by vanilla and chai tea and you, all his careful walls feel paper-thin.

You look at him and he feels exposed, like you can see right through him. His hair falls messily into his eyes, a far cry from his usual slicked-back perfection. He knows he must look disheveled, vulnerable in a way that makes his skin crawl.

"Good morning, thundercloud."

Your voice is gentle, warm and buttery like the aroma you embody. He manages a nod and a vague sound of acknowledgment, the nickname washing over him without really landing. His brain feels fuzzy, slow—but not in the usual way, not with the sharp edges of sleep deprivation and nightmares.

For the first time in... he can't even remember how long, his mind isn't screaming with V's cold glare or AD's hatred. 

Something coils in his stomach. 

"What time is it?" The question comes out rougher than intended, an attempt to ground himself in something concrete and measurable.

Your presence feels too solid, too real in the soft morning light. Like if he looks at you too long, he'll have to acknowledge how well he slept with you nearby, how the nightmares stayed away for once.

He doesn't want to think about what that means.

Your eyes dart to the digital clock between your and Yunjin's beds, then back to Jeon. You can't help but think he looks weirdly soft in the morning light, all rumpled clothes and messy hair.

"10:30AM."

His eyelashes flutter like he's still processing, then his eyes go wide. You can practically see the moment it clicks.

"What?"

It's weird, seeing him process this. For someone like Jeon, who probably schedules his bathroom breaks, sleeping past dawn must feel like the world's tilted off its axis. 

And truly, the contrast is striking—this is the same man who can take out targets from impossible distances, who makes seasoned gang members nervous with just a look. 

Yet right now, looking like he just rolled out of bed, he looks almost c̶u̶t̶e̶ stupid. 

You can't help but study him while he's too thrown off to notice. The sharp edges of his jawline seem softer, the perpetual tension in his shoulders gone. Even his stormy aura feels rather like a gentle summer brain. 

You wonder what it means that he actually slept here. The man who probably counts sheep with a sniper scope, passed out in your bed like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

But those aren't questions you get to ask, and they definitely aren't ones he'd answer.

Still. It's kind of fascinating, really, seeing Jeon so out of it. Like catching a trick of the great and powerful Oz.

And the thing is... It's a well-known thing, his morning routine. Always first at breakfast, like some kind of deadly alarm clock for the rest of the gang... His empty table by the window is probably sitting there right now, throwing off the whole cafeteria's ecosystem.

You see the exact moment reality crashes in. Ten-thirty means he's missed his usual spot, missed being the first one there. 

It means people must have noticed. 

You drift to the little table by your window, pouring water just to have something to do with your hands. Because there are so many ways this could go wrong. The Chief of Tactical Assassinations sleeping in a recruit's room? That's the kind of scandal that gets people transferred to different divisions—or worse.

"People are gonna notice you weren't at your usual brooding spot this morning."

"I know." His voice is steady, controlled—familiar coldness seeping back in. "I'll handle it."

Something about his confidence settles your nerves a bit. This is Jeon after all—co-leader of the Assassination Division. If anyone can get out of this mess without starting gang-wide gossip, it's him.

Still. The sight of him in your room, black turtleneck rumpled from sleep, is going to be burned into your brain for a while.

"What about your roommate?" His voice is low, tense. 

And okay, it's a bit funny. The fearsome Jeon, worried about getting caught in a recruit's room like a teenager sneaking out past curfew. Sounds like a joke. 

"Training session." You watch his face carefully. "Yunjin left early. Didn't see you."

The relief that washes over him is subtle—just a slight drop in his shoulders, a loosening around his eyes. But you catch it anyway. The last thing either of you needs is gossip about why Jeon spent the night in Seduction.

He sighs like he's been holding his breath all morning, pushing tattooed fingers through his messy hair. You realize it's not often you see him without his usual rings, without that careful polish he maintains. 

It shouldn't be hot. 

It is.

His eyes track from your door to the space outside, probably calculating escape routes like the assassin he is. 

Old habits die hard, apparently.

"Need to get back before people start asking questions." He stands in one fluid motion, and there's the Jeon you know—precisely lethal and absolutely in control.

"Yeah, we should be careful." You try to keep your voice neutral. "This could cause problems if anyone finds out."

His dark eyes meet yours, and silence tickles between you. 

You both know what's at stake here. One whisper about Jeon sleeping in your room could start an avalanche neither of you is ready for.

Kkangpae might feel like family sometimes, but rules are rules. And you've heard enough stories about what happens to people who break them. 

Plus, after last night's revelations about RM's brother and his fiancée's betrayal, the "no attachments" policy makes a lot more sense.

The irony of looking like you have broken that exact rule less than twelve hours after learning why it exists isn't lost on you.

Especially with Jeon, who lives by them like they're written in his DNA. Being on the Council means setting an example, and last night was... an accident. A weird collision of circumstances that shouldn't have happened.

Still, when he pauses at your door, something twists in your chest. You wonder if you'll ever be this close to him again. 

It's probably for the best if you're not.

"Thanks." The word sounds foreign coming from him, like he's not used to saying it.

"For what?" 

"For... not waking me up." His voice drops so low you barely catch it.

"Don't mention it." You try to sound casual, like your heart isn't doing stupid flips. "Looked like you needed it."

He nods, and holy shit, is that...

A smile?

His hand lingers on the doorknob a second too long, which is weird for someone usually so decisive. Then he's gone, slipping into the hallway like a shadow.

The door clicks shut and you lean against it, letting out a breath you didn't realize you were holding. Your room feels too big now, too quiet. Like all the air got sucked out with him.

Get your heart out the gutter, bitch. 

This is stupid. Attraction isn't a luxury you can afford in Kkangpae, especially not to someone like Jeon. He's literally the kind of danger that comes wrapped in leather jackets and piercings. 

It's not just his physical skills that make him lethal. It's the way he commands attention without saying a word, how his gaze pins you in place more effectively than handcuffs ever could.

But fuck if that isn't exactly what makes your heart race.

You push away from the door, pacing your room like a caged animal. It's too early for this shit. These thoughts are dangerous—the kind that get people killed in places like Kkangpae. But your brain keeps circling back to the weight of him against you, to that split second when his breathing stuttered.

Focus.

You've seen what Jeon can do. The way he moves like death given form, how people scramble to clear his path in the hallways. It's m̶a̶g̶n̶e̶t̶i̶c̶ terrifying how much power he holds.

He's powerful. Dangerous in a way that shouldn't be alluring.

Your eyes drift to the morning light streaming through your window, painting greenery in soft gold. Out there, people are going about their normal lives, no idea that one of Korea's deadliest assassins just spent the night in your bed. 

And that thought makes you laugh—a weird, choked sound that holds no humor.

Because Jeon isn't just a bad idea. He's career suicide wrapped in pine and tobacco scent. He's everything you should run from if you want to survive in this world.

You keep pacing, trying to outrun the memory of his body pressed against yours, the hard line of his cock against your ass. 

It was just biology, you tell yourself. Basic human reaction to having someone straddle you. Nothing personal.

But god—the way his breath hitched, how his fingers dug into your hips... When was the last time anyone looked at you with that kind of raw hunger? Like they wanted to d̶e̶v̶o̶u̶r̶ destroy you?

Stop it. You're supposed to be the seductress here, not the one getting all hot and bothered over an accidental boner.

You know exactly how Jeon operates, how his division operates. 

He's not the type to lose his cool over something as basic as physical contact. And yet... the way he reacted to you was definitely not part of his usual 'get away from me' persona.

Nah.

You're probably reading way too much into this. Making up some romance novel fantasy about the deadly assassin who secretly wants you. He's probably in his office right now, rolling his eyes at how obviously affected you were. Because this is Jeon—cold, aloof Jeon who can pin a target blindfolded while solving complex math equations in his head.

So his dick got hard. Big fucking deal. He's human, unfortunately equipped with basic biological responses. Doesn't mean anything except that friction plus pressure equals exactly what you'd expect.

But... You bet he'd look fucking hot losing that control, having all that stupid lethality focused entirely on f̶u̶c̶k̶i̶n̶g̶ having you... Your body hums with the memory of his hands on your hips, how easily he could have f̶l̶i̶p̶p̶e̶d̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶o̶v̶e̶r̶ moved you.

And the thing is—it wouldn't have to mean anything, right? Just sex. No feelings, no drama, no breaking RM's precious rules. You're both adults who sometimes need to blow off steam. Simple solution to a simple problem.

Except nothing about Jeon is simple.

Honestly, he's probably already forgotten about the whole thing, while you're here having a whole crisis over how his hands felt on your hips. 

You're just another recruit to him, an inconvenience at best.

Right?

Yet... Maybe he still wants you? Sexually, at least?

Fuck. You don't know anymore.

"For fuck's sake," you groan into your pillow.

Enough. This is pointless. Jeon is who he is—cold, controlled, untouchable. Even if technically hooking up wouldn't break any rules (it's not a relationship if it's just sex, right?), he'd never go for it. Trying to seduce him would be like trying to melt a glacier with a match.

Last night was a fluke. A perfect storm of circumstances that'll never happen again. You need to focus on training, on surviving in this cutthroat world. Focus on anything but how his fingers dug into your skin, how his voice roughened when—

"Fuck," you tell your empty room.

Maybe that's exactly what you need, b̶i̶t̶c̶h̶ though.

The scent of you haunts him like a ghost he can't exorcise.

Jeon slips from your room like a shadow, silent, deathly like he's been trained to. The door clicks shut behind him and he exhales slowly, only now realizing he'd been holding his breath. 

Your scent—chai tea with undertones of something softer, more intimate—clings to his clothes, his skin, his fucking hair. It makes his head spin in a way that's dangerously close to intoxication.

The morning light streaming through the hallway windows hits different somehow. Brighter. Sharper. More real than it has any right to be. Or maybe it's just his sleep-addled brain trying to process the fact that he actually slept through the night. 

No nightmares clawing at his consciousness. 

No haunting memories of thorned roses and blood-soaked floors. 

No phantom voices snarling accusations in his ear.

Just... peace.

Weird, unsettling, unwanted peace.

He needs to move. Questions will start flying if anyone notices his absence from breakfast. Eyebrows raised at the feared assassin missing his usual spot at the corner table, back to the wall, eyes on every entrance. 

The thought makes his jaw clench hard enough to hurt. He needs his quarters, his routine, anything to ground him back in the cold reality he's built for himself.

The common area of the Seduction Division stretches before him like a minefield. His footsteps make no sound as he crosses it—a habit born from years of training and necessity. His ears strain for any sign of movement, any hint that he's not alone—but the silence is clear. 

There's no one around to see him, to wonder why the Chief of Tactical Assassinations is sneaking through the Seduction Division at dawn like some guilty fucking teenager.

His card practically stabs the elevator scanner, urgency making his movements sharp and jerky. The wait feels endless, each second increasing the risk of discovery. The faster he can get back to his floor—back to his world of order and control—the sooner he can forget how w̶e̶l̶l̶ strange it felt waking up in your bed drenched in buttery smells.

As soon as the elevator arrives he steps in, jabbing his floor number with force. The doors slide close, and another wave of chai tea hits him—your goddamn cloying scent. 

It's absurd, how your presence somehow kept the demons at bay when nothing else has worked for years.

No.

He shakes the thought away violently, like a dog trying to dislodge a tick. The elevator descends, and he forces his breathing to slow, to steady. Rebuild the walls brick by brick. Lock away anything resembling vulnerability. 

By the time the doors open, his face is a perfect mask again, all traces of the man who slept beside you locked away behind steel and concrete.

The walk to his room feels longer than usual, each step carrying him further from your door but not from the memory of what happened there. Only when he's inside his quarters, surrounded by the familiar scents of pine and wood that he's cultivated so carefully, does some of the tension leave his shoulders.

He stands frozen in the center of his room, trying to piece himself together. 

But your scent still clings to him, sweet and spicy and maddeningly comforting. Because he can't escape the memory of your body pressed against his, warm and soft in all the places he's been cold and hard for so long.

A groan slips past his defenses as he scrubs a hand over his face. Chai tea has invaded every fiber of his clothing, every pore of his skin. It's suffocating, asphyxiating, and he can't fucking breathe without inhaling more of you.

"Shit," he mutters, fingers fumbling with his shirt buttons with uncharacteristic clumsiness. 

The fabric feels charged somehow, holding the ghost of your curves like some kind of cruel imprint against his skin. He needs to get it off, needs to wash away every trace of you before it sinks in any deeper than it already has.

His clothes hit the floor in a messy heap that would shock anyone who's seen the military precision of his quarters. 

But right now he doesn't care, because he needs to wash off the lingering remnants of your proximity. So he stalks to the bathroom, steps echoing his frustration against the tile floor. 

This shouldn't be getting to him. You're nothing but an annoyance, a complication he never asked for. 

So why can't he shake the feeling of your hands on him, your breath against his neck, your body yielding beneath his?

The shower spray hits like ice, shocking a hiss from between clenched teeth. Good. Let it freeze out the lingering heat of you, the maddening softness that threatens to unravel years of curated self-control.

He braces against the wall, water pounding down his back as he hangs his head. It's been so long since anyone touched him like that. Not since... 

The thought stings, an old wound that never quite closed, still seeping poison into his veins after all this time.

But his body is a fucking traitor because it clearly gives 0 fucks about old wounds or hard-learned lessons. All it knows is the memory of your hips under his hands, your thighs straddling his lap, the perfect curve of your ass that he's caught himself staring at more times than he'd ever admit. Arousal flares hot and insistent despite his best efforts to quash it.

His tongue finds his lip ring automatically, worrying the metal in that nervous tell he can never quite shake. But even this small habit betrays him, reminding him of how your eyes had lingered there, dark with want that mirrored his own.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit. 

It was just biology. Basic human response to friction and warmth and proximity. It's not like he wants to f̶u̶c̶k̶ touch you specifically. It could have been anyone. It should be anyone else.

But lust is a bitch, so naturally, horror floods him as he glances down to find himself hardening—a basic impulse he can't seem to control no matter how much he despises himself for it.

And maybe for one dangerous moment, he considers giving in. Because how long has it been since he last touched himself? 

The memory feels distant, buried under missions and paperwork and endless nights of insomnia, and his hand drifts lower, drawn by the promise of relief after so many months of n̶o̶t̶h̶i̶n̶g̶ numbness.

"Fuck." He jerks his hand back like it's been burned, water droplets flying from his fingertips.

What the hell is he doing? He's the Chief of Tactical Assassinations, not some hormone-driven rookie who can't control his basic urges. You're just an ensign in the Seduction Division, and he's already learned what happens when chiefs get involved with recruits. The scars from last time still keep him up at night, still haunt him every time he closes his eyes.

This isn't him. He doesn't do this—doesn't let physical needs compromise his control. That's V's territory, letting desire override discipline and common sense. Jeon is better than that. Has to be better than that. The alternative is unthinkable.

He cranks the water to ice cold with a snarl, punishment for his body's rebellion. The shock of it steals his breath and sends goosebumps racing across his skin, but at least it kills the arousal. He finishes washing mechanically, movements sharp with self-directed anger that borders on violence.

The freezing air hits him like a slap as he steps out, raising goosebumps across his skin and making his muscles tense. 

Good. The cold helps him think clearly, helps him remember who he is and what's expected of him. 

He dries off quickly and dresses mechanically, creating barriers between himself and the untamed arousal stirring somewhere in the lower regions of his brain.

By the time he emerges from his quarters, he feels like he's back to normal—no trace remains of the man who woke up in your bed. His expression is pure ice, posture rigid, shoulders straight. 

Though if someone were to look deep into his eyes, they'd see them dark and stormy with everything he's trying to bury.

But that doesn't matter, because the Chief of Tactical Assassinations doesn't lose control. 

Not for anyone.

Your body feels like it's been through a meat grinder, and honestly? You're kind of into it.

You drag yourself toward the elevator, muscles screaming in that satisfying way that only comes from getting absolutely demolished during training. 

Kazuha had you doing laps for what felt like eternity, her burgundy hair streaming behind her like some predatory sea creature as she demonstrated "proper form" for the fifteenth time. The chlorine smell still clings to your skin despite the quick shower, and your hair's doing that weird half-damp thing that's going to look like absolute trash in about twenty minutes.

"Swimming builds stealth," she'd said earlier, pushing wet strands from her face with that intense look she gets when she's in full instructor mode. "Helps you move silently. Might save your life someday."

Can't really argue with that. In this line of work, the more ways you know how to not die, the better your chances of, well, not dying. Even if your arms currently feel like overcooked noodles and you're pretty sure your lungs have filed for divorce.

The hallway stretches ahead like a never-ending tunnel. Whoever designed this place clearly had a hard-on for minimalism—all sleek surfaces and indirect lighting. Very "secret criminal organization with excellent taste," which you suppose is the point.

You notice Kazuha keeps glancing at her digital card as you walk, the blue glow illuminating her face in quick flashes. She's got that look—the one that says she's sitting on information and trying to decide if it's worth sharing. After about the fifth glance, she finally breaks the comfortable silence between you.

"Heard about the camping trip?" she asks, voice casual but eyes watchful.

"The what now?" You slow your pace, raising an eyebrow so high it might actually leave your face. The words 'camping' and 'deadly criminal organization' don't exactly go together in your mind.

"Moon's latest idea." Her lips quirk up in that way that means she finds something both ridiculous and amusing. "Team building or whatever. Though knowing him, it's probably more about testing survival skills than roasting marshmallows."

You snort—actually snort—imagining Seoul's deadliest criminals sitting cross-legged in a circle singing campfire songs: V with a guitar. Jeon scowling at a marshmallow. AD refusing to leave his tent without Wi-Fi. The mental image is too much.

"When's this happening?" you ask, already mentally cataloging what outdoor gear you own (approximately none) and what you'll need to borrow (approximately everything).

"Next weekend. Mandatory for everyone—even the Council." She grins, and there's something almost childishly delighted in her expression. "Can't wait to see how some of them handle roughing it."

"Bet Jeon's secretly a wilderness expert." The words tumble out before your brain can slam on the brakes. "Probably knows fifty ways to start a fire with just his glare."

And why the fuck do you always do this? It's like your mouth has a direct line to the Jeon-obsessed part of your brain that you try so hard to keep locked in a box labeled 'do not open, contains bad decisions.'

Kazuha's laugh bounces off the walls, bright and genuine. "True. But I'm more excited to watch V try to pitch a tent. That'll be worth all the mosquito bites."

You both crack up at the mental image—V, with his designer clothes and perfectly styled hair, struggling with tent poles and swearing elegantly. Doing some dramatic gestures as he insists this is beyond his pay grade. 

The conversation flows easier after that, like a dam breaking. Division gossip (apparently someone from Logistics hooked up with one of J-Hope's medics), latest missions (Flower's team extracted information from some politician last week), the weird mix of normal and deadly that makes up your daily life.

But part of your brain keeps circling back to the camping trip. It might be interesting, seeing everyone outside these walls. Away from the usual hierarchy and rules. Maybe even see certain people—a certain person—in a different light...

Stop it. Bad brain.

The elevator takes its sweet time arriving, but for once you don't mind. These moments—just chatting and laughing like you're normal twenty-somethings instead of trained criminals—make the whole "chose a life of crime" thing a bit more bearable. Almost like you could be two friends heading to a coffee shop instead of two members of a seduction team returning from combat training.

Then the doors slide open with that soft pneumatic hiss, and the mood shifts faster than V's trigger finger.

Because AD is there, and he looms in the elevator like a human popsicle in pajamas. His blonde hair's a disaster zone, like he's been running his hands through it for hours, and his expression screams 'I will digitally erase your entire existence if you so much as breathe in my direction.' 

You and Kazuha instinctively hang back, keeping a respectful distance as you step inside.

The silence is thick enough to choke on. You exchange glances with Kazuha, her eyes wide in a silent what the actual fuck is his deal today? AD's usually grumpy—it's like his personality setting is permanently stuck on 'irritated genius'—but this is next level, even for him.

The elevator hums, counting floors with soft electronic beeps. You study the back of AD's head, noting how his shoulders are hunched forward like he's carrying something heavy. 

Something's definitely got the Chief of Cyber Intelligence more pissy than usual. 

Maybe someone touched his keyboard. Or breathed near his servers. Or existed in his general vicinity when he was coding.

"Seduction Division?" His voice breaks the silence suddenly, barely above a mumble but somehow filling the entire space.

You stiffen, feeling your spine straighten automatically. Kazuha goes still beside you, her usual fluid energy freezing in place. 

"Yes?" you answer, because someone has to and she's not opening her mouth.

AD turns slowly, pivoting on his heel. His dark eyes meet yours, and there's something in them that makes your stomach drop—not anger or irritation, but... Concern? Fear? Something you've never seen on his face before.

"Be careful," he says softly, but there's steel under the words, a warning wrapped in those two simple syllables.

Before you can process what that means—before you can even think to ask what the hell he's talking about—the elevator stops, and AD steps out without another word, his pajama-clad form disappearing down the hallway like some bizarre sleep-deprived ghost.

The doors slide shut, and you let out a heavy breath.

"What was that about?" Kazuha whispers, looking as confused as you feel.

"No idea." You shake your head. "But when AD warns you about something..."

"You listen." She finishes, expression thoughtful. 

The elevator continues its descent, but your mind's stuck on AD's warning. He's not exactly known for caring about other divisions' business. Whatever prompted that cryptic message must be serious.

Question is: what is he trying to warn you about?

goal: 300 notes. next chapter will be posted immediately AS SOON as the goal is reached. 🧚🏻 do your thing kiki nation. <3

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