#Like they’re together at this point I think

[vinocean22]

20 Things Spanking Fetishists Have in Common

Sweet Tea

Spankos are soulmates. The fetish hardwires our hearts and minds in remarkably consistent ways that aren’t usually apparent to others, so it’s always a bit magical when we chat. “Holy shit, you get me.” I still find it shocking how much we have in common. Can you relate to this list?

1. We’ve been like this for a very long time.

“I’m a lifelong spanko.” This is common in our community and not all that surprising, as most fetishes are formed during childhood. The vast majority of spankos I’ve met have either been this way for as long as they can remember, or can pinpoint a specific age in childhood when they became preoccupied with thoughts of the act. I can’t personally remember any point in my life when spanking didn’t fascinate me and captivate my attention.

2. It’s not a choice.

For many people, spanking is a kink. They enjoy it and find it sexy, but don’t necessarily consider it a requirement for a good time. For those with the fetish, however, spanking is a need rather than an option. Some of us can appreciate and enjoy other BDSM-related activities like bondage or wax play or needles, but spanking is central to our sexuality. This thing lies at the core of our soul and we couldn’t get rid of it if we tried.

We looked up the word ‘spanking’ in the dictionary as kids, not once but multiple times. This also applied to related words like ‘paddle’, ‘switch’, ‘flog’, ‘discipline’, or ‘punish’. We knew their meanings, of course, but the act of reading the definitions was exciting—arousing, even—though we may have been too young to conceptualize the feeling as sexual. If we studied a foreign language, we sat in class and wondered in the back of our minds, “But what’s the word for ‘spanking’?”

(Is this common with other fetishes? Did foot fetishists look up the words ‘foot’, ‘high heel’, ‘stocking’, etc. at the library, bashfully looking around to make sure no one else would notice? I wonder…)

4. We have, uhhh, ‘issues’ with being around it.

Non-spankos can talk about spanking like it’s nothing, but that’s not the case for people with a fetish for it. We may turn bright red when the topic comes up in conversation or feel the need to leave the room when spankings happen in movies or TV shows. For some, this is because the idea triggers intense arousal, even more so than if straight-up intercourse were playing onscreen. For others, it’s simply too intimate and embarrassing to think about unless we’re by ourselves or discussing it in the context of a sexual encounter. When I was a kid and friends publicly proclaimed, “My mom spanked me yesterday!” I felt absolutely mortified. “How can anyone talk about THAT so casually?”

5. We think about it a looooooot.

Some researcher folks have claimed we all think about sex an average of 18-35 times a day. The fetishists I know think about spanking at least this often if not more, frequently daydreaming about the smacking of butts. A fetish is, by definition, a meticulous obsession. We live and breathe it, and never run out of things to say when chatting with other spankos. We want to meet people like us and TALK about it in detail, even if we never end up playing together. It’s our favorite means of connection.

6. Our fetish has caused us hardship.

“Do you feel like your fetish is a curse?” I’ve seen this asked quite a bit on spanko forums. Most of us had to navigate a number of challenges while growing up with this thing. We felt shame, embarrassment, and isolation after realizing how different we were, and may have worried we were crazy. Our relationships with non-spankos have likely been riddled with intimacy problems because we can’t relate to each other sexually. No matter how kinky or open-minded our partners are, they’re unlikely to understand us unless they have the fetish too. As a result, many spankos become pickier over time, ultimately refusing to date those outside of their orientation. “I’d rather be single than with someone I can’t share this with.” Until we find our people, it’s a lonely world.

7. Spanking takes priority over sex.

Every spanko I’ve ever met has put spanking at the forefront of the itinerary. It’s satisfying in its own right for a lot of folks, whether or not other sexy stuff occurs before or afterward. Some spankos identify as asexual, eschewing intercourse entirely because it doesn’t interest them in the same way discipline does. Others are extremely sexual people who focus on spanking as the main course or frequently indulge as an extended form of foreplay. This is an example of why we might experience difficulty finding balance with non-spanko partners. By the time they’re ready to move onto something else, we’re just getting in the zone.

8. It’s on our mind when we orgasm.

One of the first times I had sex with another spanko, I was blown away by the level of telepathy between us. I closed my eyes and fantasized as he licked my clit. He suddenly paused and smiled. “You’re thinking about having your pants pulled down, aren’t you?” I mean fuck, of course I was, but how did he know?! With a bit more experience in the community, I realized many if not all spankos think about it while they’re getting off. The moment thoughts of discipline enter my mind I’m aroused, but I cool off just as quickly if my focus is drawn elsewhere. If I didn’t think about spanking, I’m not sure I’d ever climax.

9. Most of us have tried switching at least once.

Some spankos like to give and receive in equal share, but many have a preference toward being spanker or spankee. I’ve noticed, though, that even the most stubborn of us who proclaim, “I don’t switch!” have tried a taste of the other side out of curiosity at some point. It makes sense to want to learn all angles of the equation. I’m in favor of the idea that everyone benefits from switching. Understanding what our partners experience makes us all better lovers.

10. We want spankings to feel as ‘real’ as possible.

Often, spankees want to cry. We want to be held down and ‘made’ to take it until our spanker is done, no matter what we say or do. This makes the experience feel more real, as if we’re truly being punished by an authority figure and have no choice in the matter. Once trust has been established, some spankees will afford their partners blanket consent and opt not to use safewords. (I don’t recommend this route with anyone you wouldn’t trust with your life. There are oodles of legitimately fucked up people out there masking their abusive tendencies as BDSM. Vet your spankers well, ladies and gents.) This all exists to enhance the pleasure of the fantasy, but isn’t an invitation to violate limits. We want our spankers to be perceptive, taking us just far enough to inspire tears and provide release, but not so far as to genuinely break or traumatize us. Finding this balance is an art form that requires empathy, intelligence, communication, and skill.

11. We all have our preferences.

What implements do you like? What are your favorite positions? What kinds of spankings are your favorite to give? Bruises or no bruises? How long do you like to go for? What kinds of behavior would earn a spanking from you? These are the sexy deets we discuss when we chat, and our answers say a lot about our personalities. It’s rare for a spanko not to have feelings about such things. More often than not, we have specific reasons for liking what we like.

12. We enjoy associated activities.

To state the obvious: spankos love butts. LOOOOOOOOVE them. Naturally, we tend to enjoy other ass-focused activities in conjunction with spanking, like anal play, doggy-style sex, enemas, thermometers, and between-the-cheeks ‘inspections’. Many of us also dig other punishment-related activities traditionally associated with spanking, like corner time or writing lines. “I will not behave like such a sassy little brat. I will not behave like such a sassy little brat…”

13. For us, spanking is its own category.

I’ve noticed a desire in the spanko community to distinguish what we like from the greater umbrella of BDSM. Clearly, spanking incorporates elements of discipline, D/s, and sadomasochism. However, what most of us mean when we mention our fetish is far more specific. We’re not talking whips, dungeons, or shibari. We’re talking traditional, domestic bare-bottom OTK punishment with hands, paddles, belts, wooden spoons, bath brushes, and other goodies found in the home. It’s a comforting, parental, for-your-own-good type of vibe wherein we call our partners Mommy, Daddy, or other titles that convey nurturing familiarity. Very different than, say, having a cold ‘master-slave’ dynamic in a relationship, which tends to be a bit too much for our taste.

14. We love every stage of the process.

A non-spanko might solely imagine the physical slapping of cheeks when we refer to our love of spanking, but that's not the long and short of the matter. Spankos adore the entire arc of the narrative. The misbehavior that led to the spanking. The threats and anticipation. Getting into position. The warm-up and removal of each layer of clothing, all the way until the spankee’s bottom is bared. The swats, first with hands, then a variety of implements. The communication surrounding lecturing and admonishment. The catharsis of tears. The slow tenderness and beauty of aftercare. The closeness the ritual inspires. The intimate drama of this entire process is deeply satisfying.

15. We distinguish between different kinds of spankings.

What is the purpose of the spanking being given? Punishment? Maintenance? Stress relief? Eroticism? This detail is important to us, for it influences the style in which the spanker spanks. Sexual spankings often involve caressing of nether-regions and start off somewhat softly, building in strength at a comfortable pace throughout a drawn-out warm-up period. Punishment spankings embody an entirely different space. They are meant to be intense, painful, and challenging to endure.

16. We watch a lot of the same porn.

My closest spanko friends and I send each other links to videos every so often. “Have you seen this one?” A lot of the time the answer is yes, for we’re drawn to the same spankers, spankees, and couples who create our favorite content. Spanking vids with a glitzier, more porny atmosphere tend to be lower on the ladder than amateur, traditionally domestic ones. Again, we want it all to feel as real as possible. The “we shot this at home while punishing actual misbehavior” setup provides more satisfaction.

17. We don’t usually watch our porn with non-spankos.

Back when I used to date vanilla and guys would ask, “What kind of porn do you watch?” I would lie and pretend porn wasn’t my thing. This is because I knew that what I watch would likely bore them. A clip with fifteen straight minutes of nothing but spanking, sans sex, would likely make a lot of people’s eyes roll back into their sockets. “So monotonous!” Once I started dating spankos, however, I found much joy in sharing, knowing we could relish each and every moment together.

18. We all want a house out in the boonies.

Ask a spanko about their goals for the future and many will answer, “I want to buy land.” This is because our activity of choice is LOUD and has the potential to disturb nearby neighbors. Nothing ruins a good time like a visit from the fuzz. The begging, screaming, and crying… they are cleansing to our souls and we wish to do them freely. It’s countryside living for us, boy howdy.

19. We’re very romantic people.

It comes as no surprise that many spankos are traditionalists. We often relish old-timey acts of devotion like marriage, opening doors, buying flowers, and cooking for our partners. Many are monogamous and like to wait to have sex until deep bonds of commitment are set in stone. Spanking is an extension of this attitude toward intimacy. We’re so deeply devoted to our partners that we refuse to turn our backs on their misbehavior, laziness, procrastination, or feelings of guilt. Instead we stay, face them, and do what must be done to help them deal with their problems, following up with plenty of aftercare involving sweetness and reassurance. Squeeee.

20. We speak the same love language.

For partners with a consensual domestic discipline dynamic, spanking is an act of love. It’s an intimate ritual centering on a potent giving and receiving of attention. A means of setting aside time to converse and communicate about the challenges of relationships and everyday affairs. A tool for strengthening the bond and balancing the energy between spanker and spankee. A way of helping one another feel “right” and “natural” in a world that so often feels like it’s tumbling off its axis. In nonconsensual or manipulative contexts, spanking is abuse. Between those of us who crave it from one other, it’s the highest form of affection.

Granted, these are solely my thoughts based on my own observations and experiences.

Anything to add, spankos?

Reach out, I'd love to hear you : https://www.the-rose-moon.com/post/20-things-spanking-fetishists-have-in-common

[lupinqs]

CHAPTER FOURTEEN ━━ Show a Little Loving

❀ ━ pairing: paige bueckers x oc (jo jacobson)

❀ ━ word count: 6.4K

❀ ━ warnings: detailed make out but it doesn’t go any further

❀ ━ links: my masterlist, nobody gets me masterlist

❀ ━ author’s note: think TATBILB

THE NEXT MORNING, Jo woke up feeling like she was in a completely different reality.

Nothing looked different—the room was the same, the dim winter light slipping through the curtains, the soft weight of the blankets tangled around her legs. The air in the cabin was cool, and the scent of coffee and something sweet, maybe cinnamon, lingered in the air from downstairs. Normal. Everything was normal.

Except for the fact that Jo was—and still is—decidedly not.

She’s never been less normal in her entire life.

Because for the first time in her entire life, she likes someone who isn’t Asher Davis.

And that someone is Paige.

When she woke up, Jo stayed frozen under the covers, trying to process it—like if she just laid there long enough, she could force her brain to make it not true. But the weight of it merely pressed down on her, undeniable, suffocating. She felt like she’d just unlocked some secret part of herself she wasn’t supposed to find, like she’d just opened a door that can’t be shut.

She spent the entire night tossing and turning, hyper-aware of every single thing Paige did.

The way Paige curled up beside her like she always does, shifting close like she’s drawn to Jo in her sleep. The way her breath tickled against Jo’s neck, steady and warm. The way she tucked her face into Jo’s shoulder, lips brushing against her skin. Jo barely slept because of it. She just laid there, rigid, heart hammering against her ribs like a drum, panicking.

And then later this morning, when they were brushing their teeth together in the tiny bathroom, Paige kept nudging her shoulder. Jo doesn’t even know if it was on purpose—Paige is like that, casual and comfortable, always touching Jo like it’s second nature—but Jo noticed. She felt it. And it was so stupid, so small, but it sent a wave of something through her, something warm and unbearable and foreign.

And now—now they’re on the ski lift, and Jo is trying so fucking hard to act normal.

It’s not going well.

Paige is sitting way closer than necessary, thighs pressed against Jo’s even though there’s a whole chunk of space open on the other side of the lift. The cold metal bar rests against their laps, and the mountains stretch out below them, snow-covered and endless, but Jo can’t focus on any of it.

She can only focus on Paige.

She doesn’t get it. Paige has always been touchy with her. They’ve shared a bed countless times, always leaned against each other, always sat too close. This isn’t new. This isn’t different. But now, it feels different. It’s like Jo’s senses have been turned all the way up, like she’s suddenly attuned to every single point of contact, like her body is tracking Paige without her permission.

And she doesn’t like it.

She shifts slightly, just enough to put some space between them, but Paige only grins and leans in closer, bumping their shoulders together. “You’re quiet,” Paige says. “Cold?”

Jo forces a shrug, not trusting her voice. She knows it’s uncharacteristic, but everything about her seems to be that way today.

Paige hums like she doesn’t quite believe her, but she doesn’t press.

Jo bites her tongue inside her mouth and stares straight ahead, pretending to be interested in the scenery, pretending her heart isn’t trying to climb out of her throat.

She cannot be weird about this.

She won’t be weird about this.

Because if Paige notices something is off, Jo has no explanation. What the hell is she supposed to say? Sorry, I just realized I have a thing for you and now I can’t function like a normal person anymore?

Absolutely not.

And worse—what if her family notices? They know her better than anyone. If she doesn’t get her shit together, they’ll realize something’s up.

Jo swallows hard, stomach twisting. She can hardly survive herself knowing this—if other people did, she doesn’t know what she’d do.

So she keeps her mouth shut, keeps her body still, and hopes to God this feeling will go away before she completely loses her mind.

And then, thankfully, they reach the top of the lift. Meaning Jo has something else to focus on.

Getting off of it on a snowboard isn’t hard, not really, but it’s definitely not something you want to mess up unless you enjoy face-planting in front of a bunch of strangers. Jo angles her board as the bench slows, pushing herself forward with practiced ease, gliding down the short slope leading away from the drop-off point. She turns just in time to watch Paige follow behind her, arms slightly outstretched, knees stiff.

Paige doesn’t fall—which is honestly impressive for a first-timer—but Jo can tell it’s more luck than skill.

They then make their way over to the side, where Jo’s family is already securing their bindings. Jo sees Paige watche, then follows suit, crouching down and clipping in her back foot like she’s done it before. For a second, Jo thinks maybe she has—that maybe she totally overestimated how difficult this was going to be.

Then Paige stands up.

And just stands there.

Jo doesn’t even have to say anything—she can see the exact moment Paige realizes she has no fucking clue what to do next.

The thing about snowboarding is that, once both feet are strapped in, there’s no casual shuffling around like with skis. You have to commit to your movements, shift your weight with intention, trust the board to follow. Paige, currently, looks like she doesn’t trust anything. She’s frozen in place, weight too evenly distributed, arms slightly hovering like she’s trying to counterbalance pure fear.

Jo’s family doesn’t notice. Of course they don’t. They’re already pushing off, racing down the slope like they forgot they just dragged a complete beginner onto what is definitely not a beginner run.

Which means it’s entirely Jo’s problem now.

Jo sighs and turns back to Paige, who immediately schools her expression into something completely nonchalant, like she wasn’t just panicking a second ago.

“I’m good,” Paige says, nodding.

Jo lifts a brow. “Are you?”

“Yes,” Paige insists, overconfident. “I ski all the time. How hard can it be?”

Jo snorts, shaking her head. “That’s like saying, ‘I can ride a bike, so how hard can a unicycle be?’”

Paige glares. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It’s exactly the same thing.”

Paige groans but doesn’t argue further, which is good, because Jo is pretty sure that if she lets her go down the slope without at least trying to teach her something first, she’s going to have a very injured best friend by the end of the day.

Which—yeah, Paige doesn’t need any more injuries.

Jo drops down onto the snow, motioning for Paige to do the same. “Okay, before you kill yourself—”

Paige sighs. “Very encouraging, thanks.”

“—I’m gonna teach you the basics.”

Paige rolls her eyes but listens as Jo explains how to shift her weight, how to stop using her heel edge, how to not immediately die the second she starts moving. She nods along like she gets it, but Jo knows she doesn’t, because when she tells her to try stopping, Paige just stares at her.

“Like this,” Jo demonstrates, digging into her heel edge and coming to a smooth stop.

Paige squints. “I don’t think my feet can do that.”

Jo gives her a look. “They can. You just have to actually try.”

Paige glares at her, then attempts it—and immediately wobbles so hard she almost eats it.

Jo bites her lip, trying so hard not to laugh, because she knows if she does, Paige will shove her straight into the snow.

Still, watching Paige struggle is… entertaining.

Actually, no, it’s worse than entertaining, because Jo is finding it way too endearing, and that is a problem.

But it’s hard, because Jo is stuck here watching Paige, her flushed cheeks, her concentrated little frown, the way she huffs whenever she messes up but refuses to ask for more help.

Jo has to get it together.

She clears her throat and moves on to the next part—teaching Paige the “falling leaf” technique, which goes just about as well as expected. Paige flails. A lot. She makes little frustrated noises, glares at Jo when she tries to help, insists she’s got it even when she absolutely does not have it.

Jo grins, probably too much, but she can’t help it. She’s never seen Paige like this before. Paige is good at everything—basketball, school, literally any sport she tries—but right now, she’s an absolute disaster.

And Jo finds it so ridiculously cute, it makes her chest constrict.

Why, why, why, why, why?

By the time they move on to full turns, Paige is mildly competent. She’s still wobbly, still too tense, but she starts linking her turns together, starts actually looking like she knows what she’s doing.

Jo watches her, nodding approvingly. “Look at you.”

Paige looks at her, grinning wide, blonde hair slipping out from under her beanie, flushed from the cold, happy.

And Jo—Jo feels something tight in her chest.

Something warm and annoying and confusing and—

She tears her gaze away before it turns into something worse.

Eventually, they decide Paige is ready for the slope.

Jo isn’t entirely sure that’s true, but there’s only so much practicing they can do before Paige gets impatient and wants to actually go somewhere. And Jo gets it. She does. Paige isn’t the type to sit around mastering the basics—she’d rather dive in headfirst, figure it out on the way down.

Which is how they end up at the top of the easier slope—the one Jo’s family didn’t go down.

It’s still not technically beginner-friendly, but it’ll have to do.

Jo studies Paige as she shakes out her arms, shifting her weight back and forth like she’s hyping herself up. She’s still pretending she’s not nervous, but Jo can see it in the way she breathes in deep, lips slightly parted, exhaling like she’s about to take a game-winning shot instead of just… sliding down a hill.

Jo shakes her head, telling the blonde, “You’re gonna be fine.”

Paige doesn’t meet her eyes. “Yep,” she says, sounding uncharacteristically unenthusiastic.

“Mhm,” Jo confirms.

Paige rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she pulls on her goggles. And then she takes a final breath, gives Jo one last I’m totally calm and confident nod, then pushes off.

Jo follows immediately, ready to intervene if Paige immediately eats shit.

She doesn’t.

In fact, Paige actually does an okay job.

She’s still stiff, still a little too tense, but she’s making turns, shifting her weight properly, keeping herself upright. Jo even hears her let out a small whoop at one point, though it quickly turns into something that sounds suspiciously like a scream before she regains control again.

Jo has to laugh. “Not bad, huh?”

Paige breathes out hard. “I’m doin’ great, thank you.”

Jo grins but doesn’t argue. Paige’s balance is still shaky, but she’s improving with every turn, her confidence visibly building—until they get too close.

Jo realizes it a second too late.

She shifts left, trying to create space, but Paige is still a beginner, and she wobbles at the exact wrong time. She catches an edge, stumbling forward, and Jo barely has time to react before she gets caught in it.

“Shit—”

Then, they’re both tumbling.

Jo crashes backward into the snow with a heavy thud, the impact sending a jolt up her spine, her board kicking up powder. Paige lands right on top of her, effectively knocking the air out of her lungs.

Jo groans, blinking up at the sky for a second before lifting a gloved hand to shove her goggles up.

“Shit, bro, that hurt,” Paige mutters against her chest, fumbling with her own goggles, breath puffing out in visible clouds.

Jo exhales sharply, trying to process—not the fall, not the pain, but the fact that Paige is on top of her, head pressing into her heavily layered chest like it belongs there.

She’s too close.

Jo feels it everywhere—Paige’s weight, the warmth of her breath against the fabric of Jo’s jacket, the way her hand is braced against Jo’s sides as she tries to push up, but she’s still struggling with her goggles, fingers catching on the strap.

Jo shakes her head. “You’re a mess—”

Without thinking, she reaches up, gloved fingers brushing against Paige’s cold skin as she pushes her goggles back, slipping them up over her helmet.

Paige shakes her head a little, her other hand dropping to Jo’s side to keep herself balanced.

The world is quiet around them—just the muffled sounds of distant snowboarders, the crunch of powder under shifting weight, the occasional gust of wind.

Paige blinks down at Jo, blue eyes so blue in the snow-bright lighting, her face flushed from exertion, from the cold, maybe from something else too.

And Jo—Jo can’t look away.

Her chest tightens.

Her fingers are still against Paige’s face, and Paige isn’t moving, isn’t pulling back, just watching her with something unreadable in her expression.

Jo’s gaze flickers down—to Paige’s lips, slightly chapped but still soft, still way too close to her own.

And for a second, for one reckless, impulsive, insane second, Jo thinks about leaning in.

The thought sends a jolt through her.

She shoves it down so fast it makes her stomach churn, immediately pushing Paige off of her before she can even fully process what just happened.

“You’re too heavy to be laying on me like that,” she says, trying for humor, but the words come out a little strangled.

Paige grabs her own bearings, letting out a startled laugh, sitting up on her knees. “Hey!”

Jo rolls over, sitting up quickly, dusting snow off her sleeves, trying to act normal, trying to breathe properly, trying not to think about how she almost—

God.

She can’t do this.

PAIGE STEPS out of the bedroom, rubbing at her arms as a shiver wracks through her. She knew changing into just a t-shirt and sweatpants was a bad idea, but her sweatshirt is still damp from falling in the snow earlier, and putting it back on felt like asking for hypothermia. She’ll have to live with it, she guesses, even if the cold air nips at her skin, goosebumps rising along her forearms.

The day has been long, another one spent out on the slopes. Since Paige’s first time on a board yesterday, she’s improved tenfold, and today had been much much more enjoyable, only a few falls to round it out.

She hears movement in the kitchen as she rounds the corner, the soft clinking of mugs and the faint hum of Jo moving around.

Paige slows her steps.

Jo’s back is to her, standing at the counter, stirring something in a mug—hot chocolate, probably, based on the rich scent of cocoa that lingers in the air. The sight of Jo, standing there so effortlessly domestic, makes something warm curl low in Paige’s stomach.

Paige is used to it, at this point. It happens constantly, the unshakable heat that rises whenever Jo does literally anything. Yesterday, it had been on the slope, when Jo helped her up from the snow, when she brushed Paige’s hair out of her face, when she looked at her with something so unreadable, so intense, that Paige had felt frozen in place.

And now—now, it’s just the way Jo stands there, all soft and warm and anything but hers in the low light of the kitchen.

Paige hesitates for a second, then smirks to herself, an idea forming in her head. She moves quietly, barely making a sound as she steps up behind Jo, hands flexing at her sides, anticipation bubbling in her chest.

Then, before Jo can realize what’s happening, Paige strikes—

Cold hands pressing firmly against the back of Jo’s neck.

Jo screams.

It’s high-pitched, startled, and absolutely hilarious.

She jolts forward, nearly sloshing cocoa over the counter, then whirls around, eyes wild, before smacking Paige’s arm, sending a weak but retaliatory shove into her shoulder.

“What is wrong with you?” Jo yelps, voice still breathless from the shock.

Paige is cackling, clutching her stomach. “Oh my God, your face—”

Jo glares at her, rubbing at the back of her neck with a dramatic shudder. “You suck. I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Paige grins, stepping beside her, nudging her lightly with her hip. Jo just mutters something under her breath and turns back to the counter, still grumbling as she grabs another mug and pours some hot chocolate for Paige, shoving it at her without another word.

They end up drinking together, leaning against the counter in a comfortable quiet, warmth settling between them.

Paige takes a sip of her cocoa, sighing into the comforting heat, before glancing over at Jo—only to immediately snort.

Jo blinks at her, confused. “What?”

Paige just shakes her head, grinning. “Joey, you got a little—”

She gestures vaguely, but Jo just frowns, not getting it, so Paige doesn’t think much before she lifts her hand, reaching out, swiping her thumb carefully across Jo’s upper lip to wipe away the hot-chocolate mustache.

And Paige—Paige really should’ve thought about what she was doing before she did it.

Because suddenly, Jo is looking at her.

Really, really looking at her.

Those wide, dark eyes staring up at Paige, so open, so deep, so endlessly fucking beautiful, and Paige’s breath catches somewhere in her throat.

Her thumb lingers at the corner of Jo’s mouth, pressing lightly into the soft skin there, and Jo doesn’t move. Paige doesn’t even think she breathes.

Her lips part, and Paige’s gaze drops, just for a second, just long enough for something unspoken to crackle between them, thick and heavy and—

The sound of footsteps breaks them apart.

Paige jolts, snatching her hand away so fast it’s almost unnatural.

Jo takes a sharp breath, blinking rapidly, stepping back, shifting away.

And then Peyton waltzes in, completely oblivious to the moment she just shattered, announcing cheerfully, “I’m making cookies, and you two are gonna be my helpers.”

Paige’s heart is still racing, and she shoots a glance at Jo, who looks… composed, somehow, like she didn’t just—like they didn’t just—

But Paige knows her.

She sees the way Jo’s fingers twitch against the mug she’s holding, the way her jaw clenches just slightly, the way her shoulders are drawn just a little too tight.

And Paige knows.

Whatever that was—Jo felt it too.

It doesn’t really undo anything in Paige like it should. Because, recently, things have just been like that. It’s weird.

Paige swallows hard, turning back to Peyton with a too-easy grin. “Oh, yeah, we’ll totally help.”

Jo lets out a quiet laugh beside her, and when Paige glances over, she finds her smirking too, They both know they’ll be no help—if anything, they’ll be a nuisance, eating all of the dough before Peyton can even put it in the oven.

For now, the tension’s been almost buried under something playful, something safe.

But still—Paige knows.

She felt it.

And no matter how hard Jo tries to act normal, no matter how hard Paige tries to shove it down—

It’s still there.

JO LEAVES Mia’s bedroom, closing the door softly behind her as she rakes a hand through her hair. The faint scent of strawberry-scented hair chalk clings to her hoodie, and her fingertips are slightly stained pink and blue from helping Mia color streaks into her light brown hair. It had been cute, how excited she was about it—sitting cross-legged on the bed, practically vibrating with energy as Jo carefully twisted sections of her hair and dragged the chalk down in soft strokes.

Jo’s family does their gifts on Christmas Eve—Jo’s parents are firm believers in the magic of sleeping in on Christmas morning, rather than waking up at the crack of dawn to open presents—and tonight, was just the same as always. The living room had been a mess of ripped wrapping paper and scattered boxes just an hour ago, Jo and her sisters laughing over their gifts, their parents watching with fond amusement. Paige had fit into it like she belonged there, pressed beside Jo for the entirety of it.

Jo frowns slightly as she steps into the hallway, suddenly aware of the quiet that’s settled over the cabin. It had been loud earlier—Peyton arguing with their dad over the rules of a board game, Mia showing off her new gifts, Christmas music playing softly in the background—but now, it’s peaceful. Dim lighting, the distant hum of conversation from the living room. She wonders where Paige went.

She heads toward the kitchen, where her mom is finishing up the last of the dishes, running water humming over the faint clatter of plates. “Where’s P?” Jo asks, leaning against the doorway.

Her mom doesn’t even glance up as she says, “Oh, I think she went out to the hot tub.”

Jo nods, but her chest tightens, just a little.

She turns on her heel and makes her way to the room she and Paige are sharing, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. She exhales, standing still for a moment, debating.

She thinks about joining Paige. Thinks that it’s normal for best friends to do that, to sit in the hot tub together after a long day, soak in the warmth and relax. But she also knows herself, and she knows the way her thoughts have been slipping these last few days, the way she catches herself looking at Paige for too long, noticing things she shouldn’t be noticing. She knows that if she goes out there, if she lets herself be alone with Paige like that, she might not be able to control the way her mind wanders.

Whatever, she decides. She wants to get in the hot tub.

So, she grabs the bikini she packed, changing quickly before wrapping herself in a towel. The air in the cabin is warm, but she knows the second she steps outside, the mountain air will cut through her like a blade. Still, she forces herself forward, padding toward the back deck, bare feet light against the wood floor.

When she opens the back door, the cold hits her immediately, biting at her exposed skin. She shivers, hissing, “Shit, it’s freezing out here.”

Paige startles slightly, turning her head. She’s sitting in the hot tub alone, the water bubbling gently around her, steam rising in wisps. Her eyes catch the deck light for a second, flickering bright, and she huffs a quiet laugh. “It’s warmer in here.”

Jo rolls her eyes, setting her towel down on a nearby chair. “Oh, really?” she says, sarcastic, before stepping into the hot tub.

And then her gaze fully lands on Paige, and—well, fuck.

She looks good.

It’s not like Jo hasn’t seen Paige in a sports bra, in oversized sweats, in all kinds of casual, effortless outfits. But this is different. Her blonde hair is down, slightly wavy, damp at the ends. Her bikini is turquoise, standing out against her skin, making her eyes even more blue in the soft deck lighting. And—shit, Jo shouldn’t be looking—her biceps. Jo knows she’s been training through her ACL recovery, knows she’s been getting stronger, but she hasn’t let herself really notice until now. Hasn’t let herself register the way Paige’s arms look, the lean muscle in her shoulders. And then there’s the cross chain hanging at her collarbone, resting against her skin, catching just enough light to make it glint faintly.

Jo swallows hard, forcing herself to look away, sinking into the water as she exhales. The warmth is immediate, a contrast to the crisp night air, and she tries to focus on that instead of the low, lazy grin Paige is giving her.

“You finally decided to join me,” Paige murmurs, shifting slightly, the water rippling around her.

Jo smirks, because it’s easier than letting anything real show. “Yeah, well, I figured you’d get lonely.”

Paige rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, stretching her arms along the edge of the hot tub, tilting her head back slightly. Jo catches herself staring at the curve of her throat, the faint glisten of water against her collarbone, and quickly looks away.

This is fine.

Paige doesn’t seem to notice the way Jo’s whole body is too tight, too aware, too much as she leans back against the edge of the hot tub. Instead, she shifts slightly, gaze flickering away from Jo, looking out toward the mountains. Jo follows her line of sight, letting herself focus on the view instead of the heat curling in her stomach, the undeniable feeling of wanting something she isn’t supposed to want.

The view really is something.

The mountains stretch high and dark against the night sky, the peaks dusted with snow, the stars scattered above them like someone spilled glitter across the horizon. The air is sharp with the scent of pine and frost, the only sounds the occasional distant rustle of wind through trees and the soft bubbling of the water around them. Jo’s been coming here since she was a kid, since before she could even really appreciate how incredible it was. It never gets old.

Paige exhales, voice quiet, almost reverent. “It’s kinda perfect here.”

Jo glances at her again, at the way the dim deck lights reflect in her eyes, making them almost glow. And for a second, Jo doesn’t think she’s talking about the view at all.

“Yeah,” Jo agrees, looking away, looking anywhere else. “It is.”

Silence settles between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Jo tries to let herself relax into it, but then she hears the shift of water, the subtle movement before she feels it—before she realizes that Paige is moving closer to her.

She tenses before she can stop herself, her fingers curling under the water.

And then Paige is looking at her again, something soft in her gaze, something almost vulnerable, like she wants to say something but isn’t sure if she should. It’s a rare look for Paige, whose confidence is as natural as breathing, who always seems to know exactly what to say and when to say it.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Paige says, and her voice is quiet but serious, enough that it throws Jo off for a second.

Jo swallows, holding eye contact with her for a long moment before looking down at the water, watching the way the steam curls off the surface. Her face suddenly feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the hot tub. “Well, it’s not like I’d ever let you stay at campus by yourself on Christmas,” she murmurs.

Paige tilts her head slightly, considering that. “Yeah,” she says slowly, “but a lot of people wouldn’t have just let someone tag along with their family for the holidays.”

Jo looks up again, furrowing her brows, because the way Paige says it—like she was expecting Jo not to invite her—rubs her the wrong way. “You’re not just any someone, though, P,” she says, voice firm. “You’re my—”

She stops short, the words catching in her throat, because—well…

She doesn’t actually know what this is anymore.

She’s never let herself think too hard about it, about the way they slipped into each other’s lives so fast, like gravity pulling them together. Her roommate, her teammate, her best friend. But none of those words feel right for this, for the way her heart is hammering, for the way Paige is looking at her.

Paige shifts closer still, the movement rippling through the water, stealing the air from Jo’s lungs.

“Hm?” Paige hums, like she’s waiting for Jo to finish.

Jo forces herself to breathe, gripping the edge of seat in the hot tub just to have something to do with her hands. She exhales sharply, shaking her head once, barely. “You’re just—my person,” she settles on, because best friend doesn’t suit the way her pulse is thrumming, doesn’t suit the way her entire body is tuned into Paige’s every shift, every breath.

She makes eye contact again, and—Paige isn’t looking at her eyes anymore.

She’s looking at Jo’s lips.

That’s definitely not something best friends do.

Jo’s stomach flips violently, her entire body going stiff with tension, with awareness, with want. Paige’s gaze flickers back up, just for a second, and Jo swears she sees something shift in her expression—like realization, like something clicking into place, like maybe, maybe she’s been thinking about this just as much as Jo has.

The air between them is heavy, electric, charged with something neither of them are saying.

And then it snaps all at once when Paige shifts even closer, so close Jo can feel the faintest brush of her knee against hers under the water, and Paige says, “Jo?”

It’s quiet, almost hesitant, and it’s the first time Jo has ever heard Paige say her name like that, like it means something more.

It undoes her completely.

She doesn’t think. Doesn’t even hesitate.

She just moves.

Leans in instead of pulling away, lets her eyes flicker shut as she presses her lips to Paige’s, her heart slamming against her ribs.

And Paige—Paige doesn’t pull away.

Paige kisses her back.

It’s soft at first, like they’re both testing the waters, and Jo melts into it, lets herself get lost in the warmth of it. Paige’s lips are soft, gentle against hers, and Jo feels like she could drown in the way Paige tilts her head just slightly, deepening the kiss.

And then—something shifts.

The hesitation begins to fade. Paige moves in closer, her hands finding the skin of Jo’s waist under the water, and Jo exhales shakily against the blonde’s mouth because oh.

Paige kisses like she plays basketball—effortless, confident, like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she’s taking her time memorizing Jo, mapping her out piece by piece. Jo barely has time to process it before her body reacts on instinct, her fingers reaching out, finding Paige’s shoulders, gripping just tight enough to keep her as close as possible.

The heat between them rises, spreading through Jo’s chest, making her lightheaded. She’s hasn’t felt something like this in a long time—if ever, really. This dizzying, overwhelming need. She can’t remember if it was ever like this was Asher. Jo was always just so used to him—but Paige… Paige is entirely different.

Paige kisses fast yet slow, soft yet rough, the perfect mix. She shifts again, pressing in closer, and Jo can’t help but chase her, tilting her head, her fingers slipping up from Paige’s shoulders to thread into damp blonde hair. Paige makes a soft, pleased sound against her lips, and Jo swears she feels it all the way down to her toes.

Jo’s needy now, desperate in a way that catches her off guard, but she hardly finds it in herself to care. She tightens her grip on Paige, her nails digging into her scalp, pulling her impossibly closer because it’s still not enough.

Jesus fuck, Paige is a good kisser.

The blonde lets Jo take control for a moment, lets Jo press her back against the edge of the hot tub, but then—just as quickly—Paige is taking the lead again. Her grip on Jo’s waist tightens, fingers pressing into slick, warm skin as she shifts them, pulling Jo forward, guiding her onto her lap. Jo’s breath stutters as her bare thighs press against Paige’s, her knees pressing into the edge of the seat on either of Paige’s hips.

Paige’s grip is firm, her touch sure and steady in a way that makes Jo’s skin feel like it’s burning.

She should say something, do something, anything other than let out the small, helpless sound that slips past her lips as Paige pulls her in tighter.

But she does. And Paige hears it.

And something about it—about that quiet, desperate little noise—seems to spur Paige on, because then she’s tilting her head, chasing Jo’s lips again, capturing them in a kiss that’s deeper, hungrier than before. Her tongue slips into Jo’s mouth, licking around, and Jo inhales sharply at it.

Jo’s mind is a mess, spinning wildly, but all she can focus on is this—Paige, the way she tastes, the way she feels, the way every press of her lips, every swipe of her tongue, sends electricity straight through Jo’s veins.

The second Paige’s lips leave hers, Jo almost whimpers at the loss.

Her breath is uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly as moves beneath her, her lips ghosting away from Jo’s mouth, trailing down, down, down—until they’re pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses against the sharp line of her jaw.

Jo swears she forgets how to breathe, her hand tightening in Paige’s hair, half-gripping her chain, as well.

Paige doesn’t stop. She presses a kiss to the spot just beneath Jo’s ear, and Jo shudders, her fingers tightening in Paige’s hair. She can feel the heat of Paige’s breath against her skin, feel the way Paige’s lips part just enough for her tongue to sweep out.

Paige’s hands grip onto the skin of Jo’s waist before one begins to slide up, fingertips tracing Jo’s spine before settling firmly at the back of Jo’s neck, holding her in place. Paige’s other hand trails from her hip, down to the curve of Jo’s ass, palming and kneading it in a way that makes the brunette feel the need to clench her thighs together—anything to relieve the ache growing between them.

Instead, she makes a noise—something soft and high-pitched, something that she doesn’t even realize she’s made until Paige reacts to it.

Paige groans a little, exhaling sharply, her lips nipping along the column of Jo’s throat, her tongue sweeping across the skin to soothe it. Jo’s head tips back before she can stop herself, before she can think, before she can do anything other than feel.

And God, she feels everything.

Paige’s mouth, Paige’s hands, the firm grip keeping her exactly where Paige wants her.

Jo’s heart pounds, and she doesn’t know if it’s from heat of the water or the heat of Paige, but she feels like she’s burning from the inside out.

She tries not to think about what this means, about how everything is changing, about how she’ll have to deal with this later.

She tries not to think about whether Paige wants this the same way she does.

Paige has a roster. That much, Jo knows. She’s seen it, heard it, talked to some of it—mostly just Celeste, but still. Jo knows that all of this stuff is casual and fleeting for Paige, just another part of her life.

But Jo isn’t like that. She doesn’t do this kind of thing. She doesn’t let herself get swept up in the moment, something that could be nothing, in something that might not mean anything to the other person. Seriously, she literally dated the same person for nearly six fucking years.

But then—what could this be? Paige is her best friend, her teammate, her roommate. If they became something more, they couldn’t fuck it up because it could ruin everything. Not to mention the fact that it hasn’t even been a month since Jo and Asher broke up. She’s still trying to mend that crack in her heart.

All of these thoughts should make her pull away. It should make her stop.

But they don’t.

Because right now, with Paige’s lips on her neck and her hands holding Jo so close, it feels like none of that even matters.

Right now, Jo doesn’t care if this is just another fleeting thing for Paige or if she should even be doing this with a break-up so fresh.

Because right now, Paige wants her.

And Jo wants Paige.

So, she lets herself have it.

She tightens her grip in Paige’s hair, tugs just slightly, just enough to pull Paige’s mouth back to hers, just enough to draw another satisfied sound from Paige’s throat. Paige’s nose nudges Jo’s as she tilts her head, pressing into the kiss again, deep and slow and absolutely devastating.

And Jo lets herself get lost in it.

That is, until the sound of the back door opening shudders around them.

Jo feels her entire body jolt like she’s been electrocuted. The heat from the hot tub is nothing compared to the fire scorching under her skin, the way her heart slams against her ribs like it’s trying to break free. Beside her, Paige reacts just as quickly—springing away, water sloshing violently between them, the absence of her warmth immediately and startling. Jo doesn’t dare look at her, doesn’t dare move, because if she does, she’ll have to genuinely acknowledge what’s just happened. She’ll have to process the way her lips still tingle, the way her chest is still heaving, the way Paige was just kissing her like she fucking meant it.

But she doesn’t have time for that, not when Mia—innocent, unsuspecting Mia—is standing by the back door in her little Rudolph-themed swimsuit, eyes bouncing between Jo and Paige like she’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Hi…” the little girl says slowly, tilting her head.

Paige is the one that moves first.

“Um,” she stammers, her voice higher than usual, her hands flexing uselessly at her sides as she stands up too fast, nearly slipping in the water. “I’mma—uh, I’m just gonna—shower. Yeah—shower.”

Jo watches, still slightly frozen where she sits, as Paige snatches up her towel with more urgency than necessary and books it inside without so much as a glance back. The door slides shut behind her, leaving only the ghost of her presence and the realization of what’s just occurred.

Jo is still stuck, still trying to catch up, still trying to make sense of the fact that she kissed Paige—she kissed Paige—and Paige kissed her back—and—

And then Mia lowers herself into the water, grinning.

That fucking grin.

Jo narrows her eyes before Mia can even open her mouth. “Don’t.”

Because… yeah, she just—can’t talk about this yet. Maybe never.

Jo clenches her jaw, her teeth grinding together as she stares down at her hands as if they hold all the answers. Maybe they do—because just moments ago, they were holding Paige.

Jesus, what has she gotten herself into?

[revelboo]

got a bit of a silly one for you; which bots would get a kick out of hearing or making their human laugh so hard that they gigglesnort?

I think most of them would be amused, especially if the human is a bit embarrassed. A few would just go out of their way to try and make you do it again

Messing With The Human Headcanons

Trailbreaker

• Loves to make you laugh so hard you’re giggling and your eyes are leaking. Because you’re laughing with him, not at him like everyone else. Knows they whisper about him behind his back. That he’s just the “force-field guy.” Useless unless they need his skills. Overlooked a lot of the time by everyone but Hound. Like that’s all he’s good for. But you don’t care about what he can do, just like him for him. Sure you’d had a rocky start, at odds with each more than you got along. All his fault, every mistake and short-sighted decision all him. But he likes it when you laugh. Loves that smile.

Waspinator

• Leaning over your shoulder to vent against your neck and stir your hair, he huffs and his antenna perk up. Sniffing your coffee. Like he does every morning. Sighing, you hold out the cup. “Want to try some?” And those antenna immediately flatten back to make you think that he doesn’t actually like the way your coffee smells. “Try a bit,” you insist, grinning and he twists his servos together, clearly uncomfortable as you lift it to his face, watching his mandibles pull together and fidget before he reluctantly leans forward. Still find his mouth unsettling as his mandibles spread to reveal his actual mouth and those sharp denta as he obediently takes a drink. And his wings flare out, antenna flattening back. “Good, huh?”

• Not good. Dirt water. Nasty, bitter, dirt water. Whining helplessly at you as you start laughing and point at the sink. Giving him permission to spit it out and you’re wheezing, as he spits and fumbles with the controls like he’s seen you do until he can tip his head under the faucet, get a mouthful and spit again. Why would you drink that? “Waspinator doesn’t like,” he manages, shaking his head and you’re doubled over, snorting and laughing. At him. Can’t even be annoyed with you as your amusement spills through him to warm him. Likes that happy sound even if it’s at his expense.

Brainstorm

• Irritated that you’re laughing at him, instead of impressed. “Wait-is this to impress that other guy? Do you have a bro-crush on Perceptor?” When he doesn’t answer, you crack up, snorting and giggling. And okay. It’s a tiny bit cute. Even if you’re quite possibly the most obnoxious creature he’s ever met. “You do, don’t you? You just want him to notice you. Senpai, notice me!” You’re wheezing now, eyes leaking and he’s changed his mind. There’s nothing cute about you, you’re a little pit-spawned demon sent to torment him and if you breathe a word of this to Perceptor, he’ll offline and take you with him.

Swerve

• “Stop-stop, I can’t breathe,” you gasp, smacking at his servos. Almost screaming you’re laughing so hard and now your eyes are leaking. “You’re awful.” And heads are turning along the bar to stare at you both. Probably wondering if they’re the subject of your amusement. Which is fair enough because he’s been dredging up every bit of dirt on every other crew member he can think of to keep you entertained. Turns out you enjoy gossip as much as he does, but not as much as he loves your snorting laughter and giggles.

TFP Megatron

• “You really think you can make demands?” He growls, carefully hooking a servo through your glittery harness and tugging so you stumble forward a step. Expecting you to become indignant or just angry. Not to reach and carefully remove his clawed servo, patting him.

• “You honestly think I’m the one on the leash?” You say, grinning broadly up at him as he scowls. “I’m the one that’s settling here, because let’s face it. Anger issues and no impulse control even when you’re not on drugs? You’re not exactly the Nemesis’s most eligible bachelor.” There it is, optics narrowing and sharp denta bared in a sharklike grin. “Some of those Vehicons are kind of adorable,” you add, laughing at his expression. Because no matter how much you piss him off, there’s not a thing he can do about it.

• Servos slowly clenching and unclenching, he growls, but knows you’re teasing. Even if he despises your sense of humor. And the more angry he acts, the funnier you think it is until you’re cracking up at his scowl. Little brat. Knows you’ll make it up to him later and that you at least know not to dare voice such things if anyone’s around. Really, he spoils you letting you get away with your attitude. Anyone else would be torn limb from limb, but he enjoys your laughter.

[utilitycaster]

I follow someone who peaced out of C3 like a month ago, and while she still throws out the occasional post about it, despite mostly running on ✨vibes✨ since pre-Predathos fight. one of her latest takes caught my attention. The wording was a little messy, but the core argument seemed like it might have a point. She’s saying the biggest issue with the story is a lack of internal logic, which makes the characters feel kind of disconnected from their own world and setting. Her main example was the Schism, like, the general idea that the Titans were bad news for mortals should be widely accepted, and they’re dead so they’re not coming back even if the gods leave. She also argues that the idea that the gods would always choose each other over mortals isn’t really backed up by history. Basically, she thinks Bells Hells ignore some of the fundamental structures of modern religion in Exandria, which in turn makes a lot of their arguments about the gods fall apart.

So I guess I’m wondering does it seem like there’s a lack of internal logic to you? C3 is my first campaign, so I’ve been piecing together older lore as I go, and I can’t tell if this is a niche take or if there’s some bigger context I’m missing.

Yes. Or rather, I have a couple of different guesses as to what happened. In short: I think that either Matt wanted to set up a big dilemma and failed to do the worldbuilding to really support it textually; he didn't have a clear vision of what this would be at all (HUGE fucking mistake, like, actually concerning me re: the potential of a 4th campaign level of mistake and I hope it's not that); or, alternately, and honestly right now my guess is that this was the case, he straight up did not think the characters would be such selfish dickbags and thought going in that this would be a clear "we have to stop Predathos" and intended the familial connections within the Vanguard and the scene in Hearthdell to be added nuance to provide some understanding of the Vanguard not as simply mindless evil monsters but people who have genuine grievances that have been exploited by predatory cult leaders, and was not prepared for a campaign where the party immediately took the Vanguard's side.

Religion in Exandria has never been super formalized or organized. Some of this is, of course, that you don't have to like, convert or even attend services if you have a relationship with a god. But as a result, it means that any exploration of religion as hegemonic falls apart. I am not saying religion needs to fit the regular daily or weekly practices many people irl have (depending on one's levels of observance), and those characters whose powers canonically involve a deity often do observe either restrictions (Caduceus's vegetarianism) or have some form of meditative personal worship, but we never see like, a system of worship outside of Vasselheim, and Vasselheim lacks the powers that the real-world pope has (let alone the medieval era pope). Tuldus was forced by his family to pray, but it's never depicted as part of How All Worshipers of That God are expected to behave. This is really the crux of a lot of problems with this campaign - people keep taking very individualized issues - which are real, but individual - and treating them as a sign of widespread oppression that simply isn't backed up by the text. In fact, the biggest case of widespread religiously-involved oppression is the Empire going after worshipers of illegal Prime Deities (as we see with the Schuesters - the parents are arrested, leaving their young children to fend for themselves) - and the biggest case of widespread proselytizing and missionary work is from the canonically theocratic (and ruled by one person for over a millennium) Kryn Dynasty, which, hilariously, might end up even more powerful given that the Luxon - the source of their religion, their philosophy and cultural practices, and their arcane prowess - has been brought up as relevant to the gods-become-mortal plan by the Raven Queen and seems to not be under any threat from Predathos, and might even get more powerful. Vasselheim's colonial efforts, while certainly not defensible, are small potatoes.

The player character's grievances against the gods all boil down to "I prayed to the gods and they didn't make my life better" while failing to consider that a combination of genuinely wild specific personal circumstances (being Ruidusborn; being the child of an elemental-worship cult with terrible instincts and later running a heist on a Vanguard collaborator; being a shadow sorcerer who caught the eye of an evil Vecna-worshipping wizard in need of a host body) are the root cause. It's like. If your parents kick you out for being gay, that's homophobia, but if your parents are part of a cult that blows itself up and you are orphaned as a result that is not systemic oppression, that is a very specific cult and shitty parents. So that fails to really ground them in the setting. Compare to campaign 2, where Caleb wants to ensure the Volstrucker program is brought to light and eliminated - as he says, no more children on the pyre - vs. here, where arguably Laudna and Ashton are opening the door to far more unregulated cult/evil necromancy shenanigans now entirely unmitigated by the gods. At least Imogen will probably end the Ruidusborn I guess, as a side effect completely unrelated to her actual goals (which are, frankly, unclear) In a campaign that talks about tethers, the characters seem untethered to anything - institution, place, even for the most part family, and only loosely to each other, and it shows in their lack of care.

The other part is that yeah, a lot of things that were given to the Mighty Nein and Vox Machina as "things people would know" aren't given to Bells Hells. Now this could have a mechanical basis, namely, no one has much of a formal education and most of them are also not terribly intelligent on their own. However, it does feel baffling that they can't recognize holy symbols, or don't know the story of the titans at the time of the Schism (which...setting aside the many issues with the concept of "history is written by the victors" which is both inconsistently true in the first place and is frequently used in an anti-intellectual manner to undermine historical study that points out such things as historical racism; just because history might be inaccurate that does not mean that wild speculation otherwise is necessarily true, especially since we do know from EXU Calamity that titans did, indeed, intend to side with the Betrayers against mortals at the start of the Calamity). It furthers this feeling, after Vox Machina being relatively educated even in a story that was not as worldbuilding-focused, and the Mighty Nein having multiple research-oriented characters and a party deeply rooted in a rich world, that Bells Hells feel off and adrift and ignorant, especially since they don't even seem to remember history they lived through such as the Apex War.

Honestly, what I think is most interesting actually is that we don't ever get anyone express a motivation based on structural oppression in-game. Ludinus never got over his parents dying in a war where the options for the Prime Deities were leave mortals to die or fight the Betrayers, knowing there will be devastating casualties, but in setting up his elaborate plot he murdered countless people, destroyed through his communing with Predathos the first rebuilt elven society in Western Wildemount, and participated in actual structural oppression within the Dwendalian empire for literal centuries; he cared not for any widespread liberation and would remain on top, as an archmage, after this imagined revolution, which makes it not much of a revolution worth having. Liliana's problems were caused by Predathos, and many of the Vanguard we see are Ruidusborn. The only other Vanguard we really get to talk to are Bor'Dor, who was oppressed on the basis of his religion and preyed upon by the cult; Tuldus, who see above; and various Paragon's Call members who are mostly just following orders and getting paid. And Bells Hells, when they have the audience of Vasselheim and the rest of the world - a golden opportunity to call out the colonialism - fail to bring up Hearthdell.

In the end, the motivations are all personal pain - in many cases, inflicted, in fact, by Predathos and not the gods - or vengeance. I honestly don't know if the narrative is trying to claim there is something deeper, or if it's simply some of the characters and a chunk of the least knowledgeable fans, but yes, the worldbuilding fails to support a morally complex narrative. It fails to debunk that which was established earlier (and indeed makes the fall of Aeor far more sympathetic than when it was introduced during Campaign 2) and fails to establish any widespread harm the gods did that wasn't the result of someone threatening to kill them. I do not think one can meaningfully debate with someone who puts a boot on your throat, presses down, and claims you're the oppressor when you fight back, nor with someone who argues along those lines, and that's all that fans and Bells Hells have ever done. And yeah we might actually make a world with a formalized hegemonic religion as a result of Bells Hells' actions; it just will be a different god, underscoring that this is either motivated by people who don't know what the fuck is going on; or by vengeance rather than justice.

[sharonaparadox]

[Video: fan animation featuring the main cast of characters from Hazbin Hotel set to audio from the YouTube series “Sanders Sides” video “Have I Grown? - Five Years Later | A Sanders Sides Special.” Captions, which can be seen at the top of the video in colors matching design elements of the character speaking, largely match the audio except for replacing the name “Logan” with “Vaggie.”

Charlie claps her hands together with an enthusiastic grin, her eyes closed as she gushes, in all capital letters, “Ooh!” Her open eyes shine as she then gestures her arms out in front of herself as if preparing for a hug as she exclaims, “we’re like a big happy family!” Charlie points to her face with a wide grin as she continues, with an emphasis on the second word, “and I’m the dad!” She then leans in to excitedly hug her unenthused girlfriend as Charlie asserts, in all caps, “And Vaggies the mom!”

Vaggie, crossing her arms, scowls at the viewer as she asks, “why am I the mom??” Her gaze shifts to her smiling girlfriend as Vaggie questions, “what gender roles are we pushing here”

Angel Dust looks up to the side as if annoyed, one hand up to his chest as he says, “I know they’re probably thinking I’m like the son” Angel frowns at the viewer, his upper hands making dismissing gestures while his lower arms are crossed. With emphasis on the final word, he asserts, “but I’m not” He then grins crookedly as he looks at the viewer through rainbow-tinted glasses with pink heart-shaped frames, one of his upper hands on his hip with a pink heart-shaped bag on his arm while his other hand is held up near his chest in a relaxed manner as he declares, “I’ll be the gay emo cousin.” The word “gay” is in all caps for emphasis, and there is a nail polish emoji at the end of the caption.

Sir Pentious grins excitedly with his arms up in the air as he shouts, in all caps, “I will be the son” He then points to himself with a confident grin, his eyes closed as he continues with emphasis, “the hotshot” Pentious’s eyes open as he continues, emphasizing only the last two words now, “whos only dream…” He is silent for a moment as he blinks before his posture shifts from self-assured to shy. His index fingers point at each other in a nervous fiddling gesture as he looks up with shining eyes and a wobbly smile, golden sparkles around Pentious as he concludes, “is to be a star…”

Husk is looking up, eyebrows furrowed as if lost in thought, as he holds a green wine bottle up just below his frown and says, “I feel like I’d be, uhhhh..” This hesitation at the end is in all caps for emphasis. Husk then turns to the viewer with a frown and a raised eyebrow as he shrugs with his free hand and decides on, “fresh out of jail uncle”

Golden sparkles glitter around Alastor as he poses with his hands upon his crossed legs, raising an eyebrow and grinning cheekily as he says, “and I’m the sassy aunt” with emphasis on the word “sassy.” He then turns to Niffty, who sidles up next to him with her hands up to her grinning face. Alastor narrows his eyes and brings one hand up by his face as if gossiping while he concludes, “who talks shit about everyone” The word “shit” is censored in the audio with a bleep and in the caption with an asterisk in place of the vowel. End description.]

they’re a big happy hotel family 🥰

[arbitrarykiwi]

I crave more thangyu x reader before/ no game! au your fic is 😫😩😫😖😖😫😩😩😣 *SCREAMS*

What's Better Than One Boyfriend?! TWO Boyfriends!!!: II

OH WHAT A DELICIOUS MEAL YOU BOTH REQUESTED!! Omg I got so much love on the original two boyfriends post!! And I’m so happy I did because these are so fun to write. I was sitting here kicking my feet writing this fr. I combined two requests for this one, I hope yall don’t mind🙏 as always thank you for requesting, I hope you enjoy!! ORDER UPPP🗣️🗣️

Warnings: 18+ , drug usage , closed polyamory , swearing , some smutty parts / mentions of sex near the end , cum play , spit , probably ooc Thanos and Nam-Gyu, read at your own risk

You can find my other thangyu Two Boyfriends request here

You knew that agreeing to this relationship you’d have to please two people, give attention to two people, and you were well away of their chaotic personalities. But you did not expect that really at no point in your life are you alone now. Sure, if you’d ask nicely to have some time alone- they’d pout and give it to you- otherwise, if it wasn’t both of them with you; one of them was.

Thanos was like a ticking time bomb that could go off at any minute, he was always hyper and ready to run off with you and take you on various adventures. He was for sure an ass man, his hand always on your ass when you’re walking or bending over. He’s slapping your ass playfully as you three all head somewhere to eat lunch. When he’s walking with you his hand is 100% in one of your back pockets. He’s shitty with gifts, never really knowing what to get. He normally leaves the gift buying to Nam-Gyu. But, with his rap career picking up, he is always giving his dark haired counterpart money and telling him to buy something he thinks you’d like. And to also make up for his poor gift giving skills he often takes you shopping! Taking you wherever you like and telling you to buy whatever you pick up. He likes to say he’s not as touchy as Nam-Gyu, not as needy, but he always has to be touching you if he’s near you. Hand on your waist, thighs touching when your two sit together- just some sort of contact.

Nam-Gyu is the tamer of the two of them, balancing out the erratic nature that Thanos seems to bring to the table. Don’t get it twisted though, Nam-gyu can be just as chaotic. He’s walking into your apartment randomly and sneaking into your bed while you’re asleep because. Vary rarely do you three sleep apart, so the one night you all had work late- Nam-Gyu is texting Thanos to meet him at your apartment so they can use the key they have to enter and get to exactly where they belong- curled up next to you or on you. Nam-gyu is the one that is down for a nap whenever. You just want to stay the whole day in bed? Bet he’s getting up to close the curtains and return back in bed with you, almost immediately going back to sleep next to you. He remembers little things you said you wanted to buy but didn’t, leaving small gifts on your bed, hiding a package he got for weeks before he shows you it’s a hard to get item that you wanted and talked yourself out of because it was so expensive. And like the most perfect opposites they are Nam-Gyu is a huge tits guy. He’s laying on them, holding them, his mouth is sometimes just on your pert nipple for over an hour just because it relaxes him. When you’re walking somewhere with him- probably on the way to meet Thanos at some restaurant he found recently that he wanted to try- his hand is holding yours, fingers interlocked and pulled into his jacket pocket.

They just genuinely enjoy being around you. They swear you’re a drug yourself- claiming they get withdrawals without you nearby. Even if you wanted to go to the bathroom, just wanting to take a warm shower by yourself to relax- Thanos is on the counter of the bathroom sink, legs kicking back and forth aimlessly while Nam-gyu is sitting on the toilet lid. They’re passing a blunt back and forth, hot boxing the bathroom and making it more foggy than it already was by the hot water of your shower.

They always complain it’s too hot but never leave the bathroom. And as you turn the water off and rip open the shower curtain they’re both standing up quickly, Nam-gyu is wrapping you up in a towel and Thanos is holding a blunt to your lips. You glare at them, trying your best to seem annoyed but you can’t when they’re hazily smiling down at you with hooded eyes that are tinged red- and so your mouth begins to curl up in a smile to match theirs as you inhale the smoke.

They frequently fight for your attention. Nam-gyu more so compared to Thanos; but they both still need their precious baby’s attention! Thanos isn’t a stranger to pouting to try and get his way.

There was one time that you begged Thanos to let you finally dye his hair. The purple spray he used for the look damn near every day had stained nearly every pair of sheets you had with how easy it would come off with the slightest bit of friction. When all three of you were fucking?! Forget it- you would all come out stained purple. When he finally agrees you got him sat in front of you while you sit on the living room couch. You had to put on a show of his choice to keep him still enough to let you work your magic. Your hands work diligently against the bleached strands of hair, applying the vibrant purple dye over the entirety of his head.

The whole process was taking forever. It was a lot of steps!! And Nam-Gyu was getting fed up that Thanos seemed to have all your attention. Thanos himself didn’t have your attention captured- it was the bright purple dye that you had to apply with precision, less you stain him, you, or the furniture purple more permanently than his spray color he used to use- but Nam-gyu doesn’t notice the difference. All he sees is you’re not paying attention to him. He’s leaning down on the couch, slipping under your arms that work against Thanos’ hair to lay his head on your lap, looking up at you with a scowl. He’s trying hard to seem angry but all you can think about when you look down is a sad cat who just wants to be pet.

“What?” You ask between giggles as you look down at Nam-gyu. “It’s been hours…” he whines, “haven’t touched me at all.” He finishes, a glare still on his face. “‘M sorry baby..” you laugh again, only making him pout more but you couldn’t help it! He was just so cute. “I’m almost done! You were also the one complaining the most about being purple after we all fuck soooo- ‘m really doing this for you“ you draw out teasingly, “‘m almost done.” You say, leaning down and lifting your leg to raise his head- allowing you to place a quick kiss on your lips. You pull away and the kiss seems to make him relax a bit but there’s a look of deep thought on his face.

You quirk your eyebrow up at Nam-Gyu questioningly, your hands paused above Thanos’ head. “What if I want purple hair.” He mumbles, it’s quiet but it has both you and Thanos shocked. Thanos is spinning around to look at Nam-gyu, an accusatory eyebrow raised. “You’re jus’ being needy. You don’t want purple hair, just want ‘er to touch you.” He teases, poking Nam-gyu’s cheek with a laugh. Nam-gyu is swatting Thanos’ hand away and huffing. “No…” he grumbles, very obviously lying. He’s sitting up from your lap, “Was just thinking we could all match….i dunno, put a couple purple streaks in my hair and yours.” Nam-gyu says pointing to you.

And that’s how you ended up with purple streaks in your hair and Nam-gyu ended up with the underside of his hair purple. It was honestly adorable, all three of you matching. You took many photos of the three of you showing off your new style, you have a whole album dedicated to the three of you and your matching colored hair As time goes on you all keep it, eventually swapping colors- of course with Thanos choosing the color since he had the majority of his hair colored- it’s all about compromises!

They also take turns paying for your nails. They both seem to have their own kink for seeing your nails wrapped around their cocks or raking down their chests; and when they realized you went every two weeks like clockwork to get a cute new design, they begin taking turn handing you wads of cash to get your nails done. Who ever was paying would be the one to pick out the design. Thanos more often than not picked vibrant colors. Purples, greens, yellows- he even had you get them painted to match the pattern of his nails once. He loves French tip designs- something about them drives him crazy. He’s asks you to get crystals added or even a ‘T’ charm. Nam-Gyu usually picks dark colors. He loves seeing your nails all black with a deep blood red ombré or maybe deep blue set chrome details- of course like Thanos, he’s asking you to get his initial hidden somewhere on the design.

On weeks they’re feeling generous, they’re putting their heads together to find an extravagant design they both want to see wrapped around them. It’s one that has many add-ons, each nail a different design, different colored crystals littler the inspiration picture like a regal vault full of gems. And of course it costs more but they don’t care! When you finally leave the nail place and send them a picture of the nails they chose, not so innocently posed as if you had something cylindrical in your hand- they’re spamming your phone begging you to come back to your apartment so they could see your nails in person (and see them wrapped around their cocks).

In the relationship, surprisingly Nam-Gyu is the cook. He even ties back his hair and wears an apron. Oddly enough he seems to be able to make whatever you and Thanos want. You could simply be lounging on the couch with them, limbs entangled as you mumble about a specific craving you had- next thing you know Nam-gyu is crawling on the couch and heading to the kitchen. You can hear him rummaging, opening and closing the cupboards, beginning to call out various ingredients. Thanos-who knows his roll in the situation begins to type out a list on his phone, adjusting you off his arm and positioning you on his chest. His arms are wrapped around your back allowing you to feel the minuscule movements of his arms as he types.

When Nam-Gyu is done, he’s returning to the couch. Thanos is begrudgingly pulling himself off the couch, lifting you up a bit as he gets up, setting you in Nam-gyu’s lap. He grabs the back of your head pulling you to him and placing a quick kiss on your forehead before pulling back. “I’ll be back soon, the list isn’t too bad this time.” He chuckles as he grabs his keys off the hook by the door.

Nam-Gyu smiles when the door closes, pulling your back into him and beginning to place kisses all around your face in neck. It tickles, the rapid light touches has you giggling and squirming in his lap. As much as he loves the relationship you three have- he cherishes the moments he gets alone with you and has your attention all on him.

Thanos is off to the grocery store to pick up the ingredients that Nam-gyu requested. However, despite how many times he’s done this, and even him saying the list was easy before he left- he’s still texting Nam-gyu pictures of the items in rapid succession to make sure he’s getting the right item. It’s adorable really.

And as always, the meal is fucking phenomenal. You’d say it’s 5 star Michelin worthy but you’re sure that even the most expensive meal at the most luxurious restaurant could never compare to the full, warm flavor of the home cooked meals that Nam-Gyu makes. Anything he makes is wayyy better than any top chef- you know it and you always tell him. The sleeves off his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing off his tattooed arms as he cooks. You’re happily hugging him from behind, standing on your tippy toes to hook your chin over his shoulder and watch him cook. You place a kiss on his neck right below his ear. “It’s not gonna be good if you keep distracting me pretty.” Nam-Gyu would hum out, pausing to turn more towards you and pull you into his side, turning his head and leaning down to place a kiss on your lips. He pats your ass a couple times and gently pushes you over to Thanos. “Help him break down the weed, I gotta focus on dinner.” The dark haired male says with a chuckle.

You’re pouting and walking over to Thanos who sits on the counter opposite the stove. He’s wearing a pair of shorts and has no shirt on, allowing you to see all his tattoos. You look up at him with a frown, “He doesn’t like me…” you playfully whine, it causes the both of them to laugh. “Mhm sure…he’s in an apron cooking for you because he hates you so bad.” Thanos teases, reaching up to cup your face in his hands, squishing your cheeks together. “You’re jus’ oh so needy, Señorita. There’s no satiating you- ever.” He laughs, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. You hum against his lips, standing up taller to press your lips against his harder. As he pulls away he tilts his head towards the rolling tray and the bag of weed that sits on the counter to his left, “Break it down f’me, sweetheart? I gotta break down the cigar.” He says in a sickly sweet tone, one that you simply cannot say no to. So you nod and he smiles, packing one more quick kiss on your lips before releasing your face.

Another bonus to add to the list of bonuses you get when dating the two of them- is they’re literally the best people to rant to. They’re both effortlessly sassy. They both think you could do no wrong- allowing you to bitch and complain about the littlest things involving work issues, friend drama, or even something as niche as a weird fixation you found on an internet deep dive.

You were lying on your back on the bed, your head at the foot end, one hand folded lackadaisically behind your head and the other holding the blunt to your mouth. When you exhale your hit you’re ranting on about a co-worker who pissed you off at work, how you have to do extra work because the others don’t do your fair share, even telling them about the workplace romances that bloom in the office. They’re sat on the edge of the bed, nodding along to your words, looking down at you- one of them on either side of you- and passing the blunt between each other and then back down to you with ‘mhm’’s and ‘ohhh’s coming out of their mouths.

“So yeah, she comes into my cubicle and looks at the picture I have of you two on my desk- you know the one from new years last year where you guys are on my sides kissing my cheek.” You ramble, interjecting to describe the picture to make sure they know exactly what one you’re talking about. “Oh yeah I remember that, you looked so good in that dress.” Thanos says, free hand running gently over stomach under your shirt. “It’s a good fuckin’ picture. How cute that you have it in your cubicle.” Nam-gyu adds.

“Mhm.” You nod, “so anyway she asks about it and I say ‘oh it’s me and my boyfriends’” You say repeating what you told your co-worker. They both smile when they hear you say it, waiting for you to continue. “And this bitch gives me the nastiest look and says ‘as in both of them? that’s disgusting’” you say angrily mocking her nasally voice and rolling your eyes.

“What a fuckin’ bitch!” Thanos says with conviction, “She’s prolly’ mad she can’t even get one man to stay with her let alone two.” Thanos scoffs, passing the blunt down to you. “Yeah…ain’t she the cunt that you said fucked the entirety of the IT department? Don’t mind that bitch. The fuck does she know. ” Nam-gyu muses, recalling other stories about this co-worker you told him in the past. He’s rolling his eyes at the thought of that cunt saying anything like that to you.

To add to the ways they contrast each other, while Thanos is all for PDA, Nam-Gyu isn’t. Thanos has no problem with slapping your ass in public or gripping your face to pull you into a messy kiss on the subway- he’s addicted to you, when he needs a fix he’s going to get it. Nam-gyu, although not big on PDA, he makes it known he’s with you- hand in yours, small kisses to your temple or quick kisses to your lips. The difference between the two of them gives you the best of both worlds truly.

And while Nam-Gyu posts you all over his social media- tweeting about you, he adds photos of you with songs attached to his instagram or his Snapchat, posting various photos of the three of you or just you to his instagram to boast about you to his followers, Thanos doesn’t. It’s not that Thanos doesn’t post you- he does! Just not to the extent Nam-Gyu does. Maybe it’s a photo of you and Nam-Gyu across the table from him at a fancy restaurant in the middle of a photo slideshow or a few Snapchat videos of him waking you up, finding your sleepy mumbles adorable. When the rap career kicked off he gained a lot of followers and he’s painfully aware of the crowd he attracts- he doesn’t like the prying eyes of sleazy men in the comment section of the photos he does post of you.

Sometimes sleeping in the same bed with them is miserable. You love them, you really do, and most nights you three are tangled in a cozy pile of limbs that lulls you into the deepest, most blissful sleep ever. But let’s be honest, you’re dating two men who love various substances- and with that comes the occasional night of restless sleep. They both will twitch, jerking against you and pulling you out of your sleep. Thanos snores and Nam-gyu drools- sometimes you find it cute, endearing even, but other nights it only makes you toss and turn more. Thanos has a tendency to run hot, becoming a human furnace that causes you to wake up and throw the covers off you. Nam-gyu runs cold, some nights you have to put a blanket over your body between the two of you to stop your shivering, wanting to hold him but genuinely not being able to sleep when his body that feels as if it’s made out of ice is engulfing you.

As much as they know you, you know them better. One of your favorite things is stopping by the gas station before you return home after a long day of work to get them a little gift. You lazily, but politely- it is 2am after all, anyone working that hour deserves some grace- ask the man at the counter for a pack of camels and a sour watermelon vape. You giggle at the strange look he gives you but you thank him, pay him and head home.

When you come home and enter your room you wish you had your phone out to take a picture. Nam-gyu is lying on top of Thanos, head on his chest. Thanos has his arms around Nam-Gyu slowly scrolling on his phone. They’re both just in a pair of boxers- making the view all the more enticing. You smile widely, “hey my loves!” You laugh, kicking off your shoes excitedly. Nam-Gyu is rising off of Thanos with a yawn and looking back at you.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

“Oh hell yeah! You’re back!”

You nod and begin to take off your coat. “You’re home later than normal. Where’d you go after work?” Nam-Gyu asks as he’s pulling off of Thanos to sit next to him, rubbing his tired eyes and resting his back against the headboard. You raise a suspicious eyebrow- Nam-Gyu was always so on top of your schedule, your itinerary of day to day life burned into his internal clock; he knew if you strayed from the normal.

“You caught me!” You say teasingly, “I made a lil detour on my way home” you finish, reaching into your purse and grabbing what you got for them. You toss the vape and the cigarettes on the bed, following in the footsteps of the packaged nicotine you jump onto the bed. “Ohhhhhhh!!! You’re the best!!” Thanos yells, immediately beginning to open the box. “God you’re a fuckin’ angel” Nam-gyu says, his words muffled as he uses his teeth to tear the plastic off the carton of cigarettes. They’re both squeezing you between them, covering your face in excited kisses.

They have albums upon albums of photos and videos of you on their phones. It’s images on you sleeping on their chests, candid pictures of you waking up tiredly-your hair a disaster and the camera clicks right as you rub the sleep out of your eyes. They have those silly .5x zoom pictures of you from above- Nam-gyu honestly loves taking them when you and Thanos are holding plates of whatever he cooked, looking up at the camera as he points his phone downwards. He always post the images on his instagram, it becoming a little ‘thing’ for him to show off his new dishes that he cooks.

They also have an insane amount of filthy photos of you. They botch can’t help the thrill they get when they record you in the most desperate and debauched situations- only for their eyes to see. Both of them have albums dedicated to your nudes and the photos / videos they take of you. Admittedly, they have the most photos of your cunt raw and messy from the both of them cumming in you.

If you asked both of them, they’d tell you it’s their favorite place to cum, without question. Nothing can ever compare to the feeling of your tight walls sucking them in as they cum balls deep inside you. Even better if you’re taking both of them at the same time!! Good GOD the amount of storage the videos they take of you taking the both of them deep into your tight pussy is actually insane. It’s not every time they do it, it would destroy you if it happened every single time the three of you fucked, but every so often when they both fuck you, their cocks rubbing against each other while they fuck into your sloppy cunt, they’re most likely recording it to look back at later.

If not cumming in your cunt- their favorite place to cum will differ. Thanos loves to cum on your ass or on your face- something about painting your skin with his white cum drives him insane. He loves blowing his load on your ass then rocking his cock in the valley of your ass as the rest of his spend costs your back. His hands are on the globes of your ass, squeezing and smearing his cum all over you.

Just like Thanos, Nam-Gyu is fucking messy. His next favorite place to cum is in your mouth. But he doesn’t want you to swallow it. Sure, he loves watching you stick your pretty pink tongue out to show him the pool of white before you swallow it like it’s honey, but what drives him crazy- straight up feral- is when you take your tits in your hands and push them together, opening your mouth to spit a filthy mix of his cum and your spit onto the swell of your breasts, your hands and those fucking perfect manicured nails squeezing your skin and spreading the mixture on your skin.

And like the perfect girlfriend you are- you match their freak perfectly. Learning and compiling every little thing that makes them tick to get the most reaction out of them in bed.

With the two of them, you’re never alone, you’re always entertained, and you’re oh so spoiled!! Two boyfriends are so much better than one!

I LOVE getting to write about my Thangyu x reader thinks!! It’s so fun >:) thank you for the request!!! As always, much love - <3 kiwi !

For the next few requests (in order of when I received them) we have: thangyu x thick!reader smut , Nam-gyu x naïve!reader smut , Nam-gyu x reader angst into fluff , and Myun-Gi x Reader x Thanos smut

If you’ve requested something and don’t see it yet on the ‘next up’, don’t worry! I’m moving through them and as I post the next requests will be added! I have the next couple days of work so I’m moving through them slowly but surely!

Requests are still open just be aware that it may take me a bit to get to them <3

[gf2bellamy]

hi loveee i have a new request for uuuu

another rlly simple and cute one where spencer just loves head scratches (no this is totally not based on me……) and he somehow exposes that to the whole team and it’s just some rlly cute thing (bonus points if they’re on the jet and at the end after all the teasing he just lays his head on reader’s lap and gets head scratches)

you can decide whether it’s pre or secret relationship :D

danke schön

- 🐚

headscratches — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: mention of a case, just a tiny bit ( very tiny bit ) of angst, secret relationship a/n: hiiiiii 🐚 ! i totally get u i love head scratches too - thank you for ur request i hope you like this <3<3<3

Your exhausted feet carried you up the steps of the BAU jet, every muscle in your body aching from the long case. It had been a grueling few days—little sleep, too much stress, and way too many hours spent chasing down leads. But at least it was over now. The case was closed, and you could finally breathe. 

Thankfully, your wonderful boyfriend had taken it upon himself to carry your bag, saving you from having to drag it up the stairs yourself. You barely managed to collapse into one of the plush seats by the window before Spencer stowed your things away and settled in beside you. 

“Thank you,” you murmured, turning your head to look at him. 

Spencer gave you a small, knowing smile, his eyes softening as he nodded. “Of course.” 

The two of you were alone on the jet, at least for now. The rest of the team was still wrapping things up , which meant you had a few rare, stolen moments of privacy. It was a relief—not just because you could finally let your guard down, but because no one on the team knew about your relationship.

Keeping things under wraps was tricky, especially when you worked together every day, but moments like this made it worth it. 

As the jet’s engines hummed to life beneath you, Spencer leaned into you slightly, his shoulder brushing against yours. He always did that when you were alone, like some part of him just naturally gravitated toward you when there was no one around to notice. 

Without thinking, you turned to your side reaching up and gently brushing a few strands of hair from his face.

His hair was always a little unruly after a long case, messy curls falling into his eyes, and you had developed a habit of fixing it for him. 

He let out a quiet breath at your touch, his eyelids fluttering slightly as he relaxed against you. 

“You okay?” you asked, your voice softer now, laced with quiet concern.

Spencer gave a small nod, offering you a gentle smile. “I’m okay,” he murmured. Then, tilting his head slightly, he asked, “Are you?”

You nodded, and before you could say anything else, his hand found your knee, his touch light and reassuring as his fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns.

But the moment didn’t last long.

The familiar voices of your team filled the jet, breaking the quiet, and as soon as Spencer registered their presence, his hand slipped away.

Like it had never been there at all.

Spencer immediately reached for his satchel, pulling out a book as if he had been reading the entire time. You turned your gaze toward the window, pretending to be lost in thought.

It wasn’t long before Emily and Derek flopped into the seats across from you.

“I can’t wait to get home to Sergio,” Emily sighed, stretching out in her seat. 

Derek chuckled. “That cat’s got you wrapped around his little paw.” 

You turned toward her, curiosity piqued. “How is he?” 

Emily waved a hand. “Same as always. Demanding, dramatic, and somehow convinced he’s royalty.” She rolled her eyes fondly before adding, “Lately, he’s been obsessed with head scratches. I swear, if I even walk past the couch, he flops over immediately demanding them." 

You laughed. “Sounds about right for a cat.” 

Emily shook her head. “I don’t get it. What’s so great about them? He acts like it’s the greatest thing in the world.” 

Before you could reply, Spencer, who had been silent up until now, lowered his book to his lap and spoke without hesitation. 

“Head scratches are scientifically proven to reduce stress and increase oxytocin levels,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The repetitive motion stimulates nerve endings in the scalp, which can trigger a relaxation response. It’s also associated with bonding, which is why many social animals, including humans, find it soothing. It's quite comforting.” 

It took a second for the weight of his words to register. 

Then, as if on cue, all three of you turned to look at him. 

Spencer blinked, his lips parting slightly as he realized his mistake. His book was still open in his lap, but he suddenly seemed much more interested in the stitching of the pages than the words on them. 

Derek’s grin spread slow and wide. “Wait a minute…” 

Emily gasped. “Oh my god.” 

You barely held back a smile, eyes locked on Spencer as the tips of his ears turned a shade of pink. He opened his mouth, probably to backpedal, but it was already too late. 

Derek leaned forward, resting his arms on the table infront of him as he grinned. “Are you telling me you like head scratches, pretty boy?” 

Spencer quickly looked down, flipping a page in his book despite very clearly not reading it. “I was simply stating a scientific fact.” 

Emily wasn’t letting it go. “Oh no, no, no. That was way too specific.” 

Derek laughed loudly, leaning forward with a wicked grin as he reached out and ruffled Spencer’s curls. 

Spencer immediately jerked back, his entire body tensing as he shot Derek a horrified glare. He hastily smoothed down his hair, his blush deepening. 

Derek, of course, looked way too pleased with himself. “Oh, come on, I had to test the theory,” he teased, shaking his head. “And judging by that reaction, I’d say someone is pretty damn picky about where his head scratches come from.” 

Emily laughed, clearly entertained by the discovery. “Seems like he doesn’t like it when you do it,” she pointed out, eyes flicking between the two of them with amusement. 

Derek leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms with a smirk. “Yeah, I noticed. Interesting.” 

Spencer huffed, flipping a page in his book with a little too much force. “It’s not that interesting,” he muttered, keeping his gaze stubbornly locked on the text. 

You smiled to yourself at Spencer’s embarrassed form, watching the way he kept his head down, pretending to be deeply engrossed in the book in his lap. You knew better, of course. 

You knew Spencer liked head scratches—most of your evenings together looked exactly like that. Him stretched across the couch, head resting in your lap, curls slipping through your fingers as he read.

Emily, still watching you, narrowed her eyes slightly before shifting her gaze to Derek. The two of them exchanged a look—one of those silent conversations that meant absolutely nothing good. 

“Spencer Reid,” Emily drawled, her grin widening, “do you only like head scratches coming from certain people?” 

Spencer slowly looked up from his book, suspicion evident in the way he narrowed his eyes. “What?” 

Derek smirked. “You heard Prentiss.” He leaned forward. “Do you only like head scratches when they’re from her?” 

You turned toward them, blinking. Wait, what? 

It was a known fact that the two of you were close. If someone was looking for Spencer, they usually found him with you. If you were missing from the bullpen, Spencer always knew exactly where you were. And everyone on the team knew he wasn’t a particularly touchy person—except with you. 

What they didn’t know was why. 

What they didn’t know was that this wasn’t just friendship. 

That the late-night conversations, the lingering looks, the small, stolen touches all meant something more. 

That you weren’t just his best friend. 

You were his. 

And now, you were all sitting on the jet, the team watching way too closely, Spencer’s ears burning bright red as Derek and Emily smirked. 

Spencer cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “That’s—” He hesitated, eyes flickering to you for just a second before looking back at his book. “That’s not relevant.” 

Emily gasped. 

“Oh my god,” she whispered, turning to Derek, “that was not a denial.” 

Derek grinned. “Nope, not at all.” 

Spencer groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “This is ridiculous.” 

You pressed your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. 

Emily tilted her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “So, hypothetically, if someone else did it…” 

Spencer shot her a sharp glare. “Hypothetically, they wouldn’t.” 

Derek laughed, pointing at him. “Oh yeah. That’s so an exclusive privilege.” He turned to you, grinning. “Man, you must be special.” 

You shrugged, playing it cool despite the warmth creeping up your neck. “I guess I just have the magic touch.” 

Spencer exhaled sharply, closing his book with a thud. He turned to you, eyes soft but exasperated. “Are you enjoying this?” 

"Maybe." You shrugged your shoulders as you gave him a teasing smile.

Spencer shook his head, feigning disappointment—but you knew better. He was never disappointed in you.

You smiled softly, and out of habit, reached up to brush his hair out of his face. His eyes flickered shut for a moment, just barely, before reopening with a look that was almost a warning.

A silent, don’t push your luck. 

But you were in the mood to tease. 

To your luck, Derek was already slipping his headphones on, and Emily had her eyes closed, arms crossed as she settled into her seat. The hum of the jet filled the space, covering the small shuffle of movement as you let your fingers slip back into Spencer’s curls. 

His breath hitched, and you felt him tense—just for a second—before melting like he always did. 

You bit back a grin as your nails gently scratched against his scalp, moving in slow, soothing circles. 

Spencer exhaled, the tension in his shoulders draining as his eyes fluttered shut again. His grip on his book loosened slightly. 

You loved how easy it was, how little effort it took to make him relax. 

His head dipped slightly, unconsciously leaning into your touch, and you took the opportunity to gently guide him down. Your hand pressed lightly to the back of his head, tilting him so that his cheek brushed against your shoulder. 

For a moment, he resisted—a small, fleeting moment of hesitation—before giving in entirely. 

You kept scratching lightly, feeling the way his body settled beside you, warm and familiar. Your fingers threaded through his curls, slow and deliberate, as he let out the softest sigh. 

You smiled, pressing your cheek lightly against the top of his head. 

Spencer Reid, the most brilliant mind you had ever known, was undone by something as simple as your fingers in his hair. 

And you loved it. 

Your eyes drifted shut, fingers still moving in slow, rhythmic motions through Spencer’s hair. His soft curls tickled your cheek as you rested your head against his.

What you didn’t notice? 

The way Derek and Emily were now watching the two of you like hawks. 

Derek, one side of the headphone pushed back , slowly raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a look with Emily. She barely suppressed a grin, tilting her head slightly, as if to say, Are you seeing this? 

Oh, he was definitely seeing this. 

They had their theories, of course. The team had always suspected there was more to you and Spencer than just friendship. It was the little things—the way he only let you touch him so easily, the way you always knew how to get him out of his head when no one else could, the way he looked at you like you’d hung the stars in the sky. 

And now? 

Now, with Spencer completely nestled against you, his head tucked against your shoulder, your fingers threading through his curls that could only come from familiarity? 

Yeah. Their theories had just been confirmed. 

Derek smirked, leaning closer to Emily. “Told you.” 

Emily scoffed, but the amusement in her eyes was unmistakable. “You didn’t tell me anything, Morgan. We both knew.” 

Derek chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Man, they really thought they were being sneaky.” 

Emily grinned. “Should we say something?” 

Derek considered it for a moment, watching as your fingers absentmindedly combed through Spencer’s hair, his entire body visibly at ease. 

He let out a small laugh. “No. Let them have their moment.” 

For now, at least. 

Because later? 

Oh, they were absolutely going to tease the hell out of you both. 

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 10

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, family issues, generational trauma, self-growth, personal issues (and dealing with it), hurt and comfort, hmmmm…. let’s leave it at that for now :) A/N: Final chapter, guys! Thanks so much for reading <3

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10

“Oh, what the hell—since when do you cook?”

“Bitch,” you laugh, nudging past them, the ceramic pot still steaming in your hands. “Do you want the risotto or not?”

The scent of garlic and pecorino permeates the air as you stand in front of the small foyer of the duplex where your friend—questionable, at the moment—lives. Your most recent culinary masterpiece, deemed safe (enough) for public consumption, rests between your hands in silent offering to the skeptic figure who’s barring you from crossing the threshold. 

It’s still warm, and you’re not one to brag, but you think you’ve outdone yourself with this one. Not that it matters—everybody’s a fucking critic these days.

“Risotto?” Khol parrots in disbelief. “You don’t show up in forever, suddenly you’re all cuoca straordinario or some shit. Get out of here with your Mario ass–”

“Don’t mind them,” Anna interjects from behind your biggest hater, all cheer as she plucks the pot from your hands. “This smells amazing, actually. Come in!”

With that, she vanishes inside, leaving you and Khol alone in the doorway. You give them a knowing look.

“Oh wow,” you remark, all mock surprise. “You live together now?”

Khol rolls their eyes, already tired of you. “You missed the biggest arc of the last five months, but yeah.”

You step inside, and right away, something feels… different. It could partly be due to how much time has passed since you last visited, and it’s clearly still their place—the brooding industrial-emo aesthetic remains intact, still suspiciously close to resembling the lair of an angsty comic book antihero on acid—but it’s been overtaken by bits of boho-chic scattered all over the space.

Where there was once nothing but charcoal, vinyl, and concrete, there are now textures. Colorful woven throws drape artfully over the arm of the leather Eames sofa they won off a Craigslist bid. Tasseled pillows have multiplied across every seat surface like some kind of fabric-based contagion, while pothos vines dangle lazily from macramé hangers, stretching towards the moody Edison bulbs like they’re trying to escape the existential crisis of living here.

And then there’s the rug. Oh god, the rug. 

A comically massive tufted ‘Flower Power’ rug sprawls across the center of the room, a swirling explosion of pinks and oranges—a final, cutesy fuck you to the apartment’s formerly depressing atmosphere before Khol’s new roommate staged her cheerful coup.

It should’ve been a hilarious sight, like a chaotic school art project where every kid picked a different medium to color and refused to compromise. But somehow… it works? 

Against all odds, the goth cryptid and the hippie gremlin have found domestic equilibrium.

“Love what you did with the place, Anna,” you call out, toeing off your shoes at the door. “It doesn’t look like a twelve-year-old’s fantasy bedroom anymore.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Khol laughs, shaking their head. “As if you’re one to talk. Last time I visited, you still had that stupid-ass sofa. Is it still there?”

You sniff haughtily. “Excuse you, but that’s a custom piece. You wouldn’t get it.”

"Alright, you two," Anna says, leaning against the archway between the living room and kitchen, one hip propped against the frame. "Both of you have terrible taste in decor. Now, I have a fabulous Prosecco to pair with the risotto." She tilts her head, shooting her partner a pointed look. "Khol, darling, be a dear and grab the crystal from the cupboard?"

"Whipped," you sing as Khol, predictably, does exactly as told. They don’t even bother with a comeback, just flashes you a lazy middle finger over their shoulder as they disappear from view.

You grin, shaking your head. The moment stretches into something easy, comfortable. It’s nice—being here, bantering like no time has passed. You let yourself sink into it, tugging off your beanie as you cross the room.

The creaky couch welcomes you like an old friend, and you flop down unceremoniously, stretching your legs out, rubbing your feet against the oversized monstrosity of a rug that is... honestly, pretty fucking comfortable, actually.

Anna follows suit, settling beside you with far more grace, tucking one foot under the other.

She watches you for a moment, expression warm but slightly inquisitive. “We haven’t seen you in a while.” 

You exhale, tipping your head back, staring up at the beams on the ceiling. "Yeah, sorry. Been a little out of it these past… couple of months, I guess."

Anna makes a quiet noise, something between understanding and acknowledgment. "You’re doing okay now?"

The easy answer sits on your tongue—yeah, of course. An automatic response, a reflex built from habit. Another front to put up, another lie to slip behind.

But you’ve been working on this. So instead, you take a breath and say,

"Not… really." 

The words feel foreign, heavy, but oddly freeing as they leave your mouth.

Your gaze flickers to the side table—framed photos of Khol and Anna, smiling, sunlit. You don’t linger.

“I mean, better now compared to, maybe, a few weeks ago. I’m getting there.”

Anna’s brows lift slightly—not in surprise at the sentiment itself, but at the fact that you admitted it out loud. There’s something thoughtful in her expression, something softer around the edges. “Good. That’s good.”

You can tell she means it. Maybe even more than you expected.

"Yeah."

There’s a brief lull. You catch yourself tugging at the edge of your cardigan—a nervous habit you never quite broke. The warmth of the apartment is settling in you quite comfortably, but there’s something about sitting still under Anna’s gentle scrutiny that makes you restless.

From the kitchen, there’s the unmistakable clink of glass, followed by a muffled, “shit.”

Anna exhales, long-suffering. “I don’t know why I even bother buying nice things.”

“‘Oy,” Khol’s voice carries from the other room, “get in here and help. We have, like, seven things to carry.”

You take that as your cue, trailing after Anna into the kitchen. Between the three of you, it’s quick work—bowls of warm, brothy risotto in hand, glasses of white wine balanced carefully between fingers.

By the time you step back into the living room, Khol is already dropping onto the blue accent chair near the window with all the dramatics of someone who’s worked far too hard for far too little.

You settle into your usual spot, Anna beside you. You don’t touch your food. Your appetite’s still in remission, though it’s been steadily improving lately.

Khol notices. “Now, why the hell aren’t you eating?” They shoot you a side-eye like you’ve personally offended them. “I knew it. You put something in this, didn’t you?”

“Jesus, Khol,” Anna sighs, exasperated, already two spoonfuls in. “Your diet was literally gas station burritos and eight-pack Coors before I moved in. You’ll live.”

She pauses, though, casting you a look. “Don’t get me wrong—this is really good.”

“Ha,” you retort as Khol prods suspiciously at a floating mushroom. You glare. “Are you fucking kidding me—”

“Alright, alright.” With an exaggerated sigh, Khol finally takes a bite. They chew once, twice—eyes narrowed in concentration, acting like some hard-ass seasoned judge from Top Chef. You can practically see them digging for something snarky to say—until, begrudgingly, they nod.

“Shit. This is actually pretty good. Who are you?”

You preen at the praise.

For a while, there’s nothing but the quiet clinking of spoons against ceramic, the occasional satisfied hum. It’s… nice. Comfortable in a way you haven’t felt in what feels like forever.

You’ve missed this.

Missed being here. Missed being with people.

Somewhere between the second glass of wine and the last few bites of risotto, Khol angles their head toward you, their curiosity piqued. “How come you’re free today? You on leave or something?”

You swirl the drink in your hand, watching the light catch on the amber surface before answering. “Oh, I quit my job.”

There’s a beat of silence. You don’t know what reaction you were expecting, but Khol just blinks at you. "Huh. Finally."

Anna looks mildly more concerned. "You quit?"

You nod, stretching your legs out beneath the coffee table. “Yeah. The OT was getting ridiculous, and they had me working night shifts again. That was kind of the last straw for me.”

Khol grunts in agreement. “Good fucking riddance. That job was killing you.” They pause for a beat, turning serious, contemplative. “You’re not hung up about it, are you? You’ve been bitching about that job for ages.”

You exhale through your nose, staring at the rim of your glass. “Yeah, no. I’m glad I left.” The words come easily, and they’re mostly true. But still—there’s something about suddenly having all this space, this aimless in-between, that makes you antsy. 

A thought strikes you, and you glance up. “Hey, you know if Marion's still looking for someone to work part-time at the bistro?”

Khol raises an eyebrow. "You looking to apply? It’s minimum wage, just telling you in advance."

"That’s fine," you assure them. "I just need something on the side. I’m doing freelance work right now, I just want something to fill in the gaps."

Anna perks up at that. "I think that’s a great idea. I can hit up Marion later, but I’m pretty sure they’re still looking."

Khol stares at you, and for once, they don’t have a quip lined up. No sharp-edged humor, no quick banter—just a quiet look of something almost foreign on their face. Pride. Maybe even relief. You’ve worried them. The realization jars you like a pebble dropped into a clear pond, sending ripples through the stillness of your self-imposed isolation. You hadn’t meant to, not really. It wasn’t like you deliberately wanted to disappear... But you did, didn’t you? You let the days blur into weeks, then months, telling yourself naively that no one would notice if you just—vanished for a while. Five months, to be exact.

You press your lips together, clearing your throat against the tightness creeping in. “Thanks,” you say, quiet but sincere. “Really.”

Khol snorts, and the moment shatters. “You can show your thanks by knocking ten percent off the cocktails when we visit.”

You roll your eyes, feigning exasperation. “Get me the job first, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Anna grins, raising her glass. “Now, that’s the spirit.”

––––

You get the job.

You stand in front of the fogged-up mirror, dragging your palm across the wet glass. The reflection that stares back is warped, smudged—half-formed, half-there—but unequivocally yours. 

A month ago, you wouldn’t have been able to say that with certainty. Back then, the figure in the mirror had been more ghost than person—distant, spectral. Fractured. Someone you watched from the outside, not as a host of the flesh you inhabit. 

Now, though, the pieces are starting to slot back into place. Some are still missing, and others don’t quite fit as they once did. You doubt it will ever return to how it was… But slowly, a familiar shape is coming back into focus. More than the shadow of a woman, but you.  Time moves like water carving through rock—gradual, barely perceptible, but steady. Inevitable.

The shifts are diminutive. A morning where you wake up feeling less crushed by the weight of grief in your chest. An afternoon where you suddenly break into laughter, and you realize it’s the first time you’ve heard it in weeks. A quiet night where you go to bed without feeling like you’re stuck frozen in an endless loop of wishing, waiting for the impossible.

You’re here, alive. Present. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, you’re doing more than just holding on.

(You think he’d be proud of you.) And the thought doesn’t leave you aching the way it used to.

––––

“You think I can handle taking care of another living thing? Like a plant?” You ask Maru, glancing at him lounging by the window, right where a sliver of afternoon sunlight spills across the floor. “I mean, I raised you well enough, I think. But you’re pretty self-sufficient anyway.” Maru looks unimpressed. His tail flicks once—dismissive, uninterested—before he returns to grooming himself, utterly indifferent to both your question and your sudden enthusiasm for gardening. “Well, if your dad can grow plants in that dungeon he calls a base, I’m sure I can manage,” you mutter unconvincingly. “How hard can it be?” 

–

By the middle of the second week into your little project, you begrudgingly admit that your tiny repotted begonia isn’t exactly thriving. You don’t want to be a pessimist, but the (browning) margins seem to curl inward—more than they should, if the reference pics on that “Indoor Succulents” blog you’re subscribed to are anything to go by. 

You eye it dubiously, trying to stay gung-ho about the whole thing, forcing yourself to look up care tips again. It’s just a plant. Not rocket science. So you do the research, gather more supplies, and give it another shot. You reposition it closer to where the sun lands—earning a disgruntled hiss from the sunbathing feline—and sprinkle a careful amount of water just beneath the leaves, closer to the root. Then you lean back, waiting, tapping your foot impatiently like it’s supposed to just... fix itself.

–

The next few days pass with you watching it more than you’d care to admit—checking, hoping, second-guessing yourself. 

You narrow your eyes at the leaves, more russet than Inca Flame red, still hanging limp like a sad testament to your lack of skill. 

But you keep at it, because you’re nothing if not stubborn.

–

A single flower has bloomed.

You stand there, spray bottle in hand, caught in quiet awe at the metallic pink sprout peeking through the foliage. It’s small, delicate, barely more than a bud, but unmistakably there—nestled among heart-shaped leaves that, for the first time in weeks, look alive. Brighter. 

A faint smile tugs at your lips. It’s not groundbreaking, not by a long shot. But it’s something.

The fragile blossom clings onto dear life, stubbornly seeking the sun rays, inching toward the warmth it needs to grow—larger, stronger.

You can’t wait to bear witness to it. 

––––

You’re not entirely sure how you ended up in this situation; all you could recall past the sweat blurring your vision is the memory of being in front of the reception desk, pen in hand, scrawling your name onto the sign-up sheet for beginner boxing lessons. 

It’s not… something you planned on doing, really. You’d been showing up for the past week, trying to convince yourself that fitness was something you could get into. Something you could stick with. But this one’s more of an impulse decision, fueled by a mix of post-workout endorphins and the misplaced confidence that sometimes follows after an extra few—unpremeditated!—minutes on the elliptical. 

It all started with a casual glance at a flyer taped to the wall beside the water dispenser.

GET TOUGHER, FASTER, STRONGER! SIGN UP NOW!

The cheesy tagline stared you down as you were in the middle of refilling your teal green AquaFlask. And for some dumb reason—sheer curiosity, definitely not because it reminded you of a certain someone—you thought: Why not?

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you’d marched straight up to the nearest staff at the counter, credit card in hand, and asked to sign up. Now, as you stare at the buff woman currently goading you to hit harder, reality sets in and you feel a little lightheaded. Even slightly delirious.

“Up, up–” your trainer urges, somehow not even remotely out of breath, despite being thirty grueling minutes into the session. Meanwhile, you’re standing there, red-faced and sweating like a fucking pig. “Keep your arms up at all times, alright?”

You pant, nodding weakly, fixing your posture. She gives you an approving nod in return.

It’s part of the whole self-improvement thing, anyway. Pushing yourself. Fitness, jazz, and all that. You’ve never had much inclination for sports or anything remotely physically taxing, as far as you can recall.

…Or maybe that decision was made for you the moment you tried out for volleyball in high school and took a spike straight to the face. A memory so humiliating, that your brain did you a favor and buried it deep in the recesses of your mind. 

But things are different now! You’re trying new things. You’ve done wall climbing, aerobics, even pulled a hamstring attempting HIIT Tae Bo. And if getting punched in the face is the next step in this… wellness journey, then, well, so be it. You’ll take it with a brave face and, hopefully, minimal bruising to both body and ego.

You slog through two sets of combos and thirty jab-straight-hook-uppercuts, punching like your life depends on it. You’re wheezing like an asthmatic child, and you’re about one bad punch away from toppling over.

Then, mercifully—

“Okay, that’s enough for today.”

Oh, thank god.

“You did good,” she tacks on, flashing you an encouraging smile, like you didn’t just spend the last half hour flailing at the focus mitts with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

You stare at her, unconvinced. Did I? Because from where you’re standing—wobbling, really—you’re pretty sure you looked closer to an overstimulated toddler throwing hands with gravity, but sure. It must’ve been in the fine print, to segue in a little positive reinforcement. Probably to keep people from bolting after the first session. 

Not that you’re planning to. No, of course not. You’re just... reevaluating some things. Like your life choices. And your capacity to lift your arms tomorrow. As you trudge your way out of the yoga-studio-turned-boxing-area, still gulping for air and very aware of the soreness settling into your limbs, someone calls out.

“Hey! Wait up!”

You turn your head, blinking in confusion. A guy—mid to late twenties, give or take—jogs up to you, looking offensively too fresh compared to how you feel. “Oh, hi. Sorry, do you mean me?”

He laughs as he slows to a stop, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “Yeah, you. I’ve seen you training with Coach. Just wanted to say—you’re improving.”

You blink. Wait, what?

A wave of mortification rolls through you. Shit, you didn’t know you had an audience. “Uh—thanks, I guess?”

You shift your weight awkwardly, clutching your boxing gloves tightly against your chest.

His grin turns sheepish, as though he realizes how that might’ve come off. “Fuck, sorry. That came out weird, didn’t it? I swear, I’m not, like, watching the whole thing or anything.” He makes a vague gesture to his left. “The studio’s right in my line of sight when I’m doing TRX reps. Hard not to notice.”

You force a smile. “Ah, yeah. Figures.” 

“I’m Byron, by the way,” he offers, sticking out a hand.

Now that you get a proper look at him, you notice he’s got this kind of… geeky charm going for him. Curly hair, sleepy brown eyes behind round, rimless glasses, and shy boy-next-door vibes—except for the fact that he’s jacked.

(Honestly? Work.)

You give him your name, still smiling awkwardly. You’re about to wave goodbye and turn away when— “So, what are you doing later?”

Um.

You hesitate. “I’m, uh… heading straight home after this?” Your voice comes out a little more uncertain than you intended, mostly because you’re not really sure why he’s still talking to you.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he replies quickly, glancing down like he’s suddenly nervous. “I just… thought I’d ask if you’d wanna grab coffee sometime?”

Oh.

It takes a moment for the question to fully register. The first thought that pops in your head is: Wait, how does he know I’m a barista?

… The second thought is one of pure disbelief. Holy shit, did I just get asked out? At the gym? By the Temu version of Peter Parker?

Your face burns hotter than it did mid-workout, caught completely off guard.

“I—woah, um.” You stumble over your words, eyes quickly darting away from him. “Sorry, I already have… a boyfriend. If—if that’s what you’re leading up to.”

You say it like a question. He picks up on it.

“You don’t sound too convinced,” he comments with a light chuckle, shaking his head. “If you’re not interested, you can just say that, you know.”

A prickle of irritation flares up, followed by something sharper—something that stings. You push it down. “No, he’s just… not around.” “Ah.” He clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Long distance?” “…Yeah.” You have no idea.

He shrugs, undeterred. “Alright, no pressure. We could always just hang out as friends, if you want.”

I… don’t think I do. “Um, maybe?” you answer instead, forcing out a laugh.

“Oh, come on,” he says, his grin widening. “You can even introduce me to your boyfriend,” he emphasizes the word out, “when he gets back. Does he work out? We could all hit the gym together.”

Social anxiety is afraid of this man, you think belatedly. Unfortunately for him, you’re the very embodiment of what fears him.

You’re so out of your element that all you can manage is, “He boxes too, actually.”

“Yeah? He any good?” 

That gets an involuntary snort out of you. Unthinkingly, you say, “Could probably beat you up.”

Byron laughs, startled but amused, shaking his head as he raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright—message received.” He flashes you a wide smile. “Well, if you change your mind about the coffee, I’ll be around.” He jerks his chin toward the pack fly by the corner. “There, usually.”

Okay, nerd. Despite yourself, you can’t help but find the whole thing slightly hilarious. Then again, you find humor in the dumbest things. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

You offer him a quick, half-hearted wave, trying (and failing) to mask your embarrassment with an exaggerated, too-casual show of nonchalance. It’s so painfully awkward, you can feel yourself internally dying from cringe. 

Without another word, you spin on your heel and start speed-walking away, practically running back to the safety of your personal space.

Smooth.

––––

It’s another relatively easy night at the bistro. You’re on the last two hours of your shift, and you’re carrying a single glass of roseberry mule to serve at table four. As you round the corner, you catch sight of a student, glasses perched low on her nose, completely absorbed in a thick coursebook on Programming Languages. Papers are scattered across the table, and she looks to be utterly engrossed in her readings, unaware of the world around her. 

You don’t want to bother her more than necessary, about to set the drink down on the only clear space—by the iPad propped up on a tablet holder to her right—when something red catches your attention.

A familiar pair of crimson eyes stops you dead in your tracks.

For a moment, you feel like you’re suspended in time. The sharp memory of a similar instance where you’re in her place, and he’s there, keeping you company while he’s polishing a gun burns through your brain, and you don’t–you can’t think—

You stand there, rooted to the spot, wide-eyed and unmoving. Then, the girl’s gaze shifts to you, and a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, betraying her surprise.

With swift fingers, she locks the screen with a quick flick on the power button, pulling you away and breaking you from the echoes of the past.

“Oh, shit,” she giggles, a nervous edge to her voice. “That’s embarrassing.” 

You shake your head, forcing yourself back to the present moment. “No—no, don’t worry about it,” you chuckle weakly, setting the drink down beside her with shaky hands. “Cute guy, honestly.”

That makes her giggle louder, her eyes bright with an almost conspiratorial glint. “Oh my god, you have no idea.”

Fuck—you can’t breathe.

––––

The night hangs thick with stifling heat, accompanied by the steady ticking of the clock as you catch your breath, your broken moans too loud in the heavy silence. The sheets cling to your feverish skin, damp and uncomfortable, as your body moves in a rhythm that feels unnatural now, but still—but always—familiar.

Your chest rises and falls in shallow, rapid breaths as you force the draconic toy deep inside you. The heat, the fire—it licks at your skin, making your whole body yearn for more. To chase more of the feeling, to chase more of the memory of him. 

Errant strands of hair stick to your forehead, your chest flushed and burning, a quiet throb spreading through you with every friction, every desperate movement.

Your body aches, a relentless thrum urging you to push deeper, to find something—anything—to fill the gaping hole inside you, a wound you’ve tried to stitch shut over months, now threatening to tear its way open again, once more ripping from the seams. 

A sharp pressure builds inside you. Your body stretches too far, too much, struggling to take in what it can’t quite handle. It burns in a way that hurts, but you need it. You need to feel more, to fill the emptiness, to grasp at something that feels real.

“Yours, yours–” you tremble, desperate. “Yours. Just yours. Please.”

-

-

-

You lie in the wake of it—pleasure fading into something heavier, regret creeping in like a shadow, waiting as always.

“I miss you,” you whisper in the dark. You always do.

You try to ignore the pull of it, the sharp descent that comes with the high.

You were doing so well.

But it’s fine. You’re fine. 

Everything’s fine.

The words swirl and echo in your mind, until they’re swallowed by sounds that ring hollow. You let the moment wash over you, sinking beneath the weight of the tides, where sorrow and longing blur with the fleeting warmth of what you can’t keep.

Tomorrow will be another day. Another chance to try again.

For now, you let go of your grip on the fragile raft of sanity you’ve built, painstakingly, for months on end.

Tonight, you let yourself drown once more in the somber depths of loneliness and despair, confined within these four walls that feel—once more—like a penitentiary.

––––

The plane begins its slow descent, and through the window, the world comes into view—large swathes of land interrupted by winding roads that seem to follow no rhyme, nor pattern. A river glints faintly beneath the fading sun, while the sky turns a dull blue, a washed-out slate, streaked with the last embers of daylight.

Below, the small city stirs.

Tiny specks of color flicker to life, lanterns strung along the streets like beads on a thread, marking the season, an ending, and the inevitable turning of time. A chill hangs in the air, the wind whipping past you from the half-open window of the taxi, sharp and crisp in a way that you can only find in the province.

Your hometown. 

It all rushes past in a blur of light and shadow, an eclectic mix of old and new—some buildings unchanged, others unfamiliar, as if they’d sprung up in the years you’ve been away. It’s been a while since you last came back, long enough for the roads to feel... foreign, almost. Though muscle memory stirs when the car takes a turn. One you could have easily navigated even with your eyes closed.

Only your sister lives here now, her and her family—a couple of hundred miles far. Far enough to feel like another world, yet close enough for the past to catch up the moment you lay eyes on the old two-story house tucked away on the quaint cul-de-sac of this suburban neighborhood. 

The residential property was left to her, scrawled onto the title in an act of generosity, perhaps. Or maybe as a weight your mother never intended to carry, something meant to anchor her eldest child while she carved a different life for herself elsewhere. Free-spirited as she is, she left with the ease of someone shedding an old coat, slipping into the shoes of another, barely a glance over her shoulder.

But houses remember. And as you step out of the vehicle, your feet meeting the rough asphalt that once belonged to your childhood, you wonder if they remember you too.

"Maru, Maru!" Your five-year-old niece cries the moment she spots the grumpy feline peering through the mesh of his portable prison.

"What—no excitement for me too?" you tease, ruffling her hair. She giggles, scrunching up her nose.

"Auntie, hi! Hi!"

You snort at her enthusiasm, setting the carrier down. The second you pull at the zipper, Maru springs out, landing with a soft thud before stalking off with his usual air of disdain. Your niece shrieks with delight. 

"Ah! Cat!"

"Well, there go the chances of her socializing with her brother," your sister remarks dryly from the doorway, sauntering closer. "Hey, stranger."

"Hey," you greet, hoisting a handful of paper bags. "Where do I dump these?"

She eyes the bags. "Any of those for me?"

"You have three kids, and one of them insisted on a Lego set. Do you know how much those cost?" You shoot her a flat look. "You’re getting socks."

"Wow, stingy." She huffs but takes some of the bags anyway, hitching one onto her hip as she grabs your other hand-carry.

You step inside, and the house greets you with a riot of lights and color. Plastic tinsel and bright string lights drape across every visible surface—along the bannister, around doorways—leaving no space untouched by the festive chaos. A Christmas tree stands proudly in the corner, nearly buried beneath an avalanche of baubles and sentimental ornaments collected over the years.

The room feels swallowed by the exuberance of it all, an almost overwhelming jamboree of holiday cheer.

It’s gaudy, excessive, and completely over-the-top, but beneath it all, the bones of your childhood home remain unchanged—familiar in a way that settles deep in your chest. The Narra wood floors are still scuffed with the marks of time, there’s still the distinct tang of turpentine mixed with waxy resin and citrus you’ve long since associated with home, and the odd decorative masks still line the far wall, their painted expressions frozen mid-celebration.

Your eyes land on the canvas floater above the mantel—a whimsical cross-stitch of three women flying kites, their stitched dresses rippling in imagined wind. You remember it well, though you never quite understood why your mother had chosen that particular scene to painstakingly sew into existence. Still, it belongs here, another piece of the house's patchwork history.

Your gaze shifts to the couch, where Andrew, your sister's husband, is sprawled out, one arm lazily draped over the backrest, the other holding his phone.

He flicks his gaze up at you, offering a half-hearted wave before turning back to whatever has him so absorbed on the screen. Beside him, your three-year-old nephew is perched on his knees, bouncing with energy as he mirrors Bluey's movements on the TV with exaggerated enthusiasm, his tiny arms flailing in childlike glee.

You sigh inwardly, rolling your eyes. Typical.

“There’s a few more hours before dinner. Want to hang out in the kitchen while I roast the ham?” She asks casually, setting down your bags by the foot of the stairs. “Actually, scratch that—you’re in charge of the punch.”

“You just want a head start on the drinks,” you tease, the banter flowing easily between you. “Hey, where’s the little squirt?”

She points toward the small crib, near the island counter. “She finally stopped crying, thank god. Don’t wake her up, or you’ll be the one in charge of putting her back to sleep.”

The two of you slip into the kitchen, where the air already carries the promise of dinner—cloves and brown sugar blending nicely with the lingering scent of citrus. A tray of ham sits on the counter, prepped and ready, the scored surface glistening under the fluorescent light. 

Your sister pulls a bottle of Luisita Oro Rum and Agimat Gin from the second-to-last cupboard and places them on the counter in front of you.

"Go ham," she quips.

You give her a flat look. "You think you’re funny.”

She shrugs, unfazed, and turns her attention back to where she’d left off before your arrival. 

The two of you fall into a natural rhythm, the kind that comes from years of cooking together. You work your way through cans of Del Monte, the metallic clinks filling the space as you drain the syrup and dump chunks of mixed fruit into the large punch bowl.

Your sister leans against the counter nearby, arms folded, her gaze fixed on the oven door, as if sheer willpower alone could make the meat cook faster.

In the background, the soft drone of the TV drifts in from the living room, punctuated by your nephew’s occasional giggles.

There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with anything more than the occasional clink of utensils against glass and the low humming of kitchen appliances. The day is winding down to a close, and for now, everything is alright.

“So, Mom called,” she says casually, one arm braced on the counter as she leans in, glancing at you. “Kept calling, actually.”

“Mm.” You reply noncommittally, shaking the last can’s contents into the crystal bowl, watching as the fruit chunks bob lazily in the pool of alcohol.

“She’s worried about you.”

You don’t answer.

“She was. She is.” Her voice shifts, more serious now. She watches you closely, noting your lack of reaction. “You know that, right?”

Your fingers tighten around the can opener, but you pull your gaze away from the bowl. “I know.”

She sighs, resigned, already familiar with this song and dance. Familiar enough to know there’s no winning this one, not tonight. Not anytime soon. “I am too.”

You blink, before looking away. “Oh.”

And maybe she does worry—your mother. But any hope of truly knowing is swallowed by the chasm between you, the one that keeps your conversations at surface level, never breaching the depths beyond. 

Your body, born from hers, perhaps more alike than you realize, might have been brought into this world with the same pains that she’s carried. The pains of separation. The unresolved hurt of being unwillingly removed from your person—her former husband, your father—and that if you and your mother were closer, you could have opened up about your own situation. Perhaps then, you wouldn’t feel like a ship that has lost its ballast, drifting endlessly in the same turbulent seas for the longest time.

But you are your mother’s daughter, and she is her mother’s daughter. There is the truth that the women in your family are not the best communicators, nor do they wear their hearts on their sleeves. So you were born mute and overly sensitive. Pain drips from you, unnoticed, like a purposeless leak in the heart. You’ll carry it with you until you die.

“But you look… okay,” she observes, cocking her head. “Are you okay?”

You swallow. For the same reason you compare your mother to a storm you can't outrun and your sister to an intermittent drizzle, you find it easier to admit, “I haven’t… been okay for a while.” 

Not wanting to bring the mood down, especially on a day like today, you quickly add, “Things are better now, though.”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Could be a little more specific there, but I’ll take it.” She gives you an exasperatedly fond look. “You let me know if that changes anytime soon, ‘kay?”

Your lips quirk in the faintest semblance of a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

–

It’s ten minutes before midnight.

You’re leaning against the island counter that separates the kitchen from the living room, nursing a glass of the fruit punch (though it’s mostly gin, with the teensiest amount of fruit), watching your sister’s family at a distance as they eagerly wait for the clock to strike twelve. The blinds of the large living room window have been pulled up, giving an unobstructed view of the sky, ready for the first firework to light up the dark.

For a moment, you feel like an outsider, watching through a lens, as if you’re not quite part of the scene. There’s a strange sense of detachment—voyeuristic, almost—as though you're peering in on a private, intimate moment. 

Your sister cradles the infant in her arms, and that all-too-familiar pang stirs to life—the same one that always does when you look at her.

You can't quite place what you're feeling, exactly. It’s tumultuous, and it’s complex. Andrew’s practically dozing off in his seat, and you see your sister shake her head in mild annoyance. Your nephew, fighting to keep his eyes open, starts to fuss.

Something tightens inside your chest.

“Andrew,” she hisses, startling the man awake. He blinks, disoriented, before spotting their son and the early signs of an explosive tantrum.

He sighs, and pulls the boy closer to him. “Hey, hey, little guy. Look at the sky. In just a couple of minutes, the lights are gonna go boom-boom.”

Your nephew sniffs, his eyes blinking up at him as he processes the words. “Boom-boom?”

“Yeah! Just like the one we watched on TV!”

The kid’s face visibly perks up at that, bad mood quickly forgotten. “Boom-boom!”

You watch as your sister’s gaze softens, and a small smile replaces the earlier frown on her face.

And in that instant, you understand.

You look at your sister and, for a brief moment, all you see is a wretched mirror of yourself. She is all of your fears, all of your failures, and all of what you could’ve been rolled into one. Barely in her mid-thirties, and yet already carrying the weight of a family: three kids, a husband who feels like a faded echo of your father—a man who didn’t quite measure up, who never did, and just as unreliable. 

You feel the suffocating weight of it all, of being tied to a place that’s meant to be a home but feels more like a tomb, marking the passing of dreams unspoken. She’ll grow old here, buried in the same soil you both sprang from, fading into the landscape of this town that swallows its own.

You look at her and you almost feel the repressed pain of missing the last semester of college to give birth, the lament of a missed opportunity that life has stolen from her. 

You feel her pain as if it’s yours. You feel it in the marrow of your bones—her blood flowing through you. “3…” You look at her, and it feels like seeing someone bound, held down by an anchor around her foot, unable to break through the surface of freedom. You look at her and you see dreams once aglow, reduced to cinders. You look at her and see—

She glances up at you.

Oh. “2…” In the fleeting moment where your eyes meet—eyes you two share with your mother—you feel so small.

Just a kid. Shortsighted and unfairly dismissive. Too blind to see your sister’s quiet victories, too selfish to admit you’ve diminished them just to feel less alone about your own. A child grasping for meaning, unfair in the ways only children can be. “1…” And in the fraction of a second before midnight, it's as if you’ve been doused awake. 

You see her anew—what seemed like monotony is really the bedrock of stability; tenacity in place of routine. An almost single-minded doggedness to make something out of this life. You see the steadfast strength she possesses, the kind that gets her up every morning, to face the world and all its demands without question. With purpose. 

You see resilience. Compassion. Traits that you’ve always lacked, that you’ve long resented, the same traits your mother never learned to embody.

And now you see your niece in her arms, born from this, and you name the indescribable feeling that dwells in you—borne from the pure look of adoration in your sister’s eyes for her youngest daughter—as envy.

You know, with utmost certainty, that she will be okay, because she has your sister as her mother, and she is so, so loved.

As you watch them, something inside you shifts—a deep, aching realization. 

You see… home. Something you've always longed for but never truly found. “Happy new year!” The spell breaks. The two of you startle at the sudden eruption of fireworks, the distant chorus of car horns blaring from the streets outside.

Your niece and nephew jump and shriek, their laughter ringing through the room, celebrating something they barely understand but find joy in anyway. The baby in your sister’s arms lets out a wail at the commotion, and she is soothed instantly with murmurs of soft assurances. Her husband struggles upright—then, with no small amount of effort, leans forward to press a kiss to the crown of her head.

The image before you is far from perfect, but it’s theirs.

“Auntie, auntie!” The little rascals cry out in unison, their voices overlapping in excitement. “‘appy n’year!”

A breathless, almost pained laugh escapes you. Still, you smile as you respond with your own, “happy new year!”

You’re tired—tired of running, of measuring yourself against the ghosts of your past. Tired of carrying the weight of a childhood that’s left you with more questions than answers, of making excuses for wounds that should have healed long since. You've spent so much time mourning the growing pains, the irreparable, that you never stopped to see what’s in front of you. 

This moment, this realization, feels like the final missing piece in the fractured puzzle of who you are.

The new year arrives, marked by the crackle of fireworks and the loud cheer from your family.

This time, you won’t hesitate. You’ll choose to embrace the change, both good and bad, with open arms. With the quiet resolve of someone finally ready to move forward.

You lift your gaze just as a brilliant burst of red explodes into the night sky, its iridescent glow bleeding into a softer silver before fading into the dark. 

A warmth settles deep in your chest—bittersweet, but steady. A quiet peace.

Happy new year, my love. . . . . . . .

.

.

.

.

. . .

The air at the threshold of Vagrant’s land is restless. Volatile. A hazy distortion ripples through it, folding and unfolding, like a lost mirage—an area of transition between worlds. Porch collapse, he calls it. 

Sylus has stood here countless times, watching the way this anomalous disturbance twists the very fabric of this reality, how it flickers in and out of form, erratic. Impossible to predict. 

It had taken him longer than he likes to admit to understand the phenomena for what it’s truly worth. 

Not just an alternate space caused by some spartan energy field. Not just any other protofield. But a thread. A connection. A door. 

A fault line between realities, an entryway that hums with the possibility of you.

Since the moment the idea took hold, he had thought of little else. It has consumed him in every waking moment; his entire being seeming to bend toward a singular purpose—getting to you. He had torn through endless streams of data, followed every unstable pulse of energy, mapped its fluctuations down to the smallest inconsistency.

Nights bled into days, and days bled into weeks, until he can no longer keep track. Not that the passage of time meant much to him at this point. 

He’s worked tirelessly through the stillness, through the storms of uncertainty, through the aching silence left by your absence. Ever since you’ve exchanged your temporary goodbyes. 

He had measured everything he could—the unstable frequency of radio signals streaming through the interstice. He had traced the influx in real time; recording the rate of deterioration, isolating the waveform, and filtering out outside interferences. 

But for all the data he gathered, for all the precision in his calculations, the core of this phenomenon remained just out of reach. His knowledge on the matter is rudimentary at most. He could waste years observing for abnormalities, trying to decipher how its presence has disrupted the very threads of this universe, but the why and how of it all will still elude him. 

Still, theory matters less than function. He doesn’t need to understand the full depth of it. He only needs to harness it.

It’s a gamble.

Contrary to whatever reputation he’s earned for himself, Sylus has never been one to play his cards recklessly. He deals in certainties, in probabilities stacked in his favor, in risks that—while dangerous—are still within his grasp to control. He has never been the type to leap without knowing where he’d land.

But this is different.

He has never needed to, before. Never had a reason to throw himself into the unknown with no assurance of survival, no way to predict the outcome.

He had no reason to—until you.

Now, it matters less whether or not the odds of his survival are abysmal, that he has no precedent to follow. That your world might reject him entirely. None of it matters. Because if the choice is between staying and never reaching you, or plunging into the great, endless unknown—

He’ll take the leap, every time. Without hesitation. 

He’ll leave this world behind, step beyond the edges of everything that has ever defined him, and venture into lands unseen, uncharted. Unknown. He doesn’t know what awaits him on the other side. If he’ll make it there in one piece. If he will make it there at all.

Sylus has never really questioned why he’s the anomaly in this world. The curiosities of his existence are yours to ponder. After all, he finds that he doesn’t care much of the answer as much as he cares about being with you.

Because wherever you are—that is home. 

He takes a step forward, and the universe dissolves into a blinding light.

-

-

-

Sylus wakes to the sensation of weight.

Something presses on him heavily, sinking into his limbs like gravity itself is wrapping around him for the first time.

The ground beneath him is unfamiliar, uneven—tangible in a way he’s never felt before. His fingertips press into the damp earth, leaving the faintest imprint, yielding beneath his touch. The scent of soil rises around him; a rich, bitter brown. 

This world does not recognize him, yet it cradles him like its own all the same.

Above, the sky erupts.

Fireworks split open the night, streaks of color exploding and dissipating in an instant—too fleeting to hold, too bright to ignore. A flashbang of incandescent reds and fluorescent greens, followed by bursts of crackling gold and shimmering silver scatter into tiny pinpricks before fading into the darkness.

The air is heavier here, denser in a way that feels almost… alien. It clings to the contours of his new form, seeps into his lungs with every breath. 

And oh, how it burns. Not in pain, but in its sheer presence. It rushes into him not as mere oxygen but as something real. Something palpable. He’s lost in the sensation. 

He exhales. Then winces. 

Immediately, he feels it—the weakness. The brittleness of this new body. Gone is the invulnerability he once wielded so effortlessly, the certainty that nothing could touch him unless he allowed it. 

That certainty is gone now, stripped away the moment he crossed the threshold.

He is flesh and bone. Finite. Mortal.

A lesser man might have feared it.

But in the middle of this empty field, miles away from civilization, Sylus can only laugh. 

He tips his head back, reeling from the sheer impossibility of it all, eyes tracing the brilliant display above—as if committing it to memory, a coronation of sorts. Of existence. Of arrival. Of a life finally his own.

Reborn. And for the first time in his existence, he is alive.

––––

It’s summer—the summer that marks two years since he left. 

Two years. It’s enough time to feel the weight of it, but not enough to make the events feel like something that happened a lifetime ago. 

The seasons cycle once more, as they always do, pushing time forward with a steady, indifferent rhythm. And with that change comes a familiar pang—a bittersweet ache, neither grief nor regret, just the weight of knowing that nothing stays the same. Mono no aware. 

You’re closer to thirty now, and the thought doesn’t terrify you as much as it did before. Your hair’s in a pixie cut—short and sleek, although the edges are a little ragged from the half-assed trimming you gave it a few days ago. 

It would have made you feel stupid, once upon a time, for trying out something drastic for a new look. Instead, you just take it for what it is—one more thing you did because you wanted to. Like the rest of the choices you’ve made over the past two years. It’s yours. Uneven, impulsive, maybe a little questionable. But yours.

It’s liberating. Even if it makes your head look like a pencil. 

The voice—the one that picks at your face, your body, your thoughts, everything down to the last imperfection—never really shuts up. It’s quieter now, easier to ignore, but it still lurks in the background, waiting for an opening, a moment of weakness. Maybe it always will. Maybe that’s just the price of being human.

But you don’t fight it anymore. You don’t let it drag you down to a breaking point. You carry yourself differently now, you'd say. No pep in your step just yet, but you don’t feel the need to drag your heels either. Literally and figuratively. 

The change has come in waves—sometimes gentle, sometimes harsh—but it’s there, marking you, marking the passage of time. Just like the earth, just like the seasons, you’ve shifted and grown. And perhaps that’s enough.

The sky is ablaze now, a deepening canvas of pinks and purples as the sun sinks lazily to the west. The fiery orange light spills through the large windows, bleeding into every corner of the room, and the world outside seems to slow, caught in the hour before dusk.

You’re behind the counter, wiping down plates with the kind of ease that comes from repetition, the motion so ingrained in you that it barely registers anymore. It’s all routine—the rhythm of it, the quiet hum of the bistro, the clinking of porcelain. The air is thick with the sticky smell of warm pastries, and it’s the sort of evening that feels almost liminal. A moment suspended in time.

You hear the soft tinkling of the door chimes, signaling the arrival of another customer. 

It’s a soft, unassuming sound, barely noticeable against the evening lull. You swipe your hands across your apron, turning on instinct, your mouth already forming the usual greeting. 

“Hi, welcome to—”

The words die in your throat.

It’s a slow unfolding—almost a gradual realization that stretches across the seconds like the last rays of sun dipping beneath the horizon. He stands in the doorway, a figure outlined in gold, and his presence fills the space between you, no barrier that separates, and it feels... impossible. Unimaginable. Inevitable. 

His height is the first thing you notice. He’s taller than you expected, and you know he’ll tower over you, even at a distance. His hair is dark now, the color of midnight, almost—not the silver you once traced with your fingers in your mind. The cut is still similar to what you’ve always known it to be, though a little more unkempt, as if he’s lived in this body long enough for it to take on its own wear.

Then his eyes. The red is gone—no longer the shade of crimson that used to see right through you, those sanguine pools you once loved. In its place, a stormy grey, deep and impossibly expressive, pulling you in like an undertow. The color is striking, alien in its own way, yet there’s a warmth buried beneath it—and the familiarity of it tugs at you.

Even with the changes, even though you’ve never met the person standing in front of you, you’ll know him anywhere. 

There’s a shift in the room, a subtle, yet unmistakable change in the air. It’s as if the whole bistro has drawn in a breath—and you with it. Time stretches thin, each passing second expanding into what feels like an eternity.

Your eyes lock—and for a moment, nothing else exists. 

It’s as if the world has shifted off its axis. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s as though a piece that’s always been missing has finally snapped into place.

Something settles in you, something foreign and indescribably familiar at the same time.

Sylus smiles.

“Hello, my love. Have I kept you waiting?”

It feels like home. 

____

“Now I found myself this kind of love, I can't believe it I'll never leave it behind I thought I'd never get to feel another fucking feeling But I feel— This love, this love, this love Oh, I feel it.”

End A/N: So this is done! Wow! I'm kind of proud of myself for writing something this long in the span of, idk, three months? Basically, the entire duration of my "vacation" back home. Now, with another term and a busier schedule coming up, I really wanted to finish this series before life catches up to me. *sobs* Anyway, I'm so, so happy about the reception of this fic, and you've all been so sweet :') Again, thank you for reading! I'll see you in the spin-off, or whatever shit I put out next haha <3 Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim @goldenbirdiee @amerti @angstylittleb1tch @reiofsuns2001 @j4mergy @touya-apologist @gladiolus-mamacitia @btszn @wrimaira

[perfectlyvalid49]

I think that there are some people who are unfamiliar with the history of antisemitism who aren’t seeing all the different angles of attack that are being used against Jews in the United States right now, so let’s take a minute to examine them.

First, there’s the super obvious attacks that are listed here. The shootings at Tree of Life and at Poway, the Unite the Right rally, the massive increase in antisemitic hate crimes – these are all obviously antisemitic, and really difficult to deny as such unless you’re already really antisemitic.

But we have to take a step back and ask why people are becoming increasingly violent against Jews. Because that’s where there’s antisemitism that a lot of people either don’t see, or refuse to acknowledge. And that’s what @procrazedfan is missing when they said “I don’t think so this time.”

So, I want to start by talking about about the Nazis. Because they also went after non-Jewish people. They targeted non-Aryans, trans people, the rest of the LGBT+ community, and eventually people of other faiths. That list looks awfully similar to the one upthread. But Nazis went after these people because they thought that they were tools Jews were using to destroy German society. And the Republicans are going after these people because they’re tools that the globalists are using to destroy white society. And by globalist, they absolutely mean Jew. There are a million conspiracy theories floating around about why things are so terrible, and virtually all of them point to globalists (Jews), or the Rothschilds (Jews) or George Soros (a Jew) as the base of the problem.

And before anyone starts to think that this is only a problem on the right, the left has the same sort of conspiracies, just tailored to their beliefs, and using the words "Zionist" or "Israel" to mean Jews instead. Trump is in power, at least in part, because the left was too busy attacking Jews or people they perceived to be allies of Jews to even consider the harms a Trump presidency might bring.

And if you’re response to that is, “Well, yeah, but Jews aren’t being directly targeted by Trump’s policies,” then first off, you’re wrong, a lot of Jews are being/will be directly harmed by the laws enforcing Christian supremacy that he’s enabling (just as a start), but also, you’re falling for the plan. You see, for centuries, when kings didn’t want the populace mad at them, they’d find a way to redirect to the Jews. In medieval Europe, this looked like making tax collector one of the few jobs available to Jews, and then getting the commoners mad at the tax *collectors* instead of the guy levying the tax. Hundreds of years later Jews STILL have a reputation of being greedy, even though they were basically just guys who worked for the IRS because the other option was to starve.

Under Trump, it’s going to look like Jews not being the target of legislation that hurts other people. When those people and their allies are rightfully mad that they’re being hosed, it will not be hard for a few people in the right places to shift that anger from the administration (where it belongs) onto the people the administration wants you mad at.

We’re already starting to see this in action. Trump is cracking down on the pro-Palestine protesters in the name of fighting antisemitism. He’s actually testing out how far he can go with limiting freedom of speech and doesn’t care at all about antisemitism, but because he says it’s to fight antisemitism, people who care about freedom of speech are going to be mad about Jews “weaponizing antisemitism” to silence their detractors, and not at the administration that’s actually doing the silencing.

People are going to be mad under the Trump administration. I cannot imagine a future in which he does not make things worse for almost everyone*, and I think it’s going to be bad enough that the populace is going to need the pressure release of a mass violent action, and that’s where this is all going to come together. The right and left both already have conspiracies about how what they’re mad about is the Jews’ fault, and the administration is going to stoke that by making it look like we’re benefiting from their bad actions. They’re coming for us, it’s just slow enough and subtle enough that people who have forgotten what it looked like in the past won’t see it.

*I actually think that with what he’s going to for climate change, he’ll make things worse for actually everyone, even the people who benefit the most from his administration, but that’s a separate rant.

"The fascists hate you too" "they'll come for you next" bitch they are coming for me first. I'm fucking Jewish

[scuderlia]

tldr; got bored and accidentally initiated an under-negotiated bdsm relationship with my coworker

Lando rolls his eyes again—it’s the third time since they sat down, not like Oscar’s been counting. An intern just suggested a mildly obnoxious PR move—something about McLaren’s socials needing a rebrand now that they’re “getting serious” about things. Oscar kind of finds it funny, this whole thing, because it’s always been serious, for him at least. But he bites his tongue. 

“Reckon they’ll make us sing again?” Lando’s gone and pushed his chair closer, leaning into Oscar’s personal space.

“Probably.” Oscar says, ignoring the way Lando’s lip quirks up at the reply.

Lando’s smile is growing, like Oscar’s just said the funniest thing in the world. “Right, yeah, probably.” 

The rest of the meeting blurs together, punctuated by the steady bounce of Lando’s leg next to his.

It’s been odd, watching things ramp up—given how horrific they were last year. His most direct comparison is Lando, who’s devolved into a bundle of kinetic energy that seems to pull at Oscar’s skin like static. Even when Zak dismisses them with a bad joke about being late for golf, Oscar stays put, like he’s tethered to his teammate. A teammate who, at some point over the course of the past hour, gave up on trying to hide his feelings. 

Lando makes a quiet noise as everyone starts to stand, “It’s like they think we need instructions.” He huffs, crossing his arms over himself. “Like—like we need to be led around or something.” 

Later, Oscar's going to think about it, how he almost missed it—how Lando’s voice trailed off at the end, like it does when he realizes mid-sentence that he’s gone and said something incriminating. 

And later, when Oscar’s got his hand shoved down the front of his pants in a company bathroom stall, he’ll blame the noise, and the light, and the runny eggs he had for breakfast for why he says: “You like it though.”

An arm’s length away, Lando’s chewing the inside of his cheek, his face contorting in response. “Like what?” 

Oscar wants to laugh, because it’s obvious, what the what is. It almost feels silly to answer. “Being—I dunno,” he moves to sit up, “told what to do.” 

That gets a reaction. 

Lando chokes, then opens and closes his mouth a few times, then blinks in a way that looks like it hurts. When he gets like this—so embarrassed that it’s like his body is glitching—Oscar’s learned to just sit and wait for it to play out. Still, it doesn’t get any easier. 

“I don’t—what are you even—” Lando sputters, shaking his head. “I’m not—mate—you’re—”

“Christ,” Oscar mutters, heaving himself up to leave. “I’m not accusing you, alright. I just thought, y’know—” he stretches his arms over his head, watches as Lando’s eyes dart to where he can feel the cold of the aircon making his skin twinge, “thought you might like it if I did that.”

[darkfictionjude]

OH BY GODS THAT ENDING FUCK ME I WAS THINKING ABOUT COMING HERE TO COMPLAIN ABOUT HOW BROKE UP MY HEART WAS AFTER LORCAN DISMISSED CROWNY AND ASK YOU WHAT IS THE KINDEST ROMANCE ROUTE BECAUSE I CAN'T TAKE LORCANS ANGST ANYMORE (not without some fluffy in between) BUT THAT ENDING GOD DAMMIT JUDE WHAT A WAY TO END WITH A B A N G!

Perfection, just 🤌

... but without screaming this time, could you please kindly rank the kindest to roughest (?) romance routes - separating kind/antagonize? I really need a break from Lorcan abandoning us at the dance floor 😭 (when I saw the "me and you" line I knew Crowny was COOKED, BWAH)

Also, I don't think I realized how fucked up everyone was until now. Yeah I know, sHoCkInG, but when Irme admitted he knew about James stunt and did nothing? Not nice man, not nice. No one coming after them to see if they were okay after? Can't blame Lorcan, he hates our guts, but Nia is/was Crowny's BFF... should mean something right? And everyone calling debts on each other in the library? Also fantastic, I love fights (I don't, but do). I don't know how friendship points make that interactions different (do they?) cause every opportunity I have I go to that sweet little red heart in Lorcan's scenes (and he still hates me 😭😂)

Hmmmm so let me see. Kindest is Nia friendly, then Lorcan friendly, then Imre friendly. Then it’s Nia antagonistic, Lorcan and Imre

What’s interesting about you saying you didn’t realize it is that another reader kind of said the same thing too on the itchio comment section. It was surprising to me to see the surprise hahah cause I thought it was obvious this was coming since every time these four are together they fight. The first time they don’t is in this episode when they’re costume shopping. I feel like they didn’t go after crowny because they don’t know how to comfort them all of them are kind of bad at it 😭 they probably thought it was best to leave crowny alone as a way to not make it worse? Not the best method ofc

I’ll give you some hope. Lorcan doesn’t really hate crowny any more. I don’t think he’s realized it yet but his actions (when you don’t mention his parents, orla) show he doesn’t dislike crowny’s presence

So yeah their way of showing the have crowny’s back is either killing James and/or helping crowny not go to prison cause they willing got involved in something that could fuck up their lives too. I think it counts a lot that none of them hesitated to get rid of the evidence there was no “crowny killed him it’s not my business” or “we should call the police” they were ride or die. If that doesn’t show loyalty I don’t know what does

[mysecretlittlelibrary]

hwy so can I hVe a scenario with kurt wagner where him and his s/o are in bed together. They have been together for long enough where both have been in bed with one another a ton of times. S/o notices some particular scars along his back that don’t look like they’re from battles he got into. When he lays on his stomach or side. S/o didn’t notice those before despite admiring him sometimes. They look much older and deeper and never healed properly. S/o reaches over and gently touches them and runs their hand along them. Feels a bit like a massage. They don’t know what they are from, but to them it does not matter. He been through something really bad before they waaay met? (Thinking about those scars from his circus days).

~Our Scars Remind Us That The Past Is Real~

Pairing: Nightcrawler x Reader

Word Count: 0.3k

Warnings: we mention scars but not much

Genre: mostly fluff

Summary: Laying in bed you notice scars on your boyfriend's back

A/N: Thank you for requesting! <3

***

Kurt rolls over next to you and you smile at his sleeping form. You're having a lazy day today and he's been in and out of naps most of the afternoon while you catch up on the show you've been watching the last couple of months.

You run a hand through his hair and then trail it down. He settles against your touch as it slides over his neck and shoulders. You glance from the TV to his exposed back. You notice something on the skin of his back.

"Whydyastah-" Kurt says- something, but you can't quite catch it because he's speaking against his pillow.

"Kurt?" You prompt quietly. Maybe he's barely conscious and talking in his sleep.

"Why'd you stop?" He sighs.

"Oh, hi baby I didn't realize you were awake again."

"Yeah, I was just enjoying you touching me, but then you stopped."

"Sorry my darling, I- well I noticed some scarring on your back and got distracted I suppose."

"Oh that." Kurt hums.

"I've never noticed them before."

"They're pretty old." He shrugs.

"Yeah I thought so, but I'm just surprised I haven't seen them until now."

"Do you spend a lot of time staring at my back or something?" Kurt snorts.

"Well, not your back specifically, but I spend a lot of time looking at you overall. I mean, we've even showered together, I feel like I should've noticed these at some point." You frown.

"I mean I don't think it's a big deal, I'm covered in other scars anyway."

"Sure sure, I was just surprised by them, is all. You asked why I stopped." You explain.

You trace your fingers over the scars, soft touches, you're sure they don't hurt or anything, but you always touch him with care. You can't help it, life has been very difficult for him, and all you want for him is peace.

"Liebling?" Kurt hums.

"Yes my love?"

"Where did you go my heart?" He asks.

"Where did I...?"

"I lost you for a moment there."

"I'm just thinking about how much I love you." You kiss his forehead.

"I love you too." He says.

You won't ask him about how he got the scars. It doesn't really matter. It won't change that you love him, or how much. If he ever wants to tell you more of course you'll always listen, but until then, all you care about is that he's here, with you, and whatever horrors he faced he'll hopefully never have to deal with again.

***

[wolls-angel]

୨୧ ‧₊˚ what took so long? - j. woll ˚₊‧ ୨୧

pairing: j. woll x fem!reader summary: After almost 20 years of pining, it finally happens... request: in desperate need of jo woll childhood best friends to lovers. like i’m talking best friends since birth, and then admit they’re in love with each other at age 26. biggest slow burn ever 😫 word count: 1.6k warning(s):fluff, cheating (not between joe and reader), not much dialogue, longer than normal, not proof read notes: i have a love hate relationship with this fic. joe is so cute in it so i like it more. lmk what you think. i hope you love it !! xoxo

Everyone knows Joseph Woll as a hockey superstar. Young guy with his whole hockey career ahead of him. One of the most promising young goalies in the NHL. It's true. He is all of that. But to you, he's Joey.

You met Joe when you moved into your grandparents house. You were 8. Joe was the son of your grandmother's cleaning lady and she was eager to introduce the two of you. "It's nice when you have someone you know in a new situation," you remember her saying.

It was summer, so Shelley invited you over to her house to meet Joe and her other kids, Michael and Emma. You were sold when she said they had a swimming pool.

A few days later, she picked you up with Joe and Emma in the car and drove you to the Dunkin' near Joe's house. At this point, you and Joe had only exchanged one word. You both ordered the same thing (a lemonade) and your remember looking over at him and smiling. It was the first time you saw his face in full and, even at eight years old, you could tell it would be the end of you.

Your friendship only grew as you went to school together for years, learning all about each other and you just kept falling for him. You went to all his hockey games, helped him with his English homework, gave him advice about girls (even though he never took it). You watched him grow into a gorgeous, 6'4, kind, compassionate and respectful man. The man he is today.

As teenagers, you tried confessing your love so many times but your fear always paralysed you before you told him anything. What if he said no? What if he didn't want you? What if it ruined the friendship you had worked so hard to develop? It wasn't a risk you were willing to take.

All the way through high school, Joe never had a girlfriend. He would have a crush here or there but never pursued it. He always made up an excuse as to why he couldn't take a girl out.

"I'm too busy with hockey" was the usual response when they asked about his love life. Then his family would look at you and smile, as if to say "Well, she's right there".

You never dated either. For a much different reason though. You just kept holding out hope. Always thinking maybe that Valentine's day he would ask you. It never happened. And it wasn't even like you couldn't have went out. People were always asking you. It just wasn't Joe.

Joe took you to prom because neither of you had partners to go with. It was his mom's idea but he wasn't upset about it. You wore a beautiful dark red gown and had your hair in an updo, very stylish at the time. Joe knew you wanted the night to be special so he saved up to rent a limo. You told him he didn't have to but he insisted.

"It's the least I can do. You're going to the prom with me."

Joe also took you to the NHL draft with him in 2016. You remember the look on his face like it was yesterday. It was exactly where he wanted to be. An NHL prospect.

The next few years were hard. You went off to university in New York City while Joe went to train with the Toronto Maple Leafs. You would visit each other as often as you could. You'd go up for reading week. He'd come down for Spring Break. Things like that.

Summer was really the only time you would both spend time in your hometown. You would go boating with Joe, babysit his little sister, go to a party or a bar. It was nice. It felt like in the midst of all this change, there was something normal.

Then, in your third year at NYU, you met Charlie. He was kind, tall handsome and a pre med major. You met him at a cafe near campus, where you were both studying for midterms. He asked you out and you realized it was kinda embarrassing to keep waiting for Joe when he lived so far. He probably had a girlfriend. He just didn't care enough to tell you.

Charlie took you out one Friday after your lecture and swept you off your feet. He was a true gentleman. And you were happy. You called Joe a few days after you and Charlie made it official to tell him the good news.

"Oh... wow, Y/N, that's... amazing. I'm so happy for you," is all he said.

You were too happy to question Joe's sad tone or his hesitation in congratulating you. You were too happy. Your relationship with Charlie only lasted 3 months though.

You had made plans to meet Charlie at his place after your lecture. You had ended early because you had a headache and wanted to just chill before you went out for your 3 month anniversary dinner. Long story short, you caught him cheating. On your anniversary with some girl from his bio class.

You were heartbroken.

But enough about the past. Let's jump to the present.

Joe's NHL debut. You were so excited to get your mind off the break up and the fact that you needed to find a job after graduation. You just wanted to see Joe and support him. Fittingly, the game was against St. Louis and all of Joe's family and friends came to support him.

The game was amazing. Toronto won 3-2 in overtime, but Joe saved 32 shots. You could tell how proud the rest of the team was during the hug line. Joe didn't know you were there to watch him so after the game, you and his mom left to take you home to surprise him.

Once there you hide behind the couch in the living room. Joe walks in and the whole room explodes with applause and congratulations from his friends and family. You can't hold it in any longer and...

Oof.

You run into Joe at full speed, knocking him off balance.

"Wha-... Y/N?", he says, in complete shock. You giggle into his chest, squeezing him tight, "Hey, Joey. Miss me?". The smile on his face when you look up could have blinded you. Almost immediately, he engulfs you in the biggest hug possible. "Fuck yeah, I missed you," he mumbles, his head buried in your neck. After a second or two he lets go and you two enjoy the party as usual. That is, until right after dinner.

"Y/N, can we chat in the other room?"

You feel a hand grab your wrist. It's Joe. You brow furrows in confusion but you nod and he pulls you hastily into his bedroom. He motions for you to sit on the bed while he closes the door.

"I missed you, Y/N. How's school?" he sits down beside you. "Good. I'm so ready to be done," you respond with a smile. "Maybe when you're done, you can move up here. Be near me again". You giggle, "I'd love that, Joey".

"So, no Charlie today?"

You sigh. Right. Charlie. "Uh, no. We broke up a few weeks ago," you look up at Joe and his eyes soften. "Shit, I'm sorry. Are you ok? What happened?". You feel you eyes well with tears. "He cheated on me. With some girl in his class," you sniffle and lean into Joe, "I was finally happy, you know? Not just waiting".

"Waiting?" he asks, "Waiting for what?"

Shit. You have said too much. You look down at your hands, sitting in your lap, "Nothing, don't worry about it".

"Y/N, tell me," he places his hand on your chin to force you to look up at him, "I have known you for almost 20 years. I can tell when something's wrong".

You look into his eyes and realize maybe it's time you were honest with Joe. What's the worst thing that happens? He says no and things stay the same. Maybe.

You get up and stand in front of Joe who is still sitting on the bed. "I have been waiting my whole entire life to say these words, but I'm scared and I have every reason to be. You are my best friend, Joe, and I don't want stuff to be awkward between us. But I may have had too much beer earlier at the game and I'm a little tipsy so fuck it. I have been waiting for you. To ask me out. To care. To love me the way I have loved you since we met when we were 10 years old. And I have never been sure if you wanted me but I talked to my therapist last week and she asked me what I wanted and all I could think of was you. I want you, Joseph Woll. So if this is the end of our friendship, so be it, but I want you to know that I want you to want me, Joe. It's ok if you don't but," you pause and collapse down onto the bed beside him, face in your hands, "I don't know. I'm so sorry".

There is a few beats of silence before Joe speaks.

"Y/N, baby, what took so long?"

You freeze. Huh? What? Excuse me? You look up at Joe, bewildered, and all he does is smile. And then he leans in and before you know, his lips connect with yours. His lips are oddly soft and all you can smell is his cologne. You let yourself melt into him and he feels like home. Where you were always meant to be. Suddenly, Joe whispers into the kiss, "I want you too, Y/N. I really do".

[luckymousey]

Thoughts about Ace's dream (parts 245-248) (mostly things I liked)

THEY FINALLY UPLOADED ACE’S DREAM BABYYYYYYYYYY

First of all, to be honest, when I first saw the snap in Tumblr I thought: wait, didn’t the Stitch event end already?🤨 and then I realized it was his dream.

Let’s start!

⚠️ English is not my first language, and there are spoilers⚠️

There might be some spelling mistakes

Cater filming everything with his phone through the whole ride, I just love how he’s still himself (Honestly, I feel that not a single student of Heartslabyul would feel dizzy because of the traveling, yk, they’re based off Alice in Wonderland, and Alice fell through a hole, I’m sure they would feel dizzy by others things, not something that’s similar to a roller coaster ride) and then he says: ah, but Grimmy was shouting too loudly and the wind is annoying, I need to put music to hide it 😔

I also love the fact that he takes photos of everything even knowing that the photos aren’t in his real phone (I hope they find a way to recover the photos for Cater)

When Sebek asked if Ace is from Sunset Savanna I was like: wait, weren’t they friends? How could he not know? And then I realized i had been looking at too many fanarts of the first year gang *slaps forehead*

Honestly, I’m impressed by how much knowledge this guys have, when Deuce said that Ace lived near the capital of the Kingdom of Roses, Leona started talking about how it was not possible for them to have an ocean near (maybe I’m too dumb to know things like these, maybe not)

Grim getting disappointed that it was a dream, he really wanted to have holidays the 365 days of the year 😂 (my baby son is so cute)

Cater saying that he knew skateboarding and surfing, I don’t know, I just LOVED that fact, even more, I’ve a headcanon of the TWST actor AU I wrote some time ago that says that both Leona and Cater use their brooms like surfboards while filming because they go surfing together during summer.

I love that we got to know more about Cater

Idia’s comment right after Cater explained why he liked those hobbies, he’s like a narrator inside the book, but instead of talking to the public, he talks to himself

AND RIGHT AFTER THAT HIS OWN BROTHER SNITCHES ON HIM, HAHAHA, I just couldn’t stop myself from laughing when he said Idia also made himself a small boat (the video I saw was in Spanish and it said “barca”, which means boat in English, I’m not sure if the game referred it as a literal boat tho)

And Idia’s wish? Riding a shopping cart through a home goods store? I also wish for that, Idia, a lot of people wish doing that, you’re not alone, my man.

When Idia got scared because Cater reminded him of the time when he kidnapped Riddle and others with a smile, he just started stuttering, so cute (his actions weren’t cute tho)

ACE MAKES HIS APPEARANCE, YES BABYYYYYYYY (I love him so much 😭)

Idk why, but I just love when the characters shout at people, like calling them from afar, and Ace nailed it

It seems like the Lilo and Stitch event doesn’t happen in the original timeline, because everyone was so surprised (even Yuu has the option to make a comment about his shirt or his sunglasses)

Honestly, I never, EVER, thought about the fruit that was on Ace’s shoulder until Grim pointed it out, I swear to you all that I started laughing once I imagined someone having to walk with those and couldn’t stop until I remembered I still had to watch the episode (and now I got another headcanon for the actor AU 😈)

AND NOW RIDDLE APPEARSSSSSS

I loved when he went like: “don’t overdo it, got it, Ace?” And then everyone was like: “YOU ARE ALREADY OVERDOING IT!” I think they thought Ace’s imagination was too powerful

When Cater pointed out that Riddle was showing his bellybutton, it reminded me of that meme of: SHOW US YOUR ANKLE, SHOW US YOUR ANKLE (we’re talking about Riddle here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he got flustered about naked skin)

I realized that Riddle is kind of naive, because he says: “Ace told me this was a formal attire for an island” and he just did as he was told, my poor boy, one day, you’re getting pranked

And then he slowly approaches Cater and whispers (which made him look sooooo cute) him if he looks weird (NO MY BABY, YOU DON’T, 10 OUT OF 10, YOU’RE SLAYING MY QUEEN), HE LOOKED LIKE A BABY ASKING HIS OLDER BROTHER FOR ADVICES

Considering both Silver and Sebek are in the same club as Riddle (in one of Ruggie’s cards, Sebek even got punished by him while doing club activities) their surprise is understandable

One thing I didn’t really like is that we didn’t get to see fake!Trey or fake!Cater wearing new outfits 🥹

I know they all wear makeup, but for someone reason my eyes couldn’t stop looking at their eyes, they are all so fucking gorgeous, ugh

Honestly, does someone here knows if Cater is rich or not? Because they also mention that Cater was the one who rented the private island (I know it’s a dream, but who knows) maybe it’s because of his father’s job?

And Cater immediately getting into his role, he knows what he’s doing, he’s so smart, I love him.

When Ace suggests getting changed because he doesn’t like seeing the school uniform Leona said (I’m not quoting from the game): “we’re BUSY” I felt it was more like: “I want to get over this bullshit and take a nap”

THE WAY ACE WAS SMILING WHEN HE ANNOUNCED THE REASON OF THE CELEBRATION, that is the same smile he has when something good happens to him, but knowing what’s going to happen next, I just couldn’t help it🥲

I also realized how much I like when a lot of characters shout at the same time, it’s nice to hear

The part where Ace denied when Trey said how they would get sad talking about Yuu leaving, I know you’re just a tsundere, accept it, Trappola I’m still not prepared for that part

In the video Idia says: “I could be hit by a extroverted lighting” I’m just loving everyhting Idia says

I got sad when Ortho said there was no point in attacking him, I wanted to see Ace getting bullied (don’t hate on me, it’s just karma doing its job)

I would’ve loved if Jack and Epel were there too

Ace was talking like a salesman: “we got pink shirt here, and then a yellow one, and then a blue one” I just can’t with him 😂

We can’t see what is really happening between the characters (like, two characters could be hugging but we aren’t able to see it because this is not an anime, yet) but I believe Grim took Ace by his hair, pulled it and shouted in his ear to make him clear they were in a dream, YOU’RE DOING GREAT BABY, SHOW HIM WHO THE REAL BOSS IS

Aaaaand, we made it until here, no matter how many times I say it, I’m not prepared to reach that part

[ladykissingfish]

*in the Hokage office*

Kakashi: So, Obito … we need to talk.

Obito: About?

Kakashi: You know I’m extremely grateful that you’ve “seen the light”, as they say, and have decided to live out the rest of your days in peace here in Konoha. Which, frankly, wouldn’t have been possible if a certain somebody hadn’t become Hokage in enough time to pardon your various crimes …

Obito: *rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair* You never miss a chance to remind me of that, do you? And anyway don’t you think that forcing me to be your advisor is enough of a punishment?

Kakashi: *snorts a laugh* Right; like you didn’t all but beg for this job. You said, and I quote, “Nobody else would have the brains to advise you on how to wipe your ass, let alone run a village, Bakashi.”

Obito: Your point being?

Kakashi: My point is, I AM in charge of the safety of Konoha. The peace of it. And … to make sure its laws are upheld.

Obito: Yes? And? I haven’t so much as jaywalked since I’ve been back!

Kakashi: *sighs* That’s not it, Obi. I’m, well, this is a delicate matter, but as the Hokage and more importantly as your friend, I feel it’s my duty to bring this up to you, so —

Obito: Geez, spit it out already, Bakashi!

Kakashi: Okay. It’s about that blonde.

Obito: … Deidara? What about him?

Kakashi: *gets up and starts pacing around* I can turn a blind eye to a lot of things, Obito. But something like this —

Obito: Hey, you pardoned his crimes, too, remember? And since then, has he done one single thing to step out of line?

Kakashi: It’s not that. It’s, well, for Kami’s sake, Obi, you’re thirty-two years old!

Obito: … Yes? And?

Kakashi, face red: That … boy, he can’t possibly be more than sixteen, seventeen years old. The … relationship that you two share, do you honestly think that’s an appropriate situation for the Hokage’s advisor to be in? 

Obito: *is silent for a few moments, then bursts out laughing* 

Kakashi: Oi, I’m not judging you, idiot! I’m just pointing out that —

Obito: You moron, Deidara is twenty years old!!

Kakashi: … Seriously?

Obito: Yes! I know I’m a war criminal but I have some moral standards! 

Kakashi: *sits back down, visibly relieved* Hm. Twenty, eh? He certainly doesn’t look like it. Lucky him.

Obito: *goes to Kakashi and playfully punches him on the shoulder* You’d look a lot younger, too, if you didn’t spend so much time worrying over dumb shit like this.

Kakashi: *sighs* You sound like Gai. He’s always on me about needing to relax more.

Obito: That’s another thing. You want to berate me for dating Deidara, but you’re practically married to beast-face? Really? Tsk. Talk about low standards …

Kakashi: Hey! Gai is warm and sweet and kind, and his tai-jutsu would even best someone as skilled as YOU, asshole! What’s that blonde of yours do again? Make little birds and blow things up? Ooooh, how impressive!

Obito: First of all, there’s not a man alive who could rival Deidara’s strategic mind or his battle skill. He thinks out twenty moves ahead of his opponents while they’re still sitting around with their thumbs up their asses! And you want to talk about handsome? Good God, there was never a finer, more put-together man than my Deidara!

Kakashi: Seriously? Have you never seen Gai’s muscles?? If you want to talk about “put together”, then —

Deidara and Gai, standing in the doorway, having brought Kakashi and Obito lunch: 

[annafayeink]

Canvas of Lies

summary: Cate’s life is a careful balance of paint-splattered sweaters, rejection emails, and dreams too big to fit in her tiny apartment. Lu’s life is all charm, designer sneakers, and family obligations that come with impossible expectations. They’re best friends, polar opposites—and suddenly fake dating to help Lu survive a high-stakes family dinner. What starts as an improvised act becomes a whirlwind of tangled stories, unspoken truths, and moments that blur the line between pretend and reality. In the chaos of lies they craft together, Cate and Lu might just uncover the truths they’ve been avoiding all along.

warnings & tags: best friends to lovers; fake dating; mutual pining; slow burn; emotional hurt/comfort; fluff, angst & humor; eventual romance & smut;

Read on ao3

Chapter Four

It was late afternoon, and the sunlight was softening and slanting through the trees. Lu and I strolled side by side down a quiet park path, close enough for our arms to brush occasionally. I’d insisted we take a detour past the fountain because it was my favourite place around here and, as usual, Lu hadn’t argued.

The backs of our hands touched, just for a moment, before his fingers threaded through mine. I knew exactly how Lu’s hand felt in mine, but now I couldn’t stop noticing things I’d never paid attention to before—the slight roughness of his palm, the way his fingers curled so naturally around mine. How had I never noticed that before?

It wasn’t the first time we’d held hands; we’d done it a million times before, like when we were crossing a busy street, when we wanted to keep track of each other at concerts or even when I needed a tug to keep up with his long strides. But this time, it felt different. Intentional. Like it meant something. Like it was staged.

I squeezed his hand and glanced down at our intertwined fingers. “Does this feel weird to you?”

“What? Holding your hand?” He raised an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips. “Not really. I’ve done it before.”

“Yeah, but not like this.” I gestured vaguely with my free hand, already feeling heat rise to my cheeks. “Not to make it look like we’re... you know.”

He tilted his head, considering. “Like we’re a couple?”

“Exactly.” I sighed. “It’s just holding hands. It shouldn’t feel like a big deal, right? But now it kinda does.”

Lu didn’t let go of my hand, but his thumb ran absently over mine. “Okay, maybe it feels a little weird when you put it that way. But it’s really no big deal. We’re overthinking it.”

For a second, I thought I caught something in his expression—something unreadable. But then he smirked like always, and I told myself I was imagining things.

“Maybe.” I let out a breath, glancing down at our linked fingers. The shape of his hand felt familiar in mine, but now I couldn’t stop wondering if this looked right.

Lu tugged me to an empty bench and we sat down. He stretched his legs out in front of him, and pulled his hand away to let his arm rest along the back of the bench. I leaned into it without hesitation, like I always did—the motion was so automatic I didn’t even realise it happened until I was already pressed against his side.

I glanced at his arm behind me and he caught me doing it. “What?” he asked, his voice laced with amusement.

“We’ve always been like this. Kind of… all over each other. Why does it feel different now that we’re trying to make it look like we’re dating?”

“Does it feel different?”

“It does to me. We always sit like this, it’s nothing. But now I’m wondering if someone’s watching us and thinking, ‘Wow, what a cute couple.’ And that thought feels... weird.”

He chuckled, his fingers brushing my shoulder lightly as he leaned back. “You are overthinking it. People can’t tell the difference between natural and staged anyway. If we’re comfortable, it’ll look real.”

“That’s exactly my point,” I said. “We’ve always been comfortable like this. What does that say about us?”

Lu didn’t answer right away. Instead, he squinted at the sun, as if it would help him pinpoint the answer to all of my questions. “That’s why people have always assumed we were… more,” he said, after a while. His voice was light, but there was something unreadable in his expression, something that made my stomach twist.

“I guess that’s why I’m overthinking all of this. Before it was just us being us. But now that we’re supposed to actually look like a couple, I’m suddenly aware of every single move we make.”

“Yeah, I understand that.” With the hand over my shoulder, he picked up a small strand of my hair and twirled it absently around his fingers.

I reached for his hand again. He didn’t hesitate, his fingers curling around mine like it was the most natural thing in the world. For a moment, the noise of the park faded, and it was just us on the bench, the world holding its breath. It wasn’t staged. It wasn’t strange. It just was.

We lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching as a dog sprinted past, chasing a red ball. A little boy squealed with delight as his kite finally caught the breeze, its tail dancing in the air. I followed its path, my mind wandering.

“You know what’s funny? I keep thinking people are watching us, but I haven’t actually looked at anyone else. What if nobody even cares?”

Lu chuckled, low and warm. “They probably don’t. Most people are too caught up in their own lives to notice stuff like this.” He gestured toward the small crowd milling about the park. “But if it makes you feel better, we can give them something to look at.”

I raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh, really? And what exactly would that be?”

He leaned closer, mischief lighting up his face. “A grand romantic gesture. I could sweep you into my arms, dip you back, maybe even twirl you around a little. Really sell the whole ‘madly in love’ thing.”

I laughed, shoving his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Am I?” He leaned back, grinning like he’d just won something. “I think I’d be pretty convincing.”

“I swear,” I said, narrowing my eyes at him, “if you ever try that, I’ll trip you before you even get to the twirl.”

“Noted.” His grin didn’t falter, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

“You know,” I started, unable to keep a more serious tone away from my voice, “I don’t think I’ve ever done this with anyone else. Just... sit and be comfortable, like this.”

Lu’s gaze shifted to me, thoughtful. “Not even with Eric?”

I shook my head. “No. With him, everything always felt... I don’t know. Performative. Like there was a script. Like I had to try.”

I paused, considering my own words. Maybe that was the difference. With Lu, I didn’t have to try at all. I never had to think about what to do or how to act—I just was.

I cleared my throat. “He’d say something flirty and I’d laugh and touch his arm because that was expected or something. I guess that’s why it didn’t work out.”

He nodded, quiet for a beat before saying, “Yeah. I get that.” His voice was softer than usual, like the words carried a weight he didn’t want to drop on me. “I never really had that kind of comfort with anyone else either.”

That made me glance up at him, surprised. “Really? I thought you were always the smooth, cutesy boyfriend type.”

“I mean, sure, I played the part.” His lips curved into a faint smile, but his eyes were distant, looking somewhere else entirely. “But it was always surface-level. Never... this.”

There was something about the sincerity in his voice that made my chest tighten. I brushed it off, focusing on the comfort of the moment instead. “Guess we’re pretty lucky, huh? Being this comfortable with each other.”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, thoughtful, and in his smile there was a hint of sadness. “Lucky.”

The hum of the park filled the quiet between us, the occasional laughter of strangers drifting on the breeze. A couple passed by, arms linked, smiling like they were in their own little world. I watched them, their natural closeness, the way they moved together without thinking. It made me wonder why this, sitting here with Lu, felt so comfortable.

“Do you think it’s weird that we’ve always been like this?” I asked suddenly.

Lu tilted his head. “Like what?”

“This.” I gestured between us. “The touching, the leaning, the casual... everything. Most people don’t have this with their friends, right? So why is it so normal for us?”

He considered the question, his thumb rubbing absentmindedly over the back of my hand. “I don’t think it’s weird. I think it’s just... us. Some people are wired for that kind of closeness, and some aren’t. We just happen to be the kind of people who don’t need all those boundaries.”

“Maybe.” I sighed. “But now that we’re trying to make it look romantic, it’s like I can’t stop analysing it. Like, what if all those little things we’ve always done have been toeing the line this whole time, and we just didn’t realize it?”

Lu turned to face me, his expression softer than I expected. “Cate, if anyone else ever thought we were something more…” He hesitated, just for a second, then shook his head slightly. “That’s on them. We’ve always known what we are. And just because we’re pretending now doesn’t change any of that.”

His words sank in, and I nodded slowly, even as my mind lingered on the question. “Yeah. You’re right.”

His arm shifted from the back of the bench to wrap around my shoulders, pulling me close. It was a gesture I’d felt a hundred times before, but today, it made my stomach flutter. I told myself it was just the new context—the whole fake-dating thing—but the feeling didn’t go away.

“You okay?” Lu asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.

“Yeah.” I leaned into him, resting my head against his shoulder. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how convincing we are,” I said, trying to keep the mood light. “I mean, if I didn’t know us, I’d totally buy it.”

Lu smirked. “Well, we are a pretty great team.”

I tilted my head up to look at him. “We are, aren’t we?”

Our eyes met, and for a split second, the world seemed to tilt—not dramatically, but enough to make my breath catch. It was just a moment, a flicker of something unspoken that I had to force back down into hiding.

I was just starting to relax, the rhythm of Lu’s thumb brushing against my shoulder soothing in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about, when a voice cut through the quiet behind us.

“Cate? Luigi?”

My head snapped up, my heart lurching as I spotted Emma and her boyfriend, Alex, walking toward us. Emma—an old friend from college I still texted occasionally but hadn’t seen in months—was waving enthusiastically, dragging Alex along like she’d just found treasure.

Lu straightened beside me, his arm still draped casually around my shoulders, and shot me a quick glance. His raised eyebrow said it all: Well, here we go.

“Emma! Hey!” I forced a cheerful smile, sitting up a little straighter but not moving out of Lu’s hold. I couldn’t, not without making it more awkward. “It’s been a while!”

“I know!” Emma practically beamed as she reached us, pulling me into a quick hug before taking a step back.

“I didn’t even know you were back in town!” I said.

Her eyes darted to Lu, and then back to me. “And I definitely didn’t know this was happening.”

My stomach flipped, the weight of her curiosity pressing down on me. I laughed—too quickly—and gestured between Lu and me. “Oh, yeah. It’s, uh...a recent development.”

A recent development. That was one way to put it. Another way would be a complete and utter lie that had just become significantly harder to manage.

Emma’s eyes widened like she’d just stumbled onto the juiciest gossip of the year. “I thought you’d still be attached at the hip but not this!”

She turned to Alex and he elbowed her lightly. “Didn’t I tell you? I always said they were too close to not end up together eventually!”

“You did,” she agreed, chuckling. “I think I owe you ten bucks.”

I could feel my cheeks heating up, the flush creeping all the way to my ears. Beside me, Lu’s lips twitched in amusement, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“We were just taking a walk,” I said quickly, desperate to steer the conversation anywhere else.

But Emma wasn’t letting it go. “You know, at first I thought you two had some kind of unspoken thing going on. And then you told me—what was it you said?” She tapped her chin dramatically, as if trying to jog her memory. “Oh! Right. ‘He’s like my soulmate but strictly platonic’, wasn’t it?”

Lu let out a laugh, low and warm, and I shot him a warning glare. That, of course, only encouraged him. I couldn’t tell if the glint in his eyes was just amusement or something else but I didn’t have time to analyse it.

“Well,” he said smoothly, leaning back with that infuriating smirk of his, “she wasn’t wrong about the soulmate part.”

Emma clasped her hands together, grinning like she’d just read the happy ending of a romance novel. “See? I knew it! I’m so happy for you guys.”

“Thanks, Emma. It’s, uh...been nice,” I said, my smile stretched so tight it might have cracked.

“We should catch up soon. I want all the details,” Emma added, her enthusiasm bubbling over.

“Of course!” I chirped, already mentally plotting how to avoid that conversation.

Emma finally let herself be pulled along by Alex, her smile radiant as she waved over her shoulder. “It was so good to see you two! You look amazing together!”

I managed to smile, but something about her words clung to me. Did we?

As soon as they were out of earshot, I slumped back against the bench, groaning softly. “I cannot believe that just happened.”

Lu’s laugh rang out beside me, his arm slipping from my shoulders as he stretched out along the back of the bench. “I think it went pretty well.”

I turned to glare at him, though I knew there was no real bite to it. “I cannot believe you called yourself my soulmate.”

He raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into that smug grin I both hated and couldn’t help but find endearing. “Technically, it was you who called me your soulmate. I’m just going along with it.”

I groaned again, burying my face in my hands. “Remind me to never tell Emma anything ever again.”

Lu nudged me with his shoulder. “Oh, come on. Admit it—it was kind of funny.”

Peeking at him through my fingers, I sighed heavily. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he said, grinning, “you insist on keeping me around.”

As Emma and Alex disappeared into the distance, Lu turned to me, his smirk firmly in place. I knew that look, and I knew nothing good ever followed it.

“So,” he said, his tone dripping with mischief, “what else have you been telling people about me? Should I be worried?”

I groaned, dropping my head into my hands. “Please don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” he said, shifting on the bench to face me fully. “Come on, soulmate. Spill. Do you go around telling people I’m secretly in love with you too? Or maybe that I cry during rom-coms?”

“You do cry during rom-coms.”

“Excuse you, but people who don’t cry during Notting Hill are soulless.”

I laughed. “I don’t know, it’s not like I go around making speeches about you.”

“People have always been curious about us. If you’ve been calling me your soulmate—strictly platonic, of course—I can only imagine what other gems you’ve been dropping.”

My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my shirt as I hesitated. “Honestly? I don’t really talk about you like that.” I glanced at him, my expression softening. “But... I have told people you’re the person I trust most. Like, if I need to hide a body at 3am you’ll show up with a shovel no questions asked. That you’re always there for me no matter what.”

Lu blinked, the teasing fading from his face as something quieter, almost vulnerable, took its place. When he spoke, his voice had lost its usual lightness, and became softer. “Oh.”

“When I’m having the worst days you always know how to make everything better without me having to ask. I tell them you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“That’s… actually really nice to hear.”

I smiled, nudging his knee with mine. “Your turn. What do you tell people about me?”

He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Hmm. I tell them you’re my arch-nemesis and that I only keep you around to plot your eventual downfall.”

I laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, holding up his hands in surrender. His gaze softened as he looked at me, his smile less mischievous now. “I tell people you’re brilliant. And stubborn. And probably the funniest person I know.” He paused, his voice dropping just a little. “I also tell them you’re the only person who really gets me. Like, in a way no one else does.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavier than I expected. I knew Lu and I understood each other deeply. That wasn’t new. But hearing him say it—out loud, like it was something undeniable—made my chest feel too tight.

I stared at him, the usual playfulness between us fading into something... deeper. I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, I reached over and laced my fingers through his again, giving his hand a small squeeze.

Lu looked down at our hands, then back up at me, his smile returning, this time softer, more genuine. “See? It’s not so bad, being my soulmate.”

I groaned, the warmth in my cheeks betraying me. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never,” he said, kissing my hair. That gesture was so brief and familiar it should have meant nothing. But it did. It did, and I wasn’t quite ready to think about why.

I shook my head to pretend I was annoyed at him, but the smile tugging at my lips betrayed me. As we sat there, fingers intertwined and the sounds of the park fading into the background, it felt... easy. Maybe too easy.

“Hey, Lu?” I said softly, breaking the silence.

“Yeah?” he replied, his focus still on his thumb brushing my skin.

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

That got his attention. His head snapped up, eyebrows raised as he gave me a curious look. “So we're really leaning into that, huh?”

I shrugged, trying to play it cool, but I didn’t look away. “I’m serious. Do you?”

He leaned back, letting my hand rest in his lap as he considered it. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment. “I think... If soulmates are real, it’s not just about love. Not about romance or some magical ‘meant to be’ thing. It’s more about finding someone who just... fits. Someone who makes everything feel a little less complicated.”

I nodded slowly, his words settling somewhere deep in my soul. “That makes sense.”

He tilted his head, studying me. “What about you? Do you believe in that?”

I hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of my shirt. “I used to,” I admitted quietly. “I thought I’d found mine once.”

His brows furrowed, concern flickering in his expression. “Really?”

“You remember Mike, the guy I was dating when we met? You know, before Eric?”

“Vaguely,” he nodded. “I only met him a few times.”

“Yeah. I thought he was it.” I shrugged. “He made me laugh, he made me feel special... and then it all fell apart.” I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “I really thought I was going to spend my life with him. But looking back, I don’t think he ever really... knew me. Not the way you do.”

Lu’s grip on my hand tightened just slightly, his voice softer now. “I remember how much it hurt when it ended. But I never realized it was that deep for you.”

I gave him a small, sad smile. “I didn’t let you see how bad it was. You already did so much just being there for me—I didn’t want to dump everything on you.”

“You could’ve,” he said, his tone firm but gentle. “I would’ve been okay with that.”

“I know.” I paused, exhaling slowly. “That’s the thing, though. You’re the one person I don’t want to burden. You’re... different.”

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze fixed on our joined hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, more vulnerable than I’d ever heard it. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in love.”

I blinked, startled. “Never?”

Lu shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “Nope. I’ve dated, sure, but... it’s never felt like something I couldn’t live without. It’s like, the closer I get to someone, the more scared I get of giving them too much of me. Love... it always seems to end with someone getting hurt. And I’ve never been ready to take that risk.”

I looked at him again, this time with something closer to understanding. “Do you think you’ll ever be ready?”

“Maybe.” His expression was unreadable. “If I find the right person.”

Something painful tightened in my chest. “Well, when you do, let me know. I’ll have to approve of them, obviously.”

“Obviously,” he agreed, his smile widening. And then, quietly, he added, “There’s only one person I’ve ever even considered spending my life with.”

He tilted his head, almost as if to search my eyes, and my breath caught in my throat. I didn’t need to ask who he meant. The way he was looking at me said it all.

“Not in a romantic way, necessarily, but just... someone I know I can trust. Someone I know will never break my heart.”

“Oh Lu...” I started, my voice barely above a whisper.

He cut me off with a soft smile. “Don’t. It’s not a big deal. It’s just the way things are. You’re... safe, Cate. You always have been.”

My chest stung, emotions swirling inside me too fast to untangle. I didn’t really know what to say, so I settled for squeezing his hand, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You’re safe for me too, you know.”

The weight of the moment hung between us, unspoken but impossible to ignore. I wasn’t sure what compelled me to move closer, but I did. I lifted my hand, pausing only for a heartbeat before reaching up to slip my fingers into his hair. It was soft, a little messy from the breeze, and the familiar gesture grounded me in a way nothing else could.

Lu closed his eyes briefly, leaning ever so slightly into my touch. Then I let my hand slide down to rest on his shoulder, just below his neck. I shifted closer until our sides were pressed together, and without thinking, I brushed my nose against his cheek. His breath hitched—just barely, just enough for me to notice.

The warmth of his skin sent a shiver through me, but I ignored it, focusing instead on the steady rhythm of his breathing. “You’re safe,” I repeated, my voice barely audible.

He turned his head just enough to look at me, his expression softer than I’d ever seen it. “Cate…” he started, his voice low and reverent, but whatever he was about to say faded.

Instead, we just sat there, my arm draped over him and my head leaning against his. His hand came to rest just above my knee, with his thumb stroking lazy patterns as always. The noise of the park seemed to fade, the rest of the world falling away until it was just us.

And for a moment, it didn’t matter that this was supposed to be an act. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

Because this? This was real.

I let my eyes close for a second, breathing him in—the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth of him. It was effortless, the kind of comfort that didn’t ask for permission because it didn’t need to.

“See?” he murmured. “This is why we don’t have to overthink it.”

I tilted my head up slightly, my temple still resting against his cheek. “What?”

“This,” he said, giving my leg the lightest squeeze. “Being close. Acting like a couple. If we just don’t overthink it, it’ll come naturally.”

I exhaled a soft laugh. “You’re saying we just have to keep doing what we’re already doing?”

“Basically.”

I hummed, considering that. He had a point. No one would question a thing if we just carried ourselves like this—like we belonged close, like we fit.

A new thought wormed its way into my head, and before I could talk myself out of it, I asked, “Do you think there’ll be a moment at the party where we’ll have to kiss?”

Lu went still for half a second. Then I felt the slow rise of his chest as he inhaled.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I mean, it might be expected at some point. Depends on the circumstances, I guess.”

I shifted just enough to glance up at him. His expression was unreadable, but his grip on me hadn’t loosened.

“Would it be weird?” I asked, my voice quieter now.

He was quiet for a moment, like he was turning the idea over in his mind. “Maybe,” he said finally. “Would it bother you? To kiss me?”

I let out a soft laugh, leaning my head fully against his shoulder again. “I don't think so. Would it bother you?”

His thumb moved absentmindedly against my thigh, a barely-there gesture. “No,” he said quietly. “Not really.”

My fingers toyed with the collar of his shirt for a while, my gaze distant as my mind worked through something I couldn’t quite name.

Finally, I broke the silence, my tone deliberately casual. “You know... maybe we should just get it over with.”

Lu turned to me, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Get what over with?”

I looked at him like the answer was obvious. “The kiss.”

His eyes widened slightly, and he blinked at me. “The kiss?”

“Yes,” I said, sitting up straighter, my arms crossing over my chest as if to bolster my argument. “I mean, think about it. It’ll probably happen tomorrow, right? And if we just... do it now, it won’t be weird when it does. We’ll already know what to expect.”

Lu stared at me, his lips parting as though he was about to protest, but no words came out. Finally, he let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “You’re serious?”

“Of course,” I replied, fixing him with a challenging look. “You’re the one who wanted to rehearse everything. This is just... another part of the act. Right?”

He leaned back against the bench, brushing a hand through his hair. “Cate, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my kisses have been described as addictive. If you end up hooked, that’s on you.”

I rolled my eyes, though I couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped me. “Addictive, huh? Well, just so you know, I kissed a guy once, and he was so overwhelmed his knees nearly buckled. So honestly, this is just as dangerous for you.”

Lu barked out a laugh, the sound warm and familiar, and shook his head. “Oh, really? Are we comparing stats now?”

I smirked, leaning in slightly. “All I’m saying is, if one of us ends up regretting this, it’s not gonna be me.”

For a moment, he just looked at me, the teasing glint in his eyes softening as he realized I wasn’t backing down. He exhaled, his smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Alright,” he said finally, shifting to face me. “If you’re so sure about this, let’s do it. But just so we’re clear—when you fall in love with me after this, I’m still going to blame you.”

My heart was suddenly pounding in my chest, but I kept my voice steady. “Deal.”

We moved closer, our legs pressed together, and the playful atmosphere gave way to something quieter, heavier. My gaze flicked from his eyes to his lips and back again, and I swallowed against the sudden tightness in my throat.

“Okay,” I said softly, my voice more breathless than I intended.

“Okay,” he echoed. His tone was easy, but his eyes flicked down to my lips.

I knew this was probably a terrible idea. But instead of pulling back, I leaned in. I didn’t want to second-guess myself any more than I already had.

He met me halfway and for a moment, the world seemed to still.

His lips were warm and soft, the kiss unhurried and careful. Not exactly tentative, just thoughtful. Like he was as aware as I was of how this could change things.

It lasted a few seconds, long enough for my hand to find its way back to his shoulder, for his thumb to brush absently against my shin. It was enough to make my stomach flip and my pulse race, like every inch of my skin was crackling with electricity.

We pulled back, almost at the same time. When I opened my eyes, his were still closed. He inhaled slowly, like he needed a second to ground himself before facing me again.

“Well?” I asked. I tried to sound casual even though my heart was racing. I failed.

He tilted his head, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Not bad. I can see how someone’s knees might buckle.”

I laughed, swatting his arm. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” he said, his tone laced with amusement. “You might be dangerous after all.”

I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged at my lips despite myself. “Well, now you know what to expect. No excuses if you mess it up tomorrow.”

“Mess it up?” Lu scoffed, leaning back with a confident grin. “Cate, if anything, I’m going to steal the show.”

I shook my head, laughing softly. Then I leaned against him again, settling my head back on his shoulder. His warmth was a steady presence, grounding me. My hand rested on his chest, fingertips lightly brushing the fabric of his shirt.

And then I felt it.

His heartbeat. Fast, unsteady, thumping against my palm.

I didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch. I just let the feeling sink in, the thrum of him beneath my hand, trying to make sense of everything.

But the longer I stayed there, the more I noticed. The more I felt. His breath, shallow but even. The way his muscles tensed slightly under my hand. How he didn’t seem to notice that his heart was racing.

And how, despite the way it made me feel—like I might be on the edge of something huge—I couldn’t bring myself to mention it. I didn’t want to overthink.

We just sat there, quiet and still, as if the world hadn’t quite caught up with what had just happened. We both pretended it was just another rehearsal, a necessary part of the act. But as the silence settled around us and the moment stretched out, I couldn’t deny that something had shifted between us. I couldn’t quite shake the way my lips still tingled from his.

And the way he looked at me—like he was thinking the exact same thing—only made it harder to ignore. He didn't say anything either. He didn't have to.

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